Split (1)

train · 9.05k rows

text stringlengths 1.73k 3.83k
spears. They surrounded Dalinar in a circular formation, but he patted Sigzil on the shoulder and made them part. He walked toward Ishar, Szeth shadowing him on one side, Sigzil on the other. Dalinar had not expected the old Herald to look so strong. Dalinar was used to the frailty of men like Taravangian, but the person before him was a warrior. Though he was outfitted in robes and wearing an ardent’s beard, his forearms and stance clearly indicated he was accustomed to holding a weapon. “Champion of Odium,” Ishar said in a loud, deep voice, speaking Azish. “It has been a long wait.” “I am not Odium’s champion,” Dalinar said. “I wish to be your ally in facing him, however.” “Your lies cannot fool me. I am Tezim, first man, aspect of the Almighty. I alone prepare for the end of the worlds. I should not have ignored your previous messages to me; I see now what you are. What you must be. Only a servant of my enemy could have captured Urithiru, my holy seat.” “Ishar,” Dalinar said softly. “I know what you are.” “I am that man no longer,” Ishar said. “I am Herald of Heralds, sole bearer of the Oathpact. I am more than I once was and I will become yet more. I shall absorb your power, Odium, and become a god among gods, Adonalsium reborn.” Dalinar took a tentative step forward, waving for the others to stay back. “I spoke to Ash,” Dalinar said calmly. “She said to tell you that Taln has returned. He’s hurt, and she pleads for your help in restoring him.” “Taln…” Ishar said. He adopted a far-off look. “Our sin. Bearer of our agonies…” “Jezrien is dead, Ishar,” Dalinar said. “Truly dead. You felt it. Ash felt it. He was captured, but his soul faded away after that. Her father, Ishar. She lost her father. She needs your counsel. Taln’s madness terrifies her. She needs you.” “I prepared myself for your lies, champion of Odium,” Ishar said. “I had not realized they would be so … reasonable. Yet you have already done too much to prove who you are. Taking my holy city. Summoning your evil storm. Sending your minions to torment my people. You have corrupted the spren to your side, so you can have false Radiants, but I have discovered your secrets.” He held his hands as if to summon a Blade. “The time for the end is upon us. Let us begin the battle.” A weapon appeared from mist in his hands. A sinuous Shardblade lined with glyphs Dalinar did not recognize—though the Blade itself was vaguely familiar. Had he seen it before? Szeth hissed loudly. “That Blade,” he said. “The Bondsmith Honorblade. My father’s sword. Where did you get it? What have you done to my father?” Ishar stepped forward to strike at Dalinar. * * * While some humans left Rlain’s band of rebels—returning to their rooms, hoping they hadn’t been recognized—most of them stayed. Indeed, the numbers increased as many of the resisters fetched their
families. Because Rlain had to let them go fetch families. What else could they do? Leave them to the Pursuer, who was known to target the loved ones of people he hunted? All of this ate away at their time. They were also slowed by the need to carry both the wounded and the unconscious Radiants. Rlain did what he could to keep the main group moving, taking them through the Breakaway, avoiding the central corridor—where they’d be too easily exposed to Heavenly Ones from above. However, he found himself attuning Despair. They were being watched—that cremling that harbored a Voidspren was following them along the wall. Rlain’s band wasn’t quite halfway through the market—still a fair distance from the front of the tower—when cracks broke the air, causing gawking marketgoers to flee. Stormform lightning strikes, used as a signal to empty the streets. Rlain backed his haggard group against the wall of the large cavern and put their soldiers up front, the Heavenly Ones flying above. Deepest Ones began to emerge from the floor in front of them, and dozens of stormforms approached. “You’re right, listener,” Leshwi said, lowering down beside him. “I couldn’t have talked us out of this. He knows what we did. Those who approach are humming the Rhythm of Executions.” “Maybe we should have tried to reach the crystal pillar room,” Rlain said. “And escaped through the tunnels beneath, as Venli suggested.” “No,” Leshwi said. “Those tunnels are blocked. Our best hope was to escape out the front entrance of the tower, and perhaps cross the mountains. Unfortunately, judging by those rhythms, these who come aren’t being sent by Raboniel. Odium wants me to know. I will be tortured like the Heralds once I return to Braize.” She saluted Rlain. “So first, we fight.” Rlain nodded, then gripped his spear. “We fight,” he said, then turned to Venli, who had stepped up by his side. “Are there any other spren like the one who bonded you? Would some want other willing singers? Someone like me?” “Yes,” Venli said to Mourning, “but I sent them away. The Fused would have seen them, hunted them.” She paused, then her rhythm changed to Confusion. “And Timbre says … she says you’re spoken for?” “What?” he said. “By that honorspren who said he’d take me? I turned him down. I…” The room went dark. Then it shone as crystals grew out from his feet like … like stained glass windows, covering the floor. They showed a figure rising in blue-glowing Shardplate, and a tower coming alight. Keep fighting, a voice said in his head. Salvation will be, Rlain, listener. Bridger of Minds. I have been sent to you by my mother, at the request of Renarin, Son of Thorns. I have watched you and seen your worthiness. Speak the Words, and do not despair. * * * Sigzil blocked Ishar’s attack using his Shardblade. The other Windrunners swarmed forward to protect Dalinar. Szeth, however, stumbled away. The sight of that Honorblade had plainly upset him. The watching Tukari soldiers started to
close their circle, but Ishar ordered them back. Then he danced away from Sigzil, shouting at Dalinar. “Fight me, champion! Face me alone!” “I brought no weapon, Ishar,” Dalinar said. “The time for the contest of champions has not yet come.” Ishar fought brilliantly as the other Windrunners tried to gang up on him. He was a blur with a flashing Blade, parrying, dodging, skepping his Blade—making it vanish for a brief moment to pass through a weapon trying to block it. The Windrunners had only recently started practicing the technique; Ishar performed the complex move with the grace of long familiarity. He is a duelist, Dalinar thought. Storms, and a good one. What did you expect? the Stormfather rumbled in his mind. He defended mankind for millennia. The Heralds were not all warriors when they began, but all were by the end. Existing for three thousand years in a state of near-constant war changes men. Among the Heralds, Ishar was average in skill. Ishar faced all five Windrunners at once, and it seemed easy for him. He blocked one, then another, stepping away as a third tried to spear down from above, then swept around with his Blade, slicing the heads off two non-Shard spears. Sigzil’s Shardblade became a long dueling sword designed for lunges. He struck when Ishar’s back was turned, but the Herald casually twisted and caught the Blade with one finger—touching it along the unsharpened side—and guided it past him. Sigzil stumbled as he drew too close, and Ishar lifted that same hand and slammed it against Sigzil’s chest, sending him sprawling backward to the stones. Ishar then turned and raised his Shardblade in one hand to deflect one of Lyn’s strikes. Leyten came in, trying to flank, but he looked clumsy compared to the old Herald. Fortunately for the five, Ishar merely defended himself. Despite earnestly trying, none could land a blow. It was as if … as if they were trying to hit where Ishar was, while he was able to move in anticipation of where they would be. He is average among them? Dalinar asked. Then … who was the best? Taln. The one who sits in my camp? Dalinar thought. Unable to do more than mumble? Yes, the Stormfather said. There was no dispute. But take care; Ishar’s skill as a duelist is a lesser danger. He has recovered his Honorblade. He is a Bondsmith unchained. Ishar suddenly dashed forward, rushing into one of Sigzil’s attacks. The old man ducked the strike, then came up and touched Sigzil on the chest. When Ishar’s hand withdrew, he trailed a line of Stormlight behind him. He touched his hand to the ground, and Sigzil stumbled, gasping as his glow started to fade. Ishar had apparently tethered Sigzil to the stones with some kind of glowing rope that drained the Stormlight out and into the ground. The other four followed, almost faster than Dalinar could track. One after another, tethered to the stone. Not bound, not frozen, but their Light draining away—and all of them stumbled, slowing,
as if their lives were being drained with it. Dalinar glanced at Szeth, but the Shin man had fallen to his knees, wide eyed. Storms. Dalinar should have known better than to depend on the assassin as a bodyguard. Navani had warned him; Szeth was nearly as unstable as the Heralds. Dalinar didn’t want to see what happened when his troops ran out of Stormlight. He braced himself and thrust his hands between realms, then slammed them together as closed fists, knuckles meeting. In this, he united the three realms, opening a flash of power that washed away all color and infused the Radiants with Light. Within the well of Light, Dalinar was nearly blinded—figures were mere lines, all shadows banished. Ishar, however, was distinct. Pale, eyes wide, whitened clothing rippling. He dropped his Blade and it turned to mist. Transfixed, he stepped toward Dalinar. “How?” Ishar asked. The word sounded clear, an incongruity against the soundless rush of power surrounding them. “You … you open Honor’s path.…” “I have bonded the Stormfather,” Dalinar said. “I need you, Ishar. I don’t need the legend, the Herald of Mysteries. I need the man Ash says you once were. A man willing to risk his life, his work, and his very soul to save mankind.” Ishar strode closer. Holding the portal open was difficult, but Dalinar kept his hands pressed together. For the moment only he and Ishar existed here, in this place painted white. Ishar stopped a step or two from Dalinar. Yes, seeing another Bondsmith had shaken him. I can reach him, Dalinar thought. “I need a teacher,” Dalinar said. “I don’t know my true capabilities. Odium controls Urithiru, but I think with your help we could restore the Radiants there. Please.” “I see,” Ishar said softly. He met Dalinar’s eyes. “So. The enemy has corrupted the Stormfather too. I had hoped…” He shook his head, then reached out and pressed his hand to Dalinar’s chest. With the strain of keeping the perpendicularity open, Dalinar wasn’t able to move away in time. He tried to drop the perpendicularity, but when he pulled his hands apart, it remained open—power roaring through. Ishar touched his hand to his own chest, creating a line of light between him and Dalinar. “I will take this bond to the Stormfather. I will bear it myself. I sense … something odd in you. A Connection to Odium. He sees you as … as the one who will fight against him. This cannot be right. I will take that Connection as well.” Dalinar gasped, falling to his knees as something was torn from him—it felt as if his very soul was being ripped out. The Stormfather screamed: a terrifying, agonized sound, like lightning that warped and broke. No, Dalinar thought. No. Please … A shadow appeared on the field of whiteness. A shape—the shape of a black sword. This single line of darkness swiped through the line connecting Dalinar to Ishar. The white cord exploded and frayed, trailing wisps of darkness. Ishar was cast away, hitting the stone. The
perpendicularity remained open, but its light dimmed to reveal Szeth standing between Dalinar and Ishar, brandishing his strange black Shardblade. His illusion melted off like paint in the rain, breaking into Light—which was sucked into the sword and consumed. “Where,” Szeth said to Ishar, his voice quiet, “did you get that Blade you bear?” The Herald seemed not to have heard him. He was staring at Szeth’s sword as it dripped black liquid smoke. Around it, the white light of the perpendicularity warped and was consumed, like water down a drain. Szeth spun and stabbed the sword into the heart of the perpendicularity. The Stormfather shouted in anger as the perpendicularity collapsed, folding in upon itself. In a flash, the world was full of color again. All five Windrunners lay on the ground, but they were stirring. Ishar scrambled to his feet before Szeth—who stood with one arm wreathed in black tendrils, gripping the sword that dripped nightmares and bled destruction. “Answer me!” Szeth screamed. “Did you kill the man who held that Blade before you?” “Of course not, foolish man,” Ishar said, summoning his Blade. “The Shin serve the Heralds. They held my sword for me. They returned it when I revealed myself.” Dalinar wiped his brow, pulling himself to his feet. He felt numb, but at the same time … warm. Relieved. Whatever the Herald had begun, he had not been able to finish. Are you all right? he asked the Stormfather. Yes. He tried to steal our bond. It should not be possible, but Honor no longer lives to enforce his laws.… The perpendicularity. Did Szeth … destroy it? Don’t be foolish, the Stormfather said. No creation of mortal hands could destroy the power of a Shard of Adonalsium. He merely collapsed it. You could summon it again. Dalinar was not convinced that the thing Szeth bore was a simple “creation of mortal hands.” But he said nothing as he forced himself to check on the Windrunners, whose Connections to the ground had vanished. Leyten had found his feet first and was helping Sigzil, who sat on the ground with a hand to his head. “I think your worries about this meeting were well advised,” Dalinar said, kneeling beside the Azish man. “Can you get us into the air?” “Damnation,” Sigzil whispered. “I feel like I spent last night drinking Horneater white.” He burst alight with Stormlight, drawing it from the pouch at his belt. “Storms. The Light isn’t washing away the pain.” “Yeah,” Lyn said. The other three Windrunners were sitting up. “My head is pounding like a Parshendi drum, sir, but we should be able to Lash.” Dalinar glanced at Szeth, who was alight with Stormlight—though it was being drawn at a ferocious rate into his weapon. “My people,” Szeth shouted, “were not going to return your weapons to you. We kept your secrets, but you lie if you say my father gave you that Blade!” “Your father was barely a man when I found him,” Ishar said. “The Shin had accepted the Unmade. Tried to make
gods of them. I saved them. And your father did give me this Blade. He thanked me for letting him die.” Szeth screamed, charging Ishar—who raised his Blade to casually block him, as he had with the Windrunners. However, the meeting of the two Blades caused a burst of power, and the shock wave sent both men sprawling backward. Ishar hit hard, dropping his Blade—and Dalinar was in position to see the length of the Honorblade as it hit and bounced, then came to a rest half stuck into the ground. There was a chip in its unearthly steel where it had met the black sword. Dalinar, in all his life, had never seen a Shardblade marred in such a way, let alone one of the Honorblades. Ishar looked up at Szeth, dazed, then grabbed his Blade and shouted an order. His soldiers—who had watched all this in silence—broke their circle, moving into a formation. Sigzil put his hand on Dalinar’s shoulder, infusing him, preparing to Lash him. “Wait,” Dalinar said as Ishar stood and slammed his fists together. A perpendicularity opened, as it had before, releasing a powerful explosion of light. Impossible … the Stormfather said in Dalinar’s mind. I didn’t feel it happen. How does he do this? You’re the one who warned me he was dangerous, Dalinar thought. Who knows what he’s capable of? Across the stone field, Szeth sheathed his sword just before it began feasting on his soul. Dalinar pointed Leyten that way. “Grab him. Get into the air. We’re leaving. Sigzil, Lash me.” “Right, sir.” “Dalinar. Dalinar Kholin.” That … that was Ishar’s voice. “I can see clearly,” the voice said from within the perpendicularity. “I do not know why. Has a Bondsmith been sworn? We have a Connection, all of us.… Nevertheless, I feel my sanity slipping. My mind is broken, and I do not know if it can be healed. “Perhaps you can restore me for a short time after an Ideal is spoken near me. Everyone sees a little more clearly when a Radiant touches the Spiritual Realm. For now, listen well. I have the answer, a way to fix the problems that beset us. Come to me in Shinovar. I can reset the Oathpact, though I must be sane to do it. I must … have help … to…” The voice stumbled, as if warping. “… to defeat you, champion of Odium! We will clash again, and I am ready for your wiles this time! You will not defeat me when next we meet, though you bear a corrupted Honorblade that bleeds black smoke! I am ALMIGHTY.” Dalinar lurched, rising into the air as the Lashing took effect. The Windrunners darted up after him, including Leyten, who grabbed Szeth. As they left the column of light, Dalinar could see Ishar’s soldiers stepping into the perpendicularity. A short time later it vanished. The Herald, his men, and the Honorblade were gone. Transported into Shadesmar. * * * Together, Navani and the Sibling could create Light. Light that drove the monster Moash back along
the corridor, holding his arm before his eyes. Light that drove the knife from Navani’s side as it healed her wound. Light that brought fabrials to life, Light that sang with the tones of Honor and Cultivation in tandem. But her spren … The Sibling was so weak. Navani grasped the pillar, pouring her power into it, but there was so much chaos muddying the system, like crem in a cistern of pure water. The Voidlight Raboniel had injected. Navani couldn’t destroy it, but maybe she could vent it somehow. She saw the tower now as an entity, with lines of garnet very like veins and arteries. And she inhabited that entity. It became her body. She saw thousands of closed doors the scouts had missed in mapping the tower. She saw brilliant mechanisms for controlling pressure, heat— No, stay focused. I think we need to vent the Voidlight, Navani said to the Sibling. I … the Sibling said. How? I can sing the proper tone, Navani said. We fill the system with as much Towerlight as will fit, then we stop and vibrate these systems here, here, and here with the anti-Voidlight tone. I suppose, the Sibling said. But how can we create the vibration? There’s a plate on Raboniel’s desk. I’ll have my scholars play that. I’ll need a model to sing it, but with that, I should be able to transfer the vibration through the system. That should force the enemy’s corruption out through these broken gemstones in the pump mechanism. What do you think? … Yes? the Sibling said softly. I think … yes, that might work. With that done, we will need to restart the tower’s protections, Navani said. These are complex fabrials … made of the essence of spren. Of your essence? Yes, the Sibling said, their voice growing stronger. But they are complicated, and took many years of— Pressure fabrial here, Navani said, inspecting it with her mind. Ah, I see. A network of attractors to bring in air and create a bubble of pressure. Quite ingenious. Yes! And the heating fabrials … not important now … but you’ve made housings for them out of metals—you manifested physically as metal and crystal, like Shardblades manifest from smaller spren. YES! As she began working, Navani noticed an oddity. What was that moving through the tower? Highmarshal Kaladin? Flying quickly, his powers restored, wrapped in spren as armor. He had achieved his Fourth Ideal. And he was going the wrong direction. She could easily see his mistake. He’d decided the best way to protect the tower was to come here, to the pillar, and rescue Navani. But no, he was needed elsewhere. She drew his attention with flashing lights on the wall. Sibling? Kaladin’s voice soon sounded through the system as he touched the crystal vein. Yes and no, Highmarshal, Navani said. The pillar is secure. Get to the Breakaway market. Tell the enemies you find there that they’d best retreat quickly. He obeyed immediately, changing the direction of his flight. Navani, full of incredible awareness, got
to work. * * * Dalinar persuaded the Windrunners to linger in the sky above Ishar’s camp, rather than flying immediately back to the Emuli warcamp. He worried about them though. The Radiants drooped like soldiers who had completed a full-day, double-time march. Ordinarily Stormlight would have perked them up, but they complained of headaches their powers couldn’t heal. The effects shouldn’t be permanent, the Stormfather said. But I cannot say for certain. Ishar Connected them to the ground. Essentially, their powers saw the stones as part of their body—and so tried to fill the ground with Stormlight as it fills their veins. I can barely make sense of what you said, Dalinar replied, hanging in the sky far above Ishar’s camp. How are such things possible? The powers of a Bondsmith are the powers of creation, the Stormfather said. The powers of gods, including the ability to link souls. Always before, Honor was here to guard this power, to limit it. It seems that Ishar knows how to make full use of his new freedom. The Stormfather paused, then rumbled more softly. I never liked him. Though I was only a wind then—and not completely conscious—I remember him. Ishar was ambitious even before madness took him. He cannot bear sole blame for the destruction of Ashyn, humankind’s first home, but he was the one Odium first tricked into experimenting with the Surges. You don’t particularly like anyone, Dalinar noted. Not true. There was a human who made me laugh once, long ago. I was somewhat fond of him. It felt like a rare attempt at levity. Dared Dalinar hope it was progress in the ancient spren? Below, Ishar’s large pavilion waited, flapping in the gentle wind. Dalinar had seen no sign of servants or soldiers peeking out. “Sir?” Sigzil said, floating over to Dalinar. “My troops need to rest.” “A few minutes longer,” Dalinar said, narrowing his eyes. “What are we waiting for, sir?” “To see if Ishar returns. He fled to Shadesmar. He could return at any moment. If he does, we’re leaving at speed. But if he doesn’t…” Ishar hadn’t been expecting to run. Szeth, and that strange Blade, had driven him away. “This could be a rare opportunity, Companylord. He was a scholar among Heralds; he might have written notes that give hints to applications of Bondsmith powers.” “Understood, sir,” Sigzil said. Dalinar glanced toward Szeth, who floated on his own away from the others, Lashed into the sky by his own power. Dalinar nodded toward him, and Sigzil—catching the meaning—gave Dalinar a brief Lashing that sent him over beside the assassin. Szeth was muttering to himself. “How did he know? How did the old fool know?” “Know what?” Dalinar said as he drifted near Szeth. “Ishar? How did he know about your people?” Szeth blinked, then focused on Dalinar. It was odd to see him looking like himself with that too-pale skin and those wide eyes. Dalinar had grown accustomed to his Alethi illusions. “I must begin preparing myself,” Szeth said. “My next Ideal is my quest,
my pilgrimage. I must return to my people, Blackthorn. I must face them.” “As you wish,” Dalinar said. He wasn’t certain he wanted to unleash this man upon anyone, least of all the one neutral kingdom of note in this conflict. But Jasnah had indicated it would happen, and besides, he doubted he could stop Szeth from doing anything he truly wanted to. “Your people. They have all of the Honorblades?” “All but three,” Szeth said. “The Blade of the Windrunners was mine for years. The Blade of the Skybreakers was reclaimed by Nin long ago. And of course the Blade of the Stonewards was never ours to protect. So there were seven, but if Ishar has his Blade…” You don’t need those other swords, a perky voice said in Dalinar’s mind. I am as good as ten swords. Did you see how great I was? “I saw,” Dalinar said to the sword. “You … chipped a Shardblade. An Honorblade.” I did? Wow. I am a great sword. We destroyed a lot of evil, right? “You promised not to speak into the minds of others, sword-nimi,” Szeth said softly. “Do you not remember?” I remember. I just forgot. “I will send a team with you to Shinovar,” Dalinar said. “As soon as we return to our camp.” “No,” Szeth said. “No. I must go alone, but not yet. I must prepare. I have … something important to do. He knew. He should not have known.…” Storms. Dalinar wasn’t certain who was more insane: Szeth or the sword. The combination was particularly unnerving. Without them, you would be dead, the Stormfather said, and I’d be bonded against my will. This Shin man is dangerous, but I fear Ishar more. “Sigzil,” Dalinar called. “I don’t think he’s going to return anytime soon. Take us down. Let’s see if he left anything of value in that tent.” * * * Adin raised the spear he’d found in the atrium. People were crying, surrounded by fearspren, as the group of beleaguered humans and singers together made a circle around their wounded. They pushed the elderly and the children to the center, but Adin didn’t go with those. The spren watching would see that he wasn’t the type to hide. Even women had picked up weapons, including the surgeon’s wife, who had given her son to one of the young girls at the center to hold. War was a masculine art, but when you started attacking women, you’d stopped engaging in war. You deserved anything that happened to you after that point. Adin’s father was among the wounded. Alive, bless the Heralds, but bleeding badly. He’d fought for the Radiants, when Adin … Adin had hidden in the hallway. Storm him, he wasn’t going to be a coward again. He … he wasn’t. Adin fell into line beside a fearsome parshman in incredible carapace armor, then tried to position himself with his spear out, in that parshman’s same posture. The stormforms marched in, singing a terrible song. Adin found himself trembling, his hands slick on his spear.
Oh, storms. In that moment, he didn’t want to earn a spren. He didn’t want to fight. He wanted to be home making plates, listening to his father hum. He didn’t want to be standing here, knowing that they were all … all going to … A hand took Adin by the shoulder and moved him backward. Not all the way back, but enough for the figure to stand in front of him. It was the quiet bridgeman, Dabbid. Adin didn’t complain, not after seeing those stormforms. Felt good to have someone in front of him, though the bridgeman’s spear shook. He was acting afraid to fool the enemy, right? The stormforms didn’t release lightning, which was good. The others had thought they might not, because of the marketplace. Their powers were too wild. Regardless, there seemed to be … be hundreds of them. A call came from somewhere behind, and they came charging in—rippling with red lightning that flashed when they touched something. In seconds, everything was chaos. Adin screamed, squeezing his eyes shut, holding out his spear and shaking. No, he had to fight. He had to— Something knocked into him from behind, throwing him forward. The strike dazed him, and he lost his spear. When he rolled over, a Voidbringer with red eyes stood above him. The creature casually speared downward. Adin didn’t even have time to scream before— Clink. Clink? The stormform cocked his head, humming an odd song. He stabbed at Adin’s chest, but the spear stopped short again. Adin looked at his body as he lay prone on the floor. His torso was surrounded by glittering blue armor. He raised his hands, and found them covered in gauntlets. He was in Shardplate. He was in SHARDPLATE. “Ha!” he shouted, and kicked at the stormform. The creature went flying, soaring twenty feet and slamming into a wall. Adin had barely felt any resistance. It was like he’d always imagined. It … The Shardplate vanished off him and turned into a group of windspren, which soared over to Dabbid, who was about to take an axe to the head. Clink. Both combatants—the human now shrouded in Shardplate, and the enemy who had hit him—froze in place, stunned. The enemy backed away, and the Plate flew off again, this time surrounding the lead Heavenly One. She’d been spearing at a stormform who released a flash of lightning that enveloped her. When Adin’s eyes cleared, he saw her floating in Shardplate, staring at her hands in obvious wonder. Confused, the stormforms began calling out, disengaging and re-forming into ranks. The armor burst apart, forming those strange windspren who flew into the air overhead before latching on to a figure hovering above the buildings. The Plate had fit everyone, but him it matched. A brilliant Knight Radiant in glowing armor, holding aloft an intricate Shardspear. He left the helmet off so they could all see. Kaladin Stormblessed, bright as the sun. “I bring word from the Sibling!” he shouted. “They don’t remember inviting you in. And considering that they aren’t merely
the master of this house, they literally are this house, your actions are quite the insult.” Brilliant lights suddenly began running up the walls, making the very core of the stones glow as if molten in the center. Similar lights burst to life in the ceiling. The ground trembled, as if the entire mountain were shaking. Clanking sounds rang in the hallways, like distant machines, and wind began to blow in the vast chamber—which now was as bright as day. Most amazing, the lightning on the stormforms went out. Deepest Ones, who had been clawing out of the ground and grabbing at the feet of soldiers, began screaming and going limp, trapped in the stone. The Heavenly Ones who had been helping dropped to the ground suddenly, then collapsed, unconscious. Groans sounded from behind. The Radiants on the floor at the center of the circle began stirring. They were awake! “You may turn in your weapons,” Stormblessed said to the enemy. “And return to your kind unharmed, so long as you promise me one thing.” He smiled. “Tell him that I’m particularly going to enjoy hearing what he looked like when he found out what happened here today.” * * * A strange, unpleasant stench struck Dalinar as he stepped into Ishar’s pavilion. The odor was chemically harsh, and he felt a faint burning in his eyes. He blinked in the dim light, finding a large chamber filled with slab tables and sheets shrouding something atop them. Bodies? The Windrunners had gone in first, of course, but they were busy inspecting the recesses of the tent to check for an ambush. Dalinar walked up to one of the slabs and yanked off the shroud. He simply found a body underneath, an incision in its abdomen made with clean surgical precision. Male, with the clothing cut off and lying beside the body. Very pale skin and stark white hair—in death, the hair and skin seemed almost the same color. That skin had a blue cast to it; probably a Natan person. So Ishar was a butcher, a mad surgeon as well as a crazed theocrat. For some reason, that relieved Dalinar. It was disgusting, but this was an ordinary kind of evil. He’d expected something worse. “Sir?” Mela the Windrunner called from across the room. “You should see this.” Dalinar walked over to Mela, who stood beside one of the other slabs. Szeth remained in the doorway to the pavilion, seated on the ground, holding his sheathed sword across his lap. He seemed not to care about the investigation. Another corpse—half revealed by a drawn-back sheet—was on the slab in front of Mela, though this one was far stranger. The elongated body had a black shell covering most of it, from neck to feet. That had been cut free to open up the chest. Dalinar couldn’t make sense of the shell. It looked like clothing, kind of, but was hard like singer carapace—and had apparently been attached to the skin. The head was a soggy mass of black flesh, soft like intestines, with
no visible eyes or features. “What on Roshar…” Dalinar said. “The hands seem human, if too long, but the rest of it…” “I have no idea,” Mela said. She glanced away and shivered. “It’s not human, sir. I don’t know what it is.” In the back of Dalinar’s mind, the Stormfather rumbled. This … the spren said. This is not possible. What? Dalinar asked. That is a Cryptic, he said. The Lightweaver spren. Only they don’t have bodies in this realm. They can’t. “Sir,” Lyn said from a nearby slab. The corpse she’d uncovered was a pile of vines vaguely shaped like a person. Cultivationspren … the Stormfather said. Return to that first body you saw. NOW. Dalinar did not object and walked toward the front of the pavilion. What he’d first dismissed as an ordinary body now seemed anything but. The white-blue hair, the pieces of clothing that were—he now recognized—the exact same color as the body. The Stormfather’s thunder grew distant. I knew him, the Stormfather said. I could not see it at first. I did not want to see it. This is Vespan. Honorspren. “So they’re not … some kind of attempt at making men into mimicries of spren,” Dalinar said. “These are actual spren corpses?” Spren don’t have corpses, the Stormfather said. Spren do not die like men. They are power that cannot be destroyed. They … This is IMPOSSIBLE. Dalinar searched through the chamber, where more and more drawn-back sheets revealed different strange corpses. Several just skeletons, others piles of rock. This place is evil, the Stormfather said. Beyond evil. What has been done here is an abomination. Sigzil jogged over, holding some ledgers he’d found in the rear. Dalinar couldn’t make sense of them, but Sigzil pointed at the Azish glyphs, reading them. “This is a list of experiments, I think,” the companylord said. “The first column is the name of a spren, the second column a date. The third is a time … maybe how long they lived? None seem to have survived longer than a few minutes.” “Blood of my fathers,” Dalinar said, his hands trembling. “And this last column?” “Notes, sir,” Sigzil said. “Here, the last entry. ‘Our first honorspren lived nearly fifteen minutes. A new record, and orders of magnitude longer than all previous attempts. Honorspren seem to have the most humanlike essences. When transferred, the organs and muscles form most naturally. We must capture more of them. “‘Cryptics and ashspren are impossible to bring over properly with our current knowledge. The process of creating bodies for them results in a physical form that collapses upon itself immediately. It appears their physiology works against the fundamental laws of the Physical Realm.’” “Storms,” Leyten said, running a hand through his short hair. “What does it mean?” Leave this place immediately, the Stormfather said. We must warn my children. “Agreed,” Dalinar said. “Grab anything you think might be useful and meet me outside. We’re leaving.” * * * Moash fled through the tower, using Lashing after Lashing, as he felt the structure rumble. Felt
it come alive. Felt light begin to surround him. Her light. The queen’s light. And before that, a terrible sound. It had pushed away his Connection to Odium, forcing Moash to feel pain for the things he’d done—pain he didn’t want. Pain he’d given away. That pain seethed and spread inside him. He’d killed Teft. He’d. Killed. TEFT. Get out, get out, get out! he thought as he tore through a hallway, uncaring whether he hit people with his Shardblade as he passed over their heads. He needed it ready. In case Kaladin found him. In case he hadn’t broken. The walls were glowing, and the light seemed brighter to Moash than it should have. He wasn’t supposed to feel afraid! He’d given that away! He couldn’t be the man he needed to be if he was afraid, or … Or. The pain, the shame, the anger at himself was worse than the fear. Get out. Go. Go! The suffocating light surrounded him, burned him as he burst out the front gates of the tower. He felt more than saw what happened behind. Each level of the tower came alive, one at a time. The air warped with sudden warmth and pressure. So much light. So much light! Moash Lashed himself into the sky, darting out away from the tower. Soon after, however, he slammed into a hard surface. He dropped into something soft but cold, pained as his Stormlight kept him alive—barely. It ran out before it could fully heal him, so he lay there in the cold. Waiting for the numbness. He wasn’t supposed to have to feel anymore. That was what he’d been promised. He couldn’t blink. He didn’t seem to have eyelids anymore. He couldn’t see either—his vision had been burned away. He listened to distant cheers, distant sounds of exultation and joy, as he lay in the cold on the mountainside. The snow numbed his skin. But not his soul. Not his wretched soul. “Teft, I…” He couldn’t say it. The words wouldn’t form. He wasn’t sorry for what he’d done. He was only sorry for how his actions made him feel. He didn’t want this pain. He deserved it, yes, but he didn’t want it. He should have died, but they found him. A few Heavenly Ones who had been in the air when the tower was restored. They’d awoken, it seemed, after falling from the sky and leaving the tower’s protections. They gave him Stormlight, then lifted him, carrying him away. Odium’s gift returned, and Moash breathed easier. Blissfully without his guilt. His spine healed. He could walk by the time they dropped him among a camp of a few others who had managed to flee the tower. But he couldn’t see them. No matter how much Stormlight he was given, his eyes didn’t recover. He was blind. Roshar will be united in its service of the greater war. —Musings of El, on the first of the Final Ten Days Exhausted and confused, Dalinar and the Windrunners eventually landed back at their Emuli warcamp, mere
minutes before a highstorm was scheduled to arrive. He felt the weight of failure pulling him down, strong as gravity. He sagged as he dismissed the Windrunners to go rest. He’d gone all that way for nothing. He was no closer to understanding his powers. No closer to doing something about the capture of Urithiru. No closer to rescuing Navani. He probably should have gone to Jasnah to explain what they’d found, but he was so tired. He plodded through the camp, towing his failure like a cart behind him, populated by swirling exhaustionspren. And that was when they found him: women running up with spanreeds to the tower that were suddenly working again. Messengers surrounded by gloryspren, bringing amazing news. Navani in contact, the tower and Oathgates functioning. Dalinar listened to it in a daze. Good news. Finally, good news. He wanted to immediately get flown to Azimir so he could go see Navani, but he recognized the foolishness in that. He needed at least a short rest before enduring another lengthy flight, and there was that imminent highstorm to worry about. He ordered a message sent to his wife, promising to come to her before the day was out. Then he asked Jasnah and the Prime if he could meet with them after the storm. After that, they left him to at last approach the small building he made his base. It felt like coming home. Of course, he’d lived enough of his life out on campaign that “home” had acquired a loose definition. Any place with a soft bed usually counted. Urithiru really is safe now, Dalinar, the Stormfather said in his mind. I was so distracted by the dead spren that I didn’t notice at first. The Sibling has fully awakened. Another Bondsmith? The implications of this … Dalinar was still trying to deal with those himself. Navani bonding a spren? That was wonderful, but he was so emotionally worn at the moment, he just wanted to sit and think. He pushed open the door to his house, stumbled through, and entered a vast golden field. The ground shimmered as if infused with Stormlight. Dalinar pulled to a halt and turned around. The doorway was gone, the doorknob having vanished from his hand. The sky was a deep reddish orange, like a sunset. He was in a vision. But he hadn’t heard the highstorm hit. And … no. This wasn’t a highstorm vision. This was something else. He turned with trepidation, looking across the glimmering field to where a figure—clad in golden robes—stood on a nearby hilltop, facing away from Dalinar and staring out at the horizon. Odium. Storms within, Dalinar thought, flagging. Not now. I can’t face him right now. Well, a soldier couldn’t always pick his battlefield. This was the first time Odium had appeared to him in a year. Dalinar needed to use this. He took a deep breath and pushed through his fatigue. He hiked up the hillside and eventually stopped beside the figure in gold. Odium held a small scepter like a cane,
his hand resting on the ball at the top. He appeared different from when Dalinar had last seen him. He still resembled a wise old man with a grey beard cut to medium length. A paternal air. Sagacious, knowing, understanding. Only now his skin was glowing in places, as if it had grown thin and a light inside was seeking to escape. The god’s eyes had gone completely golden, as if they were chunks of metal set into a statue’s face. When Odium spoke, there was a harsh edge to his tone, his words clipped. Barely holding in his anger. “Our Connection grows, Dalinar,” Odium said. “Stronger by the day. I can reach you now as if you were one of my own. You should be.” “I will ever and always be my own,” Dalinar said. “I know you went to see Ishar. What did he tell you?” Dalinar clasped his hands behind him and used the old commander’s trick of remaining silent and staring in thought. Stiff back. Strong posture. Outwardly in control, even if you’re one step from collapsing. “You were supposed to be my champion, Dalinar,” Odium said. “Now I see how you resisted me. You’ve been working with Ishar all along, haven’t you? Is that how you learned to bind the realms?” “You find it inconvenient, don’t you?” Dalinar said. “That you cannot see my future. How does it feel to be human, Odium?” “You think I fear humanity?” Odium said. “Humanity is mine, Dalinar. All emotions belong to me. This land, this realm, this people. They live for me. They always have. They always will.” And yet you come to me, Dalinar thought. To berate me? You stayed away all these months. Why now? The answer struck him like the light of a rising sun. Odium had lost the tower—Urithiru was safe and there was another Bondsmith. He’d failed again. And now he thought Dalinar had been working with Ishar. Cultivation’s gift, though it had bled Dalinar, had given him the strength to defy Odium. All this time, he’d been asking what a god could possibly fear, but the answer was obvious. Odium feared men who would not obey him. He feared Dalinar. “Ishar told me some curious things this latest visit,” Dalinar said. “He gave me a book with secrets in it. He is not as mad as I feared, Odium. He showed me my Connection to you, and explained how limited you are. Then he proved to me that a Bondsmith unchained is capable of incredible feats.” He looked at the ancient being. “You are a god. You hold vast powers, yet they bind you as much as they free you. Tell me, what do you think of a human bearing the weight of a god’s powers, but without that god’s restrictions?” “The power will bind you eventually, as it has me,” Odium said. “You don’t understand a fraction of the things you pretend to, Dalinar.” Yet you’re afraid of me, Dalinar thought. Of the idea that I might fully come into my power. That
you’re losing control of your plans. Perhaps Dalinar’s errand to Tukar hadn’t been a failure. He hadn’t gained Ishar’s wisdom, but so long as Odium thought he had … Bless you, Renarin, Dalinar thought. For making my life unpredictable to this being. For letting me bluff. “We made an agreement,” Odium said. “A contest of champions. We never set terms.” “I have terms,” Dalinar said. “On my desk. A single sheet of paper.” Odium waved his hand and the words began appearing—written as if in glowing golden ink—in the sky before them. Enormous, intimidating. “You didn’t write this,” Odium said, his eyes narrowing. “Nor did that Elsecaller.” The light grew more vibrant beneath Odium’s skin, and Dalinar could feel its heat—like that of a sun—rising. Making his skin burn. Anger. Deep anger, white hot. It was consuming Odium. His control was slipping. “Cephandrius,” Odium spat. “Ever the rat. No matter where I go, there he is, scratching in the wall. Burrowing into my strongholds. He could have been a god, yet he insists on living in the dirt.” “Do you accept these terms?” Dalinar asked. “By this, if my champion wins,” Odium said, “then Roshar is mine? Completely and utterly. And if yours wins, I withdraw for a millennium?” “Yes. But what if you break your word? You’ve delayed longer than you should have. What if you refuse to send a champion?” “I cannot break my word,” Odium said, the heat increasing. “I basically am incapable of it.” “Basically?” Dalinar pressed. “What happens, Odium, if you break your word.” “Then the contract is void, and I am in your power. Same, but reversed, if you break the contract. You would be in my power, and the restrictions Honor placed upon me—chaining me to the Rosharan system and preventing me from using my powers on most individuals—would be void. But that is not going to happen, and I am not going to break my word. Because if I did, it would create a hole in my soul—which would let Cultivation kill me. “I am no fool, and you are a man of honor. We will both approach this contest in good faith, Dalinar. This isn’t some deal with a Voidbringer from your myths, where one tricks the other with some silly twist of language. A willing champion from each of us and a fight to the death. They will meet on the top of Urithiru. No tricks, no lies.” “Very well,” Dalinar said. “But as the terms state, if your champion is defeated, it isn’t only you who must withdraw for a thousand years. The Fused must go with you, locked away again, as well as the spren that make Regals. No more forms of power. No more Voidspren.” The light pulsed inside Odium and he turned his eyes back toward the horizon. “I … cannot agree to this.” “The terms are simple,” Dalinar said. “If you—” “I said I cannot agree,” Odium said. “The Everstorm has changed everything, and Cephandrius should have realized this. Singers can adopt Regal forms powered by the
Everstorm. The Fused are free now; they can be reborn without my intervention. The Oathpact could have imprisoned them, but it is now defunct. I am literally unable to do as you ask, not without destroying myself in the process.” “Then we cannot have an accommodation,” Dalinar said. “Because I’m certainly not going to agree to anything less.” “And if I agreed to less?” Dalinar frowned, uncertain, his mind muddled from fatigue. The creature was going to try to trick him. He was certain of it. So, he did what he thought best. He said nothing. Odium chuckled softly, rotating his scepter beneath his hand so the butt ground against the golden stone at their feet. “Do you know why I make men fight, Dalinar? Why I created the Thrill? Why I encourage the wars?” “To destroy us.” “Why would I want to destroy you? I am your god, Dalinar.” Odium shook his head, staring into the infinite golden distance. “I need soldiers. For the true battle that is coming, not for one people or one miserable windswept continent. A battle of the gods. A battle for everything. “Roshar is a training ground. The time will come that I unleash you upon the others who are not nearly as well trained. Not nearly as hardened as I have made you.” “Curious,” Dalinar said. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but your ‘hardening’ tactic has resulted in Fused who are going mad from the stress.” The light grew stronger inside Odium, seeming as if it might explode from his skin. “If your champion wins, I will step away for a thousand years,” he said. “I will retreat to Braize, and I will no longer speak to, contact, or influence the Fused or Voidspren. But I cannot contain them. And you will have to pray that your descendants are as lucky as you are, as I will be less … lenient when I return.” Dalinar started to speak, but Odium interrupted. “Let me finish,” he said. “In exchange for you giving up one thing you wanted, I will give up one in turn. If I win, I will give up my grand plans for Roshar. I will leave this planet for a thousand years, and abandon all I’ve worked for here. I give you and the singers freedom to make your own peace. Freedom for you, and freedom for me. “This is all I ask for my victory: As you represent Honor, you can relax his prohibitions on me. No matter what happens in the contest, you never have to worry about me again. All I want is away from this miserable system.” Of course it wouldn’t be as easy as Wit had promised. Dalinar wavered. Wit looked out for himself, as he’d always said he would. The contract reinforced that idea. Odium offered a different, tempting prospect. To be rid of him, to fight this war as an ordinary war … Two forces pulled at him. Which did he trust? He doubted that any mortal—Jasnah included—could construct a contract good enough to hold
a god. But to simply give Wit what he desired? Who do you trust more? Wit, or the god of anger? It wasn’t really in question. He didn’t trust Wit much, but he didn’t trust Odium at all. Besides, if Honor had died to trap this god here on Roshar, Dalinar had to believe the Almighty had done so for good reason. So he turned to go. “Send me back, Odium,” Dalinar said. “There will be no agreement today.” A flare of heat washed over him from behind. Dalinar spun, finding Odium glowing with a bright red-gold light, his eyes wide, his teeth clenched. Stand firm, Dalinar thought to himself. Wit says he can’t hurt you. Not without breaking his word … not without inviting his own death … Wit hadn’t included that last part. But Dalinar stood his ground, sweating, his heart racing. Until at last the power abated, the heat and light retreating. “I would prefer,” Odium said, “to make an agreement.” Why so eager? Dalinar thought. It’s the power, isn’t it? It’s ripping you apart for delaying. It wants out. “I’ve offered you an agreement,” Dalinar said. “I’ve told you that I cannot keep to these terms. I can seal myself away, but not my minions. I can demand that the Fused and the Unmade retreat—but not all currently obey my will. And I can do nothing about the Regals.” Dalinar took a deep breath. “Fine,” he said, “but I cannot entertain an agreement that frees you from this world. So we should focus on our conflict, you and me. If I win, you are exiled to Damnation and withdraw from the conflict entirely. If you win, I will go into exile, and my people will have to fight without my aid.” “You offer a mortal life for that of a god?” Odium demanded. “No, Dalinar. If I win, I want the Knights Radiant. The forces of Alethkar and Urithiru will surrender to my Fused, and your Radiants will end this war. The other foolish kingdoms of men can keep fighting if they wish, but your people and mine will begin preparing for the true war: the one that will begin when the gods of other worlds discover the strength of Surgebinding. Your heirs will be bound to this, as you are.” “I cannot negotiate for people who are not yet born,” Dalinar said. “Nor can I promise my Radiants will follow you, as you cannot promise the Fused will obey you. As I said, this must be between you and me. But … if you win, I will agree to order my armies to stand down and stop the fighting. I will give up the war, and those who wish to join you will be allowed to do so.” “Not good enough, Dalinar. Not nearly good enough.” Odium took a long, suffering breath. That light pulsed inside of him, and Dalinar felt a kind of kinship to the ancient god then. Sensing his fatigue, which somehow mirrored Dalinar’s own. “I want so much more than Roshar, so much
more than one planet, one people. But my people … tire. I’ve worn them thin with this eternal battle. They seek endings, terrible endings. The entire war has changed, based on what your wife has done. You realize this.” “I do,” Dalinar said. “It is time for a true accommodation. A true ending. Do you not agree?” “I … Yes. I realize it. What do you propose?” Odium waved dismissively at the contract Wit had drawn up. “No more talk of delays, of sending me away. Of half measures. We have a contest of champions on the tenth of next month,” Odium said. “At the tenth hour.” “So soon? The month ends tomorrow.” “Why delay?” Odium asked. “I know my champion. Do you know yours?” “I do,” Dalinar said. “Then let us stop dancing and commit. On the tenth, our champions meet. If you win, I will withdraw to the kingdoms I currently hold—and I enforce an end to the war. I will even give up to you Alethkar, and restore your homeland to you.” “I must have Herdaz too.” “What?” Odium said. “That meaningless little plot of land? What are they to you?” “It’s the matter of an oath, Odium,” Dalinar said. “You will restore to me Herdaz and Alethkar. Keep whatever other lands you’ve taken; they mostly followed you freely anyway. I can accept this, so long as you are still trapped on Roshar, as Honor wished.” “I will,” Odium said, “though I will be able to focus my attentions on sending agents to the rest of the cosmere, using what I’ve conquered here as enough for now. However, if I win the contest of champions, I keep everything I’ve conquered—Herdaz and Alethkar included. And I want one other small thing. I want you, Dalinar.” “My life? Odium, I intend to be my own champion. I’ll have died if you win.” “Yes,” Odium said, eyes shining golden. “You will have. And you will give your soul to me. You, Dalinar, will join the Fused. You will become immortal, and will personally serve me. Bound by your oaths. You will be the one I send to the stars to serve my interests in the cosmere.” A cold shock ran through Dalinar. Like he’d felt the first time he’d been stabbed. Surprise, disbelief, terror. You will join the Fused. “Are we agreed?” Odium said, his skin now glowing so brightly that his features were difficult to make out. “You have gotten from me more than I ever thought I would give up. Either way, the war ends and you will have secured the safety of your allies. At the cost of gambling your own soul. How far does your honor extend, Blackthorn?” Dalinar wavered. Stopping now, with Azir and Thaylenah safe—with a good portion of Roshar protected, and with a chance for more in Alethkar and Herdaz if he won—was truly more than he ever thought possible. A true end to the war. Jasnah spoke of the need for councils. Groups of leaders. She thought putting too much power in the hands
of one individual was dangerous. He could finally see her point, as he stood there on that field of golden light. This new deal would be good for his allies—they’d celebrate it, most likely. But he couldn’t know for certain. He had to make a decision. Dared he do that? Dared he risk his own soul? I have to contain him, Dalinar thought. His people were celebrating their victory in Emul, but he knew—deep down—the enemy had given it away. He had preferred to secure his power elsewhere. The Mink had said it himself: If Odium had wanted to crush Azir, he could have. Instead, he’d secured what he had. Odium knew that in controlling Jah Keved, Alethkar, and Iri, he owned the strongest portion of Roshar. Without this deal, Dalinar saw years of fighting ahead. Decades. Against an enemy whose Fused were constantly reborn. From years spent defending Alethkar, he knew exactly how difficult it would be to retake. Dalinar saw his people dying by the thousands, unsuccessfully trying to seize lands he himself had fortified. Dalinar would lose this war in the long run. Honor had all but confirmed it. Renarin said victory in a traditional sense was nearly impossible as long as Odium drove his forces. And Taravangian, whom Dalinar didn’t trust but did believe, had foreseen the same fact. The enemy would win, wearing them down over centuries if need be. Their best chance was for Dalinar’s champion to defeat Odium’s. If that champion failed, then Dalinar’s only reasonable option would be surrender anyway. He knew that, deep in his gut. Most importantly, this seemed his only real chance to free Alethkar. He had to do it. He hadn’t achieved what he had through indecision. He either trusted his instincts, and the promises of his god, or he had nothing. He took a deep breath. “Final terms are these: A contest of champions to the death. On the tenth day of the month Palah, tenth hour. We each send a willing champion, allowed to meet at the top of Urithiru, otherwise unharmed by either side’s forces. If I win that contest, you will remain bound to the system—but you will return Alethkar and Herdaz to me, with all of their occupants intact. You will vow to cease hostilities and maintain the peace, not working against my allies or our kingdoms in any way.” “Agreed,” Odium said. “But if I win, I keep everything I’ve won—including your homeland. I still remain bound to this system, and will still cease hostilities as you said above. But I will have your soul. To serve me, immortal. Will you do this? Because I agree to these terms.” “And I,” Dalinar whispered. “I agree to these terms.” “It is done.” And I will march proudly at the head of a human legion. —Musings of El, on the first of the Final Ten Days Disconnecting from the powers of the Sibling left Navani feeling small. Was this really what life had been like before? Before she’d blended her essence with the Sibling’s—and gained awareness
of the intricate motions of the thousands of fabrials that made up the Sibling’s physical form? She now felt so normal. Almost. She retained a hint of awareness in the back of her mind. A sense for the veins of crystal that permeated the tower; if she rested her hand against a wall she could sense its workings. Heat. Pressure. Light. Life. I swore I would never do this again, the Sibling said in her mind. I swore I was done with humans. “Then it’s good that spren, like humans, can change their minds,” Navani said. She was a little surprised to find her body as she remembered it. With a cut in her havah, bloodstained where the knife had taken her. Our bond is unusual, the Sibling said. I still do not know what I think of what we’ve done. “If we meant our words, and keep them, does it matter?” What of fabrials? the Sibling asked. You did not promise to stop capturing spren. “We will find a compromise,” Navani said, picking her way out of the room with the crystal pillar. “We will work together to find an acceptable path forward.” Will it be like your compromise with Raboniel, where you tricked her? “That was the best compromise she and I could come to, and we both knew it,” Navani said. “You and I can do better.” I wish to believe you, the Sibling said. But as of yet, I do not. I am sorry. “Merely another problem to solve,” Navani said, “through application of logic and hope, in equal measure.” She approached Raboniel’s fallen body in the hallway, then knelt over it. “Thank you.” The eyes opened. Navani gasped. “Raboniel?” “You … lived. Good.” One of her hands twitched; it seemed that Moash had cut her with his Blade low enough that it hadn’t burned out her eyes, though one arm and both legs were obviously dead. Navani raised her hand to her lips. “Do … not … weep,” Raboniel whispered. “I … would have killed … you … to accomplish … my goal.” “Instead, you saved me.” Raboniel breathed in a shallow breath, but said nothing. “We’ll meet again,” Navani said. “You will be reborn.” “No. If I … die … I will return … mad. My soul … is burned … almost all away.… Do not … Please … Please…” “What, then?” Navani said. “This new Light … works. My daughter … is truly gone. So I made … more … anti … anti…” “Anti-Voidlight. Where?” Raboniel rocked her head to the side, toward her desk, situated in the hallway near the opening to the crystal pillar room. Navani rose and searched through the drawers, finding a black sack containing a diamond filled with the precious, terrible Light. She returned and affixed the diamond to the dagger, which was wet with Moash’s blood. After cleaning it and reversing the metal strip, she knelt beside Raboniel. “Are you sure?” Navani asked. Raboniel nodded. Her hand twitched, and Navani reached over and held it, which made the Fused
relax. “I … have done … what I wished. Odium … is worried. He may … allow … an ending.…” “Thank you,” Navani said softly. “I never … thought … I would be sane … at the end.…” Navani raised the dagger. And for the first time, she wondered if she was strong enough for this. “I do wish…” Raboniel said, “I could hear … rhythms … again.…” “Then sing with me,” Navani said, and began to sing Honor’s tone. The Fused smiled, then managed a weak hum to Odium’s tone. Navani modulated her tone, lowering her voice, until the two snapped together in harmony one last time. Navani positioned the dagger above the wound in Raboniel’s breast. “End it … Navani…” Raboniel whispered, letting the song cease. “Make sure they let it all … end.” “I will,” she whispered back, then—humming her best, holding the hand of a former immortal—Navani thrust the dagger in deep. Raboniel’s nerves had mostly been severed, so she didn’t spasm as her daughter had. Her eyes went a glassy marble white, and a breath escaped her lips—black smoke as her insides burned away. Navani kept humming until the smoke dissipated. You have performed a kindness, the Sibling said in her head. “I feel awful.” That is part of the kindness. “I am sorry,” Navani said, “for discovering this Light. It will let spren be killed.” It was coming to us, the Sibling said. Consequences once chased only humans. With the Recreance, the consequences became ours as well. You have simply sealed that truth as eternal. Navani pressed her forehead against Raboniel’s as the Fused had done for her daughter. Then she rose, surrounded by exhaustionspren. Storms. Without the Towerlight infusing her, her fatigue returned. How long had it been since she’d slept? Too long. But today, she needed to be a queen. She tucked the dagger away—it was too valuable to simply leave lying around—and took her copy of Rhythm of War under her arm. She left a note on Raboniel’s corpse, just in case. Do not dispose of this hero’s body without first consulting the queen. Then she went to create order from the chaos of a tower suddenly set free. * * * Taravangian awoke late in the day. He barely remembered falling asleep. He barely … could … Could barely … think. He was stupid. Stupider than he’d ever been before. That made him weep. Stupid weeping. He cried and cried, overwhelmed by emotion and shamespren. A sense of failure. Of anger at himself. He lay there until hunger drove him to stand. His thoughts were like crem. Thick. Slow. He stumbled down to the window, where they had left his basket of food. Trembling, he clutched it, weeping at his hunger. It seemed so strong. And storms, he drew so many spren when stupid. He sat beside his fake hearth, and couldn’t help wishing that Dalinar could be there with him. How grand that had been. To have a friend. A real friend who understood him. He trembled at the idea, then
began digging in the basket. He stopped as he found a note. Written by Renarin Kholin, sealed by his signet. Taravangian sounded out each glyph. It took forever—drawing a fleet of concentrationspren like ripples in the air—for him to figure out what it said. Two words. I’m sorry. Two gemstones, glowing brightly, were included with the note. What were these? I’m sorry. Why say that? What had the boy seen? He knew his future wasn’t to be trusted. Other spren fled, and only fearspren attended him as he read those words. He needed to hide! He climbed off his chair and crawled to the corner. He quivered there until he felt too hungry. He crawled over and began eating the flatbread in the basket. Then some kind of purple Azish vegetable mash, which he ate with his fingers. It tasted so good. Had he ever eaten anything so wonderful? He cried over it. The gemstones continued to glow. Large ones. With something moving in them. Hadn’t … hadn’t he been told to watch for something like that? Thunder crackled in the sky, and Taravangian looked up. Was that the Everstorm? No. No, it was a highstorm. He hadn’t realized it would come today. Thunder rattled the shutters, and he dropped the bread. He hid again in the corner with globs of trembling fearspren. The thunder sounded angry. He knows, Taravangian thought. The enemy knows what I’ve done. No. No, wrong storm. He needed a way to summon Odium. Those gems. That was what they were for! It would happen today. Today he died. Today it ended. The door to his hut slammed open, broken at the hinges. Outside, guards scrambled away from a figure silhouetted against a darkening sky. The storm was almost here. And Szeth had come with it. Taravangian gasped, terrified, as this was not the death he had foreseen. He’d waited so long for a transcendent day when he would be supremely intelligent again. He’d never wondered about the opposite. A day when he was all emotion. A day when thoughts didn’t move in his brain, and spren swarmed him, feeding gluttonously upon his passions. Szeth stood quietly, his illusion gone, his bald head—freshly shaved—reflecting the light of the spheres that had spilled from the basket. “How did you know?” the Shin finally asked. “And how long have you known?” “Kn-known?” Taravangian forced out, crawling to the side through the fearspren. “My father,” Szeth said. Taravangian blinked. He could barely understand the words, he was so stupid. Emotions fought inside him. Terror. Relief that it would soon be over. “How did you know my father was dead?” Szeth demanded, striding into the room. “How did you know that Ishar reclaimed his sword? How?” Szeth no longer wore white—he’d changed to an Alethi uniform. Why? Oh, disguise. Yes. He wore the terrible sword at his side. It was too big. The tip of the sheath dragged against the wooden floor. Taravangian hunched to the wall, trying to find the right words. “Szeth. The sword. You must…” “I must do nothing,”
Szeth said, approaching steadily. “I ignore you as I ignore the voices in the shadows. You know the voices, Taravangian? The ones you gave me.” Taravangian huddled down, closing his eyes. Waiting, too overcome with emotion to do anything else. “What are these?” Szeth said. Taravangian opened his eyes. The gemstones. Szeth picked them up, frowning. He hadn’t drawn that terrible sword. Say something. What should he say? Szeth couldn’t harm those. Taravangian needed them! “Please,” he cried, “don’t break them.” Szeth scowled, then threw them—one after the other—at the stone wall, shattering them. Strange spren escaped, transparent windspren that trailed red light. They laughed, spinning around Szeth. “Please,” Taravangian said through the tears. “Your sword. Odium. You—” “Ever you manipulate me,” Szeth interrupted, watching the windspren. “Ever you seek to stain my hands with the blood of those you would kill. You brought all this upon us, Taravangian. The world would have been able to stand against the enemy if you hadn’t made me murder half their monarchs.” “No!” Taravangian said. He stood up with effort, scattering the spren around him, his heart thundering in his chest. His vision immediately began to swim. He’d stood up too quickly. “We killed to save the world.” “Murders done to save lives,” Szeth said softly, tracking Taravangian with eyes dark and shadowed from the room’s poor light, now that the spheres were gone. “Idiocy. But I wasn’t ever to object. I was Truthless. I simply followed orders. Tell me. Do you think that absolves a man?” “No,” Taravangian said, trembling with the weight of his guilt, shamespren bursting around him and floating, as petals of rockbud blossoms, to the ground. “A good answer. You are wise for one so stupid.” Taravangian tried to dash away past Szeth. But of course his legs gave out. He got tripped and collapsed in a heap. He groaned, his heart thumping, his vision swimming. A moment later, strong hands lifted him and slammed him back against the wall amid swarming exhaustionspren. Something snapped in Taravangian’s shoulder, and pain spiked through his body. He drooped in Szeth’s grip, breathing out in wheezes. The room started to grow golden. “All this time,” Szeth said, “I wanted to keep my honor. I tried so hard. You took advantage of that. You broke me, Taravangian.” Light. That golden light. “Szeth,” Taravangian said, feeling blood on his lips. Storms. “Szeth … He is here.…” “I decide now,” Szeth said, reaching toward his waist—not for the terrible sword, but for the small knife he was wearing beside it. “I finally decide. Me. No one else compelling me. Taravangian, know that in killing you, I make it my choice.” Rumbling thunder. A brilliant, terrible golden light. Odium appeared. When he did, his face was distorted, his eyes shining with angry power. Thunder broke the landscape, and Szeth began to fade. You should not tempt me today, Taravangian! Odium thundered. I have lost my champion AGAIN, and now I am bound by an agreement I do not want. How do they know how to move against
me? HAVE YOU BETRAYED ME, TARAVANGIAN? Have you been speaking to Sja-anat? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE? The awe of that force—that transcendent power—left Taravangian quivering, spren of a dozen varieties swirling around him, fighting for his attention. So many emotions. He barely noticed Szeth pulling the knife free, for he was so overwhelmed—awed, frightened, excited all at once. Fear won. Taravangian cried out, his shoulder afire with pain, his body broken. His plans had been silly. How had he thought to outthink a god when stupid? He couldn’t do that when smart. No wonder he’d failed. Did you fail? The sword is here. Odium is here. Cold steel bit Taravangian’s skin as Szeth stabbed him right in the chest. At the same moment, Taravangian felt something pushing through his fear, his pain. An emotion he’d never thought to feel himself. Bravery. Bravery surged through him, so powerfully he could not help but move. It was the dying courage of a man on the front lines charging an enemy army. The glory of a woman fighting for her child. The feeling of an old man on his last day of life stepping into darkness. Bravery. The Physical Realm faded as Odium pulled Taravangian into the place between worlds. Taravangian’s body was not as weak here. This form was a manifestation of his mind and soul. And those were strong. The sword at Szeth’s waist—that strange, terrible sword—manifested here, in this realm where Odium brought Taravangian. The god looked down and saw the curling black darkness, and seemed surprised. Taravangian seized the sword and pulled it free of its scabbard, hearing it scream for pleasure. He turned and thrust it upward—black smoke curling around his hands. “Destroy!” the sword bellowed. “DESTROY!” Taravangian rammed it up into Odium’s chest. The sword drank greedily of the god’s essence, and as it did, Taravangian felt a snap. His body dying. Szeth finishing the job. He knew it immediately. Taravangian was dead. Anger rose in him like he had never known. Szeth had killed him! Odium screamed, and the golden place shattered, turning to darkness. The sword undulated in Taravangian’s grip, pulling power from the god it had stabbed. The figure that contained Odium’s power—the person who controlled it—evaporated, taken by the sword. That alone was so much Investiture that Taravangian felt the sword grow dull in his fingers. Full, lethargic. As when a hot brand was shoved into a barrel of water, there was an initial hiss—but this power was too vast for the sword to drink. It killed the person holding that power, however, which left a hole. A need. A … vacuum, like a gemstone suddenly without Stormlight. It reached out, and Taravangian felt a distinct Connection to it. Passion. Hatred. Today, Taravangian was only passion. Hatred, fear, anger, shame, awe. Bravery. The power loved these things, and it surged around him, enveloping him. His soul vibrated. Take me, the power pled, speaking not in words, but in emotion. You are perfect. I am yours. Taravangian hesitated briefly, then thrust his hands into the well
of power. And Ascended to godhood, becoming Odium. They should not be discarded, but helped to their potential. Their final Passions. —Musings of El, on the first of the Final Ten Days Rlain walked with Venli and his new friends—Dul, Mazish, and the others Venli had recruited—to the Oathgate, where Kaladin waited to transfer them to the Shattered Plains. Rlain felt in a stupor, despite a day having passed since his revelation. Since speaking his first Words as a Truthwatcher. The spren had been watching him, from the heart of a cremling. Rlain and Venli had mistaken Tumi for a Voidspren, but he wasn’t exactly the same thing. Once an ordinary mistspren, Tumi had let Sja-anat touch him, and in so doing make him into something new. A spren of both Honor and Odium. Tumi pulsed to a new rhythm. The Rhythm of War. Something he had learned recently. Something important for his siblings to hear. Renarin knows? Rlain thought. He suggested you, Tumi said. And told our mother about you. He was right. Our bond will be strong, and you will be wondrous. We are awed by you, Rlain. The Bridger of Minds. We are honored. Honored. That felt good. To be chosen because of what he’d done. Kaladin waited for them at the transfer room. He made the transfer with the Sylblade. The air of the Shattered Plains was wetter, and felt … familiar to Rlain as they stepped onto a platform outside Narak. There they met with Leshwi and the other four Fused who, upon being transferred here earlier, had regained consciousness. Leshwi hovered over and tipped her head toward Kaladin in respect. “You could stay here at Narak,” Kaladin said to her. “We’d welcome your aid.” “We fought against our own to preserve lives,” Leshwi said. “We do not wish that to continue. We will find a third option, outside this war. The path of the listeners.” “We’ll find our way out here,” Venli said to Confidence. “Somehow.” “Well, go with honor then,” Kaladin said. “And with the queen’s promise. If you change your minds, or if you and yours need refuge, we’ll take you in.” The Heavenly Ones took to the air, humming to Praise. They began lowering the new listeners—and their supplies—down into the chasm for the hike eastward. With the highstorm passed, and with Fused to watch for chasmfiends from above, they should be able to make their way to the eastern flats where the other listeners had gone. Rlain gave Venli a hug and hummed to Praise. “I don’t deserve any of this,” she whispered to him. “I was weak, Rlain.” “Then start doing better,” he told her, pulling back. “That is the path of Radiance, Venli. We’re both on it now. Write me via spanreed once you find the others, and give my best to Thude and Harvo, if they made it.” She hummed to Appreciation. “You will come to us soon?” “Soon,” he promised, then watched her go. Kaladin stepped up beside Rlain and rested a hand on his shoulder. Rlain couldn’t
feel the Plate, though it was apparently always there—invisible, but ready when needed. Like a Shardblade, but made up of many spren. Kaladin didn’t ask if Rlain wanted to leave with the others. Rlain had established that he needed to stay, at least until Renarin returned. Beyond that … well, there was something Rlain had started to fear. Something nebulous but—once it occurred to him—persistent. If the humans had a chance to win this war, but at the expense of taking the minds of all the singers as they’d done in the past, would they take it? Would they enslave an entire people again, if given the opportunity? The thought disturbed him. He trusted Kaladin and his friends. But humankind? That was asking a lot. Someone needed to remain close, in order to watch and be certain. He would visit the listeners. But he was a Radiant and he was Bridge Four. Urithiru was his home. “Come on,” Kaladin said. “It’s time to go give Teft a proper send-off. Among friends.” * * * Taravangian’s vision expanded, his mind expanded, his essence expanded. Time started to lose meaning. How long had he been like this? He became the power. With it, he began to understand the cosmere on a fundamental level. He saw that his predecessor had been sliding toward oblivion for a long, long time. Weakened by his battles in the past, then deeply wounded by Honor, this being had been enslaved by the power. Failing to claim Dalinar, then losing the tower and Stormblessed, had left the being frail. Vulnerable. But the power was anything but frail. It was the power of life and death, of creation and destruction. The power of gods. In his specific case, the power of emotion, passion, and—most deeply—the power of raw, untamed fury. Of hatred unbound. In this new role, Taravangian had two sides. On one was his knowledge: ideas, understandings, truths, lies … Thousands upon thousands of possible futures opened up to him. Millions of potentials. So numerous that even his expanded godly mind was daunted by their variety. On the other side was his fury. The terrible fury, like an unbridled storm, churned and burned within him. It too was so overwhelming he could barely control it. He was aware of what he’d left behind in the mortal realm. Szeth had long since climbed to his feet and sheathed Nightblood. Beside him, the assassin had found a burned-out corpse, mostly eaten by the sword’s attack. That was Rayse, Taravangian’s predecessor, but Szeth wasn’t able to tell. The sword had consumed clothing and most of the flesh, leaving bits of stone-grey bone. They think that’s me, Taravangian thought, reading the possible futures. Szeth didn’t see what happened to me spiritually. He doesn’t know Odium was here. Almost all possible futures agreed. Szeth would confess that he’d gone to kill Taravangian, but somehow Taravangian had drawn Nightblood—and the weapon had consumed him. They thought him dead. He was free.… Free to destroy! To burn! To wreak havoc and terror upon those who had doubted
him! No. No, free to plan. To devise a way to save the world from itself. He could see so far! See so much! He needed to think. To burn! No, to plot! To … To … Taravangian was startled as he became aware of something else. A growing power nearby, visible only to one such as him. A godly power, infinite and verdant. He was not alone. * * * They gave Teft a king’s funeral, Soulcasting him to stone. A sculptor would be commissioned to create a depiction of Phendorana to erect next to him. The Sibling said there was a room, locked away, where the ancient Radiants stood forever as stone sentries. It would feel good to see Teft among them, in uniform and looking at them all with a scowl, despite the embalmer’s best efforts. It felt right. All of Bridge Four came, except for Rock. Skar and Drehy had relayed the news after returning to the Shattered Plains—it seemed Kaladin wouldn’t be seeing Rock again. Together, the men and women of Bridge Four praised Teft, drank to him, and burned prayers for him in turn. Afterward, they sought a tavern to continue celebrating in a way Teft would have loved, even if he wouldn’t have let himself participate. Kaladin waited as they drifted away. They kept checking on him, of course, worried for his health. Worried about the darkness. He appreciated each and every one of them for it, but he didn’t need that type of help today. He was kind of all right. A good night’s sleep, and finding peace restored to the tower, had helped. So he sat there, looking at the statue created from Teft’s body. The others finally seemed to sense he needed to be alone. So they left him. Syl landed beside him fully sized, in a Bridge Four uniform. He could faintly feel her when she rested her head on his shoulder. “We won’t stop missing him, will we?” she asked softly. “No. But that’s all right. So long as we cling to the moments we had.” “I can’t believe you’re taking this better than I am.” “I thought you said you were recovering.” “I am,” she said. “This still hurts though.” Once the tower had been restored, she’d mostly returned to herself. Some of what she’d felt had been gloom from what Raboniel had done. Some of it wasn’t. “We could ask Dalinar,” Kaladin said. “If maybe there’s something wrong with you. A bond or something unnatural.” “He won’t find one. I’m merely … alive. And this is part of being alive. So I’m grateful, even if part of it stinks.” He nodded. “Really stinks,” she added. Then for good measure, “Stinks like a human after … how long has it been since you had a bath?” He smiled, and the two of them remained there, looking up at Teft. Kaladin didn’t know if he believed in the Almighty, or in the Tranquiline Halls, or whether people lived after they died. Yes, he’d seen something in a vision. But Dalinar
had seen many dead people in his visions, and that didn’t mean they still lived somewhere. He didn’t know why Tien had given the wooden horse to him, as if to prove the vision was real, only for it to immediately vanish. That seemed to indicate Kaladin’s mind had fabricated the meeting. He didn’t let it prevent him from feeling that he’d accomplished something important. He’d laid down a heavy burden. The pain didn’t go away, but most of the shame … that he let fall behind him. Eventually, he stood up and embraced Teft’s statue. Then he wiped his eyes and nodded to Syl. They needed to keep moving forward. And that involved deciding what he was going to do with himself, now that the crisis had ended. * * * Taravangian grew more capable by the moment. The power molded him as he bridled it. He stepped to the edge of infinity, studying endless possibilities as if they were a million rising suns and he were standing on the bank of an eternal ocean. It was beautiful. A woman stepped up beside him. He recognized her full hair, black and tightly curled, along with her vibrant round face and dark skin. She had another shape as well. Many of them, but one deeper and truer than the others. “Do you understand now?” she asked him. “You needed someone who could tempt the power,” Taravangian said, his light gleaming like gold. “But also someone who could control it. I asked for the capacity to save the world. I thought it was the intelligence, but later wondered if it was the ability to feel. In the end, it was both. You were preparing me for this.” “Odium’s power is the most dangerous of the sixteen,” she said. “It ruled Rayse, driving him to destroy. It will rule you too, if you let it.” “They showed you this possibility, I assume,” Taravangian said, looking at infinity. “But this isn’t nearly as … certain as I imagined it. It shows you things that can happen, but not the hearts of those who act. How did you dare try something like this? How did you know I’d be up to the challenge?” “I didn’t,” she said. “I couldn’t. You were heading this direction—all I could do was hope that if you succeeded, my gift would work. That I had changed you into someone who could bear this power with honor.” Such power. Such incredible power. Taravangian peered into infinity. He’d wanted to save his city, and had succeeded. After that, he’d wanted to save Roshar. He could do that now. He could end this war. Storms, Dalinar and Odium’s contract—which bound Taravangian just as soundly—would do that already. But … beyond that, what of the entire cosmere? He couldn’t see that far yet. Perhaps he would eventually be able to. But he did know his predecessor’s plans, and had access to some of his knowledge. So Taravangian knew the cosmere was in chaos. Ruled by fools. Presided over by broken gods. There was so much
to do. He sorted through Odium’s previous plans and saw all their flaws. How had he let himself be maneuvered into this particular deal with Dalinar? How had he let himself rely so much upon a contest of champions? Didn’t he know? The way to win was to make sure that, no matter the outcome, you were satisfied. Odium should never have entered a deal he could not absolutely control. It can still be done, Taravangian realized, seeing the possibilities—so subtle—that his predecessor had missed. Yes … Dalinar has set himself up … to fail. I can beat him. “Taravangian,” Cultivation said, holding her hand out to him. “Come. Let me teach you about what you’ve been given. I realize the power is overwhelming, but you can control it. You can do better than Rayse ever did.” He smiled and took her hand. Inside, he exulted. Oh, you wonderful creature, he thought. You have no idea what you have done. He was finally free of the frailties of body and position that had always controlled and defined him. He finally had the freedom to do what he’d desired. And now, Taravangian was going to save them all. Yes, I look forward to ruling the humans. —Musings of El, on the first of the Final Ten Days Shallan sat by candlelight, writing quietly in her notebook. Adolin pulled his chair up beside her. “She looks better,” he said, “than she did when I saw her in the market. But I don’t know, Shallan.” Shallan put down the pen, then took his hands, glancing to the side where—in their little chamber in Lasting Integrity—her first spren sat on a chair, Pattern standing beside her and humming. Had the limp fibers of her head pattern straightened? In talking with Pattern, they’d decided upon an Alethi name for Shallan’s previous Cryptic. One that fit, best they could tell, with the meaning of her individual pattern. “Testament does seem better, Adolin,” Shallan said. “Thank you for speaking with her.” Maya sat on the floor, cross-legged, in a kind of warrior’s pose. She hadn’t recovered completely, but she was improved. And though she still didn’t say much, Shallan doubted many beings—human or spren—had ever spoken words quite so valuable as Maya had at the trial. One might say, by simple economics, that Maya was one of the best orators who ever existed. If you aren’t going to say much, then you might as well make what you do say mean something. It gave them hope that whatever Shallan had done to Testament could also be repaired. “I’ll try to explain everything Maya and I have done,” Adolin said as honorspren bells rang somewhere near. “But the truth is, I don’t think either of us know. And I’m not exactly an expert on all this.” “Recent events considered? I think you’re the only expert.” Shallan reached up and cupped his face. “Thank you, Adolin.” “For?” “Being you. I’m sorry for the secrets.” “You did tell me,” he said. “Eventually.” He nodded toward the knife with the gemstone, still unused,
which rested beside her open notebook on one side of the table. The cube Mraize had sent rested on the other side. “The bells are ringing. Time?” She removed her hand and situated herself at the desk. Adolin fell silent, waiting and watching as Shallan lifted the top of Mraize’s cube. With help from Kelek, they’d gotten it open without harming the thing inside: a spren in the shape of a glowing ball of light, a strange symbol at the center. No one here recognized the variety of spren, but Wit called it a seon. “Are you well, Ala?” Shallan asked. It was said like A-lay. “Yes,” the spren whispered. “You can come out of the cube. You don’t need to live in there anymore.” “I’m … supposed to stay. I’m not supposed to talk. To you. To anyone.” Shallan glanced at Adolin. The odd spren resisted attempts to get it free. It acted … like an abused child. Another in the list of Mraize’s crimes, Radiant thought. Agreed, Shallan replied. Radiant remained. They agreed that once they found the right path, she would eventually be absorbed as Veil had been. For now, Shallan’s wounds were still fresh. Practically bleeding. But what she’d done would finally let her begin to heal. And she knew why Pattern had always been so certain she would kill him. And why he’d acted like a newly bonded spren when she’d begun noticing him on the ship with Jasnah. The simple answer was the true one. He had been newly bonded. And Shallan had not one Shardblade, but two. She still had questions. Things about her past didn’t completely align yet, though her memory was no longer full of holes. There was much they didn’t understand. For example, she was certain that, during the years between killing Testament and finding Pattern, her powers had still functioned in some small ways. Some of this, Kelek said, had to do with the nature of deadeyes. Before the Recreance, they had never existed. Kelek said he thought this was why Mraize was hunting him. Something to do with the fall of the singers, and the Knights Radiant, so long ago—and the imprisoning of a specific spren. “Contact Mraize please, spren,” she whispered to the ball of light. “It is time.” The ball floated into the air, and the next part took barely a moment. The globe of light shifted to make a version of his face speaking to her. “Little knife,” the face said in Mraize’s voice. “I trust the deed has been done?” “I did it,” Shallan said. “It hurt so much. But she is gone.” “Excellent. That … She, little knife?” “Veil and I are one now, Mraize,” Shallan said, resting her hand on her notebook—which contained the fascinating things Kelek had told her about other worlds, other planets. Places he desperately wished to see. Like the other Heralds, Kelek wasn’t entirely stable. He was unable to commit to ideas or plans. However, to one thing he had committed: He wanted off Roshar. He was convinced that Odium
would soon take over the world completely and restart torturing all the Heralds. Kelek would do practically anything to escape that fate. There was a long pause from Mraize. “Shallan,” he finally said, “we do not move against other Ghostbloods.” “I’m not one of the Ghostbloods,” Shallan said. “None of us ever were, not fully. And now we are stepping away.” “Don’t do this. Think of the cost.” “My brothers? Is that what you’re referencing? You must know by now that they are no longer in the tower, Mraize. Pattern and Wit got them out before the occupation even occurred. Thank you for this seon, by the way. Wit says that unbound ones are difficult to come by—but they make for extremely handy communication across realms.” “You will never have your answers, Shallan.” “I have what I need, thank you very much,” she said as Adolin put a comforting hand on hers. “I’ve been speaking to Kelek, the Herald. He seems to think the reason you’re hunting him is because of an Unmade. Ba-Ado-Mishram? The one who Connected to the singers long ago, giving them forms of power? The one who, when trapped, stole the singers’ minds and made them into parshmen? “Why do you want the gemstone that holds Ba-Ado-Mishram, Mraize? What are you intending to do with it? What power do the Ghostbloods seek with a thing that can bind the minds of an entire people?” Mraize didn’t respond. The seon, imitating his face, hovered in place. Expressionless. “I’ll be returning to the tower soon,” Shallan said. “Along with those honorspren who have decided—in light of recent revelations—to bond with humans. When I do, I expect to find you and yours gone. Perhaps if you cover yourself well, I won’t be able to track you down. Either way, I am going to find that gemstone before you do. And if you get in my way … well, it will be a fun hunt. Wouldn’t you say?” “This will not end well for you, Shallan,” Mraize said. “You make an enemy of the most powerful organization in all the cosmere.” “I think we can handle you.” “Perhaps. Can you handle my master? Can you handle her master?” “Thaidakar?” Shallan guessed. “Ah, so you’ve heard of him?” “The Lord of Scars, Wit calls him. Well, when you next meet this Lord of Scars, give him a message from me.” “He comes here in avatar only,” Mraize said. “We are too far beneath his level to be worthy of more.” “Then tell his avatar something for me. Tell him … we’re done with his meddling. His influence over my people is finished.” She hesitated, then sighed. Wit had asked nicely. “Also, Wit says to tell him, ‘Deal with your own stupid planet, you idiot. Don’t make me come over there and slap you around again.’” “So it must be,” Mraize said. “Know that in doing this, you have moved against the Ghostbloods in the most offensive of ways. We are now at war, Shallan.” “You’ve always been at war,” Shallan said. “I’ve finally
picked a side. Goodbye, Mraize. End contact.” The floating spren molded into a globe instead of Mraize’s face. Shallan sat back, trying not to feel overwhelmed. “Whoever they are,” Adolin said, “we can handle them.” Ever optimistic. Well, he had good reason. With the leaders of the honorspren in disgrace, and Lasting Integrity open again to all who would visit, he had accomplished his mission. He’d been correct all along, both about the honorspren and about Shallan herself. Shallan reached forward and flipped to the next page in her notebook, where she’d done a drawing using Kelek’s descriptions. It showed a pattern of stars in the sky, and listed the many worlds among them. Shallan had kept her head down too long. It was time to soar. * * * The listeners raised bows toward Venli as she walked up to their camp, alone, after insisting that the others stay back a few hundred feet. She didn’t blame the listeners for turning weapons against her. They assumed she had come to finish the job she’d started. So she raised her hands and hummed to Peace, waiting. And waiting. And waiting. Finally, Thude himself emerged from behind their fortification of piled rocks. Storms, it was good to see him. By the counts they’d done from the air, almost all of them must have made it through the narrows and out this side. A thousand listener adults, along with many children. Thude approached, wearing warform, but he stopped short of striking range. Venli continued to stand and hum, feeling a hundred bows focused on her. This eastern plain beyond the hills was a strange place—so open, and full of a surprising amount of grass. “Storms. Venli?” Thude turned to dash back behind the fortifications. She realized he must have just now seen her patterns. She was wearing a form he’d never known, so of course he hadn’t recognized her from a distance. “Thude!” she called out, taking in enough Stormlight to glow in the daylight. “Thude, please!” He stopped, seeing her Light. “Did my mother make it?” she asked to Longing. “Is she alive?” “She is,” he called. “But her mind is gone.” “I think I might have a way to heal her.” “Traitor,” he shouted. “You think I believe you? You would have had us killed!” “I understand,” she said softly to Consolation. “I deserve everything you can call me, and more. But I’m trying as I never did before. Please, listen to what I have to say.” He wavered, then crossed the stone to meet her. “Do the others know where we are? Does the enemy know?” “I’m not sure,” Venli said. “The humans found you. One Fused knew of you, but she is dead now. I don’t know who she told.” “What is a Fused?” “There’s a lot you don’t know,” Venli said. “Our gods have returned, terrible as warned. I was largely responsible for this, even if Rlain says he’s certain they would have found their way back anyway.” Thude perked up at Rlain’s name. “We’re going to have to
do something to protect ourselves,” Venli said. “Something to make everyone leave us alone.” She held out her hand, and a little spren in the shape of a comet flew up from the grass and started circling it. “She’s new to this realm and a little confused. But she’s seeking someone to bond and make into a Radiant. Like me and my friends.” “You came to us last time with a spren who wanted a bond,” Thude said to Reprimand. “And what happened?” “This will be different,” Venli said, alight with Stormlight. “I’ve changed. I promise you all the time you need to test my words. To decide without being pushed. For now, please let me see my mother.” He hummed to Winds at last, a sign for her to follow, as he started walking back to camp. Venli attuned Joy. “There are more of these spren that will make listeners into Radiants?” he asked. “Yes,” she said. “How many?” “Hundreds,” she said. The Rhythm of Joy grew loud inside Venli as she entered the camp—though many who saw her hummed to Anxiety. She cared for only one sight. An old singer woman sitting by a tent made from woven reeds. Venli’s heart leaped, and the rhythms sounded more pure. More vibrant. Jaxlim really was alive. Venli rushed forward, collapsing to her knees before Jaxlim, feeling as if she were again a child. In the good way. “Mother?” she asked. Jaxlim looked up at her. There was no recognition in the old listener’s eyes. “Without her,” Thude said, stepping up beside Venli, “we’re losing the songs. Nobody else who knew them escaped.…” “It’s all right,” Venli said, wiping her tears. “It’s going to be all right.” Timbre, within Venli, let out a glorious song. Venli held out her hand, and the little lightspren inched into the air, then began spinning around Venli’s mother. The Reachers were searching for people who exemplified their Ideal: freedom. And the listeners were the perfect representation. However, a Radiant bond required volition, and her mother couldn’t speak Ideals—though the Reachers indicated that the start of the bonding process didn’t require that. They also thought becoming Radiant would heal her mother, though they couldn’t say for certain. Mental wounds were difficult, they explained, and healing depended greatly on the individual. Jaxlim could still want this, couldn’t she? She could still choose? “Listen, Mother,” Venli pled to Peace. “Hear me. Please.” Venli began singing the Song of Mornings. The first song she’d learned. Her mother’s favorite. As she sang, listeners gathered around, lowering their weapons. They started humming rhythms to match hers. When she finished, Thude knelt beside her. The little spren had slipped into Jaxlim’s body to seek her gemheart, but no change had happened yet. Venli took out a Stormlight sphere, but her mother did not drink it in. “It was beautiful,” Thude said. “It’s been too long since I heard one of the songs.” “I will restore them to you,” Venli whispered, “if you’ll have me. I understand completely if you won’t—but I’ve brought other Radiants
with me, my friends. Along with some of the enemy who have chosen to defect and become listeners.” Thude hummed to Skepticism. “Again, if you turn me aside, that is understandable,” Venli said. “But at least listen to my friends. You’re going to need allies to survive in this new world, a world of Surgebinders. We can’t go alone as we did before.” “We’re not alone,” Thude said. “I think you’ll find that things have changed for us, as they have for you.” Venli hummed to Consideration. Then she heard a scraping sound, like rock on rock. Or … claws on rock? A shadow fell over Venli, and she started, staring up at a powerful long neck with a wicked arrowhead face on the end. A chasmfiend. Here. And no one was panicking. Storms. “That’s…” she whispered. “That’s how you got out of the chasms that night, during the storm?” Thude hummed Confidence. Before she could demand answers, something else interrupted her. A voice. “Venli? Venli, is that you?” Venli looked down to see that her mother’s eyes had focused, seeing her. Your Words, Venli, a distant femalen voice said in her mind, are now accepted. Nearly as much as I look forward to serving you, newest Odium. Who was so recently one of them. You understand. And you are the one I’ve been waiting to worship. —Musings of El, on the first of the Final Ten Days Around four hours after Teft’s funeral, Kaladin went looking for Dalinar. The Blackthorn had returned the previous night, but Kaladin had been too exhausted that evening to do more than salute him, then find his bed. So, he excused himself from the party at Jor’s winehouse and soared up toward the top of the tower. It felt good to fly up all on his own. Here, as reported by the messenger who’d brought him the news, Kaladin and Syl found the Bondsmith … er, the Stormfather’s Bondsmith … taking reports with Navani. The other Bondsmith. That was going to take some getting used to. Kaladin and Syl intended to linger outside the small council room until Dalinar finished his current meeting, but as soon as he saw them, he broke it off and came trotting over. “Kaladin,” he said. “I’ve been meaning to speak with you.” “You’ve been busy, sir,” Kaladin said. He glanced down at his uniform. “Maybe I shouldn’t be wearing this.” Dalinar actually blushed. What a remarkable sight. “About that,” he said. “I should have known I couldn’t—and shouldn’t—try to relieve someone like you from—” “Sir,” Kaladin interrupted. He glanced at Syl, who nodded. He turned back to Dalinar. “Sir, you were right. I have a lot of healing to do before I should be in command again.” “Even still?” Dalinar asked, glancing at Kaladin’s forehead—and the missing brands. “After what you have accomplished? After swearing the Fourth Ideal?” “The Ideals don’t fix us, sir,” Kaladin said. “You know that. We have to fix ourselves. Perhaps with a little help.” He saluted. “We were on the correct path with me, sir.
I need to take time away from the battle. Maybe so much time that I never return to full command. I have work to do, helping men like me and Dabbid. I’d like your permission to continue.” “Granted,” Dalinar said. “You’ve grown, soldier. Few men have the wisdom to realize when they need help. Fewer still have the strength to go get it. Well done. Very well done.” “Thank you, sir,” Kaladin said. Dalinar hesitated—something seemed to be troubling him. He put his hands behind his back, watching Kaladin. Everyone else was celebrating. Not Dalinar. “What is it, sir?” Kaladin asked. “I haven’t made it public knowledge yet, but Odium and I have set a time for our contest of champions.” “That’s excellent,” Kaladin said. “How long?” “Ten days.” “Ten … days?” Dalinar nodded. Syl gasped, and Kaladin felt a spike of alarm. He’d always kind of thought … He’d spent this year assuming that … “Sir,” Kaladin said. “I can’t…” “I know, son,” Dalinar said quietly. “You weren’t right for the champion job anyway. This is the sort of thing a man must do himself.” Kaladin felt cold. Ten days. “The war … Does this mean … it will be over?” “One way or another, it will end,” Dalinar said. “The terms will enforce a treaty in ten days, following the contest. The contest will decide the fate of Alethkar, among … other items. Regardless, the hostilities will continue until that day, and so we must remain vigilant. I expect the enemy to make a play to capture what he can, before the treaty finalizes borders. I perhaps made a miscalculation there. “Regardless, an end is in sight. But I’m going to need help from someone before this contest arrives. The fight won’t simply be a swordfight— I can’t explain what it will be. I don’t know that I understand yet either, but I’m increasingly confident I need to master what I can of my powers.” “I don’t know if I can help with that, sir,” Kaladin said. “Though we share a Surge, our abilities seem very different.” “Yes, but there is one who can help me. Unfortunately, he’s insane. And so, Kaladin, I do not need you as a soldier right now. I need you as a surgeon. You are of the few who personally understand what it means to have your own mind betray you. Would you be willing to go on a mission to recover this individual and find a way to help him, so he can help me?” “Of course, sir,” Kaladin said. “Who is it?” “The Herald Ishi,” Dalinar said. “Creator of the Oathpact, Herald of Truth, and original binder of the Fused.” Syl whistled softly. “Sir,” Kaladin said, feeling unnerved. “Ten days isn’t enough to help someone with ordinary battle shock. It will take years, if we can even find proper methods. To help a Herald … Well, sir, their problems seem far beyond mine.” “I know, soldier,” Dalinar said. “But I think Ishar’s malady is supernatural in nature, and he gave me clues to
help him recover. All I need from you now is an agreement to help. And a willingness to travel to Shinovar in somewhat … odd company.” “Sir?” Kaladin asked. “I’ll explain later,” Dalinar said. “I need time to think this over, decide what I really want to do.” Kaladin nodded, but glanced at Syl, who whistled again. “Ten days?” she said. “I guess it’s happening.…” Dalinar started back toward his meeting—then paused and reached for something on a nearby table. A flute? Wit’s flute. “Lift had this,” Dalinar said, handing it toward Kaladin. “She said that Dabbid recognized it as yours.” “It is,” Kaladin said with awe. “How is Lift, by the way?” “My lunch is gone,” Dalinar said. “So I’d say she’s doing fine. We found her spren once the tower was restored, and they have—for some reason—decided to begin carrying around a bright red chicken.” He sighed. “Anyway, she said she found that flute in a merchant’s bin down in the Breakaway. One who sells salvage from the Shattered Plains. There might be other things your men were forced to abandon there.” Huh. “Did she say which merchant?” Kaladin asked. * * * The Pursuer drew in a deep, angry breath as he woke. Then he screamed in rage. It felt good to have lungs again. It felt good to shout his frustration. He would continue to scream it. Killed. A second time. By that Windrunner. That insolent mortal, who thought his victory was due to his skill and not raw luck! The Pursuer screamed again, glad for the sound to accompany his fury. His voice echoed; he was someplace dark, but enclosed. That made him pause. Shouldn’t he … be out in the storm? “Are you quite done, Defeated One?” a voice said in their language, but with no rhythm. The Pursuer sat up, twisting to look around. “Who dares call me—” He cut off as he saw who stood on the other side of the room, lit only by a Voidlight sphere held casually in his hand: a sleek figure looking out a dark window, his back to the Pursuer. The figure had twisting horns on his head and carapace that reflected the light wrong. He always ripped off his natural carapace formations at each rebirth, then replaced them with metal inclusions. They were incorporated into his body by Voidlight healing and his own special talents. El. The one with no title. The Pursuer silenced himself. He didn’t fear this Fused. He feared no one. But … to El, he did not complain. “Where am I?” the Pursuer asked instead. “Why have I been reborn so quickly? I was on Braize for barely a day before I felt the pull.” “We didn’t want to wait,” El said softly, still facing away from the Pursuer. No rhythms. El was forbidden rhythms. “So we had it done the old way. The way before the storms.” “I thought Odium wasn’t doing that any longer.” “Our new god made an exception, Defeated One.” The Pursuer grunted, picking himself up off the ground.
“They gave your title to another, you know. A human.” “I’ve heard.” “Disrespectful,” the Pursuer said to Derision. “It should have remained unused. Give me that Voidlight. I need to recharge myself, to earn back my legacy.” “Earn back?” The Pursuer forced himself to keep his tone respectful, to not shout. The one with no title could be … difficult. “I will hunt the mortal who killed me,” the Pursuer said. “I will kill him, and then anyone he ever loved. I will murder mortal after mortal until my vengeance is recognized, my atonement made. I assume you all know this, if you couldn’t wait for me to be reborn. So give me that damn Voidlight.” El turned, smiling in the shadows. “It is for you, Lezian.” “Excellent,” the Pursuer said, stalking forward. “But you mistook me,” El said. “When we said we did not want to have to wait for your rebirth, it was not your convenience that troubled us, but mine. I am very curious, you see, and you were the sole appropriate subject.” “Subject for what?” the Pursuer asked, reaching the window and looking out over Kholinar at night. “Oh, to see if this really works.” El raised the Voidlight sphere … and the Pursuer saw it was attached to a knife. Did the Light look wrong somehow? Warping the air around the gemstone? “I think this might hurt,” El said, then grabbed the Pursuer by the front of his beard. “Enjoy this final Passion, Defeated One.” He plunged the knife down as the Pursuer struggled. And his soul ripped itself apart. * * * Kaladin walked the now-bright streets of the Breakaway, bathed in cool steady light from above. The transformation the tower had undergone already was amazing. The air had become as warm as it was in Azir, an envelope of temperate weather that extended out to the fields. People breathed more easily now. The entire tower was not only properly ventilated, it had water running through hidden pipes into many rooms, like they had in rich cities such as Kharbranth. And that was just the beginning. While some rooms in the tower had once held normal wooden doors, many others had stone doors that opened to the touch. They hadn’t realized how many rooms they’d missed while exploring because they’d been closed when the tower had last shut down. The place was truly a wonder. He finally found the merchant shop Lift had told Dalinar about. Though the hour was growing late, the market was busy with people celebrating, so a lot of the shops were open, this one included. Kaladin was directed to a bin of salvage, and he began rifling through it, Syl on his shoulder. He found Rock’s razor. And some of Sigzil’s brushpens. And … He held up a miniature wooden horse, carved in exacting detail. Syl breathed out an awed sound. “I lost this before coming to the Shattered Plains,” Kaladin said. “I lost this in Alethkar. Tien gave it to me the day we were recruited into the army, and
it was taken with my other things when I became a slave. How…” He clutched the horse close to his chest. He was so amazed that he walked off, and had to come running back to pay for what he’d taken. After that, he trotted back toward the tavern. He’d promised earlier that he would meet Dabbid, Noril, and the others he’d rescued from the monastery sick rooms, to decompress from yesterday’s events. Kaladin would do as Dalinar asked, and go to save the Herald Ishi. That was for tomorrow, however. Today, Kaladin had another promise to keep. After all, he’d told Teft he would join these meetings and start taking care of himself. * * * Dalinar felt energized as he smelled the crisp cool air of the mountains. He stood at the very top of the tower, drinking it in while holding Navani, her warmth pressed against him. The sun had set, and he’d had enough of reports for the day. He wanted time with his wife and to look at the stars. “I should have known you’d find a way out of it on your own,” he whispered to Navani as Nomon bathed them in light. “I should have seen your potential.” She squeezed his arms. “I didn’t see it either. I spent a long time refusing to do so.” Dalinar heard a rumbling in his mind. Not angry rumbling though. More … contemplative. “The Stormfather doesn’t know what to make of this,” Dalinar said. “I think he finds it strange. Apparently, his Bondsmith and the Nightwatcher’s Bondsmith sometimes had relationships, but the Sibling’s Bondsmith was always apart.” “The Sibling is … curious that way,” Navani said. “I’ll introduce you, once they are ready. It might take them time.” “As long as it’s within ten days,” Dalinar said. “I can’t guarantee what will happen after then.” “That deal you made…” she said. “I’m sorry. I had to make an agreement while I had him. It isn’t everything we wanted, but—” “It’s a good deal, Dalinar,” Navani said. “Inspired, even. We will have peace, even if we have to give up Alethkar. I think we’ve all been coming to realize that was a probability. Instead, this gives us a chance. I just wish … That last bit you agreed to. That worries me.” He nodded. “Yes,” he whispered. “I know.” This was his job though. To sacrifice himself, if need be, for everyone else. In that … In that Taravangian was right. It still felt so wrong for Taravangian to be dead. Dalinar would never have a chance to prove to Taravangian that Dalinar’s way was correct. Gone. Without a farewell. Burned away in another stupid plot to manipulate Szeth. “At least we can stop the bloodshed,” Navani said. “Tell our troops to hold position and wait for the contest.” “Yes,” Dalinar said. Unless … Should Dalinar have insisted the contest happen sooner? He didn’t feel ready. But would he ever? Something feels wrong, he thought. Something has changed. We need to be ready for these next ten days. He
felt that truth like a twisting in his stomach. “I feel your tension,” Navani said. “I’m second-guessing what I’ve done,” Dalinar said. “The best information we have indicates this contest is our most reasonable hope of success,” Navani said. “And I doubt anyone the enemy presents can best Stormblessed.” “I’m … not going to pick Kaladin, gemheart.” “Why?” Navani asked. “He’s our best warrior.” “No,” Dalinar said. “He’s our best soldier. But even if he were in peak fighting shape, I don’t think he’d be our best warrior. Or our best killer. “Wit says the enemy can’t violate our agreement, and isn’t likely to try to misinterpret it—not intentionally. In fact, Wit seems to think the victory is already ours, but he got what he wanted. Odium will remain trapped either way. I’m worried though. There’s more I’m missing; I’m sure of it. At the very least, I think I left Odium too much room to continue fighting in the coming ten days.” “We’ll find the answers, Dalinar,” Navani said. “We have a goal now. If you can win this contest, that will be enough. We will find a way to live in this new world, with the singers in their lands, and humans in ours.” Navani squeezed his arm again, and he took a deep breath, intent on enjoying this moment. Storms, it felt good to be holding her. Beneath them, the tower’s lights shone brightly in the night—and down in the corridors, it was positively warm. He’d had to come all the way up here to smell mountain air. “I should have known,” Dalinar repeated. “About you.” “I don’t think so,” Navani said. “It was a remarkable stroke of luck that I figured it all out.” “Not luck,” Dalinar said. “Conviction. Brilliance. I was scared for you, but should have remembered when I was scared of you—and realized how much danger the Fused were in by trying to take your fabrials from you. You are incredible. You’ve always been incredible.” She breathed out a long, contented sigh. “What?” he said. “It’s good to hear someone say that.” He held her for an extended moment of peace. But eventually, their crowns came calling. People came looking for Navani to settle something regarding the tower, and she was forced to leave. Dalinar lingered on the top of the tower. He settled down on the edge, putting his legs over the side—the place where Kaladin had reportedly leapt into the darkness of the storm. You were wise to give the Windrunner more time during his fall, the Stormfather said, approaching Dalinar. You were wise to show … mercy. “It’s an important concept to learn,” Dalinar said to him. “The more you study it, the more human you will become.” I do not wish to become human, the Stormfather said. But perhaps I can learn. Perhaps I can change. “That’s all it takes,” Dalinar said. “A willingness.” You are wrong though. I do understand mercy. I have expressed it, on occasion. “Really?” Dalinar said, curious. “When?” Eshonai hit the ground of the chasm in
a furious splash. Above, the battle for Narak continued, and the rest of the listeners summoned the Everstorm. She should be leading them! She was foremost among them! She leaped to her feet and shouted to a dozen horrible rhythms in a row, her voice echoing in the chasm. It did no good. She had been defeated by the human Shardbearer, sent tumbling into the chasms. She needed to get out of here and find the fight again. She started trudging forward. Though the water came up to her waist, the flow was not swift. It was merely a constant, steady stream from the Weeping—and in Shardplate she was able to walk against the current. Her greaves flooded with chill water. Which way was which? The lack of light confused her, but after a moment of thinking, she realized she was being silly. She didn’t need to go either direction. She needed to go up. The fall must have dazed her more than she’d realized. She picked a rough-feeling section of wall and began clawing her way up. She managed to get halfway to the top—using the awesome gripping strength of Shardplate, the Rhythm of Conceit pounding in her ears. But then the way the chasm wall bulged presented a problem. In the darkness, she couldn’t find a proper handhold, and the flashes of lightning above were too brief to help. Lightning. Was that lightning too frequent, too bright, to be coming from other stormforms? Her own powers had been ruined by the water, naturally. She could barely feel any energy in her; it flooded out the moment it started to build. What was happening? That was the Everstorm coming, wasn’t it? Yes, she could feel its power, its energy, its beauty. But there was something else. Listening to the howling wind, she realized what it was. A second storm. A highstorm was coming as well. She attuned the Rhythm of Panic. The two storms clashed, making the very ground tremble. Clinging to the wall within the chasm, Eshonai felt the wind howling above. The lightning made her feel like she was blinking her eyes quickly, light and darkness alternating. Then she heard a roar. The terrible sound of water surging through the chasm, becoming an incredible wave. She braced herself, but when the water hit, it ripped her off the wall. It was here, within these highstorm rainwaters, that Eshonai’s first battle began: the fight for survival. She slammed into a rock, her helmet cracking. Escaping Stormlight lit the dark waters as they filled her helmet, suffocating her. She thrashed in the current and managed to grab something hard—an enormous boulder lodged into the center of the chasm. With a heave, she pulled herself out of the water. A few precious moments later her helmet emptied, letting her gasp for air. I’m going to die, she thought, the Rhythm of Destruction pounding in her ears. Water thundered around her, splashing her armor, and lightning spasmed in the sky above. I’m going to die … as a slave. No. An ember within
Eshonai came alive. The part of herself she’d reserved, the part that would not be contained. The part that made her let Thude and the others escape. It was the core of who she was: a person who had insisted on leaving the camps to explore, a person who had always longed to see what was over the next hill. A person who would not be held captive. That was when her second battle began. Eshonai screamed, trying to banish the Rhythm of Destruction. If she was to die here, she would die as herself! It was a highstorm. In highstorms, transformations came upon all people, listeners and humans alike. Within a highstorm, death walked hand in hand with salvation, singing a harmony. Eshonai began summoning her Blade—but in a rumbling flash, her boulder shifted and she lost her grip. The Rhythm of Panic ruled her briefly as she was again submerged. Lightning flashing above made the water seem to glow as she was smashed into one chasm wall, then another. Not Panic. Not your rhythms. I reject you. My life. My death. I WILL BE FREE. Sunken deep in the water, Eshonai summoned her Blade and rammed it into the chasm wall. For some reason, she thought she could hear its voice, far away. Screaming? She clung to it anyway—holding steady before the current. She banished all rhythms, but she could not breathe. Darkness began to close in upon her. Her lungs stopped burning. As if … as if everything was going to be all right … There. A tone. The strange, haunting one she’d heard when taking warform. It seemed … one of the pure tones of Roshar. It began a stately rhythm. Then a second tone, chaotic and angry, appeared beside it. The two drew closer, closer, then snapped together. They melded into harmony, making a song of Honor and Odium both. A song for a singer who could fight, but also for a soldier who wanted to lay down her sword. She found this tone as, in the blackness, a small spren—shaped like a shooting star—appeared ahead of her. Eshonai strained, reaching, clawing. Her head came above water, and then her helm blessedly emptied. The rush of the river was slowing. She gasped sweet air, but then her hand slipped from her sword, and she slipped back under the water and was towed away—though with less force than before. She attuned the rhythm. The Rhythm of War, the rhythm of victories and losses. The rhythm of a life at its end. To its beats, she resummoned her Blade and rammed it into the ground, holding it tightly as the waters slowed further. She would not die. She would live. She was strong enough. Her journey was not at an end. Not. Yet. She held on, belligerent, until the water slowed. Until the weight of her Plate was enough to resist the current without her effort, and she slumped against the bottom of the chasm, her back to the wall, water streaming over her. She felt at her side,
where the Plate had broken—as had her body. She bled from a deep gash here, her carapace ripped away. Each breath came as a ragged, sodden mess, and she tasted blood. But in her mind, she cycled through the rhythms of her childhood. Awe. Confidence. Mourning. Determination. Then Peace. She had lost the first battle. But she had won the second. And so, to the Rhythm of Victory, she closed her eyes. And found herself drifting in a place full of light. What is this? Eshonai thought. YOU WERE HIGHLY INVESTED WHEN YOU DIED, a voice said. It rumbled with the sound of a thousand storms, echoing through her. SO YOU PERSIST. FOR A SHORT TIME. Invested? Eshonai thought. YOU WERE RADIANT WHEN YOU DIED. YOU COULDN’T SAY THE WORDS, UNDER THE WATER, BUT I ACCEPTED THEM ANYWAY. HOW DO YOU THINK YOU SURVIVED THAT LONG WITHOUT BREATHING? She floated. So … this is my soul? SOME WOULD CALL IT THAT, said the Rider of Storms. SOME WOULD SAY IT IS A SPREN FORMED BY THE POWER YOU LEFT, IMPRINTED WITH YOUR MEMORIES. EITHER WAY, THIS IS THE END. YOU WILL PASS INTO ETERNITY SOON, AND EVEN I CANNOT SEE WHAT IS BEYOND. How long? Eshonai asked. MINUTES. NOT HOURS. She had no eyes to close, but she relaxed in the light. Floating. She could hear the rhythms. All of them at once, with accompanying songs. What did it mean, then? she asked as she waited. Life. MEANING IS A THING OF MORTALS, the Rider said. IT IS NOT A THING OF STORMS. That’s sad. IS IT? he asked. I SHOULD THINK IT ENCOURAGING. MORTALS SEARCH FOR MEANING, SO IT IS PROPER THEY SHOULD CREATE IT. YOU GET TO DECIDE WHAT IT MEANT, ESHONAI. WHAT YOU MEANT. If I decide, then I failed, she thought. I gave my people to the enemy. I died alone, defeated. I betrayed the gift of my ancestors. I am a shame to all previous listeners. I WOULD THINK THE OPPOSITE, the Rider said. IN THE END, YOU MADE THE SAME CHOICE AS YOUR ANCESTORS. YOU GAVE AWAY POWER FOR FREEDOM. YOU KNOW THOSE ANCIENT LISTENERS AS FEW EVER HAVE, OR EVER WILL. That gave her peace as she felt her essence begin to stretch. As if it were moving toward something distant. Thank you, she said to the Rider. I DID NOTHING. I WATCHED YOU FALL AND DID NOT STOP IT. The rain cannot stop the bloodshed, she said, fading. But it washes the world afterward anyway. Thank you. I COULD HAVE DONE MORE, the Rider replied. PERHAPS I SHOULD HAVE. It … is enough.… NO, he said. I CAN GIVE YOU ONE FINAL GIFT. Eshonai stopped stretching, and instead found herself pulled toward something powerful. She had no eyes, but she suddenly had an awareness—the storm. She had become the storm. She felt every rumble of thunder as her heartbeat. WATCH, the Rider said. YOU WANTED TO KNOW WHAT WAS BEYOND THE NEXT HILL. SEE THEM ALL. She soared with him, enveloping the land, flying
above it. Her rain bathed each and every hill, and the Rider let her see the world with the eyes of a god. Everywhere the wind blew, she was. Everything the rain touched, she felt. Everything the lightning revealed, she knew. She flew for what felt like an eternity, sustained by the Rider’s own essence. She saw humans in infinite variety. She saw the captive parshmen—but saw the hope for their freedom. She saw creatures, plants, chasms, mountains, snows … she passed it all. Everything. The entire world. She saw it. Every little piece was a part of the rhythms. The world was the rhythms. And Eshonai, during that transcendent ride, understood how it fit together. It was wonderful. When the Rider finished his passage—exhausted and limping as he passed into the ocean beyond Shinovar—she felt him let go. She faded, but this time she felt her soul vibrating. She understood the rhythms as no one ever could without having seen the world as she had. FAREWELL, ESHONAI, the Rider of Storms said. FAREWELL, RADIANT. Bursting with songs, Eshonai let herself pass into the eternities, excited to discover what lay on the other side. Advanced fabrials are created using several different techniques. Conjoined fabrials require a careful division of the gemstone—and the spren inside. If performed correctly, the two halves will continue to behave as a single gemstone. Note that rubies and flamespren are traditional for this purpose— as they have proven the easiest to divide, and the quickest in response times. Other types of spren do not split as evenly, as easily, or at all. —Lecture on fabrial mechanics presented by Navani Kholin to the coalition of monarchs, Urithiru, Jesevan, 1175 The morning after the wedding party, Shallan had to deal with Veil’s alcohol abuse. Again. Her head throbbed, and much of the late night was a blur in her mind. Storming woman. Fortunately, with some Stormlight and some herbs for headaches, she was feeling better by the time she finished meetings with her accountants and ministers. She was wife to a highprince, and though their lands in Alethkar were under enemy control, she and Adolin had a tenth of Urithiru to tend. Considering Shallan’s Radiant duties, they’d put several trustworthy women in control of finances—their husbands overseeing police and guards. The meeting mostly involved Radiant dispensing a few decisions and Shallan auditing the accounts. She’d have more work to do in the future, but for now things were in hand. Adolin said she was supposed to be taking some time off following the mission anyway. He was using that time to go ride horses. Once the scribes withdrew from her audience chamber, Shallan found herself alone—and for the first time in weeks, she didn’t have a role to play. She went through her letters and spanreed communications for a while, and eventually froze on a certain one that had arrived a day before she returned. The deal is set and arranged. The spren will come. She held this one for a moment, then burned it. Feeling a chill, she decided
she didn’t want to be alone in her room any longer—so went to visit her brothers. Their quarters weren’t far from hers. Jushu was the only one there when she arrived, but he let her in and chatted with her about her mission. Then, as usually happened when she visited, Shallan found her way to the room’s hearth to draw. It felt … natural. Visiting her brothers didn’t necessarily mean talking to them the entire time. She nestled in the blankets beside the hearth, and for a blessed few minutes could imagine she was home in Jah Keved. In her fantasy, a fire crackled in the hearth. Nearby, her stepmother and her father chatted together with some visiting ardents—men and women of the church, which meant her father was being well-behaved. Shallan was allowed her sketchbook, as Father loved to show off her skill. Eyes closed, she drew the hearth—each brick engraved in her mind from the many times she’d drawn here. Good days. Warm days. “Hey, what’re you drawing?” Jushu asked. “Is it the hearth from home?” She smiled, and though the real Jushu had spoken, she incorporated him into her mental image. One of her four older brothers—because in this memory, she still had four. Jushu and Wikim were twins, though Jushu laughed more than Wikim did. Wikim was thoughtful. And Balat, he would sit in the chair nearby, pretending to be confident. Helaran was back, and Balat always puffed up when the eldest Davar brother was around. She opened her eyes and glanced at the little creationspren gathering around her, imitating mundane things. Her mother’s teakettle. The fireplace poker. Objects from her home in Jah Keved, not objects here—somehow they responded to her imaginings. One in particular made her feel cold. A necklace chain slinking across the ground. In truth, those days at home had been terrible times. Times of tears, and screams, and a life unraveling. It was also the last time she could remember her entire family together. Except … no, that wasn’t the entire family. This memory had happened after … after Shallan had killed her mother. Confront it! she thought at herself, angry. Don’t ignore it! Pattern moved across the floor of the room here in Urithiru, spinning among the dancing creationspren. She’d been only eleven years old. Seven years ago now—and if that timeline was correct, she must have begun seeing Pattern as a young child. Long before Jasnah had first encountered her spren. Shallan didn’t remember her first experiences with Pattern. Other than the distinct image of summoning her Shardblade to protect herself as a child, she had excised all such memories. No, they’re here, Veil thought. Deep within, Shallan. She couldn’t see those memories; didn’t want to see them. As she shied away from them, something dark shifted inside her, growing stronger. Formless. Shallan didn’t want to be the person who had done those things. That … that person could not … not be loved.… She gripped her pencil in tight fingers, the drawing half-finished in her lap. She’d buckled down and
forced herself to read studies on other people with fragmented personas. She’d found only a handful of mentions in medical texts, though the accounts implied people like her were treated as freaks even by the ardents. Oddities to be locked away in the darkness for their own good, studied by academics who found the cases “novel in their bizarre nature” and “giving insight to the addled mind of the psychotic.” It was clear that going to such experts with her problems was not an option. Memory loss was apparently common to these cases, but the rest of what Shallan experienced seemed distinctly different. Importantly, she wasn’t experiencing continued memory loss. So maybe she was fine. She’d stabilized. Everything was getting better. Surely it was. “Storms,” Jushu said. “Shallan, that’s some … some weird stuff you’ve drawn.” She focused on the sketch—which she’d drawn poorly, since her eyes had been closed. It took her a second to notice that in the fireplace back home, she’d drawn burning souls. One might have mistaken them for flamespren, but for the fact that they looked so similar to her and her three brothers.… She snapped the sketchbook closed. She wasn’t back in Jah Keved. The hearth before her now had no flames; it was a depression with a heating fabrial resting in it, set into the wall of a Urithiru room. She had to live in the present. Jushu was no longer the plump, readily smiling boy from her memories. He was an overweight man with a full beard who had to be watched almost constantly, lest he steal something and try to pawn it for gambling money. They’d twice caught him trying to remove the heating fabrial. The way he smiled at her was a lie. Or maybe he was simply trying the best he could to remain upbeat. Almighty knew she understood that. “Nothing to say?” he asked. “No quip? You almost never make wisecracks anymore.” “You aren’t around enough for me to make sport of,” she said. “And no one else is quite as inspiring in their incompetence.” He smiled, but winced, and Shallan immediately felt ashamed. The joke was too accurate. She couldn’t act like when they’d been kids; then, their father had been a great unifying enemy, making their gallows humor a way to cope. She worried about them drifting apart. So she visited, almost defiantly. Jushu rose to get some food, and Shallan wanted to try another joke. She let him go instead. With a sigh, she rummaged in her satchel and brought out Ialai’s little notebook. She was piecing some of its meanings together. For instance, Ialai’s spies had caught members of the Ghostbloods talking about a new route through the Sea of Lost Lights. That was the place she and the others had traveled in Shadesmar a year back. Indeed, an entire three pages were filled with locations from the mysterious world of the spren. I saw a map, Ialai had written, in the things of the Ghostblood we captured—and should have thought to copy it, for it
was lost in the fire. Here is what I remember. Shallan made some notes at the bottom of Ialai’s crude map. Whatever skills in politics the woman had possessed, they had been offset by a dearth of artistic ability. But perhaps Shallan could find some actual maps of Shadesmar and compare? The door opened, admitting Balat and a friend returning from their duties as guardsmen, though Shallan’s back was to the group. From the quiet voices, Eylita—Balat’s wife—had met them somewhere in the hallway, and was laughing at something Balat said. Over the last year, Shallan had grown surprisingly fond of the young woman. As a child, Shallan remembered being jealous of anyone who might take her brothers away—but as an adult, she saw better. Eylita was kind and genuine. And it took a special person to love a member of the Davar family. Shallan continued her study of the book, listening with half an ear as Balat and Eylita chatted with their friend. Eylita had encouraged Balat to find an occupation, though Shallan wasn’t certain becoming a guardsman was the best match for him. Balat had a tendency to enjoy the pain of other creatures a little too much. Balat, Eylita, and his friend made their way to the other room, where a cooling fabrial kept some meats and curries chilled for meals. Their life was growing so convenient, and it could be even more so. Shallan’s elevation to wife of a highprince could have awarded this home dozens of servants. Her brothers, however, had grown distrustful of servants—and they had grown accustomed to living without in the lean days. Besides, these fabrials did the work of a dozen people. No need for someone to chop or carry wood, no need for a fresh trip to the tower kitchens each day. Almost, Shallan feared, Navani’s artifabrians would make them all lazy. As if having servants hasn’t already made most lighteyes lazy, Shallan thought. Focus. Why are the Ghostbloods so interested in Shadesmar? Veil, any thoughts? Veil frowned, absently turned around to put her back to the wall, then tucked her foot through the strap of her satchel to prevent it from being pulled away. When she became Veil, the colors in the room … muted. The colors didn’t change, but her perception shifted. Shallan would have described those strata lines as rust colored, but to Veil they were just red. Veil kept one eye on the door to the balcony. Balat, Eylita, and Jushu had all moved out there, and were joking with that other guardsman. Laughterspren moved in front of the door. Who was this friend? Shallan hadn’t bothered to check. Sorry, Shallan thought. I was distracted. Veil studied the words in the notebook, picking out the relevant pieces. Maps, names of places, discussions of the cost of moving items through Shadesmar. Shallan’s first mission for the Ghostbloods—back when Veil had been no more than a drawing in a notebook—had been to spy on Amaram, who had been trying to work out how to find Urithiru and the Oathgates. The
Oathgates—though primarily used to quickly move troops and supplies—had another function. They had the ability to send people back and forth into Shadesmar, a usage that Dalinar’s scholars and Radiants had slowly managed to unlock during the past year. Was that what Mraize had wanted? Veil saw the pieces of something grand in Mraize’s moves: find the Oathgates, attempt to secure unfettered—perhaps exclusive—access to Shadesmar. Along the way, try to remove rivals, like Jasnah. Then recruit a Radiant who could look into Shadesmar. Finally, attack other factions who were trying to discover the secrets. She would have to … Wait. That voice. Veil’s head jolted up. The guard her brothers were talking to. Damnation. Veil snapped the book closed and tucked it in the pocket of her dress, then stood and had Shallan make her hair red again, though Veil kept control. She peeked out onto the balcony to check, but she already knew she’d find Mraize there. He stood tall, with his peculiarly scarred face, wearing a gold and black uniform like Balat. Those were colors of the Sebarial Princedom—the house Shallan had chosen to align with before marrying into the Kholins. She’d once seen Mraize in a similar uniform, serving Ialai and her house a year ago. Mraize didn’t fit the uniform. Not that it was poorly tailored, he was simply … wrong in it. He was at once too lofty and too jagged a person for the job. Predatory, where a guardsman should be obedient—yet also refined, when being a guardsman was one of the more lowly jobs for a lighteyes. He saw her, of course. Mraize always watched the doors; she’d learned the trick from him. He didn’t break character, laughing at what Balat said, but he didn’t fake nearly as well as Shallan could. He couldn’t keep the haughty tone from his laugh, or the bite from his grin. He didn’t reside in the character; he wore it as a costume. Veil folded her arms and lounged by the doorway. A cold breeze blew in off the mountains, making her shiver. Mraize and the boys pretended not to be cold, though their breath puffed in front of them and coldspren grew like spikes on the balcony railing. Odd, how in this tower it could feel so much warmer inside, even if you left the door open. Indeed, Eylita soon made an excuse and went in, passing Veil with a smile and a wave, which Shallan returned. Veil kept her attention on Mraize. He clearly wanted her to see him interacting with her brothers. He rarely used overt threats, but this was a warning. He had been the one to bring the young men here safely, a reward for her services rendered. What he had given her, he could remove. As a guardsman, he’d train each day with the sword near Balat. Accidents happened. Shallan panicked slightly at this discovery, but Veil could play this game, even if the pieces were people she loved. We need to be ready to make a move, Radiant thought, to put our
brothers where they will be safe. Veil agreed. Did such a place exist? Or instead should she gather a few pieces of her own to use? She needed information—about the Ghostbloods, and about Mraize himself. Despite their time working together, she knew next to nothing about the man. She was curious to see how Mraize would create an opportunity for the two of them to speak together alone. It would be strange if he—supposedly a lowly lighteyed soldier—were to request time with Shallan. After a short conversation, Mraize said, “I do admire your view here, Balat! I wish I merited a balcony room. Look at those mountains! Next time I walk the gardens below, I’ll glance up and see if I can find you. Regardless, for now I should be returning to my quarters.” He pretended to see Shallan there for the first time, and hastily bowed to her. It was a fair effort, but overdone. She nodded to him as he retreated through their rooms and left. He’d want to meet her in the gardens, but she didn’t intend to rush off to do his bidding. “Balat,” she said. “That man. Have you known him long?” “Hm? What was that, small one?” Balat turned toward her. During their first months together, talking to him had felt so awkward. Balat expected her to be the same timid girl who had left searching for Jasnah. Being with them had made Shallan realize how different she’d become in their months apart. It had been a fight, strangely, not to backslide when around these three. It wasn’t that she wanted to be the younger, timid version of herself. But it was familiar in ways these new versions of her were not. “That man,” Veil said. “What’s his name?” “We call him Gobby,” Balat said. “He’s old to be in training, but with the call out for new soldiers, lots of people who haven’t really held a sword before are joining up.” “Is he good?” Veil asked. “Gobby? Nah. He’s fine, I mean, but makes a lot of mistakes. Almost chopped a man’s arm off by accident last week! Captain Talanan laid into him for that one, I’ll tell you!” He chuckled, but Veil’s unamused face made him trail off. She became Shallan and smiled belatedly, but her brothers left to go eat. She watched them chatting together and felt something stir inside her: regret. They’d found an equilibrium as a family, but she wasn’t certain she’d ever get used to being the adult in the room when they were together. It made her want to go bother Adolin. She thought she could pick him out below, riding Dalinar’s horse on the field they’d dedicated to the animals. But she wouldn’t interrupt him—spending time with the Ryshadium was one of the purest joys of Adolin’s life. Best to go attend Mraize, as he wanted. * * * “Garden” was too grand a term by far for the small field beneath the windows to her brothers’ quarters. Yes, some of the Alethi gardeners had begun growing shalebark
ridges or other ornamental plants here—but the cold weather stunted growth. The result, even with the occasional use of a heating fabrial, was little more than a network of colored mounds on the ground, not the gorgeous cultivated walls of a true garden. She picked out only two small lifespren. Mraize was a dark pillar on the far side, surveying the frosted mountain peaks. Veil didn’t try to sneak up on him; she knew he’d sense her coming. He seemed to be able to do that no matter how little sound she made. It was a trick she’d been trying to replicate. Instead she stepped up beside him. She’d fetched her hat and coat, the latter buttoned against the cold, but she’d covered that and her face with the illusion of a guard in Sebarial’s army. In case someone saw the two of them meeting. “You,” Mraize said without looking at her, “are to be commended again, little knife. The Sons of Honor are basically defunct. The few remaining members have fled into hiding, separately. With Dalinar’s soldiers ‘restoring order’ in the warcamps, there is little chance of the infestation restarting.” “One of your operatives killed Ialai,” Veil said, trying to pick out what Mraize was looking at. He was staring intently, tracking something out there. She saw only snow and slopes. “Yes,” Mraize said. “I don’t like the idea of someone watching over my shoulder,” Veil said. “It says you don’t trust me.” “Should I trust you three? I’m under the impression that at least part of you isn’t … fully committed.” She finally picked out what Mraize was watching: a small dot of color soaring through one of the canyons. His pet chicken, the green one. Mraize whistled sharply, and the sound echoed below. The creature turned in their direction. “You must decide,” Mraize said to her, “how long you are going to continue this flirtation, Veil. You tease us. Are you a Ghostblood or not? You enjoy the benefits of our organization, but refuse to get the tattoo.” “Why would I want something that could reveal me?” “Because of the commitment it represents. Because of the permanence.” He eyed her, noting her illusion. “Of course, with your powers nothing is permanent, is it? You deal exclusively in the ephemeral.” He held up his arm as the chicken returned, fluttering its wings as it landed, its talons clutching his coat. The chicken was one of the strangest varieties Veil had ever seen, with that large hooked beak and those bright green feathers. It carried something in its mouth, a small furry creature. It could have been a rat, but the look was wrong. “What is that?” Veil asked. “What did it catch?” “A mole,” Mraize said. “A what?” “Like a rat, but different. You know the word, ‘mole’? An informant? Comes from these creatures, which live in Shinovar and dig into places they’re not wanted. They’ve made their way across Azir over the centuries, then into the mountains.” “Whatever,” Veil said. The scarred man eyed her, a hint of a
smile on his lips. “Shallan will find this interesting, Veil. Do you not want to ask, for her sake? An invasive species from Shinovar, slowly making a home in the mountains? Where Rosharan creatures cannot live. They lack the fur, the adaptations, you see.” Shallan emerged as he said it, so she took a Memory. She needed to draw the little beast. How did it survive in this cold? Surely there wasn’t anything to eat up here. “A hunter knows the advantages his prey relies upon to hide and to thrive,” Mraize said. “Shallan understands this; she seeks to understand the world. You should not dismiss this kind of knowledge so quickly, Veil. It has applications you may not anticipate, but which will serve you both well.” Damnation. Shallan hated talking with him. She found herself wanting to nod, to agree with him, to learn from him. Radiant whispered truth: Shallan had lived her childhood with a father who had been paternal in all the wrong ways and none of the right ones. In Mraize, a part of her saw a substitute. Strong, confident, and—most importantly—willing to offer praise. His chicken held its prey with one foot, eating almost like a person did with their hands. The thing was so strange, so alien. It stood upright, like no other beast Shallan had studied. When it chirped at Mraize, it sounded almost like it was talking, and she swore she could occasionally make out words. It was like a tiny parody of a person. She glanced away from the brutal display of the feasting chicken, though Mraize watched the creature with an air of approval. “I can’t join the Ghostbloods fully,” she said, “unless I know what it is you’re trying to accomplish. I don’t know your motivations. How can I align with you until I do?” “Surely you can guess,” Mraize said. “It’s about power, obviously.” She frowned. So … was it really that simple? Had she imagined depths to this man that weren’t there? Mraize continued to hold his chicken on one arm, fishing in his pocket with the other hand. He took out a diamond broam, then handed it to her, wrapping her fingers around it. Her fist shone from within. “Power,” Mraize said. “Portable, easily contained, renewable. You hold the energy of a storm in your hand, Veil. That raw energy, plucked from the heart of the raging tempest. It is tamed—not only a safe source of light, but of power that those with … particular interests and abilities can access.” “Sure,” Veil said, emerging again. “At the same time it’s practically worthless—because anyone can get it. The gemstones are the valuable part.” “That’s small thinking,” Mraize said. “The stones are but containers. No more valuable than a cup. Important, yes, if you wish to carry liquid across the dry expanse. But the value comes solely from what it contains.” “What kind of ‘dry expanse’ would you cross?” Veil asked. “I mean, you can always simply wait for a storm.” “Locked into your conditioned way of thinking,” Mraize said,
shaking his head. “I thought you’d be able to see bigger, to dream bigger. Tell me, when you traveled Shadesmar, how valuable was a little Stormlight?” “Very,” she said. “So … this is about bringing Stormlight to Shadesmar? What do the spren have that you want?” “That, little knife, is the wrong question.” Blast. Veil felt her temper rising. Hadn’t she proven herself? How dare he treat her as if she were some lowly apprentice. Fortunately, they had Radiant to guide them here. She learned lessons Veil refused to. Radiant didn’t mind being treated like an apprentice; Radiant liked learning. She had Shallan bleed their hair to blonde, though they were still wearing a man’s face, and folded her hands behind her back, standing up straighter. Ask a better question. “Nalathis,” Radiant said. “Scadarial. What are they?” “Nalthis. Scadrial.” He spoke the words with a different accent. “Where are they. That’s an excellent question, Radiant. Suffice it to say they are places in Shadesmar where our Stormlight—so easily captured and transported—would be a valuable commodity.” Curious. She knew so little of Shadesmar, but the spren had vast cities—and she knew Stormlight was prized there. “That’s why you wanted to get to Urithiru before Jasnah. You knew the Oathgates would offer easy access to Shadesmar. You want to control commerce, travel, to these other places.” “Excellent,” Mraize said. “Trade to Roshar through Shadesmar has been historically difficult, as there is only one stable access point—one controlled by the Horneaters, who have been unpleasant to deal with. Yet Roshar has something that so many other peoples in the cosmere want: free, portable, easy-to-access power.” “There has to be more,” Radiant said. “What is the catch? The problem with the system? You wouldn’t be telling me this if there weren’t a problem.” He glanced at her. “Excellent observation, Radiant. I find it unfortunate we don’t normally get along.” “We would get along much better if you were more straightforward with people,” Radiant said. “Your type turns my stomach.” “What?” Mraize asked. “Me? A simple guardsman?” “One who has a reputation for being clumsy—for nearly killing other guardsmen. If you harm Shallan’s brothers, Mraize…” “We don’t harm our own,” Mraize said. So remain one of us, that indicated. Radiant hated his games, though Veil delighted in them. For now, however, Radiant remained in control. She was making progress. “The catch?” she asked, holding up the broam. “The problem?” “This power is something we call Investiture,” Mraize said. “Investiture manifests in many forms, tied to many places and many different gods. It is bound to a specific land—making it very difficult to transport. It resists. Try to carry this too far, and you’d find it increasingly difficult to move, as it became increasingly heavy. “The same limitation restrains people who are themselves heavily Invested. Radiants, spren—anyone Connected to Roshar is bound by these laws, and cannot travel farther than Ashyn or Braize. You are imprisoned here, Radiant.” “A prison as large as three planets,” Radiant said. “Forgive me if I don’t feel confined.” Veil, however, was hiding.
Things like this daunted her—such large-scale ideas and problems. Shallan though … Shallan wanted to soar, learn, discover. And to find that she was restricted in that discovery, even if she’d never known about the restriction, did bother her. Mraize took the broam back. “This gemstone cannot go where it is needed. A more perfect gemstone could contain the Light long enough to go offworld, but there is still the Connection problem. This little flaw has caused untold trouble. And the one who unlocks the secret would have untold power. Literal power, Radiant. The power to change worlds…” “So you want to unravel the secret,” Radiant said. “I already have,” Mraize said, making a fist. “Though putting the plan into motion will be difficult. I have a job for you.” “We don’t want another job,” Radiant said. “It is time for this association to be finished.” “Are you certain? Are all three of you certain?” Radiant drew her lips to a line, but she knew the truth. No, they were not certain. Reluctantly, she let Shallan emerge, hair bleeding to its natural auburn-red. “I have news for you,” Shallan said. “Sja-anat contacted me while I was away. She agreed to your terms, and is sending one of her spren to the tower, where it will investigate your members for a possible bond.” “Those weren’t the terms,” he said. “She was to promise me a spren to bond.” “Considering where we started last year,” Shallan said, “you should take what you can get. It’s been difficult to contact her lately; I think she’s worried about how people are treating Renarin.” “No,” Mraize said. “Odium watches. We must be careful. I will … accept these terms. Have you any other reports?” “Ialai’s agents have a spy close to Dalinar,” Shallan said. “So the Sons of Honor might not be completely stamped out yet.” “An interesting line of reasoning,” Mraize said, “but you’re wrong. The Sons of Honor don’t have an agent close to Dalinar. They simply managed to intercept some communications from one of our agents who is close to Dalinar.” Ah … That explained a few things. Ialai didn’t have the reach to get close to Dalinar, but if she’d found a way to intercept intelligence from the Ghostbloods, the result would be the same. Mraize didn’t lie to her, as far as she’d been able to determine. So … “I don’t need to worry about two spies then,” Shallan said. “Only the one you have watching me, the one who killed Ialai. It’s one of Adolin’s guards, isn’t it?” “Don’t be silly. We have no interest in men such as that. They offer us nothing.” “Who, then?” “I cannot betray this secret,” Mraize said. “Let’s just say that Lightweavers fascinate me, and leave it at that. And you should not fear if I did keep someone close to you. Such a person could be an … aid in times of need. Iyatil did the same for me.” Shallan fumed. He all but promised the Ghostblood spy was among her Lightweavers, which did
make sense. Mraize would want someone who could watch Shallan in places a soldier might not be able to reach. One of the deserters then? Or Ishnah? One of the newer squires? The idea made her sick. “Iyatil has reported to Master Thaidakar,” Mraize said, “and he has accepted—after some initial anger—that we will not be able to control the Oathgates. I explained that there at least is a calming wind in this, like the riddens of a storm. With Dalinar controlling the Oathgates, he can prosecute the war against Odium.” “And that helps your cause?” “We have no interest in seeing the enemy rule this world, Shallan. Master Thaidakar wishes only to secure a method for gathering and transporting Stormlight.” Mraize held his broam up again. Like a miniature sun beside the real one. “Why attack the Sons of Honor though?” Shallan asked. “At first I understood—they were trying to find Urithiru before us. But now? What threat was Ialai?” “Now that is a brilliant question,” Mraize said, and she couldn’t suppress a thrill from Veil at being praised by him. “The secret has to do with Gavilar. The old king. What was he doing?” “The same old question,” Shallan said. “I spent weeks researching his life under Jasnah’s tutelage. She seemed to think he was after Shardblades.” “His aspirations were not nearly so lowly as that,” Mraize said. “He recruited others, promising them a return to the old glories and powers. Some, like Amaram, listened because of these promises—but for the same reason were as easily lured by the enemy. Others were manipulated through their religious ideals. But Gavilar … what did he truly want?” “I don’t know. Do you?” “Immortality, in part. He thought he could become like the Heralds. In his quest, he discovered a secret. He had Voidlight before the Everstorm—he carried it from Braize, the place you call Damnation. He was testing the movement of Light between worlds. And one close to him might have answers. At any rate, we couldn’t risk Ialai or the Sons of Honor recovering these secrets.” Mraize’s chicken finished its meal. Though it had picked at and eaten the flesh, in the end it swallowed the rest of the corpse whole. Then it fluffed its feathers and hunkered down. Shallan didn’t have a lot of experience with the creature, but it seemed to dislike the cold. So odd, how Mraize flaunted it. But she supposed that was part of who he was—he was never content blending in. Most would probably consider keeping strange exotic animals a quirk. Shallan couldn’t help but see more to it. Mraize collected trophies—she’d seen many odd things in his possession. She blinked and took another Memory of the chicken on his arm, receiving a scratch at its neck. “There is so much out there, little knife,” Mraize said. “Things that will rock your understanding, expand your perspective, and make into pebbles what once seemed mountains. The things you could know, Shallan. The people you could collect in your notebook, the sights you could see…” “Tell me,”
she said, finding an unexpected hunger within. “Let me see them. Let me know them.” “These things require effort and experience,” Mraize said. “I could not simply be told of them, and neither can you. I have given you enough for now. To go further, you must hunt the secrets. Earn them.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “All right. What do you want this time?” He grinned in his predatory way. “You always make me want to do the things you ask,” Shallan said. “You tempt me not just with rewards, but with the secrets—or the dangers—themselves. You knew I’d be intrigued by what Amaram was studying. You knew I’d want to stop Ialai because of the threat she presented to Adolin. I always end up doing what you want. So what is it this time? What are you going to make me do?” “You become a hunter in truth. I have known from the beginning your potential.” He looked to her, light violet eyes lingering on her still-red hair. “There is a man. Restares. You know the name?” “I’ve heard of him. He was connected to the Sons of Honor?” Though she might have heard the name before getting Ialai’s book, it was written several times in there. The woman had been trying to contact him. “He was their leader, at one point,” Mraize said. “Perhaps their founder, though we aren’t certain. Either way, he was involved from the beginning—and he knew the extent of what Gavilar was doing. Restares is perhaps the only living person who did.” “Great. You want me to find him?” “Oh, we know where he is,” Mraize said. “He has asked for—and been granted—asylum in a city no other Ghostblood has been able to enter.” “A place you can’t enter?” Shallan asked. “Where is security that tight?” “The fortress named Lasting Integrity,” Mraize said. “Home and capital city of the honorspren in Shadesmar.” Shallan let out a long whistle of appreciation. The chicken, curiously, mimicked it. “This is your mission,” Mraize said. “Find your way to Lasting Integrity. Get in, then find Restares. There should be no more than a handful of humans in the city; in fact, he might be the only one. We don’t know.” “How am I supposed to accomplish that?” “You are resourceful,” Mraize said. “You and yours have connections to the spren that no other Ghostblood has been able to manage so far.” His eyes flickered to Pattern, who sat on her coat, silent as usual when others were talking. “You will find a way.” “Assuming I am able to do this,” Shallan said, “what should I do with the man? I’m not going to kill him.” “Don’t be so hasty,” Mraize said. “When you find him, you’ll know what to do.” “I doubt that.” “Oh, you will. And once you successfully return from this mission, your reward will be—as always—something for which you hunger. Answers. All of them.” She frowned. “We will hold nothing back,” Mraize said. “Everything we know becomes yours after this.” Shallan folded her arms, weighing
her desires. For well over a year now, she’d told herself that she only continued with the Ghostbloods to find out their secrets. But Veil liked being part of them. The thrill of the intrigue. Even the suspense of potentially being found out. Shallan, however, had always been seeking answers. Real secrets. Surely even Jasnah couldn’t be too angry with Shallan. She was infiltrating them, seeking to find their answers. Once Shallan learned everything the Ghostbloods had been hiding, she could go to Jasnah. What good would it do to pull out when the ultimate prize was so close? I sense another reason you’re doing this, Shallan, Radiant thought at her. What is it? What aren’t you sharing with us? “Aren’t you afraid?” Shallan asked Mraize, ignoring Radiant. “If I know your secrets, you’ll no longer have power to keep stringing me along. You won’t be able to keep bribing me.” “If you do this, little knife,” he said, “you won’t need to be bribed any longer. Once you complete the mission with Restares and return, you may ask me any questions, and I will answer with what I know. About the world. About the Radiants. About other places. About you, and your past…” He thought to tease that last one. But at it, Shallan shuddered, trembling deep inside. Formless grew stronger each time she thought about that. “After getting your answers,” Mraize continued, “if you decide you no longer desire our association, you may leave us as Radiant wishes. She is weak, but everyone has weakness within them. If you succumb to yours, then so be it.” She folded her arms, considering. “I’m being sincere,” Mraize said. “I cannot promise you will be safe if you leave; other members of the organization do not like you. I do promise that I will not hunt you or yours, nor will my babsk. We will discourage others.” “An easy promise,” Shallan said, “because you are certain I will never leave the Ghostbloods.” “Find a reason to visit the honorspren,” Mraize said. “Then we shall talk.” He lifted his arm and threw the bird off toward another hunt. Shallan gave no promise, but as she walked away, she knew he had her. They’d been hooked as soundly as any fish. For in Mraize’s mind were answers. About the nature of the world and its politics, but more beyond. About Shallan. The Davar house steward had belonged to the Ghostbloods. It was possible Shallan’s father had as well. Mraize had never been willing to speak of that, but she had to think they’d been grooming her—and her family—for over a decade. He knew the truth about Shallan’s past. There were holes in her childhood memories. If they did what he asked, Mraize would fill them. And maybe then, at long last, Veil could force Shallan to become complete. All gemstones leak Stormlight at a slow rate—but so long as the crystal structure remains mostly intact, the spren cannot escape. Managing this leakage is important, as many fabrials also lose Stormlight through operation. All of this
is tied up in the intricacies of the art. As is understanding one last vital kind of spren: logicspren. —Lecture on fabrial mechanics presented by Navani Kholin to the coalition of monarchs, Urithiru, Jesevan, 1175 The palace at Kholinar had undergone a dramatic transformation. To a new form, so to speak. Here, more than any other place in the city, Venli felt she could look into the past and see the history of her people. Gone was the ornate, but boring human fortress. In its place stood a grand construction that used many of the original foundations and walls, but expanded upon them in a unique design. Instead of boxy lines, it contained grand arcs, with large ridges sweeping down from the sides like curved blades. These multiplied toward the top, the ridges rising to points. The result was a curved conical shape, the peak resembling a crown. The architecture had a distinctly organic feel, enhanced by walls grown over with shalebark to give a rough, uneven texture. The palace vaguely resembled a plant: bulging at the base, with gentle blades sweeping up to the cap. Venli approached, attuned to Tension. The last twenty hours had been a chaotic jumble as she’d accompanied Leshwi through the city, meeting with other Fused, looking for information. Venli didn’t completely understand why it had set Leshwi off, but a new group of Fused spirits had awakened and come for bodies. That wasn’t unexpected. Some of the Fused on Braize slumbered, or … hibernated? Meditated? They were coming aware in groups, and joining the battle. But several in particular had Leshwi worried. Perhaps terrified. After a day of chaos spent investigating with Leshwi, Venli had awakened to thunder early in the morning. The Everstorm. Right after it, she’d received word. A conclave of the most important singers had been called to the palace. As Voice, Venli was expected to arrive quickly—and on her own, for Leshwi would take the entrance provided for the shanay-im above. Venli tried to calm herself as she walked by focusing on the beautiful palace structure. She wished she could have lived in a time when this architecture was commonplace. She imagined entire cities made of these transfixing arcs, one part dangerous, one part beautiful. Like the natural world. We did this, she thought. When Eshonai first returned from the human lands, she spoke to Awe about the grand creations of the humans. But we did things like this too. We had cities. We had art. We had culture. The rebuilding of the palace had been overseen and accomplished by several Fused of a tall, limber variety called fannahn-im, Those Ones of Alteration. Though all Fused were trained as warriors, many had other skills. Some were engineers, scientists, architects. She thought perhaps they’d all once been soldiers before being granted immortality, but the time they’d had to grow since was expansive. What would it be like to live so many lives? Such wisdom, and such capacity! Seeing such things awakened emotions within her. Not just Awe, but Craving. Were new Fused being
made? Could someone like her aspire to this immortality? Timbre pulsed a warning inside her, and Venli forcibly resisted those instincts. It was not easy. Perhaps as a Surgebinder, she should have been naturally selfless. Naturally noble. Like Eshonai. Venli was neither. A part of her still longed for the path she’d once imagined—blessed by the Fused for opening the way to their Return, heaped with honors for being the first among her people to listen to the Voidspren. Bringer of the Everstorm. Should she not have become a queen for these actions? Timbre pulsed another warning, comforting this time. Odium would never give her these honors—Venli had been deceived. Her lusts had led to great pain and destruction. She needed a way to balance her heritage and her goals. She was determined to escape the rule of the Fused, but that did not mean she wanted to abandon singer culture. Indeed, the more she discovered about the singers of old, the more she wanted to know. She reached the top of the steps and passed by two of the fannahn-im, the Altered Ones, with limber, seven-foot-tall bodies and piles of hair that sprouted only from the very tops of their heads, tumbling down around the carapace that covered the rest of their skulls. These two had not been among those who had built the palace, for they sat with vacant stares. Timbre pulsed to the Rhythm of the Lost. Gone. Like so many of the Fused, their minds had been claimed by the infinite cycle of death and rebirth. Perhaps there was a reason not to envy their immortality. The inner entryway of the palace had been rebuilt with sweeping staircases. Walls had been removed, and dozens of rooms had been combined. In the large chambers, they didn’t shut the windows during storms; they simply rolled up the carpets. Venli climbed all the way to the fifth floor, entering a pinnacle room added by the Fused architects. Large and cylindrical, it was the center of the crown shape. This place was the home of the Nine: leaders of the Fused. Other Voices were gathering. There were some thirty of them—she’d been led to believe that there would be as many as a hundred, once all the Fused were awake. This room wouldn’t hold that many Voices, even if they lined up shoulder-to-shoulder. As it was, it was growing crowded as each Voice found their place before their master. Leshwi hovered a few feet off the ground near the other Heavenly Ones, and Venli hastened over. She looked up, and Leshwi nodded, so Venli thumped the butt of her staff on the stones, indicating her master was ready. The Nine were already there, of course. They couldn’t leave. They’d been entombed in stone. Nine pillars adorned the center of the chamber, rising in a circle. The stones had been Soulcast into shape—with people inside them. The Nine lived here, permanently melded into the pillars. Again there was an organic feel to the construction, as if the pillars had grown there like trees
around the Nine. The pillars twisted and tapered, shrinking and growing into the chests of the Nine but leaving their heads and the tops of their carapaced shoulders bare. Most had at least one arm free. The Nine faced inward, their backs to the room. The bizarre entombment was discomforting, alien. Nauseating. It lent the Nine an air of permanence to accent their ageless nature. The pillars seemed to say, “These are older than the stones. They have lived here long enough for the rock to grow over them, like crem reclaiming the ruins of a fallen city.” Venli couldn’t help but be impressed by their dedication; being locked into motionlessness like this had to be agonizing. The Nine did not eat, subsisting on Odium’s Light alone. Surely this entombment wasn’t good for their sanity. Though … if they really did want to leave their imprisonment, they could simply have themselves killed. A Fused could also will their spirit from their body, freeing it to seek another host. Indeed, the humans had tried imprisoning Fused as a method of defeating them, but had found it to be futile. So the Nine could leave, if they wanted. In that light, these tombs were a flagrant, wasteful act—the ultimate price for this show was paid not by the Nine, but by the poor singers they had killed to give themselves bodies. The Nine must have counted the knocking of the staffs on the ground, for they raised their heads in unison once the final high lord was in place. Venli glanced at Leshwi, who was humming softly to Agony—the new rhythm that was a counterpart to Anxiety. “What is happening?” Venli whispered to Craving. “What does this have to do with the new Fused who have awakened?” “Watch,” Leshwi whispered. “But take care. Remember, what power I have outside is a mere candle’s light in here.” Leshwi was, for a high lady, low ranked. A field commander, but still merely a soldier. She was both the very crust of the unimportant and the very dregs of the important. She was always careful in walking that line. The Nine hummed together, then began singing in unison, a song and rhythm Venli had never heard. It sent chills through her, particularly when she realized she couldn’t understand the lyrics. She felt near to comprehending—it was almost within reach—but her powers seemed to shy back from this song. As though … if she could understand, her mind would not be able to handle the meaning. She was fairly certain what this indicated. Odium, the god of the singers, was watching this conclave. She knew his touch, his stench. He was forbidding any of the Voices from interpreting this song. It died down, and silence claimed the chamber. “We would hear a report,” one of the Nine said at last—Venli had trouble telling who spoke, since they were all facing one another. “A firsthand account of what was seen at the recent clash in northern Avendla.” Avendla was their name for Alethkar; Venli’s powers instantly knew the meaning
of the word. Land of the Second Advance. Her abilities stopped there, however, and she couldn’t answer the more interesting question. Why was it called that? Leshwi hummed, so Venli stepped forward and cracked her scepter against the floor twice, then bowed, head down. Leshwi rose behind her, clothing rustling. “I will have Zandiel provide sketches. The large human ship flew of its own power, using no gemstones we could see—though certainly they were embedded somewhere inside.” “It flew by Lashings,” one of the Nine said. “The work of Windrunners.” “No,” Leshwi said. “It did not have that appearance or that feel. This was a device, a machine. Created by their artifabrians.” The Nine sang together, and their alien song made Timbre—deep within Venli—pulse nervously. “We were away far too long,” one of the Nine said. “It has let the humans fester like an infection, gaining strength. They create devices we have never known.” “We are behind them, not ahead,” another said. “It is a dangerous position from which to fight.” “No,” said a third. “They have made great strides in understanding the prisons of spren, but they know little about the bond, the power of oaths, the nature of the tones of the world. They are cremlings building a nest beneath the shadow of a great temple. They take pride in what they have done, but cannot grasp the beauties around them.” “Still,” said the first. “Still. We could not have crafted the flying device they have.” “Why would we? We have the shanay-im.” Venli remained bowed, hand on her staff. Holding the pose exactly grew uncomfortable, but she would never complain. She was as close to important events as a mortal could get, and she was certain she could use the knowledge to some advantage. The Nine spoke for the ears of those listening. They could have conversed quietly, but these meetings were about the spectacle. “Leshwi,” one of the Nine said. “What of the suppressor we sent to be tested? Did it work?” “It worked,” Leshwi said, “but it was also lost. The humans captured it. I fear this will lead them to further explorations and discoveries.” “This was poorly handled,” said one of the Fused. “I take no responsibility for this error,” Leshwi said. “You must speak to the Pursuer to find record of the mistake.” Each spoke with formal tones and rhythms. Venli had the impression that the Nine knew how these answers would play out. “Lezian!” the Nine called together. “You will—” “Oh, dispense with the pageantry,” a loud voice said. A tall Fused emerged from the shadows on the far side of the room. Leshwi lowered down, and Venli straightened and stepped back into line before her master. That gave her a good view of this new Fused, which was of a variety that Venli had never seen. Enormous, with jagged carapace and deep red hair, the being wore only a simple black wrap for clothing. Or … was his hair the clothing? It seemed to meld with the wrap. Fascinating. Nex-im, Those Ones of
Husks, the ninth brand of Fused. She had heard them spoken of; supposedly very few existed. Was this the recently awakened Fused who had Leshwi so concerned? “Lezian, the Pursuer,” said one of the Nine. “You were entrusted with a delicate device, a suppressor of Stormlight abilities. You were told to test it. Where is this device?” “I tested it,” Lezian snapped, showing little of the formality or respect others gave the Nine. “It didn’t work.” “You are certain of this?” the Nine asked. “Was the man Invested when he attacked you?” “You think I could be defeated by a common human?” the Pursuer demanded. “This Windrunner must be of the Fourth Ideal—something I was led to believe had not yet happened. Perhaps our reconnaissance teams have lost their edge, during the long time spent between Returns.” Behind Venli, Leshwi hummed sharply to Conceit. She did not like that implication. “Regardless,” the Pursuer said, “I was killed. The Windrunner is more dangerous than any of us were led to believe. I must pursue him now, as is my right by tradition. I will leave immediately.” Curious, Venli thought. If he’d fought Stormblessed, then he could not be the newly awakened one that Leshwi feared. The Pursuer stood with arms crossed as the Nine began to sing to one another again, softer than before. In the past, such deliberations had taken several minutes. Many of the other Fused began conferring quietly as they waited. Venli leaned back, whispering, “Who is he, Lady?” “A hero,” Leshwi responded to Withdrawal. “And a fool. Millennia ago, Lezian was the first Fused to be killed by a human. To avoid the shame of such death, upon returning to life, Lezian ignored all orders and rational arguments—and went into battle seeking only the man who had killed him. “He was successful, and his tradition was born. Any time he is killed, Lezian ignores everything else until he has claimed the life of the one who killed him. Seven thousand years, and he’s never failed. Now the others—even those chosen as the Nine—encourage his quests.” “I thought in the past, you were exiled to Braize once you died? How could he return to hunt the one who had killed him?” Much of this was still confusing to Venli. For thousands of years, the humans and the singers had fought many rounds of an eternal war. Each new wave of attacks had involved what was called a Return, when the Fused would descend to Roshar. The humans called these Desolations. There was something special about the way the human Heralds interacted that could lock the Fused on Braize, the land called Damnation by the humans. Only once the Fused broke the Heralds through torture—sending them back to Roshar—could a Return be initiated. This cycle had played out for millennia, until the Last Desolation, where something had changed. Something to do with a single Herald and an unbreakable will. “You mistake the cycle, simplify it,” Leshwi said softly. “We were only locked on Braize once the Heralds died and joined us
there. Until then, there would often be years or even decades of rebirths during a Return—during which time the Heralds would train humans to fight. Once they were confident that humans could continue to stand, the Heralds would give themselves to Braize to activate the Isolation. The Heralds would need to die for this to work.” “But … they didn’t die the last time?” Venli said. “They remained, but you were still locked away.” “Yes…” Leshwi said. “They somehow found a way to shift the Oathpact to depend on a single member.” She nodded toward the Pursuer. “Regardless, before an Isolation began, that one always managed to find and kill any humans who had bested him. As soon as the Isolation was begun, he’d kill himself, so he’d never return to Braize permanently after having died by human hand. “As I said, the others encourage his tradition. He is allowed to act outside command structures, given leeway to Pursue. When he is not hunting one who killed him, he seeks to fight the strongest of the enemy Radiants.” “That sounds like a worthy Passion,” Venli said, picking her words carefully. “Yes, it does sound like one,” Leshwi said to Derision. “Perhaps it would be, in someone less reckless. Lezian has endangered our plans, undermined strategies, and ruined more missions than I can count. And he’s growing worse. As all of us are, I suppose…” “He was killed by the Windrunner hero?” Venli asked. “The one they call Stormblessed?” “Yes, yesterday. And the Radiant’s powers were suppressed at the time, no matter what Lezian said. Stormblessed is not yet of the Fourth Ideal. I would know. This is doubly a shame on the Pursuer. He grows careless, overly confident. These Radiants are new to their powers, but that does not make them less worthy.” “You like them,” Venli said, cautiously broaching the topic. “The Windrunners.” Leshwi was silent for a moment. “Yes,” she said. “They and their spren would make excellent servants, should we be able to subdue them.” So she was open to new ideas, new ways of thinking. Perhaps she would react favorably to the idea of a new nation of listeners. “Announce me, Voice,” Leshwi said. “Now?” Venli said, shocked out of her contemplations. “While the Nine are conferring?” Leshwi hummed to Command, so Venli scrambled to obey, stepping forward and slamming the butt of her staff against the floor, then bowing. The Nine interrupted their song, and the one who spoke said the words to Destruction. “What is this, Leshwi?” “I have more to say,” Leshwi proclaimed to Command. “The Pursuer is losing control. He approaches the state where his mind and intentions cannot be trusted. He was defeated by a common human. It is time for special privileges to be revoked.” Lezian spun toward her, shouting to Destruction, “How dare you!” “You are low to make such a declaration, Leshwi,” one of the Nine said. “This is both above and beneath you, at once.” “I speak my Passion,” she said. “The man who killed the Pursuer has killed
me. I claim prior privilege to the life of Stormblessed. The Pursuer must, in this case, wait upon my pleasure.” “You know my tradition!” he shouted at Leshwi. “Traditions can be broken.” The tall Fused stomped toward her, and Venli had to forcibly hold herself in place, bowing—though she was allowed to look up and watch. This Pursuer was enormous, intimidating. He was also nearly out of control, a storm at its height—so angry she couldn’t make out the rhythm to his shouted words. “I will hunt you!” he shouted. “You cannot deny me my vows! My tradition cannot be broken!” Leshwi continued to hover in place unperturbed, and Venli saw an ulterior motive in the conflict. Yes, the Nine were humming to Derision. In losing his temper, the Pursuer proved his Passion—a good thing to them—but also risked proving he was going crazy. Leshwi had purposefully goaded him. “We accept Leshwi’s prior claim on this man,” the Nine said. “Pursuer, you will not hunt this human until Leshwi has a chance to battle him again.” “This undermines my entire existence!” the Pursuer said, pointing at Leshwi. “She seeks to destroy my legacy out of spite!” “Then you should hope she loses their next conflict,” one of the Nine said. “Leshwi, you may hunt this Windrunner. But know that if a battle comes and he must be removed, another may be granted the task.” “This is understood and accepted,” Leshwi said. None of them realize she’s trying to protect that Windrunner, Venli thought. Maybe she doesn’t realize it herself. There were schisms among the Fused, cracks much larger than any would admit. What could be done to take advantage of them? Timbre pulsed inside her, but in this case Venli was certain her ambition was well placed. To lack it would be to simply go along with whatever she was told. That was not freedom. Freedom, if she was to seek it, would require ambition—in the right place. The Pursuer, still raging to no particular rhythm, stomped out of the conclave chamber. Leshwi settled down behind Venli, humming softly to Exultation. “Do not praise yourself overly much, Leshwi,” one of the Nine called. “Do not forget your low station in this room. We have our own reasons for denying the Pursuer.” Leshwi bowed her head as the Nine returned to their private conversation. “You could be more,” Venli whispered, returning to her place beside Leshwi. “These are not as clever as you are, Lady. Why do you let them continue to treat you so poorly?” “I have chosen my station carefully,” Leshwi snapped. “Do not challenge me on this, Voice. It is not your place.” “I apologize,” Venli said to Agony. “My Passion outstripped my wisdom.” “That was not Passion, but curiosity.” Leshwi narrowed her eyes. “Be alert. This matter was not the reason the conclave was called. The danger I’ve been fearing is yet to come.” That made Venli stand up straighter, on her guard. Eventually the Nine stopped singing, but they did not address the leaders of the Fused. Instead
the hall fell silent. Moments stretched to minutes. What was happening? A figure darkened the doorway of the chamber, backlit by sunlight. It was a tall femalen, of the fannahn-im—the builders who had created the palace—with a tall topknot of hair and carapace like a helmet otherwise covering her head. She wore a luxurious robe and was willowy, with a narrow figure and long arms, fingers fully twice the length of Venli’s. Leshwi hissed. “Gods, no. Not her.” “What?” Venli asked as the room flooded with whispers from the others. “Who is she?” “I thought her mad,” Leshwi said to Agony. “How…” The tall Fused walked into the room and did a slow, careful loop around the perimeter, perhaps to make certain she was seen by everyone. Then she did something Venli had never seen anyone do—no matter how high. She walked into the center of the Nine and looked them in the eyes. “What does it mean, Lady?” Venli asked. “She was one of the Nine for many centuries,” Leshwi said. “Until she decided it was too … hampering upon her ambitions. After the last Return, and her madness, she was to remain asleep.… Why…” “Raboniel, Lady of Wishes,” one of the Nine said. “You have brought us a proposal. Please speak it.” “It is obvious,” Raboniel said, “that the humans have been allowed too much time to grow. They run rampant across Roshar. They have steel weapons and advanced military tactics. They outstrip our own knowledge in areas. “The one thing they do not yet have is mastery over their powers. There are few among them of the Fourth Ideal—perhaps only one individual—and they do not have full access to the tower, now that the Sibling is dead. We must strike now. We must seize the tower from them.” Leshwi moved forward, not waiting for Venli to announce her. “This was tried! We attempted to seize the tower, and failed!” “That?” Raboniel said. “That was a stalling tactic intended to isolate the Bondsmith. The strike could never have succeeded. I was not involved.” “You forget your place again, Leshwi,” one of the Nine said. “This makes us wonder if you are the one who is losing her mind.” Leshwi retreated to her spot, and Venli felt the eyes of the other thirty Fused and their Voices on her, shaming her as they hummed. “You have nearly perfected the suppression fabrials,” Raboniel said. “Do not forget, it is technology I discovered from the tower itself thousands of years ago. I have a plan to use it in a more dramatic way. As the Sibling is essentially a deadeye, I should be able to turn the tower’s defenses against its owners.” A Voice across the room stepped forward and thumped his staff, announcing Uriam the Defiant. “Pardon,” Uriam said to Craving. “But are you implying that you can suppress the powers of the Radiants inside their own tower?” “Yes,” Raboniel said. “The device preventing us from attacking them there can be inverted. We will need to lure the Elsecaller and the Bondsmith
away. Their oaths may be advanced enough to push through the suppression, much as the Unmade have done at the tower in the past. With them gone, I can lead a force into Urithiru and seize it from within—and the Radiants will be unable to resist.” The Nine started singing to one another privately, giving everyone else time for conversations. Venli looked to her mistress. Leshwi rarely spent these moments talking to the other high Fused; she was beneath most of them, after all. “I don’t understand,” Venli whispered. “Raboniel is a scholar,” Leshwi said. “But not the kind you would wish to work beneath. We used to call her Lady of Pains, until she decided she didn’t like the title.” Her expression grew distant. “She has always been fascinated by the tower and the connection between Radiants. Their oaths, their spren. Their Surges. “During the last Return, she developed a disease intended to kill all humans on the planet. Near the end, it was discovered that the disease would likely kill many singers as well. She released it anyway … only to find, to all of our fortunes, that it did not work as expected. Fewer than one in ten humans were killed, and one in a hundred singers.” “That’s terrible!” Venli said. “Extinction is the natural escalation of this war,” Leshwi whispered. “If you forget why you are fighting, then victory itself becomes the goal. The longer we fight, the more detached we become. Both from our own minds, and from our original Passions.” She hummed softly to Abashment. “Explain your plan, Raboniel,” one of the Nine said, loudly enough to cut through conversations. “I will lead a team into the tower,” Raboniel said, “then secure control of the Sibling’s heart. Using my natural talents, and the gifts of Odium, I will corrupt that heart, and turn the tower to our needs. The humans will fall; their powers will not work, but ours will. From there I suspect that—with a little time—I can learn much studying the gemstones at the Sibling’s heart. Perhaps enough to create new weapons against the Radiants and the humans.” One of the Heavenly Ones, a malen named Jeshishin, came forward as his Voice rapped the floor. “As Leshwi said, we did strike at the tower a year ago. True, that attempt was not meant to be a permanent seizure, but we were rebuffed. I would know the specifics of what we will do this time to ensure victory.” “We will use the king who has given himself to us,” Raboniel said. “He has delivered intelligence about guard patterns. We don’t need to take the entire tower at first—we simply need to get to the heart and use my knowledge to turn the defenses to our advantage.” “The heart is the most well-guarded location!” Jeshishin said. Raboniel spoke to Conceit. “Then it is fortunate that we have an agent in their inner circle, is it not?” Jeshishin floated back, his Voice returning to his place. “What is her true game?” Leshwi whispered to Craving. “Raboniel has
never really been interested in the war or its tactics. This must be about something more. She wants the opportunity to experiment upon the Sibling.…” “This is dangerous,” one of the Nine loudly said to the room. “The humans are suspicious of Taravangian already. He reports that he is watched at all times. If we use his intelligence in this way, there is little doubt he will be compromised entirely.” “Let him be compromised!” Raboniel said. “What good is a weapon if you don’t swing it? Why have you delayed? The humans are untrained, their powers fledgling, their understanding laughable. I find it embarrassing to awaken and find you struggling against these pitiful shadows of our once-mighty enemies. “Without the tower, their coalition will disintegrate, as they will be unable to deliver support through the Oathgates. We will gain great advantage through the use of those same portals. In addition, this endeavor will give me the opportunity to test some … theories I have developed while slumbering these last millennia. I am increasingly certain I have discovered a path that will lead to an end to the war.” Leshwi hissed out slowly, and Venli felt cold. It seemed that whatever Raboniel thought would end the war would involve techniques best left untouched. The rest of the room, however, appeared impressed. They whispered to Subservience, indicating consent to the idea. Even the Nine started humming to the rhythm. The Fused put on a strong Passionate show, but there was a fatigue to these ancient souls. It underpinned their other Passions, like the true color of a dyed cloth. Wash it, leave it out in the storms long enough, and the core shone through. These creatures were fraying, surrendering their minds—their will and very individuality offered up to Odium on the altar of eternal war. Perhaps the humans were new to their abilities, untested, but the Fused were old axes, chipped and weathered. They would take great risks, after so many rebirths, to be finished at last. “What of Stormblessed?” a voice called out, thickly accented, from the recesses of the grand chamber. Venli found herself humming to Abashment as she searched the room. Who had spoken so brashly without first ordering their Voice to step forward? She found him sitting on a raised ledge up above, in shadow, right as her mind connected the accent to the lack of decorum. Vyre. The human, once called Moash. He dressed like a soldier, with perfectly trimmed hair, a sharp uniform cut after human tailoring. He was an oddity. Why did the Nine continue to suffer him? Not only that, why had they given him an Honorblade, one of the most precious relics on Roshar? He draped one leg off the ledge. Held in his lap, his sword reflected sunlight as the tip moved. “He’ll stop you,” Vyre said. “You should have a plan for dealing with him.” “Ah, the human,” Raboniel said, looking at Vyre on his ledge. “I’ve heard of you. Such an interesting specimen. Odium favors you.” “He takes my pain,” Vyre said.
“And leaves me to achieve my potential. You did not answer my question. What of Stormblessed?” “I’m not afraid of a Windrunner, no matter how … mythical his reputation may be growing,” Raboniel said. “We will focus our attention on the Bondsmith and the Elsecaller. They are more dangerous than any simple soldier.” “Well,” Vyre said, pulling the tip of his sword back into the shadows, “I’m sure you know your business, Fused.” The Nine, as always, suffered the strange human. His position had been chosen by Odium. Leshwi seemed to think highly of him—of course, he’d once killed her, and that was a sure way to gain her respect. “Your proposal is bold, Raboniel,” one of the Nine said. “And decisive. We have long been without your guidance in this Return, and we welcome your Passion. We will move forward as you request. Prepare a team for your infiltration of the tower, and we shall contact the human Taravangian with instructions. He can divert the Bondsmith and Elsecaller.” Raboniel sang loudly to Satisfaction, a stately and decisive sound. Venli was reasonably certain this entire meeting had been for show—the Nine had not stopped to debate the plan. They’d known what Raboniel would suggest, and had already worked out the details. The other Fused waited respectfully as Raboniel—her victorious proposal elevating her further in their eyes—walked toward the exit. Only one of the Fused moved. Leshwi. “Come,” she said, floating after Raboniel. Venli hurried, joining Leshwi as she intercepted the tall femalen just outside the doors. Raboniel looked over Leshwi, humming to Derision as the two emerged into sunlight on the balcony rooftop around the chamber. The stairwell down was to the right. “Why did you seek to block my proposal, Leshwi?” Raboniel asked. “Have you begun to feel the effects of madness?” “I am not mad, but afraid,” Leshwi said to Abashment—and Venli started at the words. Lady Leshwi, afraid? “Do you truly think you can end the war?” “I’m certain of it,” Raboniel said to Derision. “I have had a long time to ponder on the discoveries made before the end of the false Return.” She reached into the pocket of her robe and removed a gemstone glowing with Stormlight, a shifting spren captured inside. A fabrial like the humans created. “They imprisoned some of the Unmade in these, Leshwi,” Raboniel said. “How close do you think they are to discovering they could do the same for us? Can you imagine it? Forever imprisoned in a gemstone, locked away, able to think but unable to ever break free?” Leshwi hummed to Panic, a pained rhythm with unfinished measures and chopped-up beats. “One way or another,” Raboniel said, “this is the final Return. The humans will soon discover how to imprison us. If not, well, the best of us who remain are but a few steps from madness. We must find a solution to this war.” “You are newly Returned,” Leshwi said. “You have no servants or staff. Your undertaking will require both.” She gestured to the side, to Venli. “I
have gathered a staff of faithful and highly capable singers. I would lend them to you for this enterprise, and would attend you myself, as an apology for my objections.” “You do always have the best servants,” Raboniel said, eyeing Venli. “This one is the Last Listener, is she not? Once Voice of Odium himself? How did you collect her?” Timbre pulsed inside Venli—she was annoyed by the term “collect,” and Venli felt the same. She bowed her head and hummed to Subservience to keep from revealing her true feelings. “She was cast off by Odium,” Leshwi said. “I have found her an excellent Voice.” “The daughter of traitors,” Raboniel said, but to Craving—she was curious about Venli. “Then a traitor to her own kind. I will take her, and those you send, as my servants during the infiltration. You may join us as well. Serve, and perhaps I will forgive your crass objections. There were certainly others thinking the same; you gave opportunity for refutation.” Raboniel strode away, though as she reached the steps, Venli spotted someone waiting for her in the shadows below. The hulking figure of the Pursuer, who had been dismissed earlier. He bowed to Raboniel, who hesitated at the top of the stairwell. Their exchange was not audible to Venli. “He’s begging for a chance to go with her,” Leshwi whispered. “Raboniel will have jurisdiction during this infiltration—and can authorize him to continue his hunt. He will try anything to justify another chance at that Windrunner. I fear he will ignore the Nine, particularly if Raboniel approves of him.” She looked to Venli. “You must gather our people and attend her. You will not need to fight; that will be done by others. You will serve her as you have me, and report to me in secret.” “Mistress?” Venli asked. She lowered her voice. “So you don’t trust her.” “Of course not,” Leshwi said. “Last time, her recklessness nearly cost us everything. The Nine favor her boldness; they feel the weight of time. Yet boldness can be one step from foolishness. So we must prevent a catastrophe. This land is for the ordinary singers to inherit. I will not leave it desolate simply to prove we can murder better than our enemies.” Venli swelled at that. Timbre surged inside her, pulsing, encouraging her. “Mistress,” she whispered, “do you think there … could be a way to re-form my people? Find a land away from both Fused and humans? To be on our own again, as we were?” Leshwi hummed to Reprimand, glancing toward the chamber with the other Fused. None had left yet. They wouldn’t want to be seen rushing after Raboniel—and Venli realized, in a moment of understanding, why Leshwi preferred to remain lowly among them. Her lack of standing gave her freedom to do things others considered beneath them. “Do not speak of such things,” Leshwi hissed. “Others already mistrust you for what your ancestors did. You wish to rule yourselves? I commend that—but the time is not right. Help us defeat the humans, and
then we Fused will fade into time and leave this world to you. That is how to achieve your independence, Venli.” “Yes, mistress,” she said to Subservience. She didn’t feel it, and Timbre pulsed her own frustration. Venli had felt Odium’s hand directly. He would not leave this people alone, and she suspected the other Fused—tired though they might be—would not abandon ruling the world. Too many of them enjoyed the luxury of their positions. Victory for them was no path to independence for Venli and her people. Leshwi soared off, leaving Venli to walk down the steps. As she did, she caught sight of Raboniel and the Pursuer speaking conspiratorially in the dim reaches of the third floor. Storms, what was Venli getting pulled into now? Timbre pulsed inside her. “Opportunity?” Venli said. “What kind of opportunity?” Timbre pulsed again. “I thought you hated the human Radiants,” Venli whispered. “Who cares if we’re going to find them at the tower?” Timbre pulsed decisively. She had a point. Perhaps the humans could train Venli. Maybe she could capture one of their Radiants and make them teach her. At any rate, she needed to prepare her staff to leave the city. Her recruitment efforts would have to be put on hold. Like it or not, she was going to be at the forefront of another invasion of the human lands. Logicspren react curiously to imprisonment. Unlike other spren, they do not manifest some attribute—you cannot use them to make heat, or to warn of nearby danger, or conjoin gemstones. For years, artifabrians considered them useless—indeed, experimenting with them was uncommon, since logicspren are rare and difficult to capture. A breakthrough has come in discovering that logicspren will vary the light they radiate based on certain stimuli. For example, if you make the Light leak from the gemstone at a controlled rate, the spren will alternate dimming and brightening in a regular pattern. This has led to fabrial clocks. When the gemstone is tapped with certain metals, the light will also change states from bright to dim. This is leading to some very interesting and complex mechanisms. —Lecture on fabrial mechanics presented by Navani Kholin to the coalition of monarchs, Urithiru, Jesevan, 1175 In the weeks following the assault on Hearthstone, Kaladin’s anxiety began to subside, and he pushed through the worst of the darkness. He always emerged on the other side. Why was that so difficult to remember while in the middle of it? He’d been given time to decide what to do after his “retirement,” so he didn’t rush the decision, and didn’t tell anyone other than Adolin. He wanted to find the best way to introduce the idea to his Windrunners—and if he could, make his decision first. Better to bring them a clear plan. He found himself understanding Dalinar’s order more and more as the days passed. At least Kaladin didn’t have to keep pretending he wasn’t exhausted. He did delay his decision though. So Dalinar eventually gave him a gentle—but firm—nudge. Kaladin could have a little more time to
decide his path, but they needed to start promoting other Windrunners to take over his duties. So it was that ten days after the mission to Hearthstone, Kaladin stood in front of the army’s command staff and listened to Dalinar announce that Kaladin’s role in the army was “evolving.” Kaladin found the experience humiliating. Everyone applauded his heroism even as he was forced out. Kaladin announced that Sigzil—with whom he’d conferred earlier in the day—would take over daily administration of the Windrunners, overseeing things like supplies and recruitment. He’d be named to the rank of companylord. Skar, when he returned from leave at the Horneater Peaks, would be named company second, and would oversee and lead active Windrunner missions. A short time later, Kaladin was allowed to go—fortunately, there was no forced “party” for him. He retreated down a long dark hallway in Urithiru, relieved that he didn’t feel nearly as bad as he had worried he would. He wasn’t a danger to himself today. Now he just had to find new purpose in life. Storms, that scared him—having nothing to do reminded him of being a bridgeman. When he wasn’t on bridge runs, those days had stretched. Full of blank space that numbed the mind, a strange mental anesthetic. His life was far better now. He wasn’t so lost in self-pity that he couldn’t notice or acknowledge that. Still, he found the similarity uncomfortable. Syl hovered in front of him in the Urithiru hallway, taking the form of a fanciful ship—only with sails on the bottom. “What is that?” Kaladin asked her. “I don’t know,” she said, sailing past him. “Navani was drawing it during a meeting a few weeks ago. I think she got mixed up. Maybe she hasn’t seen boats before?” “I sincerely doubt that’s the case,” Kaladin said, looking down the hallway. Nothing to do. No, he thought. You can’t pretend you have nothing to do because you’re scared. Find a new purpose. He took a deep breath, then strode forward. He could at least act confident. Hav’s first rule of leadership, drilled into Kaladin on his first day as a squadleader. Once you make a decision, commit to it. “Where are we going?” Syl asked, transforming into a ribbon of light to catch up to him. “Sparring grounds.” “Going to try some training to take your mind off things?” “No,” Kaladin said. “I’m going to—against my better judgment—seek wisdom there.” “Many of the ardents who train there seem pretty wise to me,” she said. “After all, they shave their heads.” “They…” Kaladin frowned. “Syl, what does that have to do with being wise?” “Hair is gross. It seems smart to shave it off.” “You have hair.” “I do not; I just have me. Think about it, Kaladin. Everything else that comes out of your body you dispose of quickly and quietly—but this strange stuff oozes out of little holes in your head, and you let it sit there? Gross.” “Not all of us have the luxury of being fragments of divinity.” “Actually, everything is a fragment of
divinities. We’re relatives that way.” She zipped in closer to him. “You humans are merely the weird relatives that live out in the stormshelter; the ones we try not to let visitors know about.” Kaladin could smell the sparring grounds before he arrived—the mingled familiar scents of sweat and sword oil. Syl shot to the left, making a loop of the room as Kaladin hurried past shouting pairs of men engaged in bouts of all types. He made his way to the rear wall where the swordmasters congregated. He’d always found martial ardents to be a strange bunch. Ordinary ardents made more sense: they joined the church for scholarly reasons, or because of family pressure, or because they were devout and wanted to serve the Almighty. Most martial ardents had different pasts. Many had once been soldiers, then given themselves over to the church. Not to serve, but to escape. He’d never really understood what might lead someone to walk that path. Not until recently. As he walked among the training soldiers, he was reminded why he’d stopped coming. Bowing, murmurs of “Stormblessed,” people making way for him. That was fine in the hallways, when he passed people who didn’t know him. But the ones who trained here were his brothers—and in some few cases sisters—in arms. They should know he didn’t need such attention. He reached the swordmasters—but unfortunately, the man he sought wasn’t among them. Master Lahar explained that Zahel was on laundry detail, which surprised Kaladin. Though he knew all ardents took turns on service detail, he wouldn’t have thought a swordmaster would be sent to wash clothing. As he left the sparring chamber, Syl came soaring back to him, wearing the shape of an arrow in flight. “Did I hear you asking for Zahel?” she asked. “You did. Why?” “It’s just that … there are several swordmasters, Kaladin. A few of them are actually useful. So why would you want to talk to Zahel?” He wasn’t certain he could explain. One of the other swordmasters—or likely any of the ardents who frequented the sparring grounds—could indeed answer his questions. But they, like the others, regarded Kaladin with an air of respect and awe. He wanted to talk to someone who would be completely honest with him. He made his way out to the edge of the tower. Here, open to the sky, various tiered discs of stone projected from the base of the structure like enormous fronds. Over the last year, a number of these had been turned into pastures for chulls, lobberbeasts, or horses. Others were hung with lines for drying wash. Kaladin started toward the drying wash, but paused—then decided to make a short detour. Navani and her scholars claimed that these outer plates around the tower had once been fields. How could that ever have been the case? The air up here was cold, and though Rock seemed to find it invigorating, Kaladin could tell it lacked something. He grew winded more quickly, and if he exerted himself, he sometimes felt light-headed in ways he
never did at normal elevations. Highstorms hit here infrequently. Nine out of ten didn’t get high enough—passing as an angry expanse below, rumbling their discontent with flashes of lightning. Without the storms, there simply wasn’t enough water for crops, let alone proper hillsides for planting polyps. Still, at Navani’s urging, the last six months had involved a unique project. For years the Alethi had fought the Parshendi over gemhearts on the Shattered Plains. It had been a bloody affair built upon the corpses of bridgemen whose bodies—more than their tools—spanned the gaps between plateaus. It shocked Kaladin that so many involved in this slaughter had missed asking a specific and poignant question: Why had the Parshendi wanted gemstones? To the Alethi, gemstones were not merely wealth, but power. With a Soulcaster, emeralds meant food—highly portable sources of nutrition that could travel with an army. The Alethi military had used the advantage of mobile forces without long supply lines to ravage across Roshar during the reigns of a half dozen interchangeable kings. The Parshendi hadn’t possessed Soulcasters though. Rlain had confirmed this fact. And then he’d given humankind a gift. Kaladin walked down a set of stone steps to where a group of farmers worked a test field. The flat stone had been spread with seed paste—and that had grown rockbuds. Water was brought from a nearby pump, and Kaladin passed bearers lugging bucket after bucket to dump on the polyps and simulate a rainstorm. Their best farmers had explained it wouldn’t work. You could simulate the highstorm minerals the plants needed to form shells, but the cold air would stifle growth. Rlain had agreed this was true … unless you had an edge. Unless you grew the plants by the light of gemstones. The common field before Kaladin was adorned with a most uncommon sight: enormous emeralds harvested from the hearts of chasmfiends, ensconced within short iron lampposts that were in turn bolted to the stone ground. The emeralds were so large, and so full of Stormlight, that looking at one left spots on Kaladin’s vision, though it was in full daylight. Beside each lantern sat an ardent with a drum, softly banging a specific rhythm. This was the secret. People would have noticed if gemstone light made plants grow—but the mixture of the light and the music changed something. Lifespren—little green motes that bobbed in the air—spun around the drummers. The spren glowed brighter than usual, as if the Light of the gemstones was infusing them. And they’d move off to the plants, spinning around them. This drained the Light, like using a fabrial did. Indeed, the gemstones would periodically crack, as also happened to fabrials. Somehow, the mixture of spren, music, and Light created a kind of organic machine that sustained plants via Stormlight. Rlain, wearing his Bridge Four uniform, walked among the stations, checking the rhythms for accuracy. He usually wore warform these days, though he’d confessed to Kaladin that he disliked how it made him seem more like the invaders, with their wicked carapace armor. That made some
humans distrust him. But workform made people treat him like a parshman. He hated that even more. Though to be honest, it was odd to see Rlain—with his black and red marbled skin—giving direction to Alethi. It was reminiscent of what was happening in Alethkar, with the invasion. Rlain didn’t like it when people made those kinds of comparisons, and Kaladin tried not to think that way. Regardless, Rlain seemed to have found purpose in this work. Enough purpose that Kaladin almost left him and continued on his previous task. But no—the days where Kaladin could directly look out for the men and women of Bridge Four were coming to an end. He wanted to see them cared for. He jogged through the field. While any one of these head-size rockbuds would have been considered too small to be worth much in Hearthstone, they were at least big enough that there would be grain inside. The technique was helping. “Rlain,” Kaladin called. “Rlain!” “Sir?” the listener asked, turning and smiling. He hummed a peppy tune as he jogged over. “How was the meeting?” Kaladin hesitated. Should he say it? Or wait? “It had some interesting developments. Promotions for Skar and Sigzil.” Kaladin scanned the field. “But someone can fill you in on that later. For now, these crops are looking good.” “The spren don’t come as readily for humans as they did for the listeners,” he said, surveying the field. “You cannot hear the rhythms. And I can’t get humans to sing the pure tones of Roshar. A few are getting closer though. I’m encouraged.” He shook his head. “Anyway, what was it you wanted, sir?” “I found you an honorspren.” Kaladin was accustomed to seeing an unreadable, stoic expression on Rlain’s marbled face. That melted away like sand before a storm as Rlain adopted a wide, face-splitting grin. He grabbed Kaladin by the shoulders, his eyes dancing—and when he hummed, the exultant rhythm to it almost made Kaladin feel he could sense something beyond. A sound as bombastic as sunlight, as joyful as a child’s laughter. “An honorspren?” Rlain said. “Who is willing to bond with a listener? Truly?” “Vratim’s old spren, Yunfah. He was delaying choosing someone new, so Syl and I gave him an ultimatum: Choose you or leave. This morning, he came to me and agreed to try to bond with you.” Rlain’s humming softened. “It was a gamble,” Kaladin said. “Since I didn’t want to drive him away. But we finally got him to agree. He’ll keep his word; but be careful. I get the sense he’ll take any chance he can to wiggle out of the deal.” Rlain squeezed Kaladin on the shoulder and nodded to him, a sign of obvious respect. Which made the next words he spoke so odd. “Thank you, sir. Please tell the spren he can seek elsewhere. I won’t be requiring his bond.” He let go, but Kaladin caught his arm. “Rlain?” Kaladin said. “What are you saying? Syl and I worked hard to find you a spren.” “I appreciate that,
sir.” “I know you feel left out. I know how hard it is to see the others fly while you walk. This is your chance.” “Would you take a spren who was forced into the deal, Kaladin?” Rlain asked. “Considering the circumstances, I’d take what I could get.” “The circumstances…” Rlain said, holding up his hand, inspecting the pattern of his skin. “Did I ever tell you, sir, how I ended up in a bridge crew?” Kaladin shook his head slowly. “I answered a question,” Rlain said. “My owner was a mid-dahn lighteyes—nobody you’d know. An overseer among Sadeas’s quartermasters. He called out to his wife for help as he was trying to add figures in his head, and—not thinking—I gave him the answer.” Rlain hummed a soft rhythm, mocking in tone. “A stupid mistake. I’d been embedded among the Alethi for years, but I grew careless. “Over the next few days, my owner watched me. I thought I’d given myself away. But no … he didn’t suspect I was a spy. He just thought I was too smart. A clever parshman frightened him. So he offered me up to the bridge crews.” Rlain glanced back at Kaladin. “Wouldn’t want a parshman like that breeding, now would we? Who knows what kind of trouble they would make if they started thinking for themselves?” “I’m not trying to tell you that you shouldn’t think, Rlain,” Kaladin said. “I’m trying to help.” “I know you are, sir. But I have no interest in taking ‘what I can get.’ And I don’t think you should force a spren into a bond. It will make for a bad precedent, sir.” He hummed a different rhythm. “You all name me a squire, but I can’t draw Stormlight like the rest. There’s a wedge between me and the Stormfather, I think. Strange. I expected prejudice from humans, but not from him.… Anyway, I will wait for a spren who will bond me for who I am—and the honor I represent.” He gave Kaladin a Bridge Four salute, tapping his wrists together, then turned to continue teaching songs to farmers. Kaladin trailed away toward the washing grounds. He could see the man’s point, but to pass up this chance? Maybe the only way to get what Rlain wanted—respect from a spren—was to start with one who was skeptical. And Kaladin hadn’t forced Yunfah. Kaladin had given an order. Sometimes, soldiers had to serve in positions they didn’t want. Kaladin hated feeling he’d somehow done something shameful, despite his best intentions. Couldn’t Rlain accept the work he’d put into this effort, then do what he asked? Or maybe, another part of him thought, you could do what you promised him—and listen for once. Kaladin entered the washing field, passing lines of women standing at troughs as if in formation, warring with an unending horde of stained shirts and uniform coats. He trailed around the ancient pump, which bled water into the troughs, and through a rippling field of sheets hung on lines like pale white banners. He found Zahel at
the edge of the plateau. This section of the field overlooked a steep drop-off. In the near distance, Kaladin could see Navani’s large construction hanging from the plateau—the device used to raise and lower the Fourth Bridge. It seemed like falling from here would leave one to fall for eternity. Though he knew the mountain must slope down there somewhere, clouds often obscured the drop. He preferred to think of Urithiru as if it were floating, separated from the rest of the world and the agonies it suffered. Here, at the outermost of the drying lines, Zahel was carefully hanging up a series of brightly colored scarves. Which lighteyes had pressed him into laundering those? They seemed the sort of frivolous neckpieces the more lavish among the elite used to accent their finery. In contrast to the fine silk, Zahel was like the pelt of some freshly killed mink. His breechtree cotton robe was old and worn, his beard untamed—like a patch of grass growing freely in a nook sheltered from the wind—and he wore a rope for a belt. Zahel was everything Kaladin’s instincts told him to avoid. One learned to evaluate soldiers by the way they kept their uniforms. A neatly pressed coat would not win you a battle—but the man who took care to polish his buttons was often also the man who could hold a formation with precision. Soldiers with scraggly beards and ripped clothing tended to be the type who spent their evenings in drink rather than caring for their equipment. During the years of the Sadeas/Dalinar divide in the warcamps, these distinctions had become so stark they’d practically been banners. In the face of that, the way Zahel kept himself seemed deliberate. The swordmaster was among the best duelists Kaladin had ever seen, and possessed a wisdom distinct from any other ardent’s or scholar’s. The only explanation was that Zahel dressed this way on purpose to give a misleading air. Zahel was a masterpiece painting intentionally hung in a splintered frame. Kaladin halted a respectful distance away. Zahel didn’t look at him, but the strange ardent always seemed to know when someone was approaching. He had a surreal awareness of his surroundings. Syl took off toward him, and Kaladin carefully watched Zahel’s reaction. He can see her, Kaladin decided as Zahel carefully hung another scarf. He arranged himself so he could watch Syl from the corner of his eye. Other than Rock and Cord, Kaladin had never met a person who could see invisible spren. Did Zahel have Horneater blood? The ability was rare even among Rock’s kind—though he had said that occasionally a distant Horneater relative was born with it. “Well?” Zahel finally asked. “Why have you come to bother me today, Stormblessed?” “I need some advice.” “Find something strong to drink,” Zahel said. “It can be better than Stormlight. Both will get you killed, but at least alcohol does it slowly.” Kaladin walked up beside Zahel. The fluttering scarves reminded him of a spren in flight. Syl, perhaps recognizing the same, turned to a
similar shape. “I’m being forced into retirement,” Kaladin said softly. “Congratulations,” Zahel said. “Take the pension. Let all this become someone else’s problem.” “I’ve been told I can choose my place moving forward, so long as I’m not on the front lines. I thought…” He looked to Zahel, who smiled, wrinkles forming at the sides of his eyes. Odd, how the man’s skin could seem smooth as a child’s one moment, then furrow like a grandfather’s the next. “You think you belong among us?” Zahel said. “The worn-out soldiers of the world? The men with souls so thin, they shiver in a stiff breeze?” “That’s what I’ve become,” Kaladin said. “I know why most of them left the battlefield, Zahel. But not you. Why did you join the ardents?” “Because I learned that conflict would find men no matter how hard I tried,” he said. “I no longer wanted a part in trying to stop them.” “But you couldn’t give up the sword,” Kaladin said. “Oh, I gave it up. I let go. Best mistake I ever made.” He eyed Kaladin, sizing him up. “You didn’t answer my question. You think you belong among the swordmasters?” “Dalinar offered to let me train new Radiants,” Kaladin said. “I don’t think I could stand that—seeing them fly off to battle without me. But I thought maybe I could train regular soldiers again. That might not hurt as much.” “And you think you belong with us?” “I … Yes.” “Prove it,” Zahel said, snapping a few scarves off the line. “Land a strike on me.” “What? Here? Now?” Zahel carefully wound one of the scarves around his arm. He had no weapons that Kaladin could see, though that ragged tan robe might conceal a knife or two. “Hand-to-hand?” Kaladin asked. “No, use the sword,” Zahel said. “You want to join the swordmasters? Show me how you use one.” “I didn’t say…” Kaladin glanced toward the clothing line, where Syl sat in the shape of a young woman. She shrugged, so Kaladin summoned her as a Blade—long and thin, elegant. Not like the oversized slab of a sword Dalinar had once wielded. “Dull the edge, chull-brain,” Zahel said. “My soul might be worn thin, but I’d prefer it remain in one piece. No powers on your part either. I want to see you fight, not fly.” Kaladin dulled Syl’s Blade with a mental command. The edge fuzzed to mist, then re-formed unsharpened. “Um,” Kaladin said. “How do we start the—” Zahel whipped a sheet off the line and tossed it toward Kaladin. It billowed, fanning outward, and Kaladin stepped forward, using his sword to knock the cloth from the air. Zahel had vanished among the undulating rows of sheets. Carefully, Kaladin entered the rows. The cloths billowed outward in the wind, but then fluttered down, reminiscent of the plants he’d often passed in the chasms. Living things that moved and flowed with the unseen tides of the blowing wind. Zahel emerged from another row, pulling a sheet off and whipping it out. Kaladin grunted, stepping away
as he swiped at the cloth. That was the man’s strategy, Kaladin realized. Keep Kaladin focused on the cloth. Kaladin ignored the sheet and lunged toward Zahel. He was proud of that strike; Adolin’s instruction with the sword seemed almost as natural to him now as his old spear training. The lunge missed, but the form was excellent. Zahel, moving with remarkable spryness, dodged back among the rows of sheets. Kaladin leaped after him, but again managed to lose his quarry. Kaladin turned about, searching the seemingly endless rows of fluttering white sheets. Like dancing flames, pure white. “Why do you fight, Kaladin Stormblessed?” Zahel’s phantom voice called from somewhere nearby. Kaladin spun, sword out. “I fight for Alethkar.” “Ha! You ask me to sponsor you as a swordmaster, then immediately lie to me?” “I didn’t ask…” Kaladin took a deep breath. “I wear Dalinar’s colors proudly.” “You fight for him, not because of him,” Zahel called. “Why do you fight?” Kaladin crept in the direction he thought the sound came from. “I fight to protect my men.” “Closer,” Zahel said. “But your men are now as safe as they could ever be. They can care for themselves. So why do you keep fighting?” “Maybe I don’t think they’re safe,” Kaladin said. “Maybe I…” “… don’t think they can care for themselves?” Zahel asked. “You and old Dalinar. Hens from the same nest.” A face and figure formed in a nearby sheet, puffing toward Kaladin as if someone were walking through on the other side. He struck immediately, driving his sword through the sheet. It ripped—the point was still sharp enough for that—but didn’t strike anyone beyond. Syl momentarily became sharp—changing before he could ask—as he swiped to cut the sheet in two. It writhed in the wind, severed down the center. Zahel came in from Kaladin’s other side, and Kaladin barely turned in time, swinging his Blade. Zahel deflected the strike with his arm, which he’d wrapped with cloth. In his other hand he carried a long scarf that he whipped forward, catching Kaladin’s off hand and wrapping it with shocking tightness, like a coiling whip. Zahel pulled, yanking Kaladin off balance. Kaladin maintained his feet, barely, and lunged with a one-handed strike. Zahel again deflected the strike with his cloth-wrapped arm. That sort of tactic would never have worked against a real Shardblade, but it could be surprisingly effective against ordinary swords. New recruits were often surprised at how well a nice thick cloth could stop a blade. Zahel still had Kaladin’s off hand wrapped in the scarf, which he heaved, spinning Kaladin around. Damnation. Kaladin managed to maneuver his Blade and slice the cloth in half—Syl becoming sharp for a moment—then he leaped backward and tried to regain his footing. Zahel strode calmly to the side, whipping his scarf with a solid crack, then spinning it around like a mace. Kaladin didn’t see any Stormlight coming off the ardent, and he had no reason to believe the man could Surgebind … but the way the cloth had gripped Kaladin’s
arm had been uncanny. Zahel stretched the scarf in his hands—it was longer than Kaladin had expected. “Do you believe in the Almighty, boy?” “Why does that matter?” “You ask why faith is relevant when you’re considering joining the ardents—to become a religious advisor?” “I want to be a teacher of the sword and spear,” Kaladin said. “What does that have to do with the Almighty?” “All right, then. You ask why God is relevant when you’re considering teaching men to kill?” Kaladin inched carefully forward, his Blade held before him. “I don’t know what I believe. Navani still follows the Almighty. She burns glyphwards every morning. Dalinar says that the Almighty is dead, but he also claims there’s another true God somewhere in a place beyond Shadesmar. Jasnah says that a being having vast powers doesn’t make them God, and concludes—from the way the world works—that an omnipotent, loving deity cannot exist.” “I didn’t ask what they believe. I asked what you believe.” “I’m not confident anyone knows the answers. I figure I’ll let the people who care argue about it, and I’ll keep my head down and focus on my life right now.” Zahel nodded to him, as if that answer was acceptable. He waved Kaladin forward. Trying to keep his sword form in mind—he’d trained mostly on Smokestance—Kaladin tested forward. He feinted twice, then lunged. Zahel’s hands became a blur as he pushed the sword to the side with his stretched-out scarf, then twisted his hands around, neatly wrapping the scarf around the sword. That gave him leverage to push the sword farther away as he stepped into Kaladin’s lunge and slid his makeshift wrapping along the length of the Blade, coming in close. Here, he somehow twisted his cloths around to wrap Kaladin’s wrists as well. Kaladin tried a head-butt, but Zahel stepped into the move and raised one side of the scarf—letting Kaladin’s head go underneath it. With a twirl and a twist, Zahel completely tied Kaladin in the scarf. How long was that thing? The exchange left Kaladin with not only his hands tied tightly, but a scarf now holding his arms pinned to his sides, Zahel standing behind him. Kaladin couldn’t see what Zahel did next, but it involved sending a loop of scarf up over Kaladin’s head and around his neck. Zahel pulled tight, choking off Kaladin’s air. I think we’re losing, Syl said. To a guy wielding something he found in Adolin’s sock drawer. Kaladin grunted, but a part of him was excited. Frustrating as Zahel could be, he was an excellent fighter—and he tested Kaladin in ways he’d never seen before. That was the sort of training he needed in order to beat the Fused. As Zahel tried to choke him, Kaladin forced himself to remain calm. He changed Syl into a small dagger. A twist of the wrist cut the scarf, which unraveled the entire trap, leaving Kaladin free to spin and slash with his again-dulled knife. The ardent blocked the knife with his cloth-wrapped arm. He immediately caught Kaladin’s wrist
with his other hand, so Kaladin dismissed Syl and summoned her again with his off hand—swinging to make Zahel dodge back. Zahel snatched a sheet off the fluttering lines, twisting it and wrapping it into a tight length, like a cord. Kaladin rubbed his neck. “I think … I think I have seen this style before. You fight like Azure does.” “She fights like me, boy.” “She’s hunting for you, I think.” “So Adolin has said. The fool woman will have to get through Cultivation’s Perpendicularity first, so I won’t hold my Breaths waiting for her to arrive.” He waved for Kaladin to come at him again. Kaladin slipped a throwing knife from his belt, then fell into a sword-and-knife stance. He waved for Zahel to come at him instead. The swordmaster smiled, then threw his sheet at Kaladin. It puffed out, spreading wide as if going for an embrace. By the time Kaladin had cut it down, Zahel was gone, ducking out into the rippling cloth forest. Kaladin dismissed Syl, then waved toward the ground. She nodded and dived to look under the sheets, searching for Zahel. She pointed in a direction for Kaladin, then dodged between two sheets as a ribbon of light. Kaladin followed carefully. He thought he caught a glimpse of Zahel through the sheets, a shadow across the cloth. “Do you believe?” Kaladin asked as he advanced. “In God, or the Almighty or whatever?” “I don’t have to believe,” the voice drifted back. “I know gods exist. I simply hate them.” Kaladin dodged between a pair of sheets. In that moment, sheets began ripping free of the lines. They sprang for Kaladin, six at once, and he swore he could see the outlines of faces and figures in them. He summoned Syl and—keeping his head—ignored the unnerving sight and found Zahel. Kaladin lunged. Zahel—moving with almost supernatural poise—raised two fingers and pressed them to the moving Blade, turning the point aside exactly enough that it missed. The wind swirled around Kaladin as he stepped into the rippling sheets. They flowed against him—insubstantial—but then entangled his legs. He tripped with a curse, falling to the hard stone. A second later Zahel had Kaladin’s own knife in hand, pressed to his forehead. Kaladin felt the point right among his scars. “You cheated,” Kaladin said. “You’re doing something with those sheets and that cloth.” “I couldn’t cheat,” Zahel said. “This wasn’t about winning or losing, boy. It was for me to see how you fought. I can tell more about a man when the odds are against him.” Zahel stood and dropped the knife with a clang. Kaladin recovered it, sitting up, and glanced at the fallen sheets. They lay on the ground—normal cloths, occasionally shifting in the breeze. In fact, another man might have dismissed their motions as a trick of the wind. But Kaladin knew the wind. That had not been the wind. “You can’t join the ardents,” Zahel said to him, kneeling and touching one of the cloths with his finger, then lifting it and pinning it
onto the drying line. He did the same for the others, each in turn. “Why can’t I?” Kaladin asked. He wasn’t certain Zahel had the authority to forbid him, but he also wasn’t certain he wanted to take this path if Zahel—the one ardent he felt true respect for—was opposed. “Do you make everyone who wants to retire to the ardentia fight you for the privilege?” “It wasn’t a fight about winning or losing,” Zahel said. “You’re not unwelcome because you lost; you’re unwelcome because you don’t belong with us.” He whipped a sheet in the air, then pinned it in place. “You love the fight, Kaladin. Not with the Thrill that Dalinar once felt, or even with the anticipation of a dandy going to a duel. “You love it because it’s part of you. It’s your mistress, your passion, your lifeblood. You’d find the daily training unsatisfying. You’d thirst for something more. You’d eventually turn and leave, and that would put you in a worse position than if you’d never started.” He tossed his scarf at Kaladin’s feet. Though it must have been a different scarf, for the one he’d started with had been bright red, and this one was dull grey. “Return when you hate the fight,” Zahel said. “Truly hate it.” He walked off between the sheets. Kaladin picked up the fallen scarf, then glanced at Syl, who descended through the air near him on an invisible set of steps. She shrugged. Kaladin gripped the cloth, then strode around the sheets. The swordmaster had moved to sit at the rim of the plateau, legs over the edge, staring out across the nearby mountain range. Kaladin dropped the scarf on a pile of others—each of which was now grey. “What are you?” Kaladin asked. “Are you like Wit?” There had always been something about Zahel, something too knowing. Something distinct, set apart, different from the others. “No,” Zahel said. “I don’t think there’s anyone else quite like Hoid. I knew him by the name Dust when I was younger. I think he must have a thousand different names among a thousand different peoples.” “And you?” Kaladin settled down on the stone beside Zahel. “How many names do you have?” “A few,” Zahel said. “More than I normally share.” He leaned forward, elbows on thighs. Wind blew at the hem of his robe, dangling over a drop of thousands of feet. “You want to know what I am? Well, I’m a lot of things. Tired, mostly. But I’m also a Type Two Invested entity. Used to call myself a Type One, but I had to throw the whole scale out, once I learned more. That’s the trouble with science. It’s never done. Always upending itself. Ruining perfect systems for the little inconvenience of them being wrong.” “I…” Kaladin swallowed. “I don’t know what any of that meant, but thanks for replying. Wit never gives me answers. At least not straight ones.” “That’s because Wit is an asshole,” Zahel said. He fished in his robe’s pocket and pulled something out—a small stone
in the shape of a curling shell. “Ever seen one of these?” “Soulcast?” Kaladin asked, taking the small shell. It was surprisingly heavy. He turned it around, admiring the way it curled. “Similar. That’s a creature that died long, long ago. It settled into the mud, and slowly—over thousands upon thousands of years—minerals infused its body, replacing it axon by axon with stone. Eventually the entire thing was transformed.” “So … natural Soulcasting. Over time.” “A long time. A mind-numbingly long time. The place I come from, it didn’t have any of these. It’s too new. Your world might have some hidden deep, but I doubt it. That stone you hold is old. Older than Wit, or your Heralds, or the gods themselves.” Kaladin held it up, then—out of habit—used a few drops of water from his canteen to reveal its hidden colors and shades. “My soul,” Zahel said, “is like that fossil. Every part of my soul has been replaced with something new, though it happened in a flash for me. The soul I have now resembles the one I was born with, but it’s something else entirely.” “I don’t understand.” “I’m not surprised.” Zahel thought for a moment. “Imagine it this way. You know how you can make an imprint in crem, then let it dry, and fill the imprint with wax to create a copy of your original object? Well, that happened to my soul. When I died, I was drenched in power. So when my soul escaped, it left a duplicate. A kind of … fossil of a soul.” Kaladin hesitated. “You … died?” Zahel nodded. “Happened to your friend too. Up in the prison? The one with … that sword.” “Szeth. Not my friend.” “The Heralds too,” Zahel said. “When they died, they left an imprint behind. Power that remembered being them. You see, the power wants to be alive.” He gestured with his chin toward Syl, flying down beneath them as a ribbon of light. “She’s what I now call a Type One Invested entity. I decided that had to be the proper way to refer to them. Power that came alive on its own.” “You can see her!” Kaladin said. “See? No. Sense?” Zahel shrugged. “Cut off a bit of divinity and leave it alone. Eventually it comes alive. And if you let a man die with too Invested a soul—or Invest him right as he’s dying—he’ll leave behind a shadow you can nail back onto a body. His own, if you’re feeling charitable. Once done, you have this.” Zahel waved to himself. “Type Two Invested entity. Dead man walking.” What a … strange conversation. Kaladin frowned, trying to figure out why Zahel was telling him this. I suppose I did ask. So … Wait. Maybe there was another reason. “The Fused?” Kaladin asked. “That’s what they are?” “Yeah,” he said. “Most of us stop aging when it happens, gaining a kind of immortality.” “Is there a … way to kill something like you? Permanently?” “Lots of ways. For the weaker ones, just kill the
body again, make sure no one Invests the soul with more strength, and they’ll slip away in a few minutes. For stronger ones … well, you might be able to starve them. A lot of Type Twos feed on power. Keeps them going. “These enemies of yours though, I think they’re too strong for that. They’ve lasted thousands of years already, and seem Connected to Odium to feed directly on his power. You’ll have to find a way to disrupt their souls. You can’t just rip them apart; you need a weapon so strong, it unravels the soul.” He squinted, looking off into the distance. “I know through sorry experience those kinds of weapons are very dangerous to make, and never seem to work right.” “There’s another way,” Kaladin said. “We could convince the Fused to stop fighting. Instead of killing them, we could find a way to live with them.” “Grand ideals,” Zahel said. “Optimism. Yeah, you’d make a terrible swordmaster. Be wary of those Fused, kid. The longer one of us exists, the more like a spren we become. Consumed by a singular purpose, our minds bound and chained by our Intent. We’re spren masquerading as men. That’s why she takes our memories. She knows we aren’t the actual people who died, but something else given a corpse to inhabit.…” “She?” Kaladin asked. Zahel didn’t respond, though when Kaladin handed back the stone shell, Zahel took it. As Kaladin hiked off, the swordmaster cradled it to his chest, staring out toward the endless horizon. My final point of the evening is a discussion of Fused weapons. The Fused use a variety of fabrial devices to fight Radiants. It is obvious from how quickly they’ve fabricated and employed these countermeasures that they have used these in the past. —Lecture on fabrial mechanics presented by Navani Kholin to the coalition of monarchs, Urithiru, Jesevan, 1175 Navani held up the dark sphere, closing one eye to inspect it closely. It was different from Voidlight. She held up a Voidlight sphere for comparison, a diamond infused with the strange Light gathered during the Everstorm. They still didn’t know how the enemy infused spheres with Voidlight; all they owned were stolen from the singers. Fortunately, Voidlight leaked far more slowly than Stormlight did. She probably had a few more days before this one went dun. The Voidlight sphere had a strange glow to it. A distinctive purple-on-black, which Rushu described as a hyperviolet—a color she claimed existed in theory, though Navani didn’t know how a color could be theoretical. Regardless, this was a purple-on-black, coexisting in such a way that both shades simultaneously occupied the same space. The strange sphere that Szeth had provided seemed exactly the same at first glance. Purple upon black, an impossible color. Like the ordinary Voidlight sphere, its blackness expanded, making the surrounding air dim. But there was an added effect with this sphere, one she hadn’t noticed right away. It warped the air around it. Looking at the sphere for too long was a distinctively disorienting sensation. It evoked
a wrongness that she couldn’t define. Gavilar had possessed Voidlight spheres—she remembered seeing them—and that fact was befuddling enough. How had her husband obtained Voidlight years before the arrival of the Everstorm? But this other black sphere. What on Roshar was it? “Assassin,” Navani said. “Look at me.” Szeth, the Assassin in White, looked up from within his cell. Sixteen days had passed since Navani and Dalinar had returned from testing the Fourth Bridge in battle. Sixteen days spent catching up on mundane work in the tower, like overseeing planned expansions of the market and dealing with sanitation problems. Only now did she have a large chunk of time to dedicate to Voidlight and the nature of the tower. The strange individual who had contacted her via spanreed had not spoken to her again. Navani had decided not to worry about them—she didn’t even know if they were sane. She had plenty else to worry about, such as the man sitting in the prison cell in front of her. Szeth cradled his strange Shardblade in his lap, the one that leaked black smoke when unsheathed. When challenged about letting the prisoner remain armed, Dalinar had replied, “I believe the safest place to keep the thing is in his possession.” Navani questioned that wisdom. In her opinion, they should sink the strange Blade in the ocean, like they’d done with the gemstone that contained the Thrill. Szeth did not seem stable enough to be trusted with a Shard, particularly not one so dangerous as this. In fact, she wished the assassin had been executed as he deserved. Dalinar disagreed, and so they’d decided together to leave Szeth alive. Today, the Shin man sat on the floor of his stone cell, eyes closed, wearing white clothing by his own request. He had been given what few amenities he asked for. A razor for shaving, a single blanket, a chance to bathe each day. And light. A great deal of light. Dozens of spheres to illuminate his small stone cell and banish all traces of shadow. They’d fitted the front of the room with bars, though those wouldn’t keep the assassin contained should he decide to escape. That Shardblade could reduce objects to smoke simply by nicking them. “Tell me again,” Navani said to him, “of the night you killed my husband.” “I was instructed by the Parshendi to execute him,” Szeth said softly. “Were you curious why they’d kill a man on the very night they were signing a peace treaty with him?” “I thought I was Truthless,” Szeth said. “That status required that I do as my master commanded. Without question.” His voice bore only the faintest hint of an accent. “Your master is now Dalinar.” “Yes. I have … found a better way. Throughout my Truthless existence, I followed the way of the Oathstone. I would obey anyone who held that stone. Now, I have realized I was never Truthless. I have sworn to an Ideal instead: the Blackthorn. Whatever he wishes, I will make reality.” “What if Dalinar dies?” “I …
will seek another Ideal, I suppose. I had not considered it.” “How could you not think of that?” “I simply did not.” Storms, this is dangerous, Navani thought. Dalinar could speak of redemption and mending broken spirits, but this creature was a fire burning unchecked, ready to escape the hearth and consume any fuel it could find. Szeth had murdered kings and highprinces—over a dozen rulers all across Roshar. Yes, much of that blame fell on Taravangian, but Szeth was the tool employed to cause such destruction. “You didn’t finish your story,” Navani said. “The night you killed Gavilar. Tell me again what happened. The part with this sphere.” “We fell,” Szeth whispered, opening his eyes. “Gavilar was injured by the impact, his body fatally broken. In that moment he treated me not as an enemy, but as the last living man he would ever see. He made a request. A holy request, the last words of the dying. “He spoke a few names, which I do not remember, asking if those men had sent me. When I assured him they had not, he was relieved. I think he feared the sphere falling into their hands, so he gave it to me. He trusted his own murderer more than those who surrounded him.” Including me, Navani thought. Storms, she’d assumed she was over her anger and frustration with Gavilar, but there it was, twisting around itself in the pit of her stomach, causing angerspren to rise beneath her feet. “He told me a message to give his brother,” Szeth continued, his eyes flickering toward the pooling angerspren. “I wrote the words, as it was the best I could do to fulfill that dying request. I took the sphere and hid it. Until you asked me if I’d found anything on his body, whereupon I recovered it.” This he’d done only a month ago because Navani had thought to ask the question. Otherwise he would simply have gone on without saying a word of this sphere—as if his mind were too childlike or stressed to realize he should speak up. Navani shivered. She was in favor of comforting the sick of mind—once they were carefully contained, and things like evil talking Shardblades were removed from their possession. She had a list of facts she’d collected from him about that Blade, and she thought maybe it was an Honorblade that had been corrupted somehow. It had been given to Szeth by one of the Heralds, after all. She found it difficult to study, however, because being around Szeth made her feel sick. At least the sword’s spren had stopped speaking into the minds of those who passed by the prison. It had taken three demands from Dalinar to get Szeth to finally restrain the thing. “You’re certain this is the exact sphere he gave you,” Navani said. “It is.” “And he said nothing about it to you?” “I have answered this question.” “And you will answer it again. Until I’m certain you haven’t ‘forgotten’ any more details.” Szeth sighed softly. “He did not speak
of the sphere. He was dying; he could barely force out his last words. I am not certain they are prophetic, as the voices of the dying sometimes are in my land. I followed them anyway.” She turned to go. She had more questions, but she had to budget her time with the assassin. Each moment near him made her feel physically ill; even now her stomach was beginning to churn, and she feared losing her breakfast. “Do you hate me?” Szeth asked from behind, calm, almost emotionless. Too calm, too emotionless for words spoken to a widow at his hand. “Yes,” Navani said. “Good,” Szeth said, the word echoing in the small chamber. “Good. Thank you.” Shivering and nauseous, Navani fled his presence. * * * Less than an hour later, she stepped out onto the Cloudwalk, a garden balcony set at the base of the eighth tier of the tower. Urithiru was nearly two hundred floors tall, ten tiers of eighteen floors each—and so the eighth tier was near the top, at a dizzying height. Most of the tower was built up against the mountains, with chunks of the structure embedded fully into the stone. It was only here, near the top, that the tower fully peeked up above the surrounding stone. The Cloudwalk rounded almost the entire perimeter of the tier, an open stone pathway with a sure railing on one side. It sported some of the best views Urithiru had to offer. Navani had often come here during their early months in the tower, but news of the spectacular views had spread. When once she’d been able to walk the entire Cloudwalk without encountering another soul, today she was met by the sight of tens of people strolling up here. She forced herself to see it as a victory, not an encroachment. Part of their vision for this tower was a city where the different peoples of Roshar intermixed. With the Oathgates providing direct access to cities around the continent, Urithiru could grow to be cosmopolitan in ways that Kholinar could never have dreamed. As she walked, she saw not only the uniforms of seven different princedoms, but people wearing the patterns of three different Makabaki local governments. Thaylen merchants, Emuli soldiers, and Natan tradesmen were represented. There were even a few Aimians, remnants of the humans who had escaped Aimia, the men with their beards bound in cords. Most of the world was embroiled in war, but Urithiru stood apart. A place of calm serenity above the storms. Soldiers came here when rotated off active duty. Tradesmen brought their wares, enduring wartime tariffs to avoid the cost of trying to deliver goods across battle lines. Scholars came to let their minds spark against those working to solve the problems of a new era. Urithiru was truly something great. She wished Elhokar had lived to see how wonderful it was becoming. Best she could do was see that his son grew up to appreciate it. So, Navani opened her arms as she reached the meeting point. The nursemaid
set Gavinor down, and he rushed over, jumping into Navani’s embrace. She hung to him tightly, appreciating the progress they’d made. When Gavinor had finally been recovered, he’d been so frightened and timid he had cringed when Navani tried to hug him. That trauma, now a year past, was finally fading from the boy. He was often solemn—too solemn for a boy of five—but at least with her, he’d learned to laugh again. “Gram!” he said. “Gram, I rode a horse!” “All on your own?” she asked, lifting him. “Adolin helped me!” he said. “But it was a big horse, and I wasn’t scared, even when it started walking! Look! Look!” He pointed, and she lifted him up as they peered toward the fields far below. It was too far to make out details, but that didn’t stop little Gav from explaining to her—at length—the different colors of horses he’d seen. She gave him an encouraging smile. His excitement was not only infectious, it was relieving. During his first few months in the tower, he’d hardly spoken. Now, his willingness to do more than barely go near the horses—which fascinated him, but also terrified him—was a huge improvement. She held Gav, warm despite the chill air, as he talked. The child was still far too small for his age, and the doctors weren’t certain if something strange had been done to him during his time in Kholinar. Navani was furious at Aesudan for all that had happened there—but equally furious at herself. How much was Navani to blame for leaving the woman alone to invite in one of the Unmade? You couldn’t have known, Navani told herself. You can’t be to blame for everything. She’d tried to overcome those feelings—and the equally irrational ones that whispered she shared blame for Elhokar’s death. If she’d stopped him from going on that fool’s mission … No. No, she would hold Gav, she would hurt, but she would move forward. She pointedly thought on her wonderful moments holding Elhokar as a little boy, not fixating on the idea of that little boy dying to a traitor’s spear. “Gram?” Gav asked as they looked out over the mountains. “I want Grampa to teach me the sword.” “Oh, I’m certain he can get to that eventually,” Navani said, then pointed. “See that cloud! It’s so huge!” “Other boys my age learn the sword,” Gav said, his voice growing softer. “Don’t they?” They did. In Alethkar, families—particularly lighteyed ones—would go to war together. The Azish thought it unnatural, but to the Alethi it was the way of things. Children as young as ten would learn to serve as officers’ aides, and boys would often be given a training sword as soon as they could walk. “You don’t need to worry about that,” Navani said to him. “If I have a sword,” Gav said, “nobody will be able to hurt me. I’ll be able to find the man who killed my father. And I could kill him.” Navani felt a chill unrelated to the cold air. On one hand,
it was a very Alethi thing to say. It broke her heart regardless. She hugged Gav tight. “Don’t worry about it.” “Will you talk to Grampa, please?” She sighed. “I’ll ask him.” Gav nodded, smiling. Her time with him was short, unfortunately. She had a meeting with Dalinar and Jasnah in under an hour, and she needed to check with some scientists up here on the Cloudwalk first. So, she eventually turned Gav back over to the nursemaid. Then she wiped her eyes, feeling silly at crying over something so trivial, and hurried on her way. It was just that … Elhokar had been learning so much. During these last years, she’d seen him growing into something great—a better man than Gavilar, worthy of the kingship. A mother should never have to grieve for her children. Should never have to think of her poor little boy, lying alone and dead on the floor of an abandoned palace … She forced herself forward, nodding to those soldiers who chose to bow or—oddly—salute her, hands to shoulders with the knuckles out. Soldiers these days. She supposed with some of their commanders learning to read and some of their sisters joining the Radiants, life could get confusing. She eventually reached the research station set up at the far end of the Cloudwalk. The head scientist in charge of atmospheric measurements was an ardent with a particularly long neck. With his bald head and the sagging skin under his chin, Brother Benneh resembled nothing so much as an eel who had put on robes and grown a pair of arms through sheer determination. But he was a happy fellow, and he spryly bounced over to her with his notebooks. “Brightness!” he said, pointedly ignoring Elthebar the stormwarden, who was taking his own measurements from the nearby instruments. “Look here, look here!” Benneh pointed out the historical barometer readings he’d recorded in his notebook. “Here, here,” he said, tapping the barometer—which was set up on a scientific table with thermometers, some plants, a sundial, and a small astrolabe. That was in addition to the various astrological nonsenses the stormwardens had erected. “It rises,” Benneh said, almost breathless, “ahead of a storm.” “Wait. The barometer rises ahead of a storm?” “Yes.” “That’s … backward, isn’t it?” “Yes indeed, indeed. And see, the temperature readings before a storm rise slightly too. You wondered how much colder it was up here on the Cloudwalk than it was below near the fields. Brightness, it’s warmer.” She frowned, then glanced toward the promenading people. No sign of their breath in front of their faces. It felt colder up here—she herself had noted that—but could that be because she expected it to be? Besides, she always left the interior of the tower to come out; it was impossible not to compare it to the warmth inside instead of the temperature below. “How cold is it right now?” she asked. “Down below?” “I asked via spanreed. Measurements are conclusive. At least five degrees colder on the plateau.” Five degrees? Storms. “Heat in front of
a storm and a rise in pressure,” Navani said. “It defies our understanding, but has anyone done readings like this from such an elevation? Perhaps what is natural near sea level is inverted up here.” “Yes, yes,” the ardent said. “I could perhaps see that, but look at these books. They contradict such a theory. Measurements taken from various Horneater trading expeditions … Let me find them…” He started digging through papers, though she didn’t need them. She had a suspicion of what was happening. Why would pressure and temperature rise before a storm? Because the structure was bracing itself. The tower could adapt to the storms. More proof; the data was growing as mountainous as these peaks. The tower could regulate temperature, pressure, humidity. If Urithiru could be made fully functional, life up here would improve dramatically. But how to fix it, when the spren that had lived here was supposedly dead? She was so absorbed by the problem, she nearly missed the bowing. Her subconscious initially assumed the bows were for her, but too many people were involved. And they were going too low. She turned to find Dalinar passing by, Taravangian at his side. People backed out of the way before the two kings, and Navani felt like a fool. She’d known they were meeting this afternoon, and this was one of their favorite places to promenade. Others found it encouraging to see the two kings together, but Navani did not miss the gap between them. She knew things others did not. For instance, Dalinar no longer met his former friend beside the hearth to chat for hours. And Taravangian no longer attended private meetings of Dalinar’s inner circle. They hadn’t been able—nor were they yet willing—to excise Taravangian from the coalition of monarchs. His crimes, though terrible, were no more bloody than Dalinar’s own. The fact that Taravangian had sent Szeth against the Azish emperors had certainly strained relations and increased tensions within the coalition. But for now, they all agreed that the servants of Odium were a far more pressing enemy. Taravangian, however, would never again be a man to trust. At least Dalinar’s terrible actions had been part of an official act of war. Though … she had to admit some moral high ground had been lost upon the early circulations of Dalinar’s memoir. The Kholin troops—once so proud, they’d bordered on imperious—walked with slightly slumped shoulders, their heads no longer held quite as high. Everyone had known about the atrocities of the Kholin unification war. They’d heard of the Blackthorn’s fearsome reputation, and of cities burned and pillaged. So long as Dalinar had been willing to pretend his actions had been noble, the kingdom could pretend along with him. Now the Alethi had to face the truth long tucked away behind justifications and political spin. No army, no matter how clean its reputation, walked away from war untainted. And no leader, no matter how noble, could help but sink into the crem when he stepped into the game of conquest. She spent a little longer
going over readings with Benneh, then checked on the royal astronomers, who were erecting a new set of telescopes made with the highest-quality lenses out of Thaylenah. They were certain they’d be able to get some spectacular views from up here once the telescopes were calibrated. Navani asked the women a few questions as they worked, but left when she felt she was becoming a bother. A true patron of the sciences knew when she was hindering instead of helping. As she turned to leave, however, Navani paused—then dug Szeth’s strange Voidlight sphere from her pocket. “Talnah?” she asked one of the engineers. “You were a jeweler, weren’t you? Before taking up lens work?” “Still am, some seasons,” the short woman replied. “I put in a few hours at the mint last week, checking sphere weights.” “What do you think of this?” Navani said, holding up the sphere. Talnah tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and took the sphere, holding it up in a gloved hand. “What is this? Voidlight?” She searched in her jacket pocket and pulled out a jeweler’s loupe, then pressed it to her eye. “We’re not sure,” Navani said. “Stormfather,” the woman said. “That’s a nice diamond. Hey, Nem! Have a look.” Another of the engineers came over and accepted the sphere and loupe, whistling softly. “I have a higher magnification in my bag over there,” she said, waving, and an assistant engineer helpfully fetched a larger magnifying device, one you could look through with both eyes. “What is it?” Navani asked. “What do you see?” “Practically flawless,” Nem said, clamping the sphere in some small grips. “This wasn’t grown as a gemheart, I can tell you that. The structure would never align so perfectly. This sphere is worth thousands, Brightness. It will probably hold Stormlight for months without leaking any out. Maybe years. Longer, for Voidlight.” “It was left in a cave for over six years,” Navani said. “And was glowing—or whatever you call that blackness—the same when it was retrieved.” “Quite strange indeed,” Talnah said. “What an odd sphere, Brightness. That must be Voidlight, but it feels wrong. I mean, it’s black-violet like others I’ve seen, but…” “The air warps around it,” Navani said. “Yeah!” Talnah said. “That’s it. How strange. Can we keep it to study it?” Navani hesitated. She’d planned to do her own tests on the sphere, but she had to see to the needs of the tower and work on new iterations of her flying machine. To be honest, she’d been planning to run tests on this sphere ever since she’d received it—but there was never enough time. “Yes, please do,” Navani said. “Run some standard Stormlight measuring tests for luminosity and the like, then see if you can move the Light to other gemstones. If you can, try to use it to power various fabrials.” “Voidlight doesn’t work on fabrials,” Nem said, frowning. “But you’re right—maybe this isn’t Voidlight. It certainly does look strange.…” Navani made them promise to keep the sphere hidden and to reveal the results of
their tests only to her. She gave them leave to requisition several real Voidlight spheres, captured in battle, to use in comparisons. Then she left the strange sphere with them, feeling agitated. Not because she didn’t trust the two—they dealt with extremely expensive and delicate equipment, and had proven reliable. But the piece of Navani hoping to study this sphere herself was disappointed. Unfortunately, this was work for scholars. Not her. She left it in their capable hands, and moved on. She was therefore the first to arrive in the small windowless chamber near the top of the tower where Jasnah and Dalinar held their private meetings. These top floors were small enough to control entirely, with guard posts to regulate access. Too often down below, rooms and hallways felt oppressive. As if something was watching. Openings in walls—running as air ducts through the rooms—often led in bizarre patterns barely mapped by the children they’d sent to crawl through them. You could never be completely certain that someone wasn’t listening at an opening nearby, eavesdropping on private conversations. Up here though, the floors often had a dozen or fewer rooms—all carefully mapped and tested for acoustics. Most had windows, which made them feel inviting. She felt lighter even in a windowless stone chamber like this one, so long as her mind knew open sky was right beyond the wall. As she waited, Navani puttered in her notebooks, theorizing about Gavilar’s dark sphere. She flipped to a testimonial she’d transcribed from Rlain, the listener member of Bridge Four. He swore that Gavilar had given his general, Eshonai, a Voidlight sphere years before the coming of the Everstorm. When Navani showed him this second sphere, his reaction had been curious. I don’t know what that is, Brightness, he’d said. But it feels painful. Voidlight is dangerously inviting, like if I touched it, my body would drink it in eagerly. That thing … is different. It has a song I’ve never heard, and it vibrates wrong against my soul. She flipped to another page and wrote some thoughts. What would happen if they tried to grow plants by the dark light of this sphere? Dared she let a Radiant try to suck out its strange energy? She was writing along these lines when Adolin and Shallan arrived with the Mink. They’d periodically been entertaining him these last few weeks, showing him around the tower, dividing out space for his troops once they arrived with the Fourth Bridge in the next few days. The short Herdazian didn’t wear a uniform, merely some common trousers and a buttoned shirt cut after simple Herdazian styles, with suspenders and a loose coat. How odd. Didn’t he know he wasn’t a refugee any longer? “… think you could teach me?” Shallan was saying. Red hair and no hat. “I really want to know how you got out of those cuffs.” “There’s an art to it,” the general said. “It’s more than practice; it’s about instinct. Each set of confines is a puzzle to be solved, and your reward? Going where
you shouldn’t. Being what you shouldn’t. Brightness, it is not a particularly seemly hobby for a well-connected young woman.” “Trust me,” she said, “I am anything but well-connected. I keep finding pieces of myself lying around, forgotten.…” She led the Mink over to the other door to point out the guard post beyond. Adolin gave Navani a hug, then took the seat next to her. “She’s fascinated by him,” he whispered to Navani. “I should have guessed she would be.” “What’s that clothing he’s wearing?” Navani whispered. “I know, I know.” Adolin grimaced. “I offered him my tailors, said we’d get him a Herdazian uniform. He said, ‘There is no Herdaz anymore. Besides, a man in uniform can’t go the places I like to go.’ I don’t know what to make of him.” Across the small room, the Mink glanced at one of the stone air vents, nodding as Shallan explained the room’s security. “He’s plotting how to sneak away,” Adolin said with a sigh, putting his feet up on the table. “He lost us five times today. I can’t decide if he’s paranoid, crazy, or merely has a cruel sense of humor.” He leaned toward Navani. “I suspect it wouldn’t have been that bad if Shallan hadn’t been so impressed the first time. He does like to show off.” Navani eyed Adolin’s new gold-trimmed boots. They were the third pair she’d seen him wearing this week. Dalinar arrived, depositing two bodyguards outside the front door. He kept trying to get Navani to accept some guards of her own, and she always agreed—when she had equipment she needed carried. And honestly, Dalinar couldn’t complain. How often had he ditched his own guards? The room had been set up with a few chairs and only one small table, the one Adolin had his boots on. That boy. He never leaned back in his chair or put his feet up when he was wearing ordinary shoes. Dalinar passed by, rapping the boots with his knuckles. “Decorum,” he said. “Discipline. Dedication.” “Detail, duel, dessert…” Adolin glanced at his father. “Oh, sorry. I thought we were saying random words that start with the same sound.” Dalinar glowered at Shallan. “What?” she said. “He was never like this before you arrived,” Dalinar said. “Stormfather help us,” Shallan said lightly, sitting beside her husband and laying a protective hand upon his knee. “A Kholin has learned to relax once in a while? Surely the moons will stop orbiting and the sun will come crashing down.” Neither Shallan nor Dalinar would admit to squabbling over Adolin—indeed, Navani suspected Dalinar would insist he approved of the marriage. But he’d also never needed to give up one of his children to the influence of an outsider. Navani felt Dalinar blamed Shallan too much for the changes in the boy. Shallan wasn’t pushing him to be something he was not; more, he finally felt free enough to explore an identity that wasn’t tied to being the Blackthorn’s son. Adolin was highprince now. He should have the opportunity to define what that meant
for him. For his part, Adolin just laughed. “Shallan, you’re really complaining that someone is too intense? You? Even your jokes sometimes feel like a competition.” She glanced to him, then—instead of being provoked—seemed to relax. Adolin had that effect on people. “Of course they are,” she said. “My life is a constant struggle against boredom. If I relax my guard, you’ll find me knitting or something dreadful like that.” The Mink watched the exchange with a smile. “Ah … reminds me of my own son and his wife.” “I should hope,” Dalinar said, “they are a little less frivolous.” “They’re dead, in the war,” the Mink said softly. “I’m sorry,” Dalinar said. “The Everstorm and Odium have cost us all much.” “Not that war, Blackthorn.” The Mink gave him a look laden with implication. Then he turned toward Navani. “The highprince mentioned maps for me to inspect? He said they’d be waiting, but I don’t see any in here, nor a table of proper size to roll them out upon. Should we fetch them? I’m very curious to see your troop layouts against the Voidbringers.” “We don’t use the term ‘Voidbringers’ anymore,” Dalinar said. “It has proven to be … imprecise. We call our enemies the singers. As for the map, it’s right here.” He looked to Shallan, who nodded, taking in a breath of Stormlight from the spheres in her satchel. Navani hurried to prepare her notebook. Together, Shallan and Dalinar summoned the map. The simplest Fused weapon against us isn’t truly a fabrial, but instead a metal that is extremely light and can withstand the blows of a Shardblade. This metal resists being Soulcast as well; it interferes with a great number of Radiant powers. Fortunately, the Fused seem unable to create it in great quantities—for they equip only themselves, and not their average soldiers, with these wonders. —Lecture on fabrial mechanics presented by Navani Kholin to the coalition of monarchs, Urithiru, Jesevan, 1175 Navani had seen Shallan and Dalinar summon the map dozens of times, but—as with Dalinar’s ability to recharge spheres—she felt there was more to be learned by careful examination. First Shallan breathed out, and her Stormlight expanded outward in a disc. Dalinar breathed out his own Light, which melded with Shallan’s, spiraling across the surface like a whirlpool. The two planes of luminescent smoke spun outward, flat and round, filling the room at about waist height. Somehow Shallan’s Lightweaving mixed with Dalinar’s Connection to the land to create this magnificent representation of Roshar. The Stormfather implied that Dalinar—as a Bondsmith—could do similar marvels with other orders, but so far their experiments had been fruitless. The map’s sudden appearance caused the Mink to scramble away. He was at the door in a fraction of a second, standing with it cracked, ready to flee. He was a paranoid type, wasn’t he? Navani focused on the map, her pen poised. Could she sense anything? Perhaps Shadesmar? No … something else. The sensation of flight, soaring above a tempestuous ocean, free. Dreamlike. The Light seemed to become solid, snapping
into the shape of a map of the continent as if seen from high above. Fully rendered in color, it showed mountains and valleys in exacting topographical detail, all to scale. The Mink’s eyes went wide, and awespren burst above him like a ring of smoke. Navani understood that emotion. Watching the Radiants work was like experiencing the intensity of the sun or the majesty of a mountain. Yes, it was becoming commonplace to her, but she doubted it would ever become common. The Mink shut the door with a click, then stepped over to reach a hand into the illusion. A small portion of it wavered and swirled into misty Stormlight. He cocked his head, then walked into the center of the map, which distorted around him, then snapped back into focus after he stilled. “By Kalak’s mighty breath,” the Mink said, leaning over to inspect a miniature mountain. “This is incredible.” “The combined powers of a Lightweaver and a Bondsmith,” Dalinar said. “It is not a picture of the world as it exists at this moment, unfortunately. We update the map every few days when the highstorm blows through. This limits our ability to count enemy troop numbers, since they tend to move inside for the storm.” “The map gets that detailed?” the Mink asked. “You can see individuals?” Dalinar waved, and a portion of the map expanded. The far perimeters vanished as this specific section became more and more detailed, focusing in on Azimir. The Azish capital expanded from a dot to a full-sized city, then stopped at its best magnification: a scale where buildings were the size of spheres and people were specks. Dalinar zoomed the map back out to full size and glanced to Shallan. She nodded, and numbers began to hover in the air above portions of the map—swirling and made from Stormlight, marked by glyphs that men could read. “These are our best estimates of troop numbers,” Dalinar said. “Singer counts in gold, our troop counts—which of course are more accurate—in the color of the appropriate army. Divided by glyph, you’ll find foot soldiers, heavy infantry, archers, and what few cavalry we can likely field in each area.” The Mink walked through the map and Navani tracked him with her eyes, more interested in him than the numbers. The Mink took his time, inspecting each region of Roshar and its troop concentrations. As he was thus surveying, the door opened. Navani’s daughter—Her Majesty Queen Jasnah Kholin of Alethkar—had arrived. She had four guards; Jasnah never went about alone, though she was more capable with her powers than any other Radiant. She deposited the guards outside the door and entered with only one man shadowing her: the Queen’s Wit, tall and lanky, with jet-black hair and an angular face. It was the same Wit who had served Elhokar, so Navani had known this man for a few years. Yet he was … different now. Navani often noted him and Jasnah whispering in conspiratorial tones during meetings. He treated Navani—and, well, everyone—as if he knew them intimately.
There was a mystery about this Wit that Navani had never noticed during Elhokar’s reign. Perhaps he molded himself to the monarch he served. He stayed in step right behind Jasnah, silvery-sheathed sword on his hip, his lips drawn ever so slightly to a smile. The type that made you think he must be considering a joke about you that no one had the decency to say to your face. “I see we have our map,” Jasnah said. “And our new general.” “Indeed,” said the Mink, who was reading the troop numbers over Azir. “Thoughts?” Jasnah asked, ever practical. The Mink continued his inspection. Navani tried to guess what conclusions he’d draw. The war was happening on two main fronts. In Makabak—the region encompassing Azir and the many small kingdoms surrounding it—coalition forces continued to battle the singers over a specific region, the kingdom of Emul. The drawn-out conflicts were only the newest in a series of wars that had left the kingdom—once proud—war-torn and broken. So far, neither side had an advantage. Azish armies, with the help of Alethi strategists, had recaptured some ground in northern Emul. However, they didn’t dare advance too far, as the wildcard of the region might come into play if they reached the south. Nestled behind Odium’s forces was the army of Tezim, the god-priest. A man they now knew was Ishar, the ancient Herald gone mad. Tezim had been quiet lately, unfortunately. Dalinar had hoped he would rage against the rear lines of the singers, forcing them to fight pressed between two armies. As it stood, the brutal fighting in Emul continued at a standstill. The coalition could easily resupply its lines through the Oathgate to the north and Thaylen shipping to the south. The enemy had vast numbers of former parshmen and access to larger numbers of irregulars—Fused, in this case. The Mink took in the details of this battlefront, studying the shipping and navy numbers with interest. “You control the entire Southern Depths?” he asked. “The enemy has a navy, stolen from Thaylenah,” Jasnah said. “We have only the ships that we’ve managed to build since then, and the ones that escaped that fate. So our continued dominance is not assured. But following a singular victory by Fen’s navy four months ago, the enemy retreated their ships into Iriali waters to the far northwest. Currently, they seem content to control the northern seas while we control the south.” The Mink nodded and moved to the east, inspecting the second of the war’s two battlefronts: the line between Alethkar and Jah Keved. Here, Navani’s captured homeland made a secure staging base for the enemy, who fought the coalition forces led by Taravangian and Dalinar. Fighting on this front had mostly been skirmishes along the border. The Fused had so far refused to be caught in any traditional large-scale battles—and much of the border between Alethkar and Jah Keved was difficult terrain, making it easy for roving bands on both sides to raid and then vanish. Dalinar felt that the coalition would soon need to
make a large offensive. Navani agreed. The protracted nature of this war gave the advantage to the enemy. The coalition’s Radiant numbers were increasing slowly now, particularly with the honorspren withholding their support. However, the enemy singers—once untrained—were growing into better troops by the day, and more and more Fused were appearing. Dalinar wanted to push into Alethkar and seize the capital. The Mink trailed through the illusory mountains along the Alethi border. So far, other than raids, Dalinar had focused on seizing control of the southwestern corner of Alethkar—the part that touched the Tarat Sea—to reinforce the coalition’s naval superiority in the south. The close proximity of Jah Keved—and the Oathgate in Vedenar—allowed them to field troops here with quick resupply. It was the sole part of Alethkar they’d reclaimed so far. And it was a long, long way from the capital of Kholinar. Something had to be done. Each day their homeland remained in the enemy’s hands was another day for the people there to be beaten down, controlled. Another day for the enemy to further entrench, feeding its armies on the sweat of Alethi farmers. It was a deep, unyielding kind of pain, thinking of Alethkar and knowing they were essentially a people in exile here in Urithiru. They’d lost their nation, and Dalinar—she knew—blamed himself. He thought if he’d been able to quash the squabbling highprinces and finish the war at the Shattered Plains, Alethkar would not have fallen. “Yes…” the Mink said, squinting at the numbers of Alethi troops near the ocean in southern Alethkar, then glancing back at the Veden armies manning the border. “Yes. Tell me, why do you show me this? This intelligence is precious. You trust me quickly.” “We don’t have much choice,” Jasnah said, causing him to turn toward her. “Have you followed the recent histories of Alethkar and Jah Keved, General?” “I have had my own troubles,” he said, “but yes. Civil war in both countries.” “Ours was not a civil war,” Dalinar said. That was debatable. The rivalry with Sadeas, the contest on the Shattered Plains, the eventual turning of Amaram … “Regardless of what you term it,” Jasnah said, “the last few years have been painful for our two kingdoms. Jah Keved lost practically its entire royal family—and most of its best generals—following the assassination of their king. We didn’t fare much better. Our command staff has been gutted several times over.” “We are spread thin,” Dalinar said. “Many of our best field generals are needed in Azir. When I heard we had a chance to rescue the man who single-handedly held off the singer invasion for a year…” Dalinar strode into the middle of the illusion, and it treated him differently—in subtle ways—from others. The color swirled near him, but the threads of Stormlight reached out, connecting to him. Like the arms of petitioners reaching toward their king. “I want to know what you see,” Dalinar said, sweeping his hand over the map. “I want your analysis on what we’re doing. I want your help. In exchange, we
will use our forces to recover Herdaz. Help me retake Alethkar, and I will spare no effort in seeing your people freed.” “Having the Blackthorn on my side would be novel,” the Mink said. “Before I make any promises though, tell me why you have so many troops stationed here, here, and here.” He pointed at several fortifications on the southern border of Alethkar, near the ocean. “We need to hold the ports,” Dalinar said. “Hmm. Yes, I assume that excuse works for the others in your coalition?” Dalinar drew his lips to a line, glancing at Jasnah. Behind her, Wit raised both eyebrows and leaned against the far wall. He was uncharacteristically quiet in meetings—but one could read entire strings of mockery in his expressions. “The enemy concentrations are here, across the river,” the Mink said, pointing. “If you were truly concerned only with them, you’d fortify directly opposite to prevent a strike when the river runs dry between storms. You don’t. Curious. Of course, you’d be exposed from behind. It’s almost like you don’t trust the one watching your back.…” The much shorter man met Dalinar’s gaze and left the words hanging in the air. Wit coughed into his hand. “I believe Taravangian is working for the enemy,” Dalinar said, with a sigh. “One year ago, someone let enemy troops in to attack Urithiru, and—despite excuses and deflections that have convinced the others—I am certain Taravangian’s Radiant was the one who did it.” “Dangerous,” the Mink said, “fighting in a war where your strongest ally is also your greatest fear. And Radiants, serving the other side? How could this be?” “They wouldn’t be the only ones, unfortunately,” Jasnah said. “We’ve lost one entire order, the Skybreakers, to the enemy—and they have been harrying Azir, requiring us to keep dedicating forces in that region. The Dustbringers continue to flirt with rebellion, often ignoring Dalinar’s orders.” “Troubling,” the Mink said. He walked up along the border of Alethkar, passing Jasnah. “You amass here as well. You want to push into your homeland, don’t you? You seek to recapture Kholinar.” “Delaying will lose us the war,” Navani said. “The enemy grows in strength each day.” “I agree with this assessment,” the Mink said. “But attacking Alethkar?” “We want to make a large, powerful offensive,” Dalinar explained. “We are trying to persuade the other monarchs to see how vital it is.” “Ah…” the Mink said. “Yes, and an outside general—approaching this fresh—would be persuasive to them, wouldn’t he?” “That’s the hope,” Dalinar said. “Yet you couldn’t help trying to predispose me, eh?” the Mink said. “You wanted to show this to me early, get me on your side first. Not risk any surprises?” “We’ve had … enough surprises dropped on us in meetings of the monarchs,” Navani said. “I suppose I can’t blame you,” the Mink said. “Nope. No blame. But a question remains. What do you want from me, you Kholins? Would you prefer a reinforcement of what you already want to believe, or do you seek the truth?” “I always want the
truth,” Dalinar said. “And if you know anything of my niece, you’ll know she has no qualms stating the truth as she sees it. Regardless of the consequences.” “Yes,” the Mink said, looking at Jasnah. “I know of your reputation, Your Majesty. As for the Blackthorn … I would not have believed you two years ago.” The Mink lifted his finger. “Then my niece read to me your book. The whole thing, yes. We got a copy, which was difficult, and I listened with much interest. I do not trust the Blackthorn, but perhaps I can trust the man who would write the words you did.” He studied Dalinar, as if weighing him. Then the Mink turned and strode across the map. “I can perhaps help you escape this mess. You must not attack Alethkar.” “But—” Dalinar began. “I agree you need to make an offensive,” the Mink said. “However, if Taravangian is not trustworthy, an expedition into Alethkar now would expose your forces to catastrophe. Even without the danger of betrayal, the enemy is too strong in the area. I’ve spent time fighting them; I can tell you that their footing is sure in your country. We won’t push them out easily, and we certainly can’t do it while prosecuting a two-front war.” The Mink stopped in Azir, then pointed toward the fighting in Emul. “Here, you have the enemy pinned between you and a rival force. They’re using those Skybreakers to distract you from how exposed they are here. Your enemy is landlocked, with serious supply troubles, isolated from its allies in Iri and Alethkar. You want a big offensive that has a chance to work? Reclaim Emul, push the Voidbringers—the singers—out of Makabak. “You need to consolidate, focus on where the enemy is weakest. You do not need to smash your armies into the most fortified enemy position in a reckless attempt to satisfy your wounded Alethi pride. That is the truth.” Navani looked at Dalinar, hating the way the words made him deflate, his shoulders slouching. He wanted so badly to free his homeland. She was not the tactical genius Dalinar was. She would not have objected if he’d insisted that freeing Alethkar was the correct move. But the way he turned—bowing his head as the Mink spoke—told her he knew the Mink was right. Perhaps Dalinar had known it already. Perhaps he’d needed to hear it from someone else. “Let us get you more detailed reports,” Jasnah said. “So you can see if the facts support your instincts, Mink.” “Yes, that would be wise,” the Mink said. “Many a locked room reveals a hidden path to escape, after all.” “Adolin, if you would, please?” Jasnah asked. “Yes, and you, Shallan. See our guest to the military briefing chambers and give him access to our scribes and any maps from our archive vault. Teshav should be able to provide exact numbers and recent battle data. Study with care, Mink. We meet with the monarchs in a few weeks’ time to discuss our next big offensive, and I would
have a plan ready.” The Mink bowed to her and retreated with Adolin and Shallan. As soon as he was gone—the map collapsing as Shallan left—Jasnah changed subtly. Her face became less of a mask. She didn’t walk with a queenly gait as she strode over and settled down at the room’s small table. This was the woman taking off her crown, now that she was with only family. Family and Wit, Navani thought as the lanky man, dressed all in black, walked over to fetch some wine. She couldn’t tell if the rumors about those two were true or not, and hadn’t felt comfortable asking. Strange, that a mother should feel so unwilling to chat with her daughter about intimate matters. But … well, that was Jasnah. “I was worried about this,” Dalinar said, taking a seat opposite Jasnah at the table. “I need to persuade him that the battle must push toward Alethkar.” “Uncle,” Jasnah said, “are you going to be stubborn about this?” “Maybe,” he said. “He saw it almost immediately,” Jasnah said. “Taravangian must know we don’t trust him. We can’t strike into Alethkar right now. It hurts me as much as it does you, but…” “I know,” Dalinar said, as Navani sat next to him and put her hand on his shoulder. “But I have this terrible feeling, Jasnah. It whispers that there is no way to win this war. Not against an immortal enemy. I worry about losing, but I worry more about something else. What do we do if we force them out of Azir, and they agree to cease hostilities? Would we give up Alethkar, if it meant ending the war?” “I don’t know,” Jasnah said. “That seems to be putting our chulls to work before we’ve bought them. We don’t know if such a compromise as you suggest is possible.” “It wouldn’t be,” Wit said. Navani frowned, glancing toward the man, who sipped his wine. He walked over and absently handed Jasnah a cup, his beak of a nose hidden in his own cup as he tipped it back. “Wit?” Dalinar asked. “Is this one of your jokes?” “Odium is a punch line, Dalinar, but not to any joke you’ve been told.” Wit sat with them at the table, not asking permission. He always acted as if dining with kings and queens was his natural state. “Odium will not compromise. He will not settle for anything other than our complete submission, perhaps destruction.” Dalinar frowned, then glanced to Navani. She shrugged. Wit often spoke like that, as if he knew things he shouldn’t. They couldn’t tell whether he was pretending or serious—but pressing him usually merely got you ridiculed. Dalinar wisely remained silent, contemplating the offered tidbit. “A strong offensive in Emul,” Jasnah said thoughtfully. “There might be a gemheart at the center of this monster, Dalinar. A stable Makabak would strengthen our coalition. A clear, powerful victory would raise morale and energize our allies.” “A valid point,” Dalinar said, with a grunt. “There is more,” Jasnah said. “A reason to want Azir
and the surrounding countries secured in the months moving forward.” “What more?” Dalinar asked. “What are you talking about?” Jasnah looked to Wit, who nodded, rising. “I’ll fetch them. Don’t belittle anyone while I’m gone, Brightness. You’ll make me feel obsolete.” He slipped out the door. “He will bring the Heralds,” Jasnah said. “Until he returns, perhaps we can discuss the proposal I showed you before you left for Hearthstone, Uncle.” Oh dear, Navani thought. Here we go.… Jasnah had been pushing toward a singular law for Alethkar. A dangerous one. Dalinar stood up and began to pace. Not a good sign. “This isn’t the time, Jasnah. We can’t create social upheaval on this scale during such a terrible moment in our history.” “Says the man,” Jasnah said, “who wrote a book earlier this year. Upending centuries of established gender norms.” Dalinar winced. “Mother,” Jasnah said to Navani, “I thought you said you’d talk to him.” “There wasn’t a convenient opportunity,” Navani said. “And … to be honest, I share his concerns.” “I forbid this,” Dalinar said. “You can’t simply free every Alethi slave. It would cause mass chaos.” “I wasn’t aware,” Jasnah said, “that you could forbid the queen from taking action.” “You called it a proposal,” Dalinar said. “Because I am not finished with the wording yet,” Jasnah replied. “I intend to propose it to the highprinces soon and gauge their reactions. I will deal with their concerns as best I can before I make it law. Whether or not I will make it law, however, is not a matter I intend to debate.” Dalinar continued to pace. “I cannot see reason in this, Jasnah. The chaos this will cause…” “Our lives are already in chaos,” Jasnah said. “This is precisely the time to make sweeping changes, when people are already adjusting to a new way of life. The historical data supports this idea.” “But why?” Dalinar asked. “You’re always so pragmatic. This seems the opposite.” “I seek the line of action that does the most possible good for the most people. This is in keeping with my moral philosophy.” Dalinar stopped pacing and rubbed his forehead instead. He looked to Navani as if to say, Can you do anything? “What did you think would happen?” Navani asked. “Putting her on the throne?” “I thought she’d keep the lighteyes in check,” he said. “And figured she wouldn’t be bullied by their schemes.” “That is exactly what I’m doing,” Jasnah said. “Though I apologize for needing to count you in the group, Uncle. It is good for you to oppose me. Feel free to do so visibly. Too many saw Elhokar bending knee to you, and that nasty business with a ‘highking’ still lingers as a distasteful scent. By showing we are not united in this, we strengthen my position, proving I am no pawn of the Blackthorn.” “I wish you’d slow down,” Dalinar said. “I’m not completely opposed to the theory of what you’re doing. It shows compassion. But…” “If we slow down,” Jasnah said, “the past catches up to
us. History is like that, always gobbling up the present.” She smiled fondly at Dalinar. “I respect and admire your strength, Uncle. I always have. Once in a while though, I do think you need to be reminded that not everyone sees the world the way you do.” “It would be better for us all if they did,” he grumbled. “I wish the world would stop making a mess of itself every time I turn the other direction.” He got something to drink from the pitcher of wine. Orange, naturally. “Would this include the ardents, daughter?” Navani asked. “They’re slaves, aren’t they?” “Technically, yes. But in this, some might say you’re pursuing a vendetta against the church,” Navani said. “By freeing the ardents from being owned?” Jasnah asked, amused. “Well, I suppose some will say that. They’ll see an attack in anything I do. Contrastingly, this is for their good. In freeing the ardents, I risk letting the church become a political power in the world again.” “And … that doesn’t worry you?” Navani asked. Sometimes sorting out this woman’s motivations—which she claimed were always very straightforward—was like trying to read the Dawnchant. “Of course it worries me,” Jasnah said. “However, I’d prefer ardents actively participating in politics, as opposed to the behind-the-scenes smoke screen they use now. This will give them more opportunity for power, yes, but also expose their actions to increased public scrutiny.” Jasnah tapped the table with a nail on her freehand. She wore her safehand in a sleeve, eminently proper, though Navani knew Jasnah thought little of social constructs. She followed them anyway. Immaculate makeup. Hair in braids. A beautiful, regal havah. “This will be for the good of Alethkar in the long run,” Jasnah said. “Economically and morally. Uncle Dalinar’s objections are valuable. I will listen, figure out how to respond to such challenges.…” She trailed off as Wit returned, bringing two individuals with him. One was a beautiful young woman with long black hair, Makabaki in ethnicity, though her eyes and some of her features looked Shin. The other was a tall stoic man, also Makabaki. He was strong, powerful of build, and had a certain regality about him—at least until you saw the distant expression in his eyes and heard him whispering to himself. He needed to be led into the room by the woman, as if he were simple of mind. One could not have known from a glance that these two were ancient beings older than recorded history. Shalash and Talenelat, Heralds, immortals born to dozens of lives, worshipped as gods by many religions—and as demigods in Navani’s own. Sadly, they were both insane. The woman could at least function. The man … Navani had never heard anything from him other than mumbles. Wit treated them with a reverence Navani did not expect from him. He closed the door behind them, then gestured quietly for them to sit at the table. Shalash—Ash, as she preferred to be called—led Talenelat to the seat, but remained standing after he sat. Navani felt distinctly uncomfortable

Subsets and Splits

No community queries yet

The top public SQL queries from the community will appear here once available.