“Mother,” Jasnah said, not looking up from her papers, “we need more translators. Do you have any other scribes versed in classical Alethelan?”
“I’ve lent you everyone I have. What is Renarin studying over there?”
“Hm? Oh, he thinks there might be a pattern to which stones were stored in which drawers. He’s been working on it all day.”
“And?”
“Nothing, which is not surprising. He insists he can find a pattern if he looks hard enough.” Jasnah lowered her pages and looked at her cousin, who was joking with the men of Bridge Four.
Storms, Navani thought. He truly looks happy. Embarrassed as they ribbed him, but happy. She’d worried when he had first “joined” Bridge Four. He was the son of a highprince. Decorum and distance were appropriate when dealing with enlisted soldiers.
But when, before this, had she last heard him laugh?
“Maybe,” Navani said, “we should encourage him to take a break and go out with the bridgemen for the evening.”
“I’d rather keep him here,” Jasnah said, flipping through her pages. “His powers need additional study.”
Navani would talk to Renarin anyway and encourage him to go out more with the men. There was no arguing with Jasnah, any more than there was arguing with a boulder. You just stepped to the side and went around.
“The translation goes well,” Navani asked, “other than the bottleneck on numbers of scribes?”
“We’re lucky,” Jasnah said, “that the gemstones were recorded so late in the life of the Radiants. They spoke a language we can translate. If it had been the Dawnchant…”
“That’s close to being cracked.”
Jasnah frowned at that. Navani had thought the prospect of translating the Dawnchant—and writings lost to the shadowdays—would have excited her. Instead, it seemed to trouble her.
“Have you found anything more about the tower’s fabrials in these gemstone records?” Navani asked.
“I’ll be certain to prepare a report for you, Mother, with details of each and every fabrial mentioned. So far, those references are few. Most are personal histories.”
“Damnation.”
“Mother!” Jasnah said, lowering her pages.
“What? I wouldn’t have thought you would object to a few strong words now and—”
“It’s not the language, but the dismissal,” Jasnah said. “Histories.”
Oh, right.
“History is the key to human understanding.”
Here we go.
“We must learn from the past and apply that knowledge to our modern experience.”
Lectured by my own daughter again.
“The best indication of what human beings will do is not what they think, but what the record says similar groups have done in the past.”
“Of course, Brightness.”
Jasnah gave her a dry look, then set her papers aside. “I’m sorry, Mother. I’ve been dealing with a lot of lesser ardents today. My didactic side might have inflated.”
“You have a didactic side? Dear, you hate teaching.”
“Which explains my mood, I should think. I—”
A young scribe called for her from the other side of the room. Jasnah sighed, then went to answer the question.
Jasnah preferred to work alone, which was odd, considering how good she was at getting people to do what she wanted. Navani liked groups—but of course, Navani wasn’t a scholar. Oh, she knew how to pretend. But all she really did was nudge here and there, perhaps provide an idea. Others did all the real engineering.
She poked through the papers Jasnah had set aside. Perhaps her daughter had missed something in the translations. To her mind, the only scholarship of importance was stuffy, dusty writings of old philosophers. When it came to fabrials, Jasnah barely knew her pairings from her warnings.…
What was this?
The glyphs were scrawled in white on the highprince’s wall, the paper read. We quickly ascertained the implement of writing to be a stone pried free near the window. This first sign was the roughest of them, the glyphs malformed. The reason for this later became apparent, as Prince Renarin was not versed in writing glyphs, save the numbers.
The other pages were similar, talking about the strange numbers found around Dalinar’s palace in the days leading up to the Everstorm. They’d been made by Renarin, whose spren had given him warning that the enemy was preparing an assault. The poor boy, uncertain of his bond and frightened to speak out, had instead written the numbers where Dalinar would see them.
It was a little odd, but in the face of everything else, it didn’t really register. And … well, it was Renarin. Why had Jasnah collected all of these?
I have a description for you, finally, Jasnah, another said. We’ve convinced the Radiant that Lift found in Yeddaw to visit Azimir. Though she has not yet arrived, you can find sketches of her spren companion here. It looks like the shimmer you see on a wall when you shine light through a crystal.
Troubled, Navani set the sheets down before Jasnah could return. She got a copy of the translated portions from the gemstones—several young scribes were assigned to making these available—then slipped out to go check on Dalinar.
SIX YEARS AGO
Only the very most important people were allowed to watch Gavilar’s holy interment.
Dalinar stood at the front of the small crowd, gathered in the royal catacombs of Kholinar, beneath the stone sight of kings. Fires burned at the sides of the room, a primal light, traditional. Distinctly more alive than the light of spheres, it reminded him of the Rift—but for once, that pain was overpowered by something new. A fresh wound.
The sight of his brother, lying dead on the slab.
“Spirit, mind, and body,” the wizened ardent said, her voice echoing in the stone catacomb. “Death is the separation of the three. The body remains in our realm, to be reused. The spirit rejoins the pool of divine essence that gave it birth. And the mind … the mind goes to the Tranquiline Halls to find its reward.”
Dalinar’s nails bit his skin as he clenched his hands into fists—tight, to keep him from trembling.
“Gavilar the Majestic,” the ardent continued, “first king of Alethkar in the new Kholin Dynasty, thirty-second highprince of the Kholin princedom, heir of the Sunmaker and blessed of the Almighty. His accomplishments will be lauded by all, and his dominion extends to the hereafter. Already he leads men again on the battlefield, serving the Almighty in the true war against the Voidbringers.”
The ardent thrust a bony hand toward the small crowd. “Our king’s war has moved to the Tranquiline Halls. The end of our war for Roshar did not end our duty to the Almighty! Think upon your Callings, men and women of Alethkar. Think of how you might learn here, and be of use in the next world.”
Jevena would use any available opportunity to preach. Dalinar clenched his hands tighter, angry at her—angry at the Almighty. Dalinar should not have lived to see his brother die. This was not the way it should have gone.
He felt eyes on his back. Collected highprinces and wives, important ardents, Navani, Jasnah, Elhokar, Aesudan, Dalinar’s sons. Nearby, Highprince Sebarial glanced at Dalinar, eyebrows raised. He seemed to be expecting something.
I’m not drunk, you idiot, Dalinar thought. I’m not going to make a scene to amuse you.
Things had been going better lately. Dalinar had started controlling his vices; he’d confined his drinking to monthly trips away from Kholinar, visiting outer cities. He said the trips were to let Elhokar practice ruling without Dalinar looking over his shoulder, as Gavilar had been spending more and more time abroad. But during those trips, Dalinar drank himself to oblivion, letting himself escape the sounds of children crying for a few precious days.
Then, when he returned to Kholinar, he controlled his drinking. And he’d never again yelled at his sons, as he had at poor Renarin during that day on the way back from the Shattered Plains. Adolin and Renarin were the only pure remnant of Evi.
If you control your drinking when back in Kholinar, a part of him challenged, what happened at the feast? Where were you when Gavilar was fighting for his life?
“We must use King Gavilar as a model for our own lives,” the ardent was saying. “We must remember that our lives are not our own. This world is but the skirmish to prepare us for the true war.”
“And after that?” Dalinar asked, looking up from Gavilar’s corpse.
The ardent squinted, adjusting her spectacles. “Highprince Dalinar?”
“After that, what?” Dalinar said. “After we win back the Tranquiline Halls? What then? No more war?”
Is that when we finally get to rest?
“You needn’t worry, Blackthorn,” Jevena said. “Once that war is won, the Almighty will certainly provide for you another conquest.” She smiled comfortingly, then moved on to the ritual sayings. A series of keteks, some traditional, others composed by female family members for the event. Ardents burned the poems as prayers in braziers.
Dalinar looked back down at his brother’s corpse, which stared upward, lifeless blue marbles replacing his eyes.
Brother, he’d said, follow the Codes tonight. There is something strange upon the winds.
Dalinar needed something to drink, storm it.
“You, always about dreams. My soul weeps. Farewell, weeping soul. My dreams … about, always, You.”
The poem slapped him harder than the others. He sought out Navani, and knew instantly that the ketek had been hers. Gazing straight ahead, she stood with one hand on Elhokar’s—King Elhokar’s—shoulder. So beautiful. Next to her, Jasnah stood with arms wrapped around herself, eyes red. Navani reached toward her, but Jasnah pulled away from the others and stalked off toward the palace proper.
Dalinar wished he could do the same, but instead drew himself to attention. It was over. He’d never have a chance to live up to Gavilar’s expectations. Dalinar would live the rest of his life as a failure to this man whom he had loved so dearly.
The hall grew still, quiet save for the crinkling sound of paper burning in the fires. The Soulcaster stood up, and old Jevena stepped hastily backward. She wasn’t comfortable with what was coming next. None of them were, judging by the shuffling feet, the coughs into hands.
The Soulcaster might have been male, might have been female. Hard to say, with that hood up over their face. The skin beneath was colored like granite, cracked and chipped, and seemed to glow from within. The Soulcaster regarded the corpse, head cocked, as if surprised to find a body here. They ran their fingers along Gavilar’s jaw, then brushed the hair off his forehead.
“The only part of you that is true,” the Soulcaster whispered, tapping a stone that had replaced one of the king’s eyes. Then, light emerged as the Soulcaster drew their hand from their pocket, revealing a set of gemstones bound into a fabrial.
Dalinar didn’t look away, despite how the light made his eyes water. He wished … he wished he’d taken a drink or two before coming. Was he really supposed to watch something like this while sober?
The Soulcaster touched Gavilar on the forehead, and the transformation happened instantly. One moment Gavilar was there. The next he had become a statue.
The Soulcaster slipped a glove onto their hand while other ardents hurried to remove the wires that had held Gavilar’s body in position. They used levers to tip him carefully forward until he was standing, holding a sword with point toward the ground, his other hand outstretched. He stared toward eternity, crown on his head, the curls of his beard and hair preserved delicately in the stone. A powerful pose; the mortuary sculptors had done a fantastic job.
The ardents pushed him back into an alcove, where he joined the lines of other monarchs—most of them highprinces of the Kholin princedom. He would be forever frozen here, the image of a perfect ruler in his prime. Nobody would think of him as he’d been that terrible night, broken from his fall, his grand dreams cut short by treason.
“I’ll have vengeance, Mother,” Elhokar whispered. “I’ll have it!” The young king spun toward the gathered lighteyes, standing before his father’s outstretched stone hand. “You’ve each come to me privately to give support. Well, I demand you swear it in public! Today, we make a pact to hunt those who did this. Today, Alethkar goes to war!”
He was greeted by stunned silence.
“I swear it,” Torol Sadeas said. “I swear to bring vengeance to the traitorous parshmen, Your Majesty. You can depend upon my sword.”
Good, Dalinar thought, as others spoke up. This would hold them together. Even in death, Gavilar provided an excuse for unity.
Unable to stand that stone visage any longer, Dalinar left, stomping into the corridor toward the palace proper. Other voices echoed after him as highprinces swore.
If Elhokar was going to chase those Parshendi back toward the plains, he’d expect the Blackthorn’s help. But … Dalinar hadn’t been that man for years. He patted his pocket, looking for his flask. Damnation. He pretended he was better these days, kept telling himself he was in the process of finding a way out of this mess. Of returning to the man he’d once been.
But that man had been a monster. Frightening, that nobody had blamed him for the things he’d done. Nobody but Evi, who had seen what the killing would do to him. He closed his eyes, hearing her tears.
“Father?” a voice said from behind.
Dalinar forced himself to stand upright, turning as Adolin scrambled up to him.
“Are you well, Father?”
“Yes,” Dalinar said. “I just … need to be alone.”
Adolin nodded. Almighty above, the boy had turned out well, through little effort of Dalinar’s. Adolin was earnest, likable, and a master of the sword. He was truly capable in modern Alethi society, where how you moved among groups was even more important than strength of arm. Dalinar had always felt like a tree stump in those kinds of settings. Too big. Too stupid.
“Go back,” Dalinar said. “Swear for our house on this Vengeance Pact.”
Adolin nodded, and Dalinar continued onward, fleeing those fires below. Gavilar’s stare, judging him. The cries of people dying in the Rift.
By the time he reached the steps, he was practically running. He climbed one level, then another. Sweating, frantic, he raced through ornate hallways past carved walls, sedate woods, and accusatory mirrors. He reached his chambers and scrabbled in his pockets for the keys. He’d locked the place tight; no more would Gavilar sneak in to take his bottles. Bliss waited inside.
No. Not bliss. Oblivion. Good enough.
His hands wouldn’t stop shaking. He couldn’t— It—
Follow the Codes tonight.
Dalinar’s hands trembled, and he dropped the keys.
There is something strange upon the winds.
Screams for mercy.
Get out of my head! All of you, get out!
In the distance, a voice …
“You must find the most important words a man can say.”
Which key was it? He got one into the lock, but it wouldn’t turn. He couldn’t see. He blinked, feeling dizzy.
“Those words came to me from one who claimed to have seen the future,” the voice said, echoing in the hallway. Feminine, familiar. “ ‘How is this possible?’ I asked in return. ‘Have you been touched by the void?’
“The reply was laughter. ‘No, sweet king. The past is the future, and as each man has lived, so must you.’
“ ‘So I can but repeat what has been done before?’
“ ‘In some things, yes. You will love. You will hurt. You will dream. And you will die. Each man’s past is your future.’
“ ‘Then what is the point?’ I asked. ‘If all has been seen and done?’
“ ‘The question,’ she replied, ‘is not whether you will love, hurt, dream, and die. It is what you will love, why you will hurt, when you will dream, and how you will die. This is your choice. You cannot pick the destination, only the path.’ ”
Dalinar dropped
the keys again, sobbing. There was no escape. He would fall again. Wine would consume him like a fire consumed a corpse. Leaving only ash.
There was no way out.
“This started my journey,” the voice said. “And this begins my writings. I cannot call this book a story, for it fails at its most fundamental to be a story. It is not one narrative, but many. And though it has a beginning, here on this page, my quest can never truly end.
“I wasn’t seeking answers. I felt that I had those already. Plenty, in multitude, from a thousand different sources. I wasn’t seeking ‘myself.’ This is a platitude that people have ascribed to me, and I find the phrase lacks meaning.
“In truth, by leaving, I was seeking only one thing.
“A journey.”
For years, it seemed that Dalinar had been seeing everything around him through a haze. But those words … something about them …
Could words give off light?
He turned from his door and walked down the corridor, searching for the source of the voice. Inside the royal reading room, he found Jasnah with a huge tome set before her at a standing table. She read to herself, turning to the next page, scowling.
“What is that book?” Dalinar asked.
Jasnah started. She wiped her eyes, smearing the makeup, leaving her eyes … clean, but raw. Holes in a mask.
“This is where my father got that quote,” she said. “The one he…”
The one he wrote as he died.
Only a few knew of that.
“What book is it?”
“An old text,” Jasnah said. “Ancient, once well regarded. It’s associated with the Lost Radiants, so nobody references it anymore. There has to be some secret here, a puzzle behind my father’s last words. A cipher? But what?”
Dalinar settled down into one of the seats. He felt as if he had no strength. “Will you read it to me?”
Jasnah met his eyes, chewing her lip as she’d always done as a child. Then she read in a clear, strong voice, starting over from the first page, which he’d just heard. He had expected her to stop after a chapter or two, but she didn’t, and he didn’t want her to.