At its root, a name. Renarin Kholin.
“Dalinar was not supposed to Ascend,” Odium said, stepping up behind Taravangian.
“You need me,” Taravangian whispered.
“I need nobody.”
Taravangian looked up and there, glowing in front of him, was a set of words. A message from himself, in the past. Incredible! Had he somehow seen even this?
Thank you.
He read them out loud. “You have agreed to a battle of champions. You must withdraw to prevent this contest from occurring, and so must not meet with Dalinar Kholin again. Otherwise, he can force you to fight. This means you must let your agents do your work. You need me.”
Odium stepped up, noting the words that Taravangian had read. Then he frowned at the tears on Taravangian’s cheeks.
“Your Passion,” Odium said, “does you credit. What is it you ask in barter?”
“Protect the people I rule.”
“Dear Taravangian, do you not think I can see what you are planning?” Odium gestured toward writing where the ceiling had once stood. “You would seek to become king of all humans—and then I would need to preserve them all. No. If you help me, I will save your family. Anyone within two generations of you.”
“Not enough.”
“Then we have no deal.”
The words started to fade all around them. Leaving him alone. Alone and stupid. He blinked tears from the corners of his eyes. “Kharbranth,” he said. “Preserve only Kharbranth. You may destroy all other nations. Just leave my city. It is what I beg of you.”
The world was lost, humankind doomed.
They had planned to protect so much more. But … he saw now how little they knew. One city before the storms. One land protected, even if the rest had to be sacrificed.
“Kharbranth,” Odium said. “The city itself, and any humans who have been born into it, along with their spouses. This is whom I will spare. Do you agree to this?”
“Should we write … a contract?”
“Our word is the contract. I am not some spren of Honor, who seeks to obey only the strictest letter of a promise. If you have an agreement from me, I will keep it in spirit, not merely in word.”
What else could he do? “I will take this deal,” Taravangian whispered. “The Diagram will serve you, in exchange for the preservation of my people. But I warn you, the assassin has joined Dalinar Kholin. I was forced to reveal my association with him.”
“I know,” Odium said. “You are still of use. First, I will require that Honorblade which you have so cleverly stolen. And then you will find out for me what the Alethi have discovered about this tower.…”
* * *
Shallan breathed out Stormlight, shaping an illusion possible only when she and Dalinar met. Spinning curls of mist swept out to form oceans and peaks—the entire continent of Roshar, a mass of vibrant colors.
Highprinces Aladar and Hatham waved for their generals and scribes to walk around the map, which filled the large room, hovering at about waist height. Dalinar stood in the very center of the thing, among the mountains near Urithiru, the illusion rippling and dissolving where it touched his uniform.
Adolin wrapped his arms around Shallan from behind. “It looks beautiful.”
“You look beautiful,” she replied.
“You are beautiful.”
“Only because you’re here. Without you, I fade.”
Brightness Teshav stood near them, and though the woman normally maintained a stoic professionalism, Shallan thought she caught a hint of an eye roll. Well, Teshav was so old she probably forgot what it was like to breathe most days, let alone what it was like to love.
Adolin made Shallan giddy. With his warmth so close, she had trouble maintaining the illusion of the map. She felt silly—they’d been betrothed for months now, and she’d grown so comfortable with him. Yet something had still changed. Something incredible.
It was finally time. The wedding date had been set for only one week away—once the Alethi put their minds to something, they made it happen. Well, that was good. Shallan wouldn’t want to go too far in a relationship without oaths, and storms, even one week was starting to sound like an eternity.
She still needed to explain some things to Adolin. Most notably, the entire mess with the Ghostbloods. She’d done too good a job of ignoring that one lately, but it would be a relief to finally have someone she could talk to about it. Veil could explain—Adolin was growing accustomed to her, though he wouldn’t be intimate with her. He treated her like a drinking buddy, which was actually kind of working for both of them.
Dalinar walked through the illusion, holding his hand over Iri, Rira, and Babatharnam. “Change this part of the land to a burning gold.”
It took her a moment to realize he was talking to her. Stupid Adolin and his stupid arms. Stupid strong yet gentle arms pressing against her, right beneath her breasts …
Right. Right. Illusion.
She did as Dalinar commanded, amused by how the scribes and generals pointedly did not look at her and Adolin. Some whispered about Adolin’s Westerner heritage, which made him too public with his affection. His mixed parentage didn’t seem to concern the Alethi in most cases—they were a pragmatic people, and saw his hair as a sign of other peoples conquered and brought into their superior culture. But they would look for excuses for why he didn’t always act like they thought he should.
By reports via spanreed, most of the lesser kingdoms surrounding the Purelake had been captured by Iri—which had moved, accompanied by Fused, to secure land they’d eyed for generations. This secured for them three total Oathgates. Shallan painted those kingdoms on the map a vivid gold at Dalinar’s request.
Azir and its protectorates she painted a pattern of blue and maroon, the symbol the Azish scribes had chosen for the coalition between their kingdoms. The emperor of Azir had agreed to continue negotiations; they weren’t fully in the coalition. They wanted assurances that Dalinar could control his troops.
She continued shading the landscape colors at Dalinar’s request. Marat and those around it went gold, as did—unfortunately—Alethkar. Lands that hadn’t yet committed, like Shinovar and Tukar, she turned green. The result was a depressing view of a continent, with far too little of it colored the shades of their coalition.
The generals began discussing tactics. They wanted to invade Tu Bayla—the large land that stretched between Jah Keved and the Purelake. The argument was that if the enemy took that, they’d divide the coalition in two. The Oathgates allowed quick access to the capitals, but many cities were far from the centers of power.
Dalinar crossed the room, forming a ripple that followed in his wake. He stopped near where Adolin and Shallan stood by Herdaz. And Alethkar.
“Show me Kholinar,” he said softly.
“That’s not how it works, Brightlord,” she said. “I have to sketch something first, and…”
He touched her on the shoulder, and a thought entered her mind. Another pattern.
“This is what the Stormfather sees,” Dalinar said. “It is not specific, so we won’t be able to rely on the details, but it should give us an impression. If you please.”
Shallan turned and waved her hand toward the wall, painting it with Stormlight. When the illusion took, the side of the room seemed to vanish—letting them look out, as if from a balcony in the sky, toward Kholinar.
The gate nearest them still hung broken, exposing ruined buildings inside—but some progress had been made toward cleaning those up. Parshmen walked the streets and patrolled the unbroken sections of wall. Fused coursed overhead, trailing long clothing. A flag flew from the tops of buildings, red lines on black. A foreign symbol.
“Kaladin said they weren’t here to destroy,” Adolin said, “but to occupy.”
“They want their world back,” Shallan said, pushing against him, wanting to feel his body against hers. “Could we … just let them have what they’ve taken?”
“No,” Dalinar sai
d. “So long as Odium leads the enemy, they will try to sweep us off this land, and make the world so it has no need of another Desolation. Because we’ll be gone.”
The three of them stood as if on a precipice, overlooking the city. The humans toiling outside, preparing for a planting. The lines of smoke curling from inside, where lighteyed keeps had tried to hold out against the invasion. The sights haunted Shallan, and she could only imagine how Adolin and Dalinar felt. They had protected Thaylenah, but had lost their homeland.
“There’s a traitor among us,” Dalinar said softly. “Someone attacked Bridge Four specifically to get the Honorblade—because they needed it to unlock the Oathgates and let the enemy in.”
“That,” Shallan said softly, “or it was unlocked by a Radiant who has changed sides.”
Inexplicably, the Assassin in White had joined them. He sat outside the room, guarding the door as Dalinar’s new bodyguard. He’d explained, frankly and without concern, that the majority of the Order of the Skybreakers had chosen to serve Odium. Shallan wouldn’t have thought that possible, but that—and Renarin’s bonding of a corrupted spren—indicated that they couldn’t trust someone simply because they’d spoken Ideals.
“You think,” Adolin said, “Taravangian might have done it?”
“No,” Dalinar said. “Why would he work with the enemy? Everything he’s done so far has been to secure a safe Roshar—if through brutal means. Still, I have to wonder. I can’t afford to be too trusting. Hopefully that’s one thing Sadeas cured in me.”
The Blackthorn shook his head, then looked to Shallan and Adolin. “Either way, Alethkar needs a king. More so now than ever.”
“The heir—” Adolin began.
“Too young. This isn’t the time for a regency. Gavinor can be named your heir, Adolin, but we must see you two married and the monarchy secured. For the good of Alethkar, but also the world.” He narrowed his eyes. “The coalition needs more than I can provide. I will continue to lead it, but I have never been good at diplomacy. I need someone on the throne who can inspire Alethkar and command the respect of the monarchs.”
Adolin grew tense, and Shallan took his hand, holding tight. You can be this man, if you want, she thought to him. But you don’t have to be what he makes of you.
“I’ll prepare the coalition for your coronation,” Dalinar said. “Perhaps the day before the wedding.” He turned to walk away. Dalinar Kholin was a force like a storm. He simply blew you over, and assumed you’d always wanted to lie down in the first place.
Adolin looked to Shallan, then set his jaw and seized his father by the arm. “I killed Sadeas, Father,” Adolin whispered.
Dalinar froze.
“It was me,” Adolin continued. “I broke the Codes of War and killed him in the corridor. For speaking against our family. For betraying us time and time again. I stopped him because it needed to be done, and because I knew you would never be able to do it.”
Dalinar turned, speaking in a harsh whisper. “What? Son, why did you hide this from me?”
“Because you’re you.”
Dalinar took a deep breath. “We can fix this,” he said. “We can see that atonement is made. It will hurt our reputation. Storms, this is not what I needed now. Nonetheless, we will fix it.”
“It’s already fixed. I’m not sorry for what I did—and I’d do it again, right now.”
“We’ll talk about this further once the coronation—”
“I’m not going to be king, Father,” Adolin said. He glanced at Shallan, and she nodded to him, then squeezed his hand again. “Didn’t you listen to what I just said? I broke the Codes.”
“Everyone in this storming country breaks the Codes,” Dalinar said, loudly, then looked over his shoulder. He continued, more softly. “I broke the Codes hundreds of times. You don’t have to be perfect, you only have to do your duty.”
“No. I’ll be highprince, but not king. I just … no. I don’t want that burden. And before you complain that none of us want it, I’d also be terrible at the job. You think the monarchs would listen to me?”
“I can’t be king of Alethkar,” Dalinar said softly. “I have to lead the Radiants—and need to divest myself of that power in Alethkar, to move away from that highking nonsense. We need a ruler in Alethkar who won’t be pushed over, but who can also deal with diplomats in diplomatic ways.”
“Well, that’s not me,” Adolin repeated.
“Who, then?” Dalinar demanded.
Shallan cocked her head. “Hey. Have you boys ever considered…”
* * *
Palona skimmed through the latest gossip reports out of Tashikk, looking for the juicy stuff.
Around her in the grand conference room of Urithiru, kings and princes squabbled with one another. Some complained that they weren’t allowed to join whatever meeting Dalinar was having on the floor above, with his generals. The Natans still complained that they should be given control of the Oathgate at the Shattered Plains, while the Azish were talking—again—about how God himself had apparently prophesied that Surgebinders would destroy the world.
Everyone was quite persistent, and quite loud—even those who didn’t speak Alethi. You had to be very dedicated to your grousing to wait for interpretation.
Sebarial—Turi—snored softly beside Palona. That was an act. He did the same fake snore when she tried to tell him about the latest novel she’d read. Then when she quit, he got annoyed. He seemed to like hearing the stories, but only as long as he could comment on how trite and feminine they were.
She nudged him, and he cracked an eye as she turned one of her gossip reports toward him, pointing at a drawing it included. “Yezier and Emul,” she whispered. “The prince and princess were seen together in Thaylen City, speaking intimately while their guards worked on the rubble.”
Turi grunted.
“Everyone thinks their romance is back on, though they can’t talk about it, as head monarchs in Azir are forbidden marriage without the emperor’s consent. But the rumors are wrong. I think she’s been courting Halam Khal, the Shardbearer.”
“You could just go talk to her,” Turi said, pointing a lazy finger toward the princess of Yezier, whose translators were complaining forcefully about the dangers of Surgebinding.
“Oh, Turi,” Palona said. “You can’t just ask people about gossip. This is why you’re hopeless.”
“And here I thought I was hopeless because of my terrible taste in women.”
The doors to the room slammed open, the noise of it sending a shock through the room, complaints falling silent. Even Turi sat up to note Jasnah Kholin standing in the doorway.
She wore a small but unmistakable crown on her head. The Kholin family, it seemed, had chosen their new monarch.
Turi grinned at the looks of worry on the faces of many of the others in the room. “Oh my,” he whispered to Palona. “Now this should be interesting.”
* * *
Moash pounded the pickaxe down again.
Two weeks of work, and he was still here clearing out rubble. Kill a god. Get back to work.
Well, he didn’t mind. It would take months, maybe years, to clear all the rubble from this city. All of it out of Alethkar.
Most days this week, he was the only one here working at the palace. The city was slowly being reversed, humans shipped out, singers moved in—but they left him alone to break stones, with no overseer or guard in sight.
So he was surprised when he heard another pick fall beside him. He spun, shocked. “Khen?”
The beefy parshwoman started breaking rocks.
“Khen, you were freed from your slavery,” Moash said. “Your assault on the palace earned you the Passion of Mercy.”
Khen kept working. Nam and Pal stepped in, wearing warform—two others who had survived with him during the assault. Only a handful had.
They lifted picks and started breaking stones too.
“Pal,” Moash said. “You—”
“They want us to farm
,” she said. “I’m tired of farming.”
“And I’m no house servant,” Khen said. “Running drinks.” They were starting to speak to rhythms, like proper singers.
“So you’ll break rocks?” Moash asked.
“We heard something. Made us want to be near you.”
Moash hesitated, but then the numbness drove him to keep working, to hear that steady beat of metal on stone that let him pass between times.
It was maybe an hour later when they came for him. Nine flying Fused, rippling clothing pooling beneath them as they descended around Moash.
“Leshwi?” he asked. “Ancient One?”
She held something before herself in two hands. A long, slender weapon. A Shardblade with a gentle curve, its metal largely unornamented. Elegant, yet somehow humble, as Shardblades went. Moash had known it as the sword of the Assassin in White. Now he recognized it as something else. The Blade of Jezerezeh. Honorblade.
Moash reached for it, hesitant, and Leshwi hummed a warning rhythm. “If you take it, you die. Moash will be no more.”
“Moash’s world is no more,” he said, taking the Blade by the hilt. “He might as well join it in the tomb.”
“Vyre,” she said. “Join us in the sky. You have a work.” She and the others Lashed themselves upward.
Join us in the sky. The Honorblades, Graves had told him, gave their powers to any who held them.
Hesitant, Moash took the sphere that Khen offered. “What was that she said? Vyre?” She had said it in a way that rhymed with “fire.”
“It’s one of their names,” Khen said. “I’ve been told it means He Who Quiets.”
Vyre, He Who Quiets, sucked in the light of the sphere.
It was sweet and beautiful, and—as he’d been promised—brought Passion with it. He held to it, then Lashed himself upward into the sky.
* * *
Though Shallan had been given months to grow accustomed to the idea of getting married, on the actual day, she didn’t feel ready.
It was such an ordeal and a hassle.
Everyone was determined that, after Dalinar and Navani’s rushed wedding, they’d do this one right. So Shallan had to sit here and be fussed over, primped, her hair braided and her face painted by the royal Alethi makeup artists. Who’d known there even was such a thing?