“I assure you, I never look like that. But, um, I am glad you guys came. Really, really glad.”
“Bridge Four,” Rock said, then launched into the air.
Renarin settled down nearby on some steps, trembling from it all, but grinning anyway.
* * *
Dalinar drifted in the Thrill’s embrace.
He’d once believed he had been four men in his life, but he now saw he’d grossly underestimated. He hadn’t lived as two, or four, or six men—he had lived as thousands, for each day he became someone slightly different.
He hadn’t changed in one giant leap, but across a million little steps.
The most important always being the next, he thought as he drifted in the red mist. The Thrill threatened to take him, control him, rip him apart and shred his soul in its eagerness to please him—to give him something it could never understand was dangerous.
A small hand gripped Dalinar’s.
He started, looking down. “L-Lift? You shouldn’t have come in here.”
“But I’m the best at going places I’m not supposed to.” She pressed something into his hand.
The large ruby.
Bless you.
“What is it?” she said. “Why do you need that rock?”
Dalinar squinted into the mists. Do you know how we capture spren, Dalinar? Taravangian had said. You lure the spren with something it loves. You give it something familiar to draw it in …
Something it knows deeply.
“Shallan saw one of the Unmade in the tower,” he whispered. “When she got close, it was afraid, but I don’t think the Thrill comprehends like it did. You see, it can only be bested by someone who deeply, sincerely, understands it.”
He lifted the gemstone above his head, and—one last time—embraced the Thrill.
War.
Victory.
The contest.
Dalinar’s entire life had been a competition: a struggle from one conquest to the next. He accepted what he had done. It would always be part of him. And though he was determined to resist, he would not cast aside what he had learned. That very thirst for the struggle—the fight, the victory—had also prepared him to refuse Odium.
“Thank you,” he whispered again to the Thrill, “for giving me strength when I needed it.”
The Thrill churned close around him, cooing and exulting in his praise.
“Now, old friend, it is time to rest.”
* * *
Keep moving.
Kaladin dodged and wove, avoiding some strikes, healing from others.
Keep them distracted.
He tried to take to the skies, but the eight Fused swarmed about him, knocking him back down. He hit the stone ground, then Lashed himself laterally, away from the stabbing lances or crushing clubs.
Can’t actually escape.
He had to keep their attention. If he managed to slip away, all of these would turn against Dalinar.
You don’t have to beat them. You simply have to last long enough.
He dodged to the right, skimming a few inches above the ground. But one of the hulking Fused—there were four fighting him now—grabbed him by the foot. She slammed him down, then carapace grew down along her arms, threatening to bind Kaladin to the ground.
He kicked her off, but another grabbed him by the arm and flung him to the side. Flying ones descended, and while he warded away their lances with the Sylshield, his side throbbed with pain. The healing was coming more slowly now.
Two other Fused swept along, scooping up nearby gemstones, leaving Kaladin in an ever-expanding ring of darkness.
Just buy time. Dalinar needs time.
Syl sang in his mind as he spun, forming a spear and ramming it through the chest of one of the hulking ones. Those could heal unless you stabbed them in exactly the right spot in the sternum, and he’d missed. So, he made Syl into a sword and—the weapon still embedded in the Fused woman’s chest—swept upward through the head, burning her eyes. Another hulking Fused swung, but as it hit—the club being part of the thing’s actual body—Kaladin used much of his remaining Stormlight to Lash this man upward, crashing him into a Fused above.
Another clobbered him from the side, sending him rolling. Red lightning pulsed overhead as he came to a rest on his back. He immediately summoned Syl as a spear, pointing straight up. That impaled the Fused dropping down to attack him, cracking its sternum within, causing its eyes to burn.
Another grabbed him by the foot and lifted him, then slammed him face-first into the ground. That knocked Kaladin’s breath out. The monstrous Fused stomped a carapace-encrusted foot onto his back, shattering ribs. Kaladin screamed, and though the Stormlight healed what it could, the last of it fluttered inside.
Then went out.
A sudden sound rose behind Kaladin, like that of rushing air—accompanied by wails of pain. The Fused stumbled backward, muttering to a quick, worried rhythm. Then, remarkably, it turned and ran.
Kaladin twisted, looking behind himself. He couldn’t make out Dalinar anymore, but the mist itself had begun to thrash. Surging and pulsing, it whipped about like it was caught in a powerful wind.
More Fused fled. That wailing grew louder, and the mist seemed to roar—a thousand faces stretching from it, mouths opened in agony. They were sucked back together, like rats pulled by their tails.
The red mist imploded, vanishing. All went dark, with the storm overhead growing still.
Kaladin found himself lying broken on the ground. Stormlight had healed his vital functions; his organs would probably be intact, though his cracked bones left him gasping with pain when he tried to sit up. The spheres around the area were dun, and the darkness prevented him from spotting whether Dalinar lived.
The mist was entirely gone. That seemed a good sign. And in the darkness, Kaladin could see something streaking from the city. Brilliant white lights flying in the air.
A scraping sound came from nearby, and then a violet light flickered in the darkness. A shadow stumbled to its feet, dark purple light pulsing alive in its chest cavity, which was empty save for that gemstone.
Amaram’s glowing red eyes illuminated a distorted face: his jaw had broken as he’d fallen, and gemstones had pushed out the sides of his face at awkward angles, making the jaw hang limp from his mouth, drool leaking out the side. He stumbled toward Kaladin, gemstone heart pulsing with light. A Shardblade formed in his hand. The one that had killed Kaladin’s friends so long ago.
“Amaram,” Kaladin whispered. “I can see what you are. What you’ve always been.”
Amaram tried to speak, but his drooping jaw only let out spittle and grunts. Kaladin was struck by a memory of the first time he’d seen the highlord at Hearthstone. So tall and brave. Seemingly perfect.
“I saw it in your eyes, Amaram,” Kaladin whispered as the husk of a man stumbled up to him. “When you killed Coreb and Hab and my other friends. I saw the guilt you felt.” He licked his lips. “You tried to break me as a slave. But you failed. They rescued me.”
Maybe it’s time for someone to save you, Syl had said in Shadesmar. But someone already had.
Amaram raised the Shardblade high.
“Bridge Four,” Kaladin whispered.
An arrow slammed into Amaram’s head from behind, going right through the skull, coming out his inhuman mouth. Amaram stumbled forward, dropping his Shardblade, the arrow stuck in his head. He made a choking sound, then turned about just in time to catch another arrow straight in the chest—right through the flickering gemstone heart.
The amethyst exploded, and Amaram dropped in a crumbled wreck beside Kaladin.
A glowing figure stood on some rubble beyond, holding Amaram’s enormous Shardbow. The weapon seemed to match Rock, tall and brilliant, a beacon in the darkness.
Amaram’s red eyes faded as he died, and Kaladin had the distinct impression of a dark smoke escaping his corpse. Two Shardblades formed beside him and clanged to the stone.
* * *
The soldiers made a space for Radiant on the wall as they prepared for the enemy assault. Amaram’s army formed assault ranks while parshmen carried ladders, ready to charge.
It was hard to step atop the wall without squishing a fearspren. Thaylens whispered of Alethi prowess in battle, recalling stories like when Hamadin and his fifty had withstood ten thousand Vedens. This was the first battle the Thaylens had seen in a generation, but Amaram’s troops had been hardened by constant war on the Shattered Plains.
They looked to Shallan as if she could save them. The Knights Radiant were the only edge this city had. Their best hope of survival.
That terrified her.
The armies started charging the wall. No pause, no breather. Odium would keep pushing forces at this wall as long as it took to crack Thaylen City. Bloodlusty men, controlled by …
The lights in their eyes started to go out.
That clouded sky made it unmistakable. All across the field, red faded from the eyes of Amaram’s soldiers. Many immediately fell to their knees, retching on the ground. Others stumbled, holding themselves upright by sagging against spears. It was like the very life had been sucked out of them—and it was so abrupt and unexpected that Shallan had to blink several times before her mind admitted that—yes—this was happening.
Cheers erupted along the wall as the Fused inexplicably retreated back toward the ships. The parshmen rushed to follow, as did many of Amaram’s troops—though some just lay on the broken stones.
Lethargically, the black storm faded until it was a mere overcast stain, rippling with drowsy red lightning. It finally rolled across the island—impotent, bereft of wind—and vanished to the east.
* * *
Kaladin drank Stormlight from Lopen’s gemstones.
“Be lucky the Horneater was looking for you, gon,” Lopen said. “The rest of us thought we’d just fight, you know?”
Kaladin glanced toward Rock, who stood over Amaram’s body, looking down, the enormous bow held limply in one hand. How had he drawn it? Stormlight granted great endurance, but it didn’t vastly improve strength.
“Whoa,” Lopen said. “Gancho! Look!”
The clouds had thinned, and sunlight peeked through, illuminating the field of stone. Dalinar Kholin knelt not far away, clutching a large ruby that glowed with the same strange phantom light as the Fused. The Reshi girl stood with her diminutive hand resting on his shoulder.
The Blackthorn was crying as he cradled the gemstone.
“Dalinar?” Kaladin asked, worried, jogging over. “What happened?”
“It is over, Captain,” Dalinar said. Then he smiled. So were they tears of joy? Why had he seemed so grieved? “It’s over.”
It becomes the responsibility of every man, upon realizing he lacks the truth, to seek it out.
—From The Way of Kings, postscript
Moash found it easy to transition from killing men to breaking apart rubble.
He used a pick to hack at pieces of fallen stone in the former east wing of the Kholinar palace, smashing fallen columns so they could be carried off by other workers. Nearby, the floor was still red with dried blood. That was where he’d killed Elhokar, and his new masters had ordered the blood to not be cleaned. They claimed that the death of a king was a thing to regard with reverence.
Shouldn’t Moash have felt pleasure? Or at least satisfaction? Instead, killing Elhokar had only made him feel … cold. Like a man who had hiked across half of Roshar with a caravan of stubborn chulls. At the top of the last hill, you didn’t feel satisfaction. You just felt tired. Maybe a sliver of relief at being done.
He slammed his pick into a fallen pillar. Near the end of the battle for Kholinar, the thunderclast had knocked down a large portion of the palace’s eastern gallery. Now, human slaves worked to clear out the rubble. The others would often break down crying, or work with hunched shoulders.
Moash shook his head, enjoying the peaceful rhythm of pick on stone.
A Fused strode past, covered in carapace armor as brilliant and wicked as Shardplate. There were nine orders of them. Why not ten?
“Over there,” the Fused said through an interpreter. He pointed at a section of wall. “Break this down.”
Moash wiped his brow, frowning as other slaves began work there. Why break down that wall? Wouldn’t it be needed to rebuild this portion of the palace?
“Curious, human?”
Moash jumped, startled to find a figure hovering down through the broken ceiling, swathed in black. Lady Leshwi still visited Moash, the man who had killed her. She was important among the singers, but not in a highprince sort of way. More like a field captain.
“I guess I am curious, Ancient Singer,” Moash said. “Is there a reason you’re ripping apart this section of the palace? More than just to clear away the rubble?”
“Yes. But you do not yet need to know why.”
He nodded, then returned to his work.
She hummed to a rhythm he associated with being pleased. “Your passion does you credit.”
“I have no passion. Just numbness.”
“You have given him your pain. He will return it, human, when you need it.”
That would be fine, so long as he could forget the look of betrayal he’d seen in Kaladin’s eyes.
“Hnanan wishes to speak with you,” the ancient one said. The name wasn’t fully a word. It was more a hummed sound, with specific beats. “Join us above.”
She flew off. Moash set aside his pick and followed in a more mundane manner, rounding to the front of the palace. Once away from the picks and the clatter of rocks, he could hear sobs and whimpers. Only the most destitute humans sheltered here, in the broken buildings near the palace.
Eventually, these would be rounded up and sent to work farms. For now, however, the grand city was a place of wails and heartache. The people thought the world had ended, but they were only half right. Their world had.
He entered the palace uncontested, and started up the stairwell. Fused didn’t need guards. Killing them was difficult, and even if you succeeded, they would simply be reborn at the next Everstorm, assuming a willing parshman could be found to take the burden.
Near the king’s chambers, Moash passed two Fused reading books in a library. They’d removed their lengthy coats, floating with bare feet peeking from loose, rippling trousers, toes pointed downward. He eventually found Hnanan out beyond the king’s balcony, hovering in the air, her train blowing and rippling in the wind beneath.
“Ancient Singer,” he said from the balcony. Though Hnanan was the equivalent of a highprince, they did not demand that Moash bow even to her. Apparently, by having killed one of their better fighters, he had obtained a level of respect.
“You did well,” she said, speaking Alethi, her voice thickly accented. “You felled a king in this palace.”
“King or slave, he was an enemy to me and mine.”
“I have called myself wise,” she said, “and felt pride for Leshwi at picking you out. For years, my brother, sister, and I will boast of having chosen you.” She looked to him. “Odium has a command for you. This is rare for a human.”
“Speak it.”
“You have killed a king,” she said, removing something from a sheath within her robes. A strange knife, with a sapphire set into the pommel. The weapon was of a bright golden metal, so light it was almost white. “Would you do the same to a god?”
* * *
Navani left through the sally port in the Thaylen City wall, and ran across the broken field, heedless of the calls of soldiers who scrambled after her. She’d waited as long as was reasonable to let the enemy army withdraw.
Dalinar walked with help from Lopen and Captain Kaladin, one under each arm. He towed jets of exhaustionspren like a swarm. Navani took him in a powerful embrace anyway. He was the Blackthorn. He’d survive a forceful hug.
Kaladin and Lopen hovered nearby. “He’s mine,” she said to them.
They nodded, and didn’t move.
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“People need your help inside,” she said. “I can handle him, boys.”
Finally they flew off, and Navani tried to get under Dalinar’s arm. He shook his head, still holding her in the embrace, a large stone—wrapped in his coat—held in one hand and pressing against her back. What was that?
“I think I know why the memories came back,” he whispered. “Odium was going to make me remember once I faced him. I needed to learn to stand up again. All my pain these last two months was a blessing.”
She held to him on that open field of rock, broken by the thunderclasts, littered with men who wailed toward the empty sky, screaming for what they’d done, demanding to know why they’d been abandoned.
Dalinar resisted Navani’s attempts to tug him toward the wall. Instead, teary eyed, he kissed her. “Thank you for inspiring me.”
“Inspiring you?”
He released her and held up his arm, which was strapped with the clock and painrial she’d given him. It had cracked open, exposing the gemstones. “It reminded me,” he said. “Of how we make fabrials.”
He lethargically unwrapped his uniform jacket from around a large ruby. It glowed with a bizarre light, deep and dark. Somehow, it seemed to be trying to pull the light around it in.
“I want you to keep this safe for me,” Dalinar said. “Study it. Find out why this gemstone specifically was capable of holding one of the Unmade. Don’t break it though. We dare not let it out again.”
She bit her lip. “Dalinar, I’ve seen something like this before. Much smaller, like a sphere.” She looked up at him. “Gavilar made it.”
Dalinar touched the stone with his bare finger. Deep within it, something seemed to stir. Had he really trapped an entire Unmade inside this thing?
“Study it,” he repeated. “And in the meantime, there’s something else I want you to do, dearest. Something unconventional, perhaps uncomfortable.”
“Anything,” she said. “What is it?”
Dalinar met her eyes. “I want you to teach me how to read.”
* * *
Everyone started celebrating. Shallan, Radiant, and Veil just settled down on the wall walk, back to the stone.