"We do not know why some speak when others do not," Taravangian said. "But the dying see something. It began seven years ago, about the time when King Gavilar was investigating the Shattered Plains for the first time." His eyes grew distant. "It is coming, and these people see it. On that bridge between life and the endless ocean of death, they view something. Their words might save us."
"You are a monster."
"Yes," Taravangian said. "But I am the monster who will save this world." He looked at Szeth. "I have a name to add to your list. I had hoped to avoid doing this, but recent events have made it inevitable. I cannot let him seize control. It will undermine everything."
"Who?" Szeth asked, wondering if anything at all could horrify him further.
"Dalinar Kholin," Taravangian said. "I'm afraid it must be done quickly, before he can unite the Alethi highprinces. You will go to the Shattered Plains and end him." He hesitated. "It must be done brutally, I'm afraid."
"I have rarely had the luxury of working otherwise," Szeth said, closing his eyes.
The screams greeted him. "Before I read," Shallan said, "I need to understand something. You Soulcast my blood, didn't you?"
"To remove the poison," Jasnah said. "Yes. It acted extremely quickly; as I said, it must have been a very concentrated form of the powder. I had to Soulcast your blood several times as we got you to vomit. Your body continued to absorb the poison."
"But you said you aren't good with organics," Shallan said. "You turned the strawberry jam into something inedible."
"Blood isn't the same," Jasnah said, waving her hand. "It's one of the Essences. You'll learn this, should I actually decide to teach you Soulcasting. For now, know that the pure form of an Essence is quite easy to make; the eight kinds of blood are easier to create than water, for instance. Creating something as complex as strawberry jam, however-a mush made from a fruit I'd never before tasted or smelled-was well beyond my abilities."
"And the ardents," Shallan said. "Those who Soulcast? Do they actually use fabrials, or is it all a hoax?"
"No, Soulcasting fabrials are real. Quite real. So far as I know, everyone else who does what I-what we-can do uses a fabrial to accomplish it."
"What of the creatures with the symbol heads?" Shallan asked. She flipped through her sketches, then held up an image of them. "Do you see them too? How are they related?"
Jasnah frowned, taking the image. "You see beings like this? In Shadesmar?"
"They appear in my drawings," Shallan said. "They're around me, Jasnah. You don't see them? Am I-"
Jasnah held up a hand. "These are a type of spren, Shallan. They are related to what you do." She tapped the desk softly. "Two orders of the Knights Radiant possessed inherent Soulcasting ability; it was based on their powers that the original fabrials were designed, I believe. I had assumed that you… But no, that obviously wouldn't make sense. I see now."
"What?"
"I will explain as I train you," Jasnah said, handing back the sheet. "You will need a greater foundation before you can grasp it. Suffice it to say that each Radiant's abilities were tied to the spren."
"Wait, Radiants? But-"
"I will explain," Jasnah said. "But first, we must speak of the Voidbringers."
Shallan nodded. "You think they'll return, don't you?"
Jasnah studied her. "What makes you say that?"
"The legends say the Voidbringers came a hundred times to try to destroy mankind," Shallan continued. "I… read some of your notes."
"You what?"
"I was looking for information on Soulcasting," Shallan confessed.
Jasnah sighed. "Well, I suppose it is the least of your crimes."
"I can't understand," Shallan said. "Why are you bothering with these stories of myths and shadows? Other scholars-scholars I know you respect-consider the Voidbringers to be a fabrication. Yet you chase stories from rural farmers and write them down in your notebook. Why, Jasnah? Why do you have faith in this when you reject things that are so much more plausible?"
Jasnah looked over her sheets of paper. "Do you know the real difference between me and a believer, Shallan?"
Shallan shook her head.
"It strikes me that religion-in its essence-seeks to take natural events and ascribe supernatural causes to them. I, however, seek to take supernatural events and find the natural meanings behind them. Perhaps that is the final dividing line between science and religion. Opposite sides of a card."
"So… you think…"
"The Voidbringers had a natural, real-world correlate," Jasnah said firmly. "I'm certain of it. Something caused the legends."
"What was it?"
Jasnah handed Shallan a page of notes. "These are the best I've been able to find. Read them. Tell me what you think."
Shallan scanned the page. Some of the quotes-or at least the concepts-were familiar to her from what she'd read already.
Suddenly dangerous. Like a calm day that became a tempest.
"They were real," Jasnah repeated.
Beings of ash and fire.
"We fought with them," Jasnah said. "We fought so often that men began to speak of the creatures in metaphor. A hundred battles-ten tenfolds…"
Flame and char. Skin so terrible. Eyes like pits of blackness. Music when they kill.
"We defeated them…" Jasnah said.
Shallan felt a chill.
"…but the legends lie about one thing," Jasnah continued. "They claim we chased the Voidbringers off the face of Roshar or destroyed them. But that's not how humans work. We don't throw away something we can use."
Shallan rose, walking to the edge of the balcony, looking out at the lift, which was slowly being lowered by its two porters.
Parshmen. With skin of black and red.
Ash and fire.
"Stormfather…" Shallan whispered, horrified.
"We didn't destroy the Voidbringers," Jasnah said from behind, her voice haunted. "We enslaved them." The chill spring weather might finally have slipped back into summer. It was still cool at night, but not uncomfortably so. Kaladin stood on Dalinar Kholin's staging ground, looking eastward over the Shattered Plains.
Ever since the failed betrayal and subsequent rescue earlier, Kaladin had found himself nervous. Freedom. Bought with a Shardblade. It seemed impossible. His every life experience taught him to expect a trap.
He clasped his hands behind him; Syl sat on his shoulder.
"Dare I trust him?" he asked softly.
"He's a good man," Syl said. "I've watched him. Despite that thing he carried."
"That thing?"
"The Shardblade."
"What do you care about it?"
"I don't know," she said, wrapping her arms around herself. "It just feels wrong to me. I hate it. I'm glad he got rid of it. Makes him a better man."
Nomon, the middle moon, began to rise. Bright and pale blue, bathing the horizon in light. Somewhere, out across the Plains, was the Parshendi Shardbearer that Kaladin had fought. He'd stabbed the man in the leg from behind. The watching Parshendi had not interfered with the duel and had avoided attacking Kaladin's wounded bridgemen, but Kaladin had attacked one of their champions from the most cowardly position possible, interfering with a fight.
He was bothered by what he'd done, and that frustrated him. A warrior couldn't worry about who he attacked or how. Survival was the only rule of the battlefield.
Well, survival and loyalty. And he sometimes let wounded enemies live if they weren't a threat. And he saved young soldiers who needed protection. And…
And he'd never been good at doing what a warrior should.
Today, he'd saved a highprince-another lighteyes-and along with him thousands of soldiers. Saved them by killing Parshendi.
"Can you kill to protect?" Kaladin asked out loud. "Is that a self-contradiction?"
"I… I don't know."
"You acted strangely in the battle," Kaladin said. "Swirling around me. After that, you left. I didn't see much of you."
"The killing," she said softly. "It hurt me. I had to go."
"Yet you're the one who prompted me to go and save Dalinar. You wanted me to return and kill."
"I know."
"Teft said that the Radiants held to a standard," Kaladin said. "He said that by their rules, you shouldn't do terrible things to accomplish great ones. Yet what did I do today? Slaughter Parshendi in order to save Alethi. What of that? They aren't innocent, but neither are we. Not by a faint breeze or a stormwind."
Syl didn't reply.
"If I hadn't gone to save Dalinar's men," Kaladin said, "I would have allowed Sadeas to commit a terrible betrayal. I'd have let men die who I could have saved. I'd have been sick and disgusted with myself. I also lost three good men, bridgemen who were mere breaths away from freedom. Are the lives of the others worth that?"
"I don't have the answers, Kaladin."
"Does anyone?"
Footsteps came from behind. Syl turned. "It's him."
The moon had just risen. Dalinar Kholin, it appeared, was a punctual man.
He stepped up beside Kaladin. He carried a bundle under his arm, and he had a military air about him, even without his Shardplate on. In fact, he was more impressive without it. His muscular build indicated that he did not rely on his Plate to give him strength, and the neatly pressed uniform indicated a man who understood that others were inspired when their leader looked the part.
Others have looked just as noble, Kaladin thought. But would any man trade a Shardblade just to keep up appearances? And if they would, at what point did the appearance become reality?
"I'm sorry to make you meet me so late," Dalinar said. "I know it has been a long day."
"I doubt I could have slept anyway."
Dalinar grunted softly, as if he understood. "Your men are seen to?"
"Yes," Kaladin said. "Quite well, actually. Thank you." Kaladin had been given empty barracks for the bridgemen and they had received medical attention from Dalinar's best surgeons-they'd gotten it before the wounded lighteyed officers had. The other bridgemen, the ones who weren't from Bridge Four, had accepted Kaladin immediately, without any deliberation on the matter, as their leader.
Dalinar nodded. "How many, do you suspect, will take my offer of a purse and freedom?"
"A fair number of the men from other crews will. But I'll wager an even larger number won't. Bridgemen don't think of escape or freedom. They wouldn't know what to do with themselves. As for my own crew… Well, I have a feeling that they'll insist on doing whatever I do. If I stay, they'll stay. If I go, they'll go."
Dalinar nodded. "And what will you do?"
"I haven't decided yet."
"I spoke to my officers." Dalinar grimaced. "The ones who survived. They said that you gave orders to them, took charge like a lighteyes. My son still feels bitter about the way your… conversation with him went."
"Even a fool could see he wasn't going to be able to get to you. As for the officers, most were in shock or run ragged. I merely nudged them."
"I owe you my life twice over," Dalinar said. "And that of my son and my men."
"You paid that debt."
"No," Dalinar said. "But I've done what I can." He eyed Kaladin, as if sizing him up, judging him. "Why did your bridge crew come for us? Why, really?"
"Why did you give up your Shardblade?"
Dalinar held his eyes, then nodded. "Fair enough. I have an offer for you. The king and I are about to do something very, very dangerous. Something that will upset all the warcamps."
"Congratulations."
Dalinar smiled faintly. "My honor guard has nearly been wiped out, and the men I do have are needed to augment the King's Guard. My trust is stretched thin these days. I need someone to protect me and my family. I want you and your men for that job."
"You want a bunch of bridgemen as bodyguards?"
"The elite ones as bodyguards," Dalinar said. "Those in your crew, the ones you trained. I want the rest as soldiers for my army. I have heard how well your men fought. You trained them without Sadeas's knowing, all while running bridges. I'm curious to see what you could do with the right resources." Dalinar turned away, glancing northward. Toward Sadeas's camp. "My army is depleted. I'm going to need every man I can get, but everyone I recruit is going to be suspect. Sadeas will try to send spies into our camp. And traitors. And assassins. Elhokar thinks we won't last a week."
"Stormfather," Kaladin said. "What are you planning?"
"I'm going to take away their games, fully expecting them to react like children losing their favored toy."
"These children have armies and Shardblades."
"Unfortunately."
"And this is what you want me to protect you from?"
"Yes."
No quibbling. Straightforward. There was much to respect about that.
"I'll augment Bridge Four to become the honor guard," Kaladin said. "And train the rest as a spearman company. Those in the honor guard get paid like it." Generally, a lighteyes's personal guard got triple a standard spearman's wage.
"Of course."
"And I want space to train," Kaladin said. "Full right of requisition from the quartermasters. I get to set my men's schedule, and we appoint our own sergeants and squadleaders. We don't answer to any lighteyes but yourself, your sons, and the king."
Dalinar raised an eyebrow. "That last one is a little… irregular."
"You want me to guard you and your family?" Kaladin said. "Against the other highprinces and their assassins, who might infiltrate your army and your officers? Well, I can't be in a position where any lighteyes in the camp can order me around, now can I?"
"You have a point," Dalinar said. "You realize, however, that in doing this I would essentially be giving you the same authority as a lighteyes of fourth dahn. You'd be in charge of a thousand former bridgemen. A full battalion."
"Yes."
Dalinar thought for a moment. "Very well. Consider yourself appointed to the rank of captain-that's as high as I dare appoint a darkeyes. If I named you battalionlord, it would cause a whole mess of problems. I'll let it be known, however, that you're outside the chain of command. You don't order around lighteyes of lesser rank than you, and lighteyes of higher rank have no authority over you."
"All right," Kaladin said. "But these soldiers I train, I want them assigned to patrolling, not plateau runs. I hear you've had several full battalions hunting bandits, keeping the peace in the Outer Market, that sort of thing. That's where my men go for one year, at least."
"Easy enough," Dalinar said. "You want time to train them before throwing them into battle, I assume."
"That, and I killed a lot of Parshendi today. I found myself regretting their deaths. They showed me more honor than most members of my own army have. I didn't like the feeling, and I want some time to think about it. The bodyguards I train for you, we'll go out onto the field, but our primary purpose will be protecting you, not killing Parshendi."
Dalinar looked bemused. "All right. Though you shouldn't have to worry. I don't plan to be on the front lines much in the future. My role is changing. Regardless, we have a deal."
Kaladin held out a hand. "This is contingent on my men agreeing."
"I thought you said that they'd do what you did."
"Probably," Kaladin said. "I command them, but I don't own them."
Dalinar reached out, taking his hand, shaking it by the light of the rising sapphire moon. Then he took the bundle out from underneath his arm. "Here."
"What is this?" Kaladin said, taking the bundle.
"My cloak. The one I wore to battle today, washed and patched."
Kaladin unfurled it. It was of a deep blue, with the glyphpair of khokh and linil sewn into the back in white embroidery.
"Each man who wears my colors," Dalinar said, "is of my family, in a way. The cloak is a simple gift, but it is one of the few things I can offer that has any meaning. Accept it with my gratitude, Kaladin Stormblessed."
Kaladin slowly refolded the cloak. "Where did you hear that name?"
"Your men," Dalinar said. "They think very highly of you. And that makes me think very highly of you. I need men like you, like all of you." He narrowed his eyes, looking thoughtful. "The whole kingdom needs you. Perhaps all of Roshar. The True Desolation comes…"
"What was that last part?"
"Nothing," Dalinar said. "Please, go get some rest, Captain. I hope to hear good news from you soon."
Kaladin nodded and withdrew, passing the two men who acted as Dalinar's guard for the night. The hike back to his new barracks was a short one. Dalinar had given him one building for each of the bridge crews. Over a thousand men. What was he going to do with so many? He'd never commanded a group larger than twenty-five before.
Bridge Four's barrack was empty. Kaladin hesitated outside the doorway, looking in. The barrack was furnished with a bunk and locking chest for each man. It seemed a palace.
He smelled smoke. Frowning, he rounded the barrack to find the men sitting around a firepit in the back, relaxing on stumps or stones, waiting as Rock cooked them a pot of stew. They were listening to Teft, who sat with his arm bandaged, speaking quietly. Shen was there; the quiet parshman sat at the very edge of the group. They'd recovered him, along with their wounded, from Sadeas's camp.
Teft cut off as soon as he saw Kaladin, and the men turned, most of them bearing bandages of some sort. Dalinar wants these for his bodyguards? Kaladin thought. They were a ragged bunch indeed.
As it happened, however, he seconded Dalinar's choice. If he were going to put his life in someone's hands, he'd choose this group.
"What are you doing?" Kaladin asked sternly. "You should all be resting."
The bridgemen glanced at each other.
"It just…" Moash said. "It didn't feel right to go to sleep until we'd had a chance to… well, do this."
"Hard to sleep on a day like this, gancho," Lopen added.
"Speak for yourself," Skar said, yawning, wounded leg resting up on a stump. "But the stew is worth staying up for. Even if he does put rocks in it."
"I do not!" Rock snapped. "Airsick lowlanders."
They'd left a place for Kaladin. He sat down, using Dalinar's cloak as a cushion for his back and head. He gratefully took a bowl of stew that Drehy handed him.
"We've been talking about what the men saw today," Teft said. "The things you did."
Kaladin hesitated, spoon to his mouth. He'd nearly forgotten-or maybe he'd intentionally forgotten-that he'd shown his men what he could do with Stormlight. Hopefully Dalinar's soldiers hadn't seen. His Stormlight had been faint by then, the day bright.
"I see," Kaladin said, his appetite fleeing. Did they see him as different? Frightening? Something to be ostracized, as his father had been back in Hearthstone? Worse yet, something to be worshipped? He looked into their wide eyes and braced himself.
"It was amazing!" Drehy said, leaning forward.
"You're one of the Radiants," Skar said, pointing. "I believe it, even if Teft says you aren't."
"He isn't yet," Teft snapped. "Don't you listen?"
"Can you teach me to do what you did?" Moash cut in.
"I'll learn too, gancho," Lopen said. "You know, if you're teaching and all."
Kaladin blinked, overwhelmed, as the others chimed in.
"What can you do?"
"How does it feel?"
"Can you fly?'
He held up a hand, stanching the questions. "Aren't you alarmed by what you saw?"
Several of the men shrugged.
"It kept you alive, gancho," Lopen said. "The only thing I'd be alarmed about is how irresistible the women would find it. 'Lopen,' they'd say, 'you only have one arm, but I see that you can glow. I think that you should kiss me now.'"
"But it's strange and frightening," Kaladin protested. "This is what the Radiants did! Everyone knows they were traitors."
"Yeah," Moash said, snorting. "Just like everyone knows that the light-eyes are chosen by the Almighty to rule, and how they're always noble and just."
"We're Bridge Four," Skar added. "We've been around. We've lived in the crem and been used as bait. If it helps you survive, it's good. That's all that needs to be said about it."
"So can you teach it?" Moash asked. "Can you show us how to do what you do?"
"I… I don't know if it can be taught," Kaladin said, glancing at Syl, who bore a curious expression as she sat on a nearby rock. "I'm not certain what it is."
They looked crestfallen.
"But," Kaladin added, "that doesn't mean that we shouldn't try."
Moash smiled.
"Can you do it?" Drehy asked, fishing out a sphere, a small glowing diamond chip. "Right now? I want to see it when I'm expecting it."
"It's not a feastday sport, Drehy," Kaladin said.
"Don't you think we deserve it?" Sigzil leaned forward on his stone.
Kaladin paused. Then, hesitantly, he reached out a finger and touched the sphere. He inhaled sharply; drawing in the Light was becoming more and more natural. The sphere faded. Stormlight began to trickle from Kaladin's skin, and he breathed normally to make it leak faster, making it more visible. Rock pulled out a ragged old blanket-used for kindling- and tossed it over the fire, disturbing the flamespren and making a few moments of darkness before the flames chewed through.
In that darkness, Kaladin glowed, pure white Light rising from his skin.
"Storms…" Drehy breathed.
"So, what can you do with it?" Skar asked, eager. "You didn't answer."
"I'm not entirely certain what I can do," Kaladin said, holding his hand up in front of him. It faded in a moment, and the fire burned through the blanket, lighting them all again. "I've only known about it for sure for a few weeks. I can draw arrows toward me and can make rocks stick together. The Light makes me stronger and faster, and it heals my wounds."
"How much stronger does it make you?" Sigzil said. "How much weight can the rocks bear after you stick them together, and how long do they remain bonded? How much faster do you get? Twice as fast? A quarter again as fast? How far away can an arrow be when you draw it toward you, and can you draw other things as well?"
Kaladin blinked. "I… I don't know."
"Well, it seems pretty important to know that kind of stuff," Skar said, rubbing his chin.
"We can do tests," Rock folded his arms, smiling. "Is good idea."
"Maybe it will help us figure out how we can do it too," Moash noted.
"Is not thing to learn." Rock shook his head. "Is of the holetental. For him only."
"You don't know that for certain," Teft said.
"You don't know for certain I don't know for certain." Rock wagged a spoon at him. "Eat your stew."
Kaladin held up his hands. "You can't tell anyone about this, men. They'll be frightened of me, maybe think I'm related to the Voidbringers or the Radiants. I need your oaths on this."
He looked at them, and they nodded, one by one.
"But we want to help," Skar said. "Even if we can't learn it. This thing is part of you, and you're one of us. Bridge Four. Right?"
Kaladin looked at their eager faces and couldn't stop himself from nodding. "Yes. Yes, you can help."
"Excellent," Sigzil said. "I'll prepare a list of tests to gauge speed, accuracy, and the strength of these bonds you can create. We'll have to find a way to determine if there's anything else you can do."
"Throw him off cliff," Rock said.
"What good will that do?" Peet asked.
Rock shrugged. "If he has other abilities, this thing will make them come out, eh? Nothing like falling from cliff to make a man out of a boy!"
Kaladin regarded him with a sour expression, and Rock laughed. "It will be small cliff." He held up his thumb and forefinger to indicate a tiny amount. "I like you too much for large one."
"I think you're joking," Kaladin said, taking a bite of his stew. "But just to be safe, I'm sticking you to the ceiling tonight to keep you from trying any experiments while I'm asleep."
The bridgemen chuckled.
"Just don't glow too brightly while we're trying to sleep, eh, gancho?" Lopen said.
"I'll do my best." He took another spoonful of stew. It tasted better than usual. Had Rock changed the recipe?
Or was it something else? As he settled back to eat, the other bridgemen began chatting, speaking of home and their pasts, things that had once been taboo. Several of the men from other crews-wounded whom Kaladin had helped, even just a few lonely souls who were still awake- wandered over. The men of Bridge Four welcomed them, handing over stew and making room.
Everyone looked as exhausted as Kaladin felt, but nobody spoke of turning in. He could see why, now. Being together, eating Rock's stew, listening to the quiet chatter while the fire crackled and popped, sending dancing flakes of yellow light into the air…
This was more relaxing than sleep could be. Kaladin smiled, leaning back, looking upward toward the dark sky and the large sapphire moon. Then he closed his eyes, listening.
Three more men were dead. Malop, Earless Jaks, and Narm. Kaladin had failed them. But he and Bridge Four had protected hundreds of others. Hundreds who would never have to run a bridge again, would never have to face Parshendi arrows, would never have to fight again if they didn't want to. More personally, twenty-seven of his friends lived. Partially because of what he'd done, partially because of their own heroism.
Twenty-seven men lived. He'd finally managed to save someone.
For now, that was enough. Shallan rubbed her eyes. She'd read through Jasnah's notes-at least the most important ones. Those alone had made a large stack. She still sat in the alcove, though they'd sent a parshman to get her a blanket to wrap around herself, covering up the hospital robe.
Her eyes burned from the night spent crying, then reading. She was exhausted. And yet she also felt alive.
"It's true," she said. "You're right. The Voidbringers are the parshmen. I can see no other conclusion."
Jasnah smiled, looking oddly pleased with herself, considering that she'd only convinced one person.
"So what next?" Shallan asked.
"That has to do with your previous studies."
"My studies? You mean your father's death?"
"Indeed."
"The Parshendi attacked him," Shallan said. "Killed him suddenly, without warning." She focused on the other woman. "That's what made you begin studying all of this, isn't it?"
Jasnah nodded. "Those wild parshmen-the Parshendi of the Shattered Plains-are the key." She leaned forward. "Shallan. The disaster awaiting us is all too real, all too terrible. I don't need mystical warnings or theological sermons to frighten me. I'm downright terrified in my own right."
"But we have the parshmen tamed."
"Do we? Shallan, think of what they do, how they're regarded, how often they're used."
Shallan hesitated. The parshmen were pervasive.
"They serve our food," Jasnah continued. "They work our storehouses. They tend our children. There isn't a village in Roshar that doesn't have some parshmen. We ignore them; we just expect them to be there, doing as they do. Working without complaint.
"Yet one group turned suddenly from peaceful friends to slaughtering warriors. Something set them off. Just as it did hundreds of years ago, during the days known as the Heraldic Epochs. There would be a period of peace, followed by an invasion of parshmen who-for reasons nobody understood-had suddenly gone mad with anger and rage. This was what was behind mankind's fight to keep from being 'banished to Damnation.' This was what nearly ended our civilization. This was the terrible, repeated cataclysm that was so frightening men began to speak of them as Desolations.
"We've nurtured the parshmen. We've integrated them into every part of our society. We depend on them, never realizing that we've harnessed a highstorm waiting to explode. The accounts from the Shattered Plains speak of these Parshendi's ability to communicate among themselves, allowing them to sing their songs in unison when far apart. Their minds are connected, like spanreeds. Do you realize what that means?"
Shallan nodded. What would happen if every parshman on Roshar suddenly turned against his masters? Seeking freedom, or worse-vengeance? "We'd be devastated. Civilization as we know it could collapse. We have to do something!"
"We are," Jasnah said. "We're gathering facts, making certain we know what we think we know."
"And how many facts do we need?"
"More. Many more." Jasnah glanced at the books. "There are some things about the histories I don't yet understand. Tales of creatures fighting alongside the parshmen, beasts of stone that might be some kind of greatshell, and other oddities that I think may have truth to them. But we've exhausted what Kharbranth can offer. Are you still certain you want to delve into this? It is a heavy burden we will bear. You won't be returning to your estates for some time."
Shallan bit her lip, thinking of her brothers. "You'd let me go now, after what I know?"
"I won't have you serving me while thinking of ways to escape." Jasnah sounded exhausted.
"I can't just abandon my brothers." Shallan's insides twisted again. "But this is bigger than them. Damnation-it's bigger than me or you or any of us. I have to help, Jasnah. I can't walk out on this. I'll find some other way to help my family."
"Good. Then go pack our things. We're leaving tomorrow on that ship I chartered for you."
"We're going to Jah Keved?"
"No. We need to get to the center of it all." She looked at Shallan. "We're going to the Shattered Plains. We need to find out if the Parshendi were ever ordinary parshmen, and if so, what set them off. Perhaps I am wrong about this, but if I am right, then the Parshendi could hold the key to turning ordinary parshmen into soldiers." Then, grimly, she continued. "And we need to do it before someone else does, then uses it against us."
"Someone else?" Shallan asked, feeling a sharp stab of panic. "There are others looking for this?"
"Of course there are. Who do you think went to so much trouble trying to have me assassinated?" She reached into a stack of papers on her desk. "I don't know much about them. For all I know, there are many groups searching for these secrets. I know of one for certain, however. They call themselves the Ghostbloods." She pulled out a sheet. "Your friend Kabsal was one. We found their symbol tattooed on the inside of his arm."
She set the sheet down. On it was a symbol of three diamonds in a pattern, overlapping one another.
It was the same symbol that Nan Balat had shown her weeks ago. The symbol worn by Luesh, her father's steward, the man who had known how to use the Soulcaster. The symbol worn by the men who had come, pressuring her family to return it. The men who had been financing Shallan's father in his bid to become highprince.
"Almighty above," Shallan whispered. She looked up. "Jasnah, I think… I think my father might have been a member of this group." The highstorm winds began to blow against Dalinar's complex, powerful enough to make rocks groan. Navani huddled close to Dalinar, holding to him. She smelled wonderful. It felt… humbling to know how terrified she'd been for him.
Her joy at having him back was enough to dampen, for now, her fury at him for how he'd treated Elhokar. She would come around. It had needed to be done.
As the highstorm hit in force, Dalinar felt the vision coming on. He closed his eyes, letting it take him. He had a decision to make, a responsibility. What to do? These visions had lied to him, or had at least misled him. It seemed that he couldn't trust them, at least not as explicitly as he once had.
He took a deep breath, opened his eyes, and found himself in a place of smoke.
He turned about, wary. The sky was dark and he stood on a field of dull, bone-white rock, jagged and rough, extending in all directions. Off into eternity. Amorphous shapes made of curling grey smoke rose from the ground. Like smoke rings, only in other shapes. Here a chair. There a rockbud, with vines extended, curling to the sides and vanishing. Beside him appeared the figure of a man in uniform, silent and vaporous, rising lethargically toward the sky, mouth open. The shapes melted and distorted as they climbed higher, though they seemed to hold their forms longer than they should. It was unnerving, standing on the eternal plain, pure darkness above, smoke figures rising all around.
It wasn't like any vision he'd seen before. It was…
No, wait. He frowned, stepping back as the figure of a tree burst from the ground close to him. I have seen this place before. In the first of my visions, so many months ago. It was fuzzy in his mind. He'd been disoriented, the vision vague, as if his mind hadn't learned to accept what it was seeing. In fact, the only thing he remembered distinctly was "You must unite them," a strong voice boomed.
– was the voice. Speaking to him from all around, causing the smoke figures to fuzz and distort.
"Why did you lie to me?" Dalinar demanded of the open darkness. "I did what you said, and I was betrayed!"
"Unite them. The sun approaches the horizon. The Everstorm comes. The True Desolation. The Night of Sorrows."
"I need answers!" Dalinar said. "I don't trust you any longer. If you want me to listen to you, you'll need to-"
The vision changed. He spun about, finding that he was still on an open plain of rock, but the normal sun was in the sky. The stone field looked like an ordinary one on Roshar.
It was very odd for one of the visions to set him in a place without others to talk to and interact with. Though, for once, he wore his own clothing. The sharp blue Kholin uniform.
Had this happened before, the other time he'd been in that place of smoke? Yes… it had. This was the first time he'd been taken to a place where he'd been before. Why?
He carefully scanned the scenery. Since the voice didn't speak to him again, he began to walk, passing cracked boulders and broken bits of shale, pebbles and rocks. There were no plants, not even rockbuds. Just an empty landscape filled with broken stones.
Eventually, he spotted a ridge. Getting to high ground felt like a good idea, though the hike seemed to take hours. The vision did not end. Time was often odd in these visions. He continued to hike up the side of the rock formation, wishing he had his Shardplate to strengthen him. Finally at the top, he walked over to the edge to look down below.
And there he saw Kholinar, his home, the capital city of Alethkar.
It had been destroyed.
The beautiful buildings had been shattered. The windblades were cast down. There were no bodies, just broken stone. This wasn't like the vision he had seen before, with Nohadon. That wasn't the Kholinar of the distant past; he could see the rubble of his own palace. But there was no rock formation like the one he stood on near Kholinar in the real world. Always before, these visions had shown him the past. Was this now a vision of the future?
"I cannot fight him any longer," the voice said.
Dalinar jumped, glancing to the side. A man stood there. He had dark skin and pure white hair. Tall, thick of chest but not massive, he wore exotic clothing of a strange cut: loose, billowing trousers and a coat that came down only to his waist. Both seemed made of gold.
Yes… this very thing had happened before, in his very first vision. Dalinar could remember it now. "Who are you?" Dalinar demanded. "Why are you showing me these visions?"
"You can see it there," the figure said, pointing. "If you look closely. It begins in the distance."
Dalinar glanced in that direction, annoyed. He couldn't make out anything specific. "Storm it," Dalinar said. "Won't you answer my questions for once? What is the good of all of this if you just speak in riddles?"
The man didn't answer. He just kept pointing. And… yes, something was happening. There was a shadow in the air, approaching. A wall of darkness. Like a highstorm, only wrong.
"At least tell me this," Dalinar said. "What time are we seeing? Is this the past, the future, or something else entirely?"
The figure didn't answer immediately. Then he said, "You're probably wondering if this is a vision of the future."
Dalinar started. "I just… I just asked…"
This was familiar. Too familiar.
He said that exact thing last time, Dalinar realized, feeling a chill. This all happened. I'm seeing the same vision again.
The figure squinted at the horizon. "I cannot see the future completely. Cultivation, she is better at it than I. It's as if the future is a shattering window. The further you look, the more pieces that window breaks into. The near future can be anticipated, but the distant future… I can only guess."
"You can't hear me, can you?" Dalinar asked, feeling a horror as he finally began to understand. "You never could."
Blood of my fathers… he's not ignoring me. He can't see me! He doesn't speak in riddles. It just seems that way because I took his responses as cryptic answers to my questions.
He didn't tell me to trust Sadeas. I… I just assumed…
Everything seemed to shake around Dalinar. His preconceptions, what he'd thought he'd known. The ground itself.
"That is what could happen," the figure said, nodding into the distance. "It's what I fear will happen. It's what he wants. The True Desolation."
No, that wall in the air wasn't a highstorm. It wasn't rain making that enormous shadow, but blowing dust. He remembered this vision in full, now. It had ended here, with him confused, staring out at that oncoming wall of dust. This time, however, the vision continued.
The figure turned to him. "I am sorry to do this to you. By now I hope that what you've seen has given you a foundation to understand. But I can't know for certain. I don't know who you are, or how you have found your way here."
"I…" What to say? Did it matter?
"Most of what I show you are scenes I have seen directly," the figure said. "But some, such as this one, are born out of my fears. If I fear it, then you should too."
The land was trembling. The wall of dust was being caused by something. Something approaching.
The ground was falling away.
Dalinar gasped. The very rocks ahead were shattering, breaking apart, becoming dust. He backed away as everything began to shake, a massive earthquake accompanied by a terrible roar of dying rocks. He fell to the ground.
There was an awful, grinding, terrifying moment of nightmare. The shaking, the destruction, the sounds of the land itself seeming to die.
Then it was past. Dalinar breathed in and out before rising on unsteady legs. He and the figure stood on a solitary pinnacle of rock. A little section that-for some reason-had been protected. It was like a stone pillar a few paces wide, rising high into the air.
Around it, the land was gone. Kholinar was gone. It had all fallen away into unplumbed darkness below. He felt vertigo, standing on the tiny bit of rock that-impossibly-remained.
"What is this?" Dalinar demanded, though he knew that the being couldn't hear him.
The figure looked about, sorrowful. "I can't leave much. Just these few images, given to you. Whoever you are."
"These visions… they're like a journal, aren't they? A history you wrote, a book you left behind, except I don't read it, I see it."
The figure looked into the sky. "I don't even know if anyone will ever see this. I am gone, you see."
Dalinar didn't respond. He looked over the sheer pinnacle, down at a void, horrified.
"This isn't just about you either," the figure said, raising his hand into the air. A light winked out in the sky, one that Dalinar hadn't realized was there. Then another winked out as well. The sun seemed to be growing dimmer.
"It's about all of them," the figure said. "I should have realized he'd come for me."
"Who are you?" Dalinar asked, voicing the words to himself.
The figure still stared into the sky. "I leave this, because there must be something. A hope to discover. A chance that someone will find what to do. Do you wish to fight him?"
"Yes," Dalinar found himself saying, despite knowing that it didn't matter. "I don't know who he is, but if he wants to do this, then I will fight him."
"Someone must lead them."
"I will do it," Dalinar said. The words just came out.
"Someone must unite them."
"I will do it."
"Someone must protect them."
"I will do it!"
The figure was silent for a moment. Then he spoke in a clear, crisp voice. "Life before death. Strength before weakness. Journey before destination. Speak again the ancient oaths and return to men the Shards they once bore." He turned to Dalinar, meeting his eyes. "The Knights Radiant must stand again."
"I cannot comprehend how that can be done," Dalinar said softly. "But I will try."
"Men must face them together," the figure said, stepping up to Dalinar, placing a hand on his shoulder. "You cannot squabble as in times past. He's realized that you, given time, will become your own enemies. That he doesn't need to fight you. Not if he can make you forget, make you turn against one another. Your legends say that you won. But the truth is that we lost. And we are losing."
"Who are you?" Dalinar asked again, voice softer.
"I wish I could do more," repeated the figure in gold. "You might be able to get him to choose a champion. He is bound by some rules. All of us are. A champion could work well for you, but it is not certain. And… without the Dawnshards… Well, I have done what I can. It is a terrible, terrible thing to leave you alone."
"Who are you?" Dalinar asked again. And yet, he thought he knew.
"I am… I was… God. The one you call the Almighty, the creator of mankind." The figure closed his eyes. "And now I am dead. Odium has killed me. I am sorry." "Can you feel it?" Wit asked of the open night. "Something just changed. I believe that's the sound the world makes when it pisses itself."
Three guards stood just inside the thick wooden city gates of Kholinar. The men regarded Wit with worry.
The gates were closed, and these men were of the night watch, a somewhat inappropriate title. They didn't spend time "watching" so much as chatting, yawning, gambling, or-in tonight's case-standing uncomfortably and listening to a crazy man.
That crazy man happened to have blue eyes, which let him get away with all kinds of trouble. Perhaps Wit should have been bemused by the stock these people put in something as simple as eye color, but he had been many places and seen many methods of rule. This didn't seem any more ridiculous than most others.
And, of course, there was a reason the people did what they did. Well, there was usually a reason. In this case, it just happened to be a good one.
"Brightlord?" one of the guards asked, looking at where Wit sat on his boxes. They'd been piled there and left by a merchant who had tipped the night watchmen to make certain nothing was stolen. To Wit, they simply made a convenient perch. His pack sat beside him, and on his knees he was tuning his enthir, a square, stringed instrument. You played it from above, plucking at strings with it sitting on your lap.
"Brightlord?" the guard repeated. "What are you doing up there?"
"Waiting," Wit said. He looked up, glancing eastward. "Waiting for the storm to arrive."
That made the guards more uncomfortable. A highstorm was not predicted this night.
Wit began playing the enthir. "Let us have a conversation to pass the time. Tell me. What is it that men value in others?"
The music played toward an audience of silent buildings, alleys, and worn cobblestones. The guards didn't respond to him. They didn't seem to know what to make of a black-clad, lighteyed man who entered the city just before evening fell, then sat on boxes beside the gates playing music.
"Well?" Wit asked, pausing the music. "What do you think? If a man or woman were to have a talent, which would be the most revered, best regarded, considered of the most worth?"
"Er… music?" one of the men finally said.
"Yes, a common answer," Wit said, plucking at a few low notes. "I once asked this question of some very wise scholars. What do men consider the most valuable of talents? One mentioned artistic ability, as you so keenly guessed. Another chose great intellect. The final chose the talent to invent, the ability to design and create great devices."
He didn't play a specific tune on the enthir, just plucks here and there, an occasional scale or fifth. Like chitchat in string form.
"Aesthetic genius," Wit said, "invention, acumen, creativity. Noble ideals indeed. Most men would pick one of those, if given the choice, and name them the greatest of talents." He plucked a string. "What beautiful liars we are."
The guards glanced at each other; the torches burning in brackets on the wall painted them with orange light.
"You think I'm a cynic," Wit said. "You think I'm going to tell you that men claim to value these ideals, but secretly prefer base talents. The ability to gather coin or to charm women. Well, I am a cynic, but in this case, I actually think those scholars were honest. Their answers speak for the souls of men. In our hearts, we want to believe in-and would choose- great accomplishment and virtue. That's why our lies, particularly to ourselves, are so beautiful."
He began to play a real song. A simple melody at first, soft, subdued. A song for a silent night when the entire world changed.
One of the soldiers cleared his throat. "So what is the most valuable talent a man can have?" He sounded genuinely curious.
"I haven't the faintest idea," Wit said. "Fortunately, that wasn't the question. I didn't ask what was most valuable, I asked what men value most. The difference between those questions is both tiny and as vast as the world itself all at once."
He kept plucking his song. One did not strum an enthir. It just wasn't done, at least not by people with any sense of propriety.
"In this," Wit said, "as in all things, our actions give us away. If an artist creates a work of powerful beauty-using new and innovative techniques-she will be lauded as a master, and will launch a new movement in aesthetics. Yet what if another, working independently with that exact level of skill, were to make the same accomplishments the very next month? Would she find similar acclaim? No. She'd be called derivative.
"Intellect. If a great thinker develops a new theory of mathematics, science, or philosophy, we will name him wise. We will sit at his feet and learn, and will record his name in history for thousands upon thousands to revere. But what if another man determines the same theory on his own, then delays in publishing his results by a mere week? Will he be remembered for his greatness? No. He will be forgotten.
"Invention. A woman builds a new design of great worth-some fabrial or feat of engineering. She will be known as an innovator. But if someone with the same talent creates the same design a year later-not realizing it has already been crafted-will she be rewarded for her creativity? No. She'll be called a copier and a forger."
He plucked at his strings, letting the melody continue, twisting, haunting, yet with a faint edge of mockery. "And so," he said, "in the end, what must we determine? Is it the intellect of a genius that we revere? If it were their artistry, the beauty of their mind, would we not laud it regardless of whether we'd seen their product before?
"But we don't. Given two works of artistic majesty, otherwise weighted equally, we will give greater acclaim to the one who did it first. It doesn't matter what you create. It matters what you create before anyone else.
"So it's not the beauty itself we admire. It's not the force of intellect. It's not invention, aesthetics, or capacity itself. The greatest talent that we think a man can have?" He plucked one final string. "Seems to me that it must be nothing more than novelty."
The guards looked confused.
The gates shook. Something pounded on them from outside.
"The storm has come," Wit said, standing up.
The guards scrambled for spears left leaning beside the wall. They had a guard house, but it was empty; they preferred the night air.
The gate shook again, as if something enormous were outside. The guards yelled, calling to the men atop the wall. All was chaos and confusion as the gate thumped yet a third time, powerful, shaking, vibrating as if hit with a boulder.
And then a bright, silvery blade rammed between the massive doors, slicing upward, cutting the bar that held them closed. A Shardblade.
The gates swung open. The guards scrambled back. Wit waited on his boxes, enthir held in one hand, pack over his shoulder.
Outside the gates, standing on the dark stone roadway, was a solitary man with dark skin. His hair was long and matted, his clothing nothing more than a ragged, sacklike length of cloth wrapping his waist. He stood with head bowed, wet, ratty hair hanging down over his face and mixing with a beard that had bits of wood and leaves stuck in it.
His muscles glistened, wet as if he'd just swum a great distance. To his side, he carried a massive Shardblade, point down, sticking about a finger's width into the stone, his hand on the hilt. The Blade reflected torchlight; it was long, narrow, and straight, shaped like an enormous spike.
"Welcome, lost one," Wit whispered.
"Who are you!" one of the guards called, nervous, as one of the other two ran to give the alert. A Shardbearer had come to Kholinar.
The figure ignored the question. He stepped forward, dragging his Shardblade, as if it weighed a great deal. It cut the rock behind him, leaving a tiny groove in the stone. The figure walked unsteadily, and nearly tripped. He steadied himself against the gate door, and a lock of hair moved from the side of his face, exposing his eyes. Dark brown eyes, like a man of the lower class. Those eyes were wild, dazed.
The man finally noticed the two guards, who stood, terrified, with spears leveled at him. He raised his empty hand toward them. "Go," he said raggedly, speaking perfect Alethi, no hint of an accent. "Run! Raise the call! Give the warning!"
"Who are you?" one of the guards forced out. "What warning? Who attacks?"
The man paused. He raised a hand to his head, wavering. "Who am I? I… I am Talenel'Elin, Stonesinew, Herald of the Almighty. The Desolation has come. Oh, God… it has come. And I have failed."
He slumped forward, hitting the rocky ground, Shardblade clattering down behind him. It did not vanish. The guards inched forward. One prodded the man with the butt of his spear.
The man who had named himself a Herald did not move.
"What is it we value?" Wit whispered. "Innovation. Originality. Novelty. But most importantly… timeliness. I fear you may be too late, my confused, unfortunate friend."