Of Many Colors [Stormlight Archive/Lord of the Rings]

[Lithos Maitreya]

Thanks to Elran and @BeaconHill for betareading, and to Phinnia for the commissioned icon.

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47

Power



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I clambered from those deep caverns, climbing up through the narrow tunnels until I emerged out into the open sky for the first time in centuries.

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"What do you mean, you couldn't move?" Torol demanded.

"J-just that, Brightlord," stuttered the man. The stump where his Shardblade-severed hand had been amputated was wrapped in a thick bandage and strapped before his chest. The man's face was pale—had been pale even before he'd seen Torol—and his eyes were sunken. "The Shardbreaker just said stop, and it was like my body refused to move. Same thing happened to the others. It was…" The man cut himself off, raising the back of his remaining hand to his mouth as if to hold back from retching. "I've been a soldier for near a decade, Brightlord," he said weakly. He wasn't even looking at Torol, just staring absently into the middle distance with glazed eyes. "I don't fear death. Don't fear any man in any kind of fight, whether it's in the hall of a hospital or on a pitched battlefield. But that—he's no man, sir."

This was useless. Torol kept his temper in check. Everyone in the small hospital room was sworn to secrecy, of course—it was important to maintain deniability in something like assassination, even if it was obvious to all of Alethkar that he was the one who had ordered it—but it wouldn't do for Torol's steward and general to see him fly into a fury over something like this. The boy's importance, officially, was that the Kholins currently had control over a myth in the making, and they had to lose access before they learned to use it. That official story had to be preserved.

So rather than bellow his fury into the man's face, Torol just let out a heavy breath and turned back to his advisors. "Come," he ordered, and led them out of the field hospital. Once they were outside, he asked, "What do you make of this?"

"The stories of this Shardbreaker are compounding on one another," General Latharil said. "I am no ardent, but I find it hard to believe all of them."

"This man and his squad," said Balar in his nasal voice. "How trustworthy are they, Brightlord? Have they served important, trusted roles in the past?"

"No," Torol said. The squad had been disposable by design—even if they were captured and interrogated, they could give away no information that wasn't obvious. He could always deny having hired them, and it would simply be his word against theirs.

Balar shrugged. "Then it occurs to me that the mythical reputation of the Shardbreaker might serve as an excellent cover for desertion."

"Would that man really have gotten his hand severed by a Shardblade in order to cover his friends' desertion?" Latharil asked. "That seems… excessive."

"True," Balar agreed. "I suppose it's a question of what is more likely. Is it more likely that the so-called Shardbreaker truly has a magical voice capable of ensorcelling those who hear it, or that one man had his hand severed by a Shardblade—whether accidentally or deliberately—and used it to cover for the desertion of three other men?"

"Neither seems especially likely," said Latharil. "Especially when there's a much simpler explanation. The four men attempted to follow the highprince's orders. They were interrupted by Prince Renarin, who severed this man's hand and either killed or captured the others. Rather than admit to having been defeated by a boy who can't ride a horse without having a fit and falling from it, this man decided to spin a story of the Shardbreaker's magic voice."

"It makes sense," agreed Torol. "All we know is that the man encountered a Shardblade sometime in the past two days."

"But why would Prince Renarin be wielding his Shardblade in defense of his own bedridden guard?" Balar asked.

"It's more likely than that the man would sever his own hand," said Latharil.

"Agreed," said Torol. "So that's the only assumption that makes sense."

"Then what shall be done with the man?" asked Balar. "If he has lied to your face, Brightlord…"

Torol rolled his eyes. "Have him sent to the bridge crews," he said. "We still need men to replenish the purchase price of Oathbringer."

"Of course, Brightlord," said Balar. "I will tell the surgeons."

"Shall I find a squad to make another attempt, Brightlord?" Latharil asked.

"No," said Torol. "Not yet. I need to speak with my wife." It was an open secret, especially among Torol's own advisors, that his wife retained contact with trained assassins and spies hidden among all of the warcamps. "For now, I want you to focus your efforts on replenishing our supply of bridgemen. Bring word to your subordinates, tell them to be on the lookout for darkeyed troublemakers. Anyone whose armor could better serve on someone else, take it from them and give them a bridge instead."

"Yes, Brightlord." Torol's two closest advisors left him. He crossed the warcamp in silence, keeping his face blank as he seethed internally. He made it back to his private suite in the war palace unbothered. There, finally, he let go. His face twisted into a scowl as he summoned Oathbringer.

By the time he was finished, he was down one wine table and two chairs. He didn't feel better, exactly, but some of the pressure of his hate and rage had been relieved. Breathing heavily, he dismissed the Shardblade. It faded into mist, and the room fell into an even deeper silence, as though there had been a sound just on the edge of his hearing while he had carried the blade.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a shape scuttle along the wall below the windowsill. He glanced over, and though it fled beneath a desk, he caught another glimpse of the strange, talking spren he had seen two days ago.

He was sure he had been seeing it for weeks. Now that he knew that he hadn't been imagining it, he remembered seeing a shape in the corner of his eye everywhere from Elhokar's feasting basin to the plains between the warcamps. He had seen it in every imaginable mood, so it couldn't be a hallucination of his mind, taxed as it was by the situation at hand. It was real—he had to operate on the assumption of his own sanity, or he would be as paralyzed and ineffectual as Dalinar.

But what was it? He had never heard of such a thing. And if it could speak, it could be reporting what it saw to someone. He couldn't afford a leak like that within his very rooms. He set his jaw and left, making for the ardential quarters.

He was greeted by an unfamiliar ardent, with a rounded face and dark blue eyes. "Brightlord," the man said, bowing low as Sadeas stepped into the receiving room of his ardential wing. "How may we serve you today?"

"I have a question regarding spren," said Torol. He briefly considered saying that it was a sensitive question, but ideally he would only tell the ardent actually doing the research that. "Is there an ardent who specializes in such things here?"

"As it happens, Brightlord, I am that ardent," said the man. "I have studied all of the seminal texts of spren research, both those by traditional Vorin scholars and—"

"Yes, yes," Torol said impatiently. "I have a question that must be kept confidential. You must swear to keep secret what I ask you, as well as the answer."

"Of course, Brightlord," said the man. "I am, as always, your humble servant. Your secrets shall never pass my lips. You have my word."

"Good," said Torol. "I need to know about spren that can speak."

"Speaking spren, Brightlord?" The man looked puzzled. "There is, of course, folklore of speaking spren all over Roshar, but nothing has ever been substantiated by reputable research."

"Tell me about the folklore, then," Torol said.

The man shrugged. "There is a legend in parts of Iri of spren who served as stewards and servants," he said. "These spren were said to speak. The Iriali who hold to this claim that these spren lived in one of their prior Lands, but this is widely considered a fringe belief even among that strange people. There is also a heresy in parts of the Reshi Isles that the Voidbringers are a form of spren, and some Passionists on the eastern shore believe that the Natan people are descended from spren. There is a legend in the lands south of Shinovar that, before it was scoured, spren lived alongside men in Aimia. And, of course, there are the Knights Radiant."

Torol blinked. There was a rumor that Dalinar intended to refound the Knights Radiant. Surely that was a coincidence? "What do talking spren have to do with the Knights Radiant?"

"Oh, well, some historical texts imply some connection between the Knights Radiant and spren," said the ardent. "Some even claim that those spren could speak, and served as friends or advisors to the Radiants. This is, of course, not a widely-accepted theory. There is simply no solid evidence."

No solid evidence… except for the spren currently following me around like a stray axehound. "Is that all?" Torol asked. "No other myths of spren that can talk?"

"None that I can recall," said the ardent. "But I will, of course, consult with my collection of manuscripts and the library, to be certain. If I find any myths that I have forgotten, I will bring word to you, Brightlord."

"Do so, but keep it secret."

"Of course."

Torol left the ardent there and returned to his rooms. There he found Ialai, directing several servants to remove the wreckage left behind by his rampage with Oathbringer. "Husband," she said. "I hope you weren't attached to what remained of that table."

"Not especially," said Torol, slipping past her through the sitting room and into their bedroom. She followed, closing the door behind them.

"I gather that you received bad news," she said.

"The boy survived," said Torol. "The assassin who returned tried to spin a story about his magical voice compelling the other three men to stand still while he cut their throats. I've had him sent to the bridge crews."

"I suppose we do need to replenish those. Should I—"

Torol held up a hand to silence her. The spren was slipping under their bed silently. He tried not to feel too unsettled by that.

"Husband?"

"We are not alone," Torol said evenly. "Come out."

There was a moment of silence. Then, a faint hissing emerged from under the bed. "No," came the spren's voice.

Ialai started. "What on Roshar—who is there?"

"Ssss," the spren hissed at her. "No one. Lies."

"You clearly exist," said Torol, hiding his relief at the proof, through Ialai's reaction, that he wasn't seeing things that weren't there. "Speak. Why are you here?"

"…Shouldn't be. Sss."

"You've been following me for weeks, spren," said Torol flatly. "I imagine you were probably there when I asked the ardent about you."

"Many lies there. Then. Lying ardent, lying highprince. Lies from roof to foundation."

"Who is that?" Ialai asked. She kept her voice in check, but Torol could see in her face that she had passed surprise and slipped into fear. "What is that?"

"Cryptic. Ssssssss."

"What is cryptic?" Ialai asked.

"I am," the spren said. Slowly, reluctantly, it slipped out from under the bed, gliding along the floor, hissing faintly. The strange pattern of its shape shifted constantly as it slid over a rug. "A Cryptic. Shouldn't be here. This was a bad idea."

"What was a bad idea?" Torol asked.

"Can't remember."

"What do you mean, you can't remember?"

"Hard to come here. Hard to think. Sssss, and you aren't making it easier. So many lies, and so many of them sick."

"Speak plainly," Torol demanded, reaching out to the side and beginning to count heartbeats. "Who sent you? Why are you here? How long have you been listening—"

Oathbringer fell into Torol's hand, and suddenly his head was filled with screams. He swore, reflectively tightening his grip on the hilt. The spren was hissing madly, suddenly agitated, as if—

—as if it could hear the screams in his head too.

"Torol, what's wrong?" Ialai asked sharply, clutching at his arm.

Her voice was almost drowned out by the screaming. Torol could see by her face that she could not hear the shrieking that was somehow reverberating in his head. Yet the spren—the Cryptic—could. Why? What was happening?

He forced himself to unclench his fingers. Oathbringer fell from his hand, vanishing back into mist. As it did, the screaming fell blessedly silent.

The spren hissed sharply at him. "No summoning corpses!" it said.

"Corpses?" Torol rounded on it. "Why in Damnation was my sword just screaming at me?"

"Crossing over is hard!" it said. "Probably harder on the dead! No more desecration!"

"What are you—" Torol stopped. This was getting nowhere. No part of this conversation made any sense. Either this spren was completely insane, or it was operating from knowledge and information almost completely divorced from his own. He needed to start smaller. "You were present," he said slowly, "when I asked that ardent about talking spren. Correct?"

"Sssss. Yes." The sibilant sound of a spoken s wasn't the same as the almost ambient hissing it made between words, Torol noticed. That sound wasn't like any he had ever heard, though it vaguely resembled the sound of dry tallew grains being stirred in a bowl.

"Were any of his guesses correct?" Torol asked. "Are you one of the things he said there were myths about?"

"I think so."

"What do you mean, you think so?"

"Already told you." The spren hissed agitatedly. "Questions are lies if you don't listen to the answers."

Torol took a deep breath and let it out slowly. This creature needed to be handled calmly. "Right. You said you can't remember, because coming here was difficult. What do you mean by here?"

"Sssss. Roshar, I think."

Torol blinked once, slowly. "You're not from Roshar?"

"…Not sure. From Roshar, but not Roshar? The sun is wrong, the clouds are wrong, but the map is mostly right. I think."

That line of questioning was a dead end. Torol changed tack. "You said you think the ardent was right about something. Which of those legends do you think he was right about?"

"Ssssss. Friends and advisors." The spren sounded almost derisive. "I'm supposed to bond, I think. Find a human partner. Meant to try and bond to you. Stupid idea."

"Why would that be a stupid idea?"

"Your lies aren't the right ones," hissed the spren. "You could never speak the words. You could never mean them. You could never become."

"Become what?"

"Become." Seemingly done talking for the moment, the spren slid along the floor towards the window.

"Are you reporting what you hear near me to anyone?" Torol asked.

"No. Wouldn't be listening at all if I could avoid it."

"Then why don't you leave?" Torol asked. "That would save me the trouble of worrying about an eavesdropper."

The spren hissed rhythmically. If Torol used some imagination, the sound resembled a derisive chuckle. "A bond to you is better than no bond," it said. "I like thinking."

Torol pieced that together. "You mean, being close to me gives you the ability to think?"

"For now," said the spren. "Until I find someone better. Nahel bond. Reciprocity."

"Reciprocity? What am I supposed to get out of this 'Nahel bond'?"

"Power." And with that, the spren slipped out of the window, somehow radiating disdain in its fading hiss.

 

[Lithos Maitreya]

Thanks to Elran and @BeaconHill for betareading, and to Phinnia for the commissioned icon.

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48

And All Your Works Have Perished



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What I saw remains burned in my memory.

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Sarus breathed in sharply. Pale blue light flowed in a stream from the sphere in his hand into his body. He could feel the last traces of weakness draining away from his limbs.

He swung his legs over the side of his bed and stood up. There was no difficulty—none of the shuddering frailty of the past week.

"Your strength is," Archive observed.

"Indeed," Sarus said. "We should go. There is work to be done."

She leapt from her seat, shrinking as she went, until only a speck rested on his shoulder. He reached out to the wall, taking the spear leaning there. As he pushed open the door, he leaned heavily upon it, as if it were a walking stick or staff.

He passed a woman in ardent's robes in the receiving room of the ardential wing. She started when he rounded the corner. "Shardbreaker!" she exclaimed. "You should be resting!"

"I've had quite enough of rest for now," said Sarus. "I may not be fit for open combat, but I can help in other ways. I have responsibilities to fulfill, ardent."

She bit her lip. "You are still weak."

That's just what I want you to think. "Not too weak for this. I know my limits, ardent." Sarus grinned. "Is there an expected recovery time for surviving a lethal Shardblade wound?"

She flushed, looking at him with mingled awe and chagrin. "I… suppose not."

"Then I will take my leave. You can trust that Captain Kaladin will have me back here at once if he deems it necessary."

"Very well."

She let him go. He hobbled outside and crossed the courtyard of the palace. As he walked—slow, leaning unnecessarily on his spear—he plotted.

He needed to find Dalinar. It had been fine to be isolated for a day or two, especially while he was actually too weak to walk unaided, but after more than a week he felt positively blind. What was happening in the warcamps now? Had Sadeas made any moves since his attempt on Sarus' life? Had Adolin won any new Shards? Had there been any change in the status of the war? Had those numbers continued to be scratched on Dalinar's walls during each highstorm?

He entered the palace's entrance hall and started up the wide staircase towards the upper floors, where the king and highprince's rooms were. As he reached the landing above, he heard Dalinar's voice down the hall, coming not from his own suite, but from one of Elhokar's meeting rooms. Sarus turned and started down the hall. As soon as he was sure he was out of sight of the stairwell, he stopped his limping. There was no one to perform for here.

"Why is the illusion of weakness?" Archive asked.

"Because Sadeas has already sent assassins after me once," Sarus said. "If he sends them again, I'd rather be underestimated."

The meeting room was farther than he'd realized. He had to round two corners before he reached it. His hearing, which had always been sharp, seemed to have become truly supernatural now. He wasn't sure how he felt about that.

Four men in blue uniforms were standing guard outside the meeting. Two of them Sarus did not know, but the other two were Torfin and Foran. All four of them startled at the sight of him.

"Sarus?" Torfin hissed. "Is that—Storms, man, what are you doing up?"

"Walking," said Sarus dryly. "Is Kaladin in there?"

"Yes," Torfin said. "Along with the king, highprince, and half of the important people in the warcamp."

"Per usual," grunted Sarus. "Dalinar invited me to start attending those meetings while I was ill. Mind if I go in?"

"Your funeral," said Foran. "Prince Adolin's in a mood. Think I heard him yelling at the highprince a bit ago."

Sarus' eyebrows rose. "Good for him," he said, before slipping past them and pushing open the door.

"I'm sorry, Father, but once in a while—" Adolin cut off sharply, turning towards the door, right hand already half raised to summon his Blade.

"No need for that, Brightlord," said Sarus, closing the door behind him. "It might not take anyway."

"Sarus." Kaladin gave him a sharp nod. He didn't look surprised—he had probably guessed that, thanks to the Stormlight Kaladin brought him daily, Sarus would likely recover before much longer.

"Didn't expect to see you up this quickly, son," Dalinar observed.

"I'll tell you what I told the ardent," Sarus said. "Is there an expected recovery time for being run through with a Shardblade?"

"That's a fair point."

"Father," Adolin said, looking between Sarus and Dalinar. "What is—I mean no disrespect—but what is Sarus doing here?"

"He is the head of my guard," Elhokar said, looking annoyed. "It's good to see you on your feet again, Sarus."

"It's good to be on my feet again, Your Majesty."

"Besides, I invited him to join our planning meetings," said Dalinar. "I think he'll be particularly helpful in planning around Sadeas."

"I grew up in Castle Sadaras," Sarus explained. "I know Sadeas as only his close servants can."

"Huh. Really?" Adolin frowned at him. "I spent a lot of time at Sadaras as a boy. I don't remember you."

"I do," said Renarin quietly. He was standing near the doorway wearing his Bridge Four uniform—Kaladin had told Sarus about the young man's decision to 'join' Bridge Four. Sarus had advised him to allow it, and to be kind. Renarin had difficulty understanding complex social situations, and being a highprince's son in a darkeyed regiment of former slaves certainly qualified. He reacted well to people who respected him, but did not impose unrealistic expectations.

"I did my best to stay out of your way while you courted Brightness Tailiah, Brightlord," Sarus said. "I was nearly the same age as her. Better you be waited on and chaperoned by adults."

"I guess that makes sense," said Adolin, looking somewhat mollified.

"Wait. You were one of Sadeas' servants." Elhokar's eyes were narrowed in sudden suspicion. "How do we know you're not his spy?"

"Sarus was in the bridge crews in the Sadeas warcamp longer than anyone else," Kaladin cut in. "Not just in Bridge Four—anyone. Wherever Sarus grew up, no one has more reason to hate Sadeas than he does."

Elhokar's suspicion slid off his face as quickly as it had come, leaving shame behind. "I… that makes sense," he said.

"We're not discussing Sadeas today, in any case," Dalinar said. "You're welcome to stay, though."

"Thank you, Brightlord," Sarus said. He moved behind Elhokar's chair and stood at attention.

Dalinar nodded, then turned back to Adolin. "The Parshendi will expect to see me," he said. "I don't intend to simply ignore their offer of parley."

The Listeners had offered to negotiate? Did Rlain know about this?

"We don't have to," said Adolin. "I have an idea—but I'm going to need to borrow Renarin's Shardplate."

Even without context about this meeting, Sarus understood immediately. Renarin's Plate had been Dalinar's mere weeks ago, and Renarin had not gone openly into battle wearing it. Adolin, within the Plate, could impersonate his father. Hopefully, he would do so well.

Renarin got it almost as quickly. "Of course, Adolin," he said. "We can use a spanreed and a scribe to relay whatever the Parshendi says back to the rest of us."

"What are…" It took Dalinar a moment longer, but when he got there, his eyes widened. "You want to impersonate me."

"The Parshendi may not know that you've given your Plate to Renarin," Adolin said. "They'll send their Shardbearer; it wouldn't be unreasonable for you to show up with your Shards."

"We will need to make sure you know what you are and are not allowed to promise in Dalinar's name," said Navani. "Even if we use spanreeds to communicate what the Parshendi says in real time, there will be no way for our scribe to tell you what to say. You will have to do the negotiation on your own."

"I can do that," said Adolin. "It can't be that complicated. They've been pressed back for years. We're discussing terms of surrender. All I need to know is what our basic demands are. I'm sure the Parshendi will have to report back to discuss, and Father, you would have to come back to talk to Elhokar anyway."

Not that he'd bother, Sarus thought. He could see in Elhokar's face that the king was thinking the same thing.

Dalinar nodded slowly. "It might work," he said. Then he sighed. "The kingdom should be strong enough to bear the loss of any one man, even me. But you're right—it can't. Not yet."

"We'll get it there," Adolin promised. "But we need to end this storming war to do it."

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They stopped on the edge of the plateau the Listeners had appointed as a meeting place. Adolin wore the slate-grey Shardplate his father had given to his brother. He rode upon Gallant, Dalinar's Ryshadium. The horse seemed a little put out, even after the long ride from the warcamp. Sarus had always heard that the great beasts were nearly as intelligent as men. Marching now alongside one, he could believe it. It had taken more than half an hour of coaxing on the part of both Dalinar and Adolin to get Gallant to accept the new rider.

Sarus had decided to accompany Bridges Five and Twelve for this operation. Part of that was simple logic—he and Kaladin needed to split up, with one defending Dalinar and Elhokar at the warcamp while the other accompanied Adolin. Sarus could tell that Adolin didn't like having bodyguards, so he had done his best to stay among the other bridgemen. He had even helped them run the bridge, taking a bridgeleader's position near the front. His body responded easily to the exertion—easier, in fact, than it ever had before. It was as if the Stormlight healing had done more than simply restoring his strength—he felt augmented, stronger than he had been before.

But Sarus didn't just need to have one of Bridge Four's two Radiants in the field. He wanted to be out here. He wanted to see the Listeners in a context other than battle, and he wanted to be able to report what happened back to Rlain. The man deserved any news he could get about his people.

Adolin dismounted from Gallant and started across the plateau on foot, an ardent at his heels. She carried a spanreed to transmit the discussion back to Dalinar and Elhokar. As the bridgemen relaxed after laying down their bridges, Sarus looked across the plateau. It was a moderate size—more than half a mile across—but he could still see as the Listener Shardbearer emerged from the force she had brought.

His eyes narrowed. Something was wrong. Even he couldn't make out every detail at this distance, but something about her posture, the rhythm of her steps, felt off.

She and Adolin met at the center. Sarus strained his ears, trying to hear their voices a quarter mile away.

"—Eshonai," the Shardbearer said. "Do you remember me?"

"No," Adolin said, in a passable impersonation of his father.

"Not surprising," Eshonai said. "I was young and foolish when we first met. Not worth remembering. What is this?"

Sarus grimaced. Something about her voice was grating. Her rhythm was entirely unlike those he had heard when Rlain spoke—chaotic and discordant where his were smooth and harmonious.

"I came alone, as you asked, but I intend to record what is said and send it back to my advisors."

"Hmph. Very well." Eshonai sounded… dismissive. As if it didn't matter to her whether the people back at the warcamp found out what was said today. Sarus wasn't sure if that was good or bad.

"We are here to discuss the terms of a Parshendi surrender," Adolin said.

Eshonai laughed. It was a harsh, unpleasant sound. "No. We are not."

"Then what?" Adolin asked sharply. "You were eager to meet. Why?"

"Things have changed since I spoke with your son, Blackthorn. Things you cannot imagine."

"What things?" Adolin paused, but Eshonai didn't seem inclined to answer. "We tire of this war, Parshendi. Your numbers dwindle. We both know this. Let us make a truce, one that will benefit us both."

"We," said Eshonai, dark satisfaction in her voice, "are not as weak as you think."

There was a pause. "What do you want, Eshonai? How can there be peace?"

"We will have peace—"

—when you and all your works have perished—and the works of your dark master—

"—when one of us is dead."

Sarus shook his head roughly, trying to clear it of the sudden stabbing pain and distant, half-remembered voice.

"I came here, Blackthorn, to see you with my own eyes," Eshonai continued. "To warn you. We have changed the rules of this conflict. Squabbles over gemstones have ceased to matter."

"Wait!" Adolin called as Eshonai turned away. "Why are you acting so differently now? What is wrong?"

Eshonai glanced back. "You really want to end this?"

"Yes. Please. I want peace."

"Then you will have to destroy us."

"At least tell me why," Adolin said. "Why did you kill Gavilar five years ago? Why betray our treaty before the ink had even dried?"

"King Gavilar should not have revealed his plans to us that night. The poor fool thought we would welcome the return of our gods." Eshonai sounded almost mournful, and the hard, twisting edge of her voice abated slightly. "He did not know. And now, here we are." Then she turned and jogged back towards the Parshendi line.

-x-x-x-​

"And now, here we are…" Rlain whispered. Sarus could hear the horror in his voice. "No. It cannot be. It cannot."

"What can't be, Rlain?" Sarus demanded.

The two of them stood alone, some distance from the Bridge Four barrack. It was a little past first moonrise, and Salas' soft light shone over them, casting the rock under their feet in a lurid shade of violet.

Rlain shook his head slowly. "My people's songs tell of our gods," he said. "We believe that they shackled us, forced us to fight in their endless war. The Listeners refused, and fled from them. We have long taught that there are some forms—Forms of Power—which will call them back to us. And we have never sought them. Our ancestors fled and hid and suffered greatly to free us of those gods.

"But Eshonai—if she said the words you report, then she does not sound like herself. Sometimes, our form can affect our minds. We are still ourselves, but our self is filtered through the skills and talents of our form. Here we are, she said."

"You think she's taken a Form of Power," Sarus said softly. "You think that the Alethi advance has made your people desperate enough to call your gods back."

"I did not think anything could make us that desperate," Rlain whispered. "I thought—I was sure that we were united in this. That we would go extinct before we summoned the gods back."

"It sounds like the people still in your home may have changed their minds," said Sarus. "She spoke to different rhythms than you do, Rlain—rhythms completely unlike those I hear in your voice. It was unsettling. Unpleasant."

"I do not know if the gods had rhythms of their own," Rlain said, "but it would not surprise me. Sarus—I must go. I must return to them, figure out what is happening, and try to stop it."

"Alone?" Sarus looked at the Listener spy. "There are still tens of thousands of Listeners on the Plains. What can you do alone against all of them?"

"I have to try," said Rlain. "I know Eshonai. I know my people. This is wrong, and they know it is wrong. They just need to be reminded."

"People doing what they know to be wrong are often the most dangerous, Rlain."

"You speak truer than you know, Sarus. That is why I have to go."

Sarus looked away. He could persuade Rlain to stay. He could threaten him, threaten to find and unmask other Listener agents. He could even use the sheer power of his voice to force Rlain to stay, as he had forced those assassins to stand still.

…But there was a chance that Rlain was right about all of this. Maybe these gods were not mere superstition. Maybe they posed a threat to both the Alethi and the Listeners. Indeed, Sarus already had a theory as to just what these gods were within Vorin theology.

After all, the Radiants were coming back now. Why, if not to fight the Voidbringers?

"At least tell Kaladin you're leaving," said Sarus with a sigh. "You don't have to tell him the truth if you don't want to, but I don't want to have to explain your absence."

Rlain nodded. Then he turned and clasped Sarus' hand. "Thank you for everything, my friend."

When Sarus woke the next morning—in his bed in the barracks, for the first time in over a week—Rlain was gone.

 

[Lithos Maitreya]

Thanks to Elran and @BeaconHill for betareading, and to Phinnia for the commissioned icon.

-x-x-x-

49

The Spear



-x-x-x-​

Great stone structures hung in the sky, with dark clouds drifting between them. They were perfectly silent and still, as if waiting for some sign that the time had come to fall. They were innumerable—they stretched from horizon to horizon, blanketing the world in their shadows.

-x-x-x-​

Rlain knocked on the door of Kaladin's private room. "Come in," the captain called.

He stepped inside and shut it behind him. "Kaladin." He spoke to the Rhythm of Anxiety.

Kaladin looked up. "Rlain. What do you need?" Salas was setting through the small room's window, casting long shadows in the dusky light. Kaladin was silhouetted against Salas' violet light, his face in shadow.

"I have to leave," Rlain said.

There was a pause. Rlain couldn't see Kaladin's face clearly in the gloom. "All right," he said eventually. "You're not a slave anymore, Rlain. You're free to go whenever you like."

Rlain held out his spear. "Thank you."

"Keep it," Kaladin said, waving the spear away. "I'd recommend you hide it from most people, obviously—they'll see an armed parshman and assume you're Parshendi."

"Yes," said Rlain, still to Anxiety. "Assume. Right."

There was another pause. This one was colder. Sharper-edged. "Rlain," said Kaladin quietly. "I don't want to have guessed what I just guessed. Give me an excuse not to. Please."

Rlain found himself smiling as a human would. He attuned Longing and spoke. "I'm sorry. I thought you deserved to know."

"Rlain," Kaladin said roughly. "I can't let you leave if you're going to bring information to our enemies. I swore an oath."

"Then rest easy," Rlain said. "I'm not going home to report military information. I'll promise not to reveal anything about the warcamps willingly."

"Then why are you leaving?"

"Did you hear what Eshonai said today?" Rlain asked, the Rhythm of the Terrors breaking into his words momentarily before he got his voice back under control. "Sarus told me."

"Sarus knew?"

"I asked him to keep my secret. Don't be angry with him."

"I'm not." Kaladin sighed. "If you'd come to me, I'd probably have kept it from him, too. Yes, I heard. I was with Dalinar while Navani read from the spanreed."

"I know Eshonai, Kaladin. Something is very, very wrong. Something has broken among my people. I think—I think, in their desperation, they have broken oaths we have sworn to uphold for centuries."

"What oaths?"

"My people call ourselves the Listeners," Rlain said. "Long ago—or so our songs remember—we were forced to fight for our gods. But we fled from their war, and before our gods could chase us down, they were banished and sealed away. Since then, we have avoided doing anything that might bring us closer to the gods. But I'm afraid that they've done something terrible in pursuit of a way to survive."

"You think they broke some tradition?"

"I…" Rlain hesitated. "I should explain something. We Listeners can take on different forms by bonding to a spren within a highstorm. We've been trying to identify which spren will give us different forms for years—most of them were lost to us long ago. The Listeners who battle the Alethi are in warform. In the city of Narak, at the center of the Plains, there are Listeners in other forms. Mateform, nimbleform, and workform. When we fail to bond a spren at all…" Rlain gestured to himself. "We take on dullform. This form. It is difficult to think, when we are like this. We can hardly hear the Rhythms, the music that permeates Roshar, at all."

"The music that…?" Kaladin paused, then glanced out the window at where Salas had just dipped below the horizon. "No, go on. You should get out of here before second moonrise, while it's still dark."

Rlain nodded. "One day," he said, "I will explain all of this to you. If I can."

"If you can. But go on, these forms?"

"Beyond the forms we know, we have a song which lists many more. But there are other forms, listed in other songs. These we call Forms of Power, and they give us unnatural abilities. These Forms of Power are said to be given by the gods. I think that Eshonai and the others may have taken on a Form of Power. I am afraid that they might try to call back our gods."

"Why?" Kaladin asked. "Why would they call back these gods, if they're so evil?"

"Because the war they fought, long ago, was against humanity," said Rlain softly. "I fear that if they are called back, Roshar will be left with Listeners as slaves—and humans as corpses."

"Wait." Kaladin sucked in a breath. "Are your gods—are they the Voidbringers?"

"I don't know," Rlain said. "We don't remember the name Voidbringer from our lore. But we remember a terrible war against the humans. A war we had no choice in. A war we fled. A war which, if the gods are called back, will begin again, more terrible than ever."

"And you think you can prevent that by going back?"

"I know that I must try."

Kaladin was silent for a long moment. "Okay," he said. "Go, Rlain. Be quick. You have my permission to leave, but if the sentries see a parshman leaving camp to go into the plains they may try to stop you anyway."

"Thank you, Captain," said Rlain. "For whatever it's worth, I will always be Bridge Four, if you'll allow me to keep the title."

"Of course, Rlain," Kaladin said quietly. "Of course."

After a final salute, Rlain turned and left. Under the cover of darkness, he slipped out of the warcamp. He stole across the permanent bridges until they ended. Then he looked out over the chasm.

I did not think this through, he thought.

In warform or nimbleform, he could have jumped this gap easily. Even in workform, he would have been confident. But in dullform? Could he cross this distance without a spren's strength in his gemheart? It was a relatively narrow gap, but that still meant crossing more than twenty feet.

There would not be a storm tonight. There wouldn't even be one tomorrow. He couldn't afford to sit on this plateau for two days, waiting for a storm to let him attune a painspren. There wasn't time, and he'd probably have been picked up by one of the Alethi armies on their way to a battle.

I have no choice, he realized, but to try.

He threw his spear across the chasm. It clattered to the rock on the other side. Then he turned and jogged away from the edge, giving himself plenty of distance for a running start. When he felt that he had as much runway as would be helpful, he turned around. The chasm tore the land ahead of him, jaws of hungry rock ready to swallow him whole.

He was humming to the Terrors again. He stopped, took a deep breath, and forced himself to attune Resolve. Then he started to run as fast as he could, straight towards the chasm. He overcame the urge to hesitate, the urge to stop, the urge to reconsider. His feet beat against the rock to the rhythm vibrating in his blood, as though the entire plateau were his drum.

He jumped. The rock beneath him gave way to air. His heart leapt suddenly, a thrill of terror, awe, and even joy. The sky opened to welcome him.

His feet hit the plateau on the other side. He skidded and fell, tumbling forward, breathless and scraped, but alive. He forced himself upright on shaking legs, supporting himself on his spear. I don't know how many of those I can do, he thought. But I have to try.

-x-x-x-​

In the end, he only managed half a dozen leaps all night. Part of that was because he had to search all around each plateau to find the narrowest chasm, but it didn't help that he had to rest for longer after each jump. After the last, he must have fallen unconscious where he struck the plateau, because the first thing he remembered after jumping was the sound of thunder rolling in the distance.

Wait. Thunder?

He forced himself to his feet. His body protested, stiff from sleeping on bare rock and battered by his jumps. His legs ached. So did the rest of his body, but his legs were worse. Then he looked to the eastern sky and suddenly, the pain in his legs didn't matter so much.

A highstorm was coming. The sun was only just rising, and a highstorm was coming. He couldn't have slept an entire day away, which meant this storm was more than a day early.

And he had no shelter at all. Even a Listener who sought to take on a new form usually took cover behind an outcrop of rock or a heavy shield that could be braced against the ground. Rlain had nothing, and the plateau around him was bare and flat.

Damnation, he thought, the human curse coming to mind before any of the ones he had learned in his youth.

He leaned down and picked up his spear. It was well-made, but it was also just a long stick with a bit of steel on the end. That was all he had to defend himself. All he had to confront the Rider of Storms.

An idea came to him. He almost dismissed it out of hand—there was no way it should work—but he had no other ideas, workable or not. He couldn't climb into the chasm—those would flood and sweep him away. There was no cover to be found. So, in desperation he raised his spear above his head with both hands, point downward. With all his strength he drove it into the rock at his feet.

It should have snapped. It was not made to embed in rock, but in flesh and carapace. Its steel tip certainly shouldn't have flashed momentarily orange, the same color as the Light in Sarus' spheres, as it sank into the rock below and stuck fast.

Rlain stared at the spear in his hands. It took him a moment to realize that he could no longer hear the Rhythms. Whatever Sarus had done that had changed him, it had been expended by this final miracle. He swallowed. Thank you, Sarus.

Rlain tightened his grip on his spear and looked up at the stormwall. Please, he thought, let this be enough.

The storm struck with the weight of an ocean. He held his spear, buried in the ground, and clung to it with all his strength. His hands burned with the effort. The water stung his eyes. Debris struck him everywhere, battering his already bruised body.

He welcomed the pain, for it was what he needed.

"Warform is worn for battle and reign," he intoned, his voice lost to the typhoon. "Claimed by the gods, given to kill. Unknown, unseen, but vital to gain. It comes to those with the will." He didn't need to recite the Song of Listing to take a form, but it had been so long since he had held one. It felt right. He narrowed his eyes against the rain, looking around, hoping against hope to see a flash of orange in the dark.

Suddenly, the rain stopped. Rlain blinked. The plateau beneath his feet was gone. There was darkness and rain surrounding him, but it fell around him, not upon him. In the distance, he could see strange shapes walking with the wind, with legs like bolts of lightning.

Two luminous eyes opened before him. They were unimaginably vast, and seeing them Rlain realized that there was a face in the storm. It looked like a listener in warform, with carapace of wind and marbling of rain.

Hurry, said the Rider of Storms.

Rlain blinked, and when he opened his eyes, the storm had passed him by. And as he looked down at his hands, he saw that their backs were lined with carapace.

He had taken warform. The Rider of Storms—a spren his people remembered as a traitor, who had sided with mankind against them in the ancient wars—had given him his blessing. Hurry, he had said.

So Rlain hurried. He pulled his spear out of the ground. Somehow, though it had held fast through the entire highstorm, it came free with only a momentary catch when it was already halfway out. When the tip was revealed again, its orange glow had faded.

Sarus had given him this chance. Rlain, beginning the long run towards Narak, vowed not to waste it.

 

[Lithos Maitreya]

Thanks to Elran and @BeaconHill for betareading, and to Phinnia for the commissioned icon.

-x-x-x-

50

Truthless



-x-x-x-​

There was nowhere to run from this. The caves now hosted a Vala, and the sky was filled with terror. And so I, believing myself the last of Middle-earth's dragons, laid down on the shores of the Sea of Rhûn and closed my eyes, waiting for death.

-x-x-x-​

Sarus rose early the next morning. He scooped the orange-infused spheres from under his pillow into his sphere pouch, then passed by the rows of bunks to step outside the barracks. Rock was there, hunched over a doused cookfire, hurriedly packing up his stew pot.

"What's the rush, Rock?" Sarus asked.

Rock glanced up at him. "Storm," he said simply, pointing eastward. Eastward, at the approaching highstorm. There hadn't been one forecasted for today, but the stormwardens were wrong sometimes.

I hope Rlain found shelter. "Ah," Sarus said aloud. "Let me help with that."

Together, he and Rock moved the pot inside, then came back for the kindling and other equipment. They made it inside several minutes before the storm struck. "The stew is warm already," Rock said, quietly enough not to wake everyone in the barrack. "But without a fire, I cannot keep it warm. Should we wake everyone, do you think?"

Sarus shrugged. "The storm would probably wake them anyway. At least this way, they'll get warm stew too."

A few minutes later, as the storm rattled the building, Rock served Sarus a bowl. "Kaladin is on duty, yes?" Rock asked. "It is his shift now."

"He should be," Sarus confirmed, sitting down on the bunk across from the larger man. A moment later, another man sat beside him. It was Murk.

"Has anyone seen Rlain anywhere?" Murk asked, looking between them.

"No," said Rock, looking worried. "He was not in his bunk this morning. I thought he might have taken a shift for someone."

"Everyone else is accounted for, besides the men on duty now," Murk said.

"Rlain left last night," Sarus said.

They looked at him. "Left?" Murk asked blankly.

"Yes," Sarus said. "He was called away by other duties."

"You mean some storming lighteyes decided to poach him?" Murk growled.

Sarus didn't answer.

Murk took that as confirmation. "Kelek's blistered toe," he swore. "Couldn't you have stopped them?"

"It's more complicated than you think," Sarus said softly. "I can't tell you any more. Some of these secrets belong to Rlain, and no one else."

Murk simmered, but fell silent.

"I do not like this thing," Rock said. "It was good to have Rlain's help. And he saved your life."

"He did," Sarus agreed. "Trust me, Rock. I was not happy to see him leave—but I understood why he had to. In the end, it was his choice."

"What does that even mean with a parshman?" grumbled Murk. "Storms. What are we going to tell the men?"

Sarus considered for a moment. Who would make a good scapegoat? "If any ask," he said, "tell them that when he learned we had armed a parshman, Prince Adolin requested he be reassigned."

Elhokar was the obvious choice. He was the most believable. Of all the Kholins, he was the most openly elitist, and the only one who might be paranoid about a single armed parshman. But Sarus couldn't afford to give Moash another reason to want the man dead, not when he didn't know how desperate he was.

"Is this thing true?" Rock asked. "Did Adolin have something to do with it?"

"No," Sarus said. "But Kaladin and Adolin already have trouble getting along. This gives them an excuse the men will understand."

"Fair enough," Murk said with a sigh. "Storms. I'd gotten used to having him around. He'd really started to come out of his shell the past week or so."

"He had," Sarus agreed. "We may yet see him again."

"Any idea where he's gone?" Murk asked.

"Yes," said Sarus, "but we won't be able to get there to see him. Don't ask, I can't tell you more."

"Fine." Murk glanced upward. "Storm's passing."

It was. The thundering of the highstorm was giving way to the patter of the riddens. Murk quickly spooned up his last few bites of stew and stood up.

"I'd better get my squad ready," he said. "We've missed shift change, so we'll head out as soon as the rain lightens up a bit. See you two later."

Sarus and Rock bade him farewell. As soon as he was gone, Rock turned to Sarus. "Rlain has gone back to his people, then?"

"Yes," Sarus said. "Not to betray us, though." He hadn't realized Rock had learned Rlain's secret, but the Horneater tended to be more perceptive than anyone assumed. It wasn't a great surprise.

"I assumed," Rock said. "But then, why?"

"The Parshendi Shardbearer came to parley yesterday," Sarus said. "I told Rlain what she said. He was worried about her, and the rest of his people."

"Hm." Rock frowned. "I hope he makes it safely, then."

"So do I, Rock," Sarus said quietly. "So do I."

-x-x-x-​

"Your Majesty," said Sarus with a bow. It was now early afternoon. The rains had passed entirely, and Sarus had just arrived for his shift. The rest of his squad was outside.

"Ah, Sarus," said Elhokar, turning from the window to look at him. "Good, you're here. I want your advice on something."

Sarus kept the triumphant smile off his face. "Anything, Your Majesty."

"There have now been two attempts on my life in few weeks," he said. "First, the railing. Then the Assassin in White. Now that you're well, I was wondering if you thought the two shared a cause."

"You mean, whether the person who ordered your railing sabotaged is the same as the person who commanded the Assassin in White?" Sarus asked.

"Precisely," said Elhokar. "My first instinct was that of course they were. The two attempts were so close together. But they were so different. The railing was… well, clumsy. There was a good chance it would achieve nothing at all, or that someone else would fall prey to the trap. Whereas the Assassin in White…"

"Your instincts are good, Your Majesty," said Sarus. "I agree—the two attempts were not likely ordered by the same party."

Elhokar grimaced. "Which means there are at least two people or groups who want me dead badly enough to have me killed. Has your investigation into the railing turned up anything?"

Sarus considered for a moment, then turned and looked out the door at the rest of his squad. "Let no one in," he ordered Eth.

"Got it," Eth said.

Sarus shut the door and turned back to the king. "I likely don't need to tell you that the information I uncover should be shared with as few people as possible," he said. Elhokar, he noticed, looked somewhat alarmed by being suddenly trapped in the room with Sarus. No surprise, with the man's paranoid tendencies. But as Sarus continued, the king calmed down. "If the perpetrator thinks we are on their trail, they may grow desperate—and dangerous."

"Of course," said Elhokar. "Does that mean you have a suspect?"

"I have narrowed the field considerably," said Sarus. "I believe your railing was severed with a Shardblade, Your Majesty."

Elhokar paled. "You're certain?"

"Unless someone has a different way to sever metal so cleanly, yes. Which means that the assassin either is a Shardbearer or commands a Shardbearer. It also means the assassin either had access to your study, or was able to convince someone with that access to let them in."

"Which means, at the least, that I have a traitor among my servants," said Elhokar. His eyes narrowed suddenly. "Or my guards. You trust all of your men?"

"With my life," said Sarus. "But that doesn't mean I trust them with yours, Your Majesty. No one is above my suspicion, I assure you."

"Not even Captain Kaladin?"

"Not even Captain Kaladin."

"Good, good," said Elhokar, looking relieved. "That's good."

"Do you have reason to suspect the Captain?" Sarus asked. He knew, of course, that Kaladin was not the assassin—and would, in fact, sooner cut out his own tongue than become one. But he wanted to understand Elhokar's thought process.

"Not exactly," said Elhokar. "But he doesn't like me very much, does he?"

"What makes you think so?" Sarus asked.

"I wanted him to take charge of my guard, and he sent you instead," Elhokar said. "It should be an honor to guard the king, but I don't think he sees it that way."

Sarus grimaced. He'd advised Kaladin that Dalinar would expect Kaladin to delegate, and the highprince hadn't complained about Sarus' assignment—but that didn't mean Elhokar would see it that way. Still… this could work to his advantage. "Kaladin is a complicated man," he said. "It is not you, Your Majesty. The Captain, like many of Bridge Four, has had bad experiences with more than one lighteyes in the past. It is easy for darkeyes of low rank to distrust everyone from tenth dahn all the way up to first."

"Bad experiences?" Elhokar asked. "What sort of bad experiences?"

"I don't know the story of every man in Bridge Four," said Sarus. "But I know that all of us have one thing in common—we were all sent to the bridge crews. That is something only a lighteyes could authorize. In many cases, we had suffered other things in the past."

Elhokar considered him. There was a complicated expression on his face. In the furrowing of his brow, Sarus detected worry. In the wrinkling around his eyes, Sarus read curiosity. In the downward turn of his lips, Sarus saw shame. "What is your story, then, Sarus?" Elhokar asked. "How did someone who once served in Castle Sadaras itself end up in Sadeas' bridge crews?"

Sarus grimaced. "It is a difficult story to tell, Your Majesty," he said, both because it was true and to buy himself a few moments to get his story straight.

"Look at it as a chance to give me another reason to want Sadeas deposed," said Elhokar.

Sarus smiled slightly. He didn't have to fake the tinge of grief in the expression. "I served Highprince Sadeas' daughter when I was a child," he said. "We were about the same age, and Brightness Ialai thought her daughter could use a playmate when she was small. However, she outgrew darkeyed friends, and I faded into the background—still her servant, but not such a close one.

"When I turned ten, I took warfare as my Calling and joined the Sadaras Guard. I was not guarding Brightness Tailiah at the time, but rebel assassins broke into Sadaras in the middle of a highstorm and killed her. Highprince Sadeas blamed me nonetheless, for though I was not Brightness Tailiah's assigned guard at the time I had been nearby. After executing the assassins, Highprince Sadeas sent me and the man who was assigned as her guard to the bridge crews. I do not think he has forgiven me for my survival." The other man had not survived. There really had been a guard stationed outside Tailiah's room that night, and he had lasted fifteen runs before a Parshendi arrow caught him in the throat.

"All this, I might be able to forgive," Sarus said. "After all, I was a guard in his castle at the time, even if I was on a different assignment. But before he took me to the Shattered Plains to answer your summons, he dragged my mother—an innocent cook who had served him faithfully for more than twenty years—before me." Sarus would never forget the blood running over the flagstones outside his cell. "He cut her throat before my eyes."

Elhokar's eyes widened. "He didn't."

"He did," said Sarus. "I could forgive him what he did to me. I will never forgive what he did to my mother."

"I understand," said Elhokar weakly. "If someone…" he trailed off, and Sarus knew he was thinking of Navani. Then, suddenly, he blinked at the mirror in the corner of the room, and then his head whipped around, as if seeking something he had spotted in the reflection.

"What is it, Your Majesty?" Sarus asked, looking into the mirror himself. He saw nothing there.

"…Nothing," said Elhokar after a long pause. "I thought I saw something." He shot Sarus a look. "Have you ever…" he hesitated. "No, never mind. Then Brightness Tailiah really did die."

Sarus blinked. "Was that in question?"

"There were rumors," said Elhokar. "Some said that a body was never buried, that she had run away from home or eloped with a foreign suitor. I never put much credence to the rumors, myself. It's good to have confirmation."

Well, there hadn't been a body to bury. "Regardless," Sarus said. "Even if I was not her guard, one lighteyes has already died where I might have protected her. I have had five years in the bridge crews to ruminate on why and how. You may trust that I will never fail again."

Elhokar considered him. Whatever he saw in Sarus' face, it satisfied him. "See that you don't," he said. "Oh, now that you're on your feet again—none of my jailers was able to get a word out of the Assassin in White. Do you think you could make headway? He certainly has cause to remember you."

Sarus considered. "I would be curious to try," he said.

"Then let's go down to the cells," said Elhokar. "I want to be there if you get anything out of him."

-x-x-x-​

The moment Sarus stepped inside the Assassin in White's cell, the man's eyes fixed on him. His repetitious muttering—I am Szeth-son-son-Vallano, I am Truthless, I am Szeth-son-son-Vallano—came to an abrupt halt.

"Hello," said Sarus, sitting on the floor across from the man. "I suspect you remember me."

"You are a lie," said the man. His voice shook uncontrollably, as if he couldn't decide whether to whisper or scream. "You must be. You must."

"Why must I be a lie, Szeth-son-son-Vallano?" Sarus asked softly.

"Because I am Truthless," said Szeth. "They named me Truthless. So you cannot exist."

"And yet, to the best of my knowledge, I do exist," said Sarus. "And, to the best of both our knowledge, your Blade does not."

Szeth curled in on himself, drawing his knees up to his chin. "Jes-son-God will be displeased," he whispered. "He entrusted his Blade to us, and it is broken. But it can't be broken, because you can't exist, because I am Truthless."

Outside the cell, Elhokar sucked in a sharp breath. Sarus ignored it, and he wasn't sure if Szeth could even hear. "What does it mean to be Truthless?" he asked.

"It means one spoke a terrible falsehood," said Szeth. "A lie so loathsome, so profane, that the stones themselves rebelled against it. A Truthless is given to an Oathstone, and must obey whoever carries it, on whatever shred of honor remains to them."

"And what was your falsehood, Szeth-son-son-Vallano?"

"I said that the Voidbringers were returning," he said. "That the Radiants must come back to fight them."

Sarus paused. "And what exactly made you think that?"

"A spren came to me," said Szeth. "It claimed that it wished to bond a Radiant. It must have lied. For I am Truthless."

"And what if it was not a lie?" asked Sarus softly. "What if it was true? What if all along it was not you who had spoken a falsehood, but those who named you Truthless?"

"Then I had a choice," said Szeth hollowly. "Then everyone I have killed in service to those who held my Oathstone could have lived if I had chosen otherwise. Then their deaths are not only on my hands, but are entirely my fault."

"Yes," said Sarus. "I suppose it would mean that."

"But I am Truthless."

"You will be if you keep speaking that lie," Sarus said dryly. "Who holds your Oathstone now?"

"I was commanded not to reveal their identity."

"Yes. Commanded by the bond of a Truthless to his Oathstone. But you are not Truthless."

"I must be. I have to be."

Sarus sighed. He briefly toyed with the idea of revealing Archive, revealing his nature. But no, not with Elhokar watching. He stood. "It always amuses me," he said, without a trace of amusement in his voice, "the lies men tell themselves to avoid taking responsibility for their actions."

Szeth twitched, but said nothing. As Sarus left his cell, he began his muttering again.

"Lot more than anyone else has gotten out of him, Shardbreaker," said the guard as he locked the door behind Sarus.

"I'll try again in a few days," Sarus said. "We need the name of his employer." He turned to Elhokar. "But at least it's something."

"Yes." There was an odd expression on Elhokar's face. "He said—said a spren came and told him it was looking for a Radiant? Is that… do spren have something to do with the Knights Radiant?"

"I really couldn't say," Sarus lied smoothly.

 

[Lithos Maitreya]

Thanks to Elran and @BeaconHill for betareading, and to Phinnia for the commissioned icon.

-x-x-x-

51

Lies and Illusions



-x-x-x-​

Death came. But it did not touch me.

-x-x-x-​

"I don't like this," Glys murmured. "Something feels wrong today."

Renarin wanted to dismiss the spren, but he couldn't. He felt the same way. Aunt Navani took a jar of paint from a parshman servant to create a glyphward. Any moment now, Adolin would step into the ready room, and the armorers would entomb him in his Shardplate. Then he would step out onto the sand and fight two Shardbearers at once.

Renarin didn't have the experience he would need to understand just how much harder fighting two men at once would be. But he knew enough to realize it. This would be a challenge unlike any Adolin had faced before.

The door opened. Adolin stepped inside. When he saw that Aunt Navani was unscrewing the lid of her paint, he approached her with a smile. "No need," he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out an already-completed glyphward. It was painted in Kholin blue with the glyph for excellent. Or excellence. It was the same glyph. Where had Adolin learned to paint glyphs?

"The girl?" Aunt Navani asked stiffly.

Oh, that makes more sense.

Renarin liked Shallan. He hadn't interacted with her much, but she reminded him a little of Tailiah. Bright, in terms of both wit and temperament. She smiled often, and her smiles were cheeky things, hinting at a joke that not everyone was in on. Renarin was used to not being in on the joke, so it was refreshing that everyone else was too.

But he couldn't begrudge Aunt Navani harboring some dislike for her. After all, with the Veden woman had come the news of her daughter's death. Renarin didn't believe Jasnah had died—he had seen her stabbing him in the back in one of his visions, so she had to survive to do that—but he couldn't exactly tell his aunt that.

"She's wonderful, Aunt," said Adolin. "You should give her more of a chance. She wants to share her research with you."

"We'll see," said Navani, screwing the lid back onto her paint jar.

Adolin dropped the glyphward into the lit brazier in the center of the room. Renarin, as was customary, bowed his head while the cloth burned.

"I'm worried," Navani said quietly, while the ward burned away.

"Father and Elhokar both think the plan is a good one," Adolin said.

"Elhokar can be impulsive. You agreed to a duel to surrender, instead of to broken sections of Plate, right? That changes things."

"For the worse," Glys murmured in Renarin's ear. "Adolin could die out there."

He won't, Renarin said silently. He approached Adolin and put a hand on his shoulder. "It's a good plan," he said, hiding his own concern. What Adolin needed now—or so Renarin hoped—was confidence. Faith. "You're better than them."

"They're going to try to break you," Navani said. "That's why they wanted this to be a match to surrender, Adolin. They'll cripple you if they can."

"No different from the battlefield." Adolin's smile seemed a little forced, even to Renarin. "Actually, unlike the battlefield, they'll want me alive at the end. I'll serve as a better object lesson with Blade-dead legs than as ash."

Navani looked away as the armorers entered. She looked terribly pale, especially in the light of the brazier.

Renarin took a deep breath and tried to project confidence. He wasn't good at it. But he could practically hear Sarus' voice in his ear. Speak of the best case as if it's a certainty, if you want to seem confident. Especially if you're doing so to encourage.

"Make sure you don't give Sadeas a way out," he told Adolin. "When you issue your challenge, he'll look for an escape. Don't give him one. Drag him onto the sand and tear him apart, Brother."

"With pleasure," Adolin said, and Renarin thought his smile looked a little more sincere.

"You ate chicken?" Renarin asked, as usual.

"Two helpings with curry."

"And you have Mother's chain?"

Adolin felt his pocket. Then he felt the other. His smile fell away. "I could have sworn…"

"Damnation," Renarin said.

"It'll be all right," said Glys.

"It might be back in my rooms," Adolin said. "Storms." He took his helmet from the final armorer. "Can't be helped now."

"It'll be all right," Renarin said, echoing his spren. "You don't need luck."

Adolin's smile was tight until it was covered by his faceplate. "But it'd be nice to have."

Renarin watched his brother step outside onto the sand. The door stayed open behind him long enough for Renarin to see the door on the opposite side of the arena open.

Four men stepped out.

Before Renarin could react, the door shut.

"Was that…?" whispered Aunt Navani beside him.

How was this possible? Adolin had challenged Relis Ruthar to a disadvantaged duel, hadn't he? Relis and one other…

You and anyone you bring with you, Adolin had said. Or something like that.

"He agreed to a full disadvantaged duel," Renarin whispered. "We missed it. Relis could bring as many people as he wanted."

"No," Navani moaned. "Oh, no."

"Damnation," murmured Glys. "Well, on the bright side, at least we won't have to deal with that Shardblade screaming in our ears anymore. Adolin will have to yield, right? He can't possibly think he can fight four Shardbearers?"

I don't think he'll be willing to give up without at least trying, Renarin said. He set his jaw. And I can't let him do it alone.

He might only be a member of Bridge Four in name. He might have only begun training in the use of his Shards, and he might be paralyzed by the screaming every time he picked up his Blade. But he would not—could not—let his brother face this alone.

He spun on his heel and flung open the door to the armorer's staging room. Several men were still there, and they blinked at him, startled. "Fetch my Shards," he ordered. "As quick as you can."

-x-x-x-​

"Four men!?" Dalinar exclaimed, jumping from his seat. He shouted at the Sadeas viewing box, "What is this!?"

Sadeas glanced lazily in their direction. "Don't ask me," he called back. "None of them are mine. I'm just an observer."

Sarus knew that tone. Sadeas had always enjoyed rubbing people's noses in his victories. "Your Majesty," he said, pointedly pulling the Kholins' attention away from the man who lapped up their rage like fine wine. "What exactly did Prince Adolin say when he issued his challenge?"

Elhokar blinked at him. "I don't remember the exact words, Sarus, it was two days ago!"

And the one time I was off-shift, Sarus thought furiously. Adolin had issued this challenge after a duel with Elit Ruthar, a lesser member of the house. That had been the day after Sarus had first risen from his bunk, and he had taken the morning shift with the king, rather than the afternoon. Kaladin had wanted him to spend the second shift helping Teft train the other former bridgemen. "Is it possible he said something to the effect of 'whomever you bring with you'? Without stipulating how many men Prince Relis could bring?"

Elhokar paled. "Oh, Damnation, you're right. Adolin's trapped in a fully disadvantaged duel!"

"Storms," Dalinar growled. It was an almost animal sound. "Sadeas outthought us this time. Someone tell Adolin to pull out of the duel. We need to retreat and regroup."

"That will cost you all six of the Shards you own, Uncle," Elhokar pointed out. "Are you certain?"

There was conflict in Dalinar's face. Sarus supposed he understood. Giving up six Shards without so much as a struggle would be looked on as shameful, even pathetic. And Adolin was a skilled duelist—probably the best currently in Alethkar, if Sarus was any judge.

But no one man was skilled enough to defeat four Shardbearers in a duel to surrender. He might take out one, he might even take out two, but to defeat a third would be a miracle—and even then, there would still be the fourth to contend with. Taken dispassionately, Dalinar's choice was simple.

Lose six Shards, or lose six Shards and his son.

Sarus tried to think of a way to explain that to Dalinar without jeopardizing his hard-won trust. But before he could say a word, Adolin raised his hand on the sand in a sign of agreement, then thrust his other out to the side to summon his Blade. It was too late.

Adolin had agreed to fight. Presumably, the idiot thought he could surrender if things grew too deadly.

Sarus turned his head and met Torol Sadeas' gaze. There was still a vague, almost pleasant smile on the man's face, but his eyes were edged like knives.

This isn't about me, Sarus told himself firmly. The only sensible thing for Sadeas to do, now that Adolin had agreed to fight, was to have his four thugs cripple him. They would not allow him to surrender. They would do their utmost to drown out any shout, to keep his hand from rising to yield. They would not stop until Adolin had lost the use of at least one of his limbs.

All of that would be true, even if Sarus hadn't killed Sadeas' daughter. It just made sense. But the man's expression, as those pale green eyes bore into Sarus' seemed to imply otherwise.

Suddenly, a voice called out, somehow louder than the entire thundering crowd. "One at a time, lad!" Zahel shouted. Sarus tore his gaze from Sadeas to pick out the man from the crowd. There was an expression of concentration on Zahel's face, as if he thought he could will Adolin into better swordplay. "You're not cornered! They're scared of you. Show them why!"

There was something odd about his voice. Some strange, almost melodic quality, as if his words were being carried upon the crest of the shifting well of music that Sarus could sometimes just hear the very edges of, now. Sarus narrowed his eyes. He didn't think he was imagining this. He didn't think he was imagining any of this. Not the music, nor that Zahel was somehow manipulating it.

His attention was caught when Adolin suddenly leapt forward with a shout. He beat away the other men's Blades and came after Relis like a stormwall. He threw the man onto his back, then turned on one of his fellows. He shifted stances and hammered blows upon the man's guard like a wild beast. The other men tried to help, but Adolin spun, beating them all back, before returning to the same target. Sarus could see the fear in their bodies, the way they held themselves under that Shardplate. Zahel was right—all four of these men together, and they feared Adolin at least as much as he feared them.

For a moment, he allowed himself to hope.

Then one of the Shardbearers came up from behind him and struck. Adolin staggered, which gave another man an opening. Soon he was being battered from all sides. For each blow he blocked, two more made it through his guard. Stormlight was rapidly draining away from his Plate—Sarus could see it drifting away on the faint breeze, pale blue and shimmering.

Because he knew what to look for, he caught it when Adolin's left hand tried to rise to yield. He saw when one of the men—a man with a heavy hammer instead of a Shardblade—battered it back down to Adolin's side.

"They aren't allowing him to yield," said Sarus softly.

"What?" Elhokar glanced at him distractedly.

"He tried to raise his hand to yield. They wouldn't allow it. They don't intend to let him out of that arena whole."

Elhokar paled. "But that's…"

"Honorless?" Sarus smiled mirthlessly. "Yes."

"Damnation," Dalinar said. He hadn't sat once while the fight had continued. "The rules allow Adolin to have help, so long as there are still more men on the other side. Elhokar, I'll need your Shardblade."

Elhokar looked at Dalinar for a moment. The man wasn't even looking at him, focused as he was on the melee below. "No," said Elhokar quietly.

Dalinar rounded on him. "That is my son!"

"You're without Plate, and you don't have time to put it on," Elhokar said. "You think Sadeas doesn't know you want to go down and help? Don't you realize that's exactly what he wants? This isn't about Adolin, Uncle, it's about you. He wants you to go down there, without Plate, and suffer an accident. If you go out there, Blade or no, you won't walk out again."

Dalinar let out a wordless growl. Sarus saw his hands twisting against the railing, as if imagining they were on Sadeas' neck. Or maybe that was Sarus projecting. Then something past the highprince caught his eye, and the bottom dropped out of his stomach.

Renarin, clad in the slate-grey Plate he had inherited from his father, carrying the Shardblade Adolin had won for him, had stepped onto the sand.

-x-x-x-​

This was a terrible idea, Glys said. His voice shook in abject terror, even as it passed directly to Renarin's mind. What do you think we can do?

We have to do something, Renarin said, trying to make himself heard over the dead Blade screaming in his ears.

You can barely swing that sword without stumbling, and its yelling isn't helping!

I have to try.

One of the men separated from the battle with Adolin. He approached Renarin slowly, almost swaggering, his sword resting easily on his shoulder in a relaxed grip. He didn't fear Renarin. And why should he? Renarin couldn't do a storming thing to him.

But at least that's one man who isn't trying to kill Adolin.

I can't lose you, Renarin, said Glys quietly. And I don't think we have enough Stormlight on us to heal from a Shardblade injury.

Wait. I can heal from Shardblade injuries?

You came out here without realizing you could heal from Shardblade injuries!?

Before Renarin could reply, the Shardbearer attacked them. Renarin barely got his own Blade up in time to attempt a parry, but the impact almost knocked the weapon from his grip. The man didn't even bother to follow through. He just stepped back to give Renarin time to get his Blade back in position before coming in again, almost lazily, to bat it aside once more.

At least he doesn't seem to want you dead, Glys said hysterically. That's something, right?

Renarin looked past the man at the duel on the other side. He realized that the other three men had stopped fighting Adolin for a moment. Even as he watched, however, Adolin charged them. Before he could see the outcome, the man in front of him attacked again.

"You can watch this!?" called his father's voice over the crowd. "My sons fight alone! Will none of the Shardbearers here fight with them?"

Oh, Dalinar, whispered Glys. Haven't you heard? Honor is dead.

Renarin looked up towards the Kholin box. Dalinar stood at its corner, near the judge, glaring around the crowd. Elhokar looked grim sitting behind him. At his side stood Sarus, hand on his spear. His expression was wooden. Maybe someone else could have read something there, but Renarin couldn't catch the slightest hint of what he might be thinking. Beside Dalinar, however, stood Captain Kaladin. And Kaladin's expression was dark, but also almost—relieved? Relaxed? Resigned? He said something to Dalinar, and before Renarin's father could do more than turn to look at him, Kaladin had vaulted over the railing and dropped onto the sand.

-x-x-x-​

No, no, no, Sarus thought, teetering on the edge of panic. No, Kaladin, what in Damnation do you think you're doing?!

But it was obvious what Kaladin thought he was doing. Syl sailed down behind him, invisible to all but Kaladin and Sarus. Storms, Sarus should have seen this coming. Kaladin was a Windrunner. Maybe the ancient Windrunners hadn't taken it so far, but for Kaladin, protection and rescue were pathological. He could never have stood by while this happened in front of him.

And now Sarus had lost his own chance to intervene. In his cowardice, he had hesitated too long, and now Kaladin had stepped into the last permitted position alongside Adolin, according to the rules of disadvantaged duels.

He knew what to look for, so he saw when Kaladin sucked in Stormlight. On Sarus' shoulder, Archive let out an almost silent grunt, so it must have been Sarus' orange Stormlight Kaladin had pulled in. The Captain charged, driving his spear into Relis' cracked vambrace. As Relis staggered back, cursing, Kaladin slipped past him, joining Adolin in the center of the circle of Shardbearers. The two men put their backs to each other. Sarus knew Kaladin had difficulty trusting Adolin, and he knew Adolin was a little suspicious of Kaladin's meteoric rise in standing, but today none of that mattered to either of them.

The three men circled the two for a moment. Then Elit—the man with the Shardhammer—lunged. Less than a heartbeat later, Relis followed him in. Kaladin ducked under the Shardblade and lunged for Relis. Sarus immediately saw the plan Adolin and Kaladin must have come up with. Kaladin would keep Relis distracted while Adolin defeated Elit and Jakamav. Hopefully, Abrobadar wouldn't decide to use his battle with Renarin as leverage against the rest of the Kholin side.

Kaladin dodged around Relis for a few blows, clearly trying to come up with a way to keep the man distracted. That crack in Relis' vambrace wouldn't be enough—once Relis realized that it and the slit in his faceplate were the only openings Kaladin's spear could possibly penetrate, he would abandon Kaladin and return to the fight with Adolin. Adolin could defeat the other two—three was too many.

Kaladin charged. A few paces from Relis, he jumped into the air. Sarus saw him accelerating unnaturally as he jumped—no, fell—feet first into Relis' breastplate. He'd Lashed himself—layered several Lashings on top of each other—and the force of his amplified fall cracked both the Plate and Kaladin's legs. Sarus saw him fall to the sand, groaning. His eyes managed to catch the Stormlight knitting the bones back together. As Kaladin forced himself back to his feet, Sarus saw Relis rise to his knees, struggling to stay even there under the weight of his cracked breastplate.

Adolin was struggling against the two men set against him, but they were flagging too. Elit's breastplate had broken completely, and he moved sluggishly, the Shardplate barely amplifying his strength at all without that central piece.

Sarus glanced over at the fourth man, Abrobadar, and saw something odd. The man seemed to be staggering back from Renarin. No, not from Renarin—from another figure who stood in front of Renarin, a man in the same orange Plate as Abrobadar himself. But the figure was almost transparent, like the wisps of Stormlight rising from Kaladin…

…And from Renarin.

-x-x-x-​

Renarin didn't have more than a moment to take in what Captain Kaladin had done before Abrobadar attacked him again. This time, he didn't get his own Blade up in time, and the impact clipped his helm. His vision went white.

Damnation, Glys said. Now of all times!?

Renarin's vision cleared, and suddenly he felt cold. All around him and Abrobadar, there were panes of stained glass floating in the air. Nine of them hovered in a ring around them. He immediately picked out one which showed the same storm as every other vision of this type, complete with the numbers in lines of gold.

One pane showed an army of men in Sadeas-green uniforms, their eyes glowing red as they charged.

Another showed what looked like a shooting star, sapphire-blue, falling from the heights of a great tower.

The next pane showed Elhokar twitching on the ground, a spear in his eye, held by a man in a Kholin-blue uniform whose rank and company insignias had been torn away.

Then a pane showed—

—Abrobadar's Blade caught Renarin in the side. His vision went white again.

—"Ah, there you are." A woman in robes that seemed woven of roots and vines stood over him. Her skin was darker than an Alethi's—Azish, perhaps?—and her eyes were green and slitted. A great, indistinct shape hovered behind her, seemingly made of deep green smoke. Renarin had never seen her in this form in his visions, but he knew her all the same. This was Cultivation.

"I know you're low on time," said Cultivation, "so I'll be quick, —" She spoke three words then, but somehow they became indistinct in Renarin's ears, as though a veil had fallen between them momentarily. "You will have noticed that you have two types of visions. That is not a coincidence or a random quirk of your voidbinding. It is my doing. The other visions, the panes of glass, they are his, and many are outdated. But these? These are mine, little one."

"Yours?" Renarin whispered. "But how?"

"No time for answers now," said Cultivation. "I believe you have a duel to get back to."

—Renarin blinked just in time to see Abrobadar's sword coming towards his shoulder. He took a step back, and the blade sailed harmlessly past.

What was that? Glys asked, sounding shaken. Our visions—some of them come from Cultivation? How is that possible? Why?

Abrobadar stepped forward. Renarin found he felt oddly calm, almost focused. Somehow, the fear had melted away. He felt… comforted. As if Cultivation was with him. Even the screaming of his Blade had quieted. His next parry was far stronger than he'd expected, and he realized that he was infused. Either he had unconsciously sucked in Stormlight during his vision, or this was a final gift from Cultivation.

But even with enhanced strength, Renarin couldn't beat Abrobadar. He simply lacked the training. But he had something Abrobadar lacked, too.

Surgebinding.

His Surge of Illumination was altered, Glys had said. But that didn't mean Renarin had to be at the mercy of its random occurrences. He was the Surgebinder—the Voidbinder—and the Surge would serve him.

He batted Abrobadar's blade aside and, on instinct, raised his left hand. He reached out, with both hand and soul, and felt something catch. A Connection formed between him and the man before him.

And down that connection, Renarin pushed the future.

A figure coalesced between the two of them. It was Abrobadar, clad in the same orange Plate. He stood with his back to Renarin, staring his real self down. Only, he wasn't staring at all. Without even needing to look, Renarin knew that the illusory man's eyes were empty, burned-out embers in his head.

With a choked, terrified grunt, Abrobadar staggered back. Renarin stepped forward, passing through his own illusion, and raised his Blade, ignoring its screaming. His cut was unpracticed, but this time it was Abrobadar who barely managed to parry it in time.

Renarin smiled.

-x-x-x-​

Renarin must be using one of his Surges. Illumination, if Sarus remembered right. With any luck only Sarus, Renarin, and his target could see the illusory image of the Shardblade-severed corpse. Abrobadar wouldn't dare tell anyone for fear of being thought insane and, if Renarin was careful in future, his secret would be kept.

Meanwhile, Kaladin had returned to attacking Relis. Elit was being beaten back by Adolin, who was only giving Jakamav enough focus to avoid being taken by surprise. As Sarus watched, Adolin severed the head of Elit's Shardhammer from its handle. Elit slumped, knowing he was defeated, and the judge pronounced him beaten. That done, Adolin rounded on Jakamav.

Relis fell back from Kaladin, who was driving blows dangerously close to the crack in the man's breastplate. He tried to bring his Blade around to cut at Kaladin, but with his breastplate cracked his enhanced strength was fading fast, and Kaladin was a Windrunner. Relis might as soon catch a highstorm.

It was only a matter of time, Sarus realized. Somehow, Kaladin and Renarin had plucked victory from the grip of defeat.

The first to fall was Jakamav. Without another foe to distract him, Adolin had little trouble dismantling him. Then he turned to help Renarin, only to stop in apparent amazement as Abrobadar fell onto his back on the sand. Renarin was clumsy with his Blade, but even he could drive it down like a club into the struggling man's breastplate. It cracked, and Adolin stepped in to join him. A moment later, the judge pronounced Abrobadar beaten.

Kaladin stepped away from his offensive. Relis almost charged him, but then looked around and realized his position. Sarus saw him slump. He saw the Blade slip from his fingers and hit the sand, its bond to his bearer broken. "I yield!" he called to the judge, shame and impotent rage thick in his voice.

Excellent. Somehow, impossibly, the plan was on pace. The idea, as it had been explained to Sarus, was simple. Adolin would acquit himself impressively by defeating two Shardbearers in the field. In recognition of the achievement, Elhokar would offer him a boon. Adolin would request the opportunity to duel Sadeas—immediately. Sadeas would have no choice but to obey the king's summons or openly disobey the king before all of Alethkar.

Indeed, it all seemed to be going well. "Warriors, duelmasters!" Elhokar called down formally. "I am greatly pleased by what you have accomplished today. This was a fight the like of which hasn't been seen in Alethkar for generations. You have pleased your king greatly."

The crowd cheered.

"I offer you a boon," Elhokar said, pointing at Adolin. "Name what you wish of me or of this court. It shall be yours. No man, having seen this display, could deny you."

Sarus glanced at the Sadeas booth and saw that Sadeas was already trying to leave. He had realized where this was going, and knew his only hope was to get out of the arena before Adolin spoke.

"For my boon," Adolin called, "I demand the Right of Challenge. I demand the chance to duel Highprince Sadeas, right here and now, as redress for the crimes he committed against my house!"

Sadeas stopped. Sarus saw his shoulders slump in defeat.

Sarus smiled.

"And for my boon!" Kaladin shouted.

Sarus whirled. No, he thought.

"I demand the Right of Challenge against the murderer Amaram! He stole from me and slaughtered my friends to hide it. Amaram branded me a slave! I demand the right to duel him, here and now!"

For a moment, Sarus' mind was completely blank. How could he not have seen this coming? Kaladin hadn't been raised in the court of a highprince. Of course he didn't know the intricacies of king's boons and dueling law.

It was not just untraditional for a darkeyes to duel a lighteyes of the fourth dahn. It was illegal, unless the darkeyes had already jumped through about a dozen hoops designed to ensure that they never got that far. More to the point, the boon had been offered to Adolin, as the primary duelist—not to everyone on the victorious team.

Sarus had to do something. He could already see the heat rising in Elhokar's cheeks. He opened his mouth—

"Arrest him!" Elhokar shouted.

—and closed it again. He looked down at Kaladin in the arena, watched the man's triumphant smile fade as he realized what was happening. He looked up, and his eyes found Sarus'.

Sarus could do nothing now. Not without jeopardizing both of their precarious positions. He needed to speak to Elhokar privately, later. For now… he just had to let this happen.

He had just long enough to see Kaladin's expression crumple in betrayal before he turned away.

 

[Lithos Maitreya]

Sorry about the mistake in the initial chapter post. I'm recovering from a minor surgery and was perhaps distracted.

Thanks to Elran and @BeaconHill for betareading, and to Phinnia for the commissioned icon.

-x-x-x-

52

Captain



-x-x-x-​

I cannot describe what followed. It defies word or logic.

-x-x-x-​

Sarus followed Elhokar and Dalinar into the room. Soldiers saluted as the two nobles entered. Between them, chained to a chair, sat Kaladin. His eyes were turned downward.

"—Absolutely unheard of! Unacceptable behavior!" Elhokar said. His argument with Dalinar had been carrying on for several minutes and showed no signs of stopping. "Leave us," he told the soldiers before continuing. "I shouldn't have even allowed a darkeyes onto the sand, and that was how—"

"The Captain only went onto the sand because not a single other man in that arena was willing to help my sons!" Dalinar shouted back.

"Which is the only reason I allowed it! Protecting them is his job. And then he decided that doing his job was so praiseworthy that he felt comfortable insulting a highlord in front of my entire court! He challenged him to a duel! The gap between them could hold all of Alethkar!"

"He was caught up in the moment!" Dalinar countered. "Be reasonable, Elhokar; the man had just helped bring down four Shardbearers!"

"Where his help was invited! And I shouldn't have allowed it then! I should have called off the duel the moment a darkeyes stepped in! And for him to challenge a highlord!?"

"What I said was true," Kaladin said. His voice was toneless. Sarus wanted to look away, but his eyes kept drifting back to the man, even as Kaladin seemed unable or unwilling to look up from the floor.

"Be silent!" Elhokar roared. "You've said enough! You've ruined our chance at Sadeas!"

That made Kaladin glance up, frowning. "But Adolin issued his challenge. Surely Sadeas can't ignore it."

"Adolin didn't get a chance to see his challenge accepted immediately," Dalinar said quietly. "Sadeas sent word as soon as he left the arena. He agreed to duel Adolin—in a year's time."

Kaladin's face fell. His eyes darted to Sarus' face, then turned down again.

"He slipped the noose!" Elhokar said, rubbing his temples. "We needed that moment—the excitement, the splendor—in the arena to pin him down and shame him into an immediate fight. You stole that moment, bridgeman! This is what you get, Uncle, for putting a—" Suddenly, Elhokar cut himself off. He shot Sarus a quick glance, then shook his head and turned back to Kaladin. "It's shameful."

"You saw him fight, Elhokar. He's excellent."

"It's not his skill I object to," Elhokar growled. "It's his discipline. Execution."

Both Sarus and Kaladin's eyes shot to the king. Sarus felt ice in his stomach.

"Don't be ridiculous," Dalinar said, taking a step so that he was beside Kaladin's chair—placing himself clearly on the captain's side.

"It's the legal punishment for slandering a highlord."

"And, as king, you can pardon any crime! Don't tell me you honestly want to see this man hanged after today?"

"Would you stop me?"

Paradoxically, hearing that relieved Sarus. Elhokar didn't actually want to execute Kaladin. He wanted to push Dalinar's boundaries, see where his uncle's limits were. That was something Sarus could understand—and it meant he didn't have to face the terrible decision of whether to value Kaladin's life over his own position and reputation.

"I wouldn't stand for it," said Dalinar.

"Am I your king?" Elhokar snapped.

"Of course."

"I say the boy is to be executed. What do you say to that?"

"I'd say that in attempting such a thing," Dalinar said softly, tension rippling through his frame, "you'd make an enemy of me, Your Majesty."

Sarus knuckles were white on his spear. He forced them to relax. It wouldn't come to that. He knew what Elhokar was about.

Sure enough, a moment later, Elhokar turned away, calling "Prison," back at Dalinar.

"For how long?" the highprince asked.

"Until I say he's done!" Elhokar turned back to glare at Dalinar for a moment, before turning away and continuing towards the exit.

Sarus shot Kaladin one last glance. The captain's eyes were staring down at the floor, but Syl hovered above his head. The look she sent Sarus' way was pleading. Accusing.

Somehow, that made it easier. He fixed her with his gaze for a long moment, then turned away and followed the king.

Elhokar was standing just outside Dalinar's rooms. A gentle, chill breeze flowed through the courtyard, rustling a few strands of the cropped hair beneath his crown. He didn't turn around as Sarus stepped out behind him. For a long moment, both of them were silent.

"You claim to know Sadeas," Elhokar said finally. His voice was just the slightest bit hoarse after shouting at Dalinar for more than a quarter of an hour. "What will he do now?"

"Nothing you couldn't guess, Your Majesty," said Sarus. "At least, not immediately. He will withdraw to his palace to lick his wounds and plan his next offensive. We did win today, lest we forget. We won several Shards from his allies."

"But he slipped the trap."

"Yes. And it cost him a great deal to escape. Five Shards, if I counted correctly, given that Brightlord Elit had borrowed yours."

"But none of those men were actually Sadeas'," Elhokar pointed out.

"They may not have worn his colors," said Sarus dryly, "but as they say, if it bays like an axehound and hunts like an axehound, only a fool would call it a chull."

Elhokar snorted quietly. "Maybe I am a fool," he said softly. Then, suddenly, he seemed to remember who he was speaking to. He shot Sarus a suspicious look. "Can I trust you not to follow in your captain's footsteps?"

"I will always admire Captain Kaladin for his ability to inspire men to be greater than they are," said Sarus. "But he is also brash, even foolish. I may not share his strengths, but neither do I share his failures."

"Good," Elhokar said, turning and starting toward his chambers.

Sarus followed, and for a time they walked in silence. None of the other guards were with them now. Sarus had sent them away after the disastrous duel, fearing that any of them might do something rash in defense of their captain.

"What will happen to the rest of your company?" Elhokar asked. "Bridge Four, as you call yourselves?"

"Most of them are fiercely loyal to Kaladin," said Sarus. "They understand the importance of the oath we took to defend you and your family, Your Majesty, but it was also a term of our employment that any man who wished could leave the warcamps. Kaladin ensured that Highprince Dalinar gave us that guarantee."

"So I'm going to have to replace the entire King's Guard. Again."

"I think most will remain," Sarus said. "They will not want to abandon Kaladin. As long as there is hope that you will order his release, they will wait for him. But they may not be entirely pleased to defend you, Your Majesty. I will not lie to you."

"And you are?" Elhokar shot him another guarded look.

Sarus met his gaze levelly. "I understand why you did what you did, Your Majesty. I share your anger. Highprince Sadeas has slipped the net once again."

"And if I had ordered the boy put to death?"

"I understand why you did what you did," Sarus repeated.

Elhokar's eyes narrowed as they reached the rooms. He held the door for Sarus. "Inside." Sarus stepped past him, and Elhokar shut the door before looking back at him again. "Do you think I am a weak king?" he asked.

"I think that Highprince Dalinar does not understand how to let go of power."

Elhokar grimaced. "So, yes."

"No, Your Majesty," Sarus said. "I think that you are a king who has been put in a difficult, if not impossible, situation. Your most important supporter is also the one who most readily ignores your dictates—second only to the man you originally sought to replace him with."

"I didn't want Sadeas to replace my uncle," Elhokar protested weakly.

"Of course not, Your Majesty. But you wanted him to provide a check against Highprince Dalinar's influence, did you not?"

Elhokar looked towards the window for a moment. "You're shrewd," he said. "For a darkeyes."

"Thank you, Your Majesty."

"What would you say if I put you in command of Bridge Four?"

Sarus blinked. "I would say that I am honored."

"Then you accept?"

"I do not know if the men of Bridge Four will obey me." The moment the words left his lips, Sarus realized they tasted like ash on his tongue. Why shouldn't the men of Bridge Four obey him? He had been among them longer than Kaladin. He was a Radiant, like Kaladin. He was the one who actually knew how to maneuver around the lethal pitfalls of lighteyed politics. But he wasn't Kaladin.

And, somehow, that was all that mattered.

"Well, someone has to be in command," Elhokar said. "Unless we want the entire force to sit in their barracks all day with nothing to do. I can't release the captain. Certainly not at once."

"Of course not, Your Majesty," said Sarus.

Elhokar shot him a look. "Was that sarcasm?"

"No," Sarus said honestly. "You have ordered the captain's arrest. You have ordered his imprisonment. Those orders must be carried out and allowed to stand for at least some time, lest your uncle's influence undermine you yet again."

"You do understand. Storms, sometimes I hate that man." Elhokar's fists clenched momentarily at his sides. "And your captain is cut from the same cloth."

"They have a great deal in common," Sarus said. It was true, to an extent, but mostly he was agreeing because Elhokar clearly needed to vent.

"Now both of them have directly undermined me in a single day," Elhokar growled. "The boy shamed me in front of my entire court. Dalinar at least had the decency to threaten me in private." Suddenly, the king's anger dropped away like dead grasses being brushed off the rock by a highstorm wind. "But it wasn't the captain who allowed Sadeas to get away, was it?" he asked.

Sarus pursed his lips. "You cannot be blamed for being distracted," he said quietly.

"But I can," Elhokar said quietly. "And I should." He shot Sarus a wry look. "I really must be a weak king, if I'm telling you this."

"I think that there has not been a king in history, from the Silver Kingdoms down to the modern day, who could stand without sharing his hidden weaknesses with anyone," Sarus said. "Even the strongest kings are still men, Your Majesty. Whatever you reveal to me, not a word of it shall spread. You have my oath."

"Are you offering to be my confidant?" Elhokar asked, sounding darkly amused.

"I would not presume, Your Majesty," said Sarus. "But I am your servant and your guard. I do not ask for any secrets. I merely assure you that, if they come into my hands, they shall never leave them."

Elhokar sighed. He crossed the room towards the window. There was a mirror propped up against the wall beside it. Elhokar turned towards it with an air of dread. He looked his own reflection up and down briefly before turning back to Sarus. "I worry sometimes that I'm going mad," he said quietly.

Sarus frowned. "Mad, Your Majesty?"

"I sometimes see shapes in the mirror," Elhokar said, jerking his head towards the glass. "The first few times, I thought it was the Assassin in White, come to kill me, but every time I look there's no one dead. And now the Assassin has been captured, but they still haunt me, those figures. You're right—I was distracted today. What the captain did was only the blunt spoon that cracked the chull's shell." He shot Sarus a thin smile. "What do you think of that?"

Sarus thought of Archive, perfectly still on his shoulder. He thought of Syl, hovering around Kaladin's head, invisible. He thought of Renarin's mysterious spren, who didn't look like a mistspren should and seemed determined to hide from anyone who might realize it. "I think," he said quietly, "that there are many strange things on Roshar, Your Majesty. There is no sense in assuming one's own madness. Not while there may be other explanations."

"What other explanation could there be for strange silhouettes in the mirror with terrifying patterns for heads?" Elhokar asked.

Sarus couldn't outright tell the man he thought that a spren was watching him for potential nomination as a Knight Radiant. It would spawn too many questions. But he could drop a hint. "Do you believe you have seen every form of spren there is, Your Majesty?"

Elhokar blinked. "No, I suppose not. But those things can't be spren. They're too big."

"I have seen spren larger than a man's head. I see no reason why spren should not exist that are larger than a man."

Elhokar's face crumpled. "You really think so?" he asked. "You don't think I'm going insane?"

"In my experience, there is no surer sign of a man's sanity than that he questions it, Your Majesty."

Elhokar was silent for a long moment. "I'm promoting you to captain of Bridge Four," he said finally. "I trust you're smart enough to find ways to get your men to obey you. Tell me if you need my authority to discipline any who disobey."

Sarus blinked once, thinking quickly. An idea occurred to him. He could suggest that Elhokar release Kaladin—not today, perhaps, but soon—and have that release be conditional on Sarus' promotion. Kaladin wouldn't mind. His rank didn't matter to him, only the safety of those he protected. But the men of Bridge Four wouldn't really be obeying Sarus, then. They'd be obeying Kaladin, and Kaladin would tell them to follow Sarus' orders. Maybe the men would see that he had wrangled Kaladin's freedom, but many of them—Moash, Gadol, and Sigzil, to name a few—would see it as a power grab. Would question his motives.

Sarus was petty. He was spiteful. He was pathetic. And he didn't want to be Kaladin's figurehead.

He wanted to be enough.

He bowed low. "Yes, Your Majesty."

 

[Lithos Maitreya]

Thanks to Elran and @BeaconHill for betareading, and to Phinnia for the commissioned icon.

-x-x-x-

53

Loyal Subjects



-x-x-x-​

A power came out of the West. The very power that, before my birth, had sunk Númenor beneath the waves and twisted the very shape of the earth, bending the world and the sky around one another.

-x-x-x-

Six Years Ago​

"Gavilar can't possibly expect me to abandon my princedom now," Torol said incredulously.

"I'm afraid His Majesty was quite insistent, Brightlord," said the messenger smoothly.

Torol looked the man up and down. He wore a crisp uniform in Kholin blue, of the style Gavilar had lately started favoring. His short hair was slicked back with rather too much of whatever holding mixture he used, giving his head an unnatural, domed appearance. His pale lilac eyes fixed Torol with an almost imperious air, as though being Gavilar's direct servant made him more important than the highprince in whose tent he was currently standing.

Annoyingly, he wasn't wrong enough that Torol could punish him for it. That wouldn't go down well with the king.

"Two of my highlords are in open rebellion," Torol told him. "I'm in the middle of a siege. Gavilar can go and play with his savages if he wants; I have work to do here."

"Of course, Brightlord," said the man. "Shall I return and tell His Majesty that you have disobeyed him?"

Torol bared his teeth. "Watch your tongue, messenger."

The man affected a bemused expression. The morning sunlight streamed inside from the half-open tent flap behind him. "Is there a better way to phrase this?" he asked. "His Majesty ordered that you come to Kholinar. You refuse. Is that not disobedience?"

There was a cracking sound. Torol looked down to see that his fist seemed to have torn away part of the arm of his own chair. He glanced back up and saw that the man's eyes had widened slightly. Suddenly he seemed a little less assured.

Which was nice, but Torol still couldn't actually gut the man. Unfortunately. "I need to confer with my generals," Torol told him. "Stay for dinner. I'll have an answer for you by tonight."

The man pulled himself back together. "Very good, Brightlord. I am sure you will do what is best." With that, he turned and left Torol's tent.

Torol took a few slow, calming breaths. Then he stood and left the meeting tent by its other entrance, leading to another canvas chamber containing his war table. Upon the table, its corners pressed down with iron spherelamps, was a map of the fortress of Lemenar, complete with miniatures to mark the perimeter his forces had made around the castle.

General Tulitan was already studying the map. He gave Torol a crisp salute. "Brightlord. What did the messenger want?"

"Gavilar has summoned me to Kholinar," Torol said. "Apparently, it's important that I be there while he signs his peace treaty with those parshman savages from the Unclaimed Hills."

Tulitan's expression went wooden. "Is His Majesty unaware of the circumstances here?"

"Of course not," Torol said dryly. "He may not know the exact details, but I'm sure he's aware of the rebellion. That's probably why he's insisting. He needs to show that I put the needs of Alethkar over those of the Sadeas princedom."

"And do you?"

Torol shot his general a look. "My job," he said, "is to make sure I don't have to choose."

"And yet…" The general's words trailed away meaningfully.

"And yet," Torol sighed. "Have your men finished the ram?"

"Yes, Brightlord," said Tulitan. "They've begun work on ladders now."

"No time," said Torol. "If I'm going to have to make for Kholinar, I want to have a victory before I leave. That's the only way to show that a united Alethkar doesn't weaken me."

"Brightlord," said Tulitan, almost hesitant, "our carriers will be slaughtered bringing the ram up to the gate without ladders to put men on the walls."

"Then their sacrifice will be honored at the Almighty's side. Order all companies to prepare to assault the walls. I want Lemenar burning by nightfall."

-x-x-x-​

Torol sat astride his horse on a hill overlooking Lemenar. The sun was sinking lower in the sky now, and the afternoon light was reflected gold in the armor and weapons of his army below. By the similar sparkle atop the fortress' walls, he could see that the archers were already in place, just waiting for his men to press forward.

Hoofbeats thudded against the relatively soft, fertile rock as Gavilar's messenger rode up beside him. "I do hope," he said smoothly, "that you did not have to accelerate your timeline overmuch to accommodate His Majesty."

"I'm sure you do," Torol said. He raised his hand in a signal to the trumpeters, and the horns rang out to signal the assault.

The vanguard, staffed with the least experienced and lowest ranked darkeyed soldiers, charged towards the gates. In their midst, the heavily armored column of carriers rushed towards the gate. The archers on the walls loosed their arrows.

Dozens of men died. Then hundreds. Torol watched as arrows glanced off helms, pierced gaps in mail, stained green uniforms red.

But the ram made it to the gate. Even this far away he could hear the resounding boom as it struck the wooden gate. Again, and again, and again.

And, eventually, the gate crumbled, and his men spilled into the fortress.

Torol smiled and spurred his horse forward. He passed between columns of his men as the remains of the vanguard pressed into the city. As he passed, one company after another sounded the charge. His forces followed him into the fortress. By the time he reached the gate, the broken remains of the gate had been pulled aside and his horse could easily pass through, hooves passing from the dusty lane onto the flagstones of the courtyard.

Inside, a regiment of his light spearmen was currently engaged with some of the local levy. Torol's heavy infantry passed him and joined the assault. He took a deep breath, let the Thrill fill him up, and charged in with them.

The next hour was a lurid blur of activity. His heavy sword—a massive bar of sharpened steel called a falseblade, designed to be used with Plate in the absence of a Shardblade—tore men apart. Some of his enemies wore the same green uniforms as his own soldiers, for these were his own subjects raising steel against him. They would not survive the experience.

His men blasted through the courtyard with heavy losses. They climbed the towers to reach the battlements and emptied them of enemy archers. They washed the barracks with blood. Then they turned their attention to the keep.

There were still a few archers inside, firing through arrow slits as his men brought the ram forward again to break down the door. But there were not enough, not by a breeze or a highstorm. The keep's reinforced doors broke open after a few minutes, and Torol led the charge inside—on foot, now, for there was no room for his horse indoors.

He was greeted by another man in Shardplate, a weighty Shardhammer—another weapon commonly used by men with Plate but no Blade—raised in defiance. The man's armor was pale yellow. His name was Highlord Malotam, and he had taken up arms against his highprince.

Torol dodged the first swing of the man's Shardhammer, then pressed forward with his falseblade. The man parried with the shaft of his hammer, then struck again. This blow connected, knocking Torol a step to the side and cracking one of his pauldrons.

"Yield!" roared Malotam, voice shrill and frenzied with the same Thrill boiling in Torol's blood. "Yield, you pathetic coward, and you can keep your life! I'll make you watch as I take your wife and daughter as concubines for the new highprince!"

The Thrill didn't fade—but suddenly, it was less important than the icy rage under Torol's skin. Any urge to taunt the traitor faded in the cold light of his hate. He twisted his falseblade, sending sparks flying as the blade skidded down the Shardhammer's handle. Malotam cursed as the large sword struck his gauntlets. The shock knocked the weapon from his hands. He had just long enough to look up in terror before Torol's blade whipped up and shattered his helmet in a terrible blow.

Revealed behind the scattering, molten metal of his visor, Malotam's pale grey eyes were as wide as Herdaz and twice as fearful. His face remained frozen in that expression as Torol clove his head from his shoulders.

He didn't even bother to watch the armored body fall. He just turned to slaughter another traitor. Then another, and another, until the blood ran rivers in the gaps between the tiles beneath his feet.

But at long last, there were no more men. Torol was left, casting side to side, searching for anyone to kill, but no targets presented themselves. For a moment of frenzy he considered striking the man beside him—some of the enemies wore Sadeas green, anyone here could be a traitor trying to hide among his loyal men—before he wrestled the Thrill back under control. He raised his sword and rested it on his shoulder as he turned to face his men. Celebratory cheers had begun to spread, outward from the keep into the rest of the army.

"We are not finished yet," Torol said, his voice hoarse with yelling and cold with hate. "Captainlords, organize your squads and move through the keep. Search every room, every closet, behind every tapestry. We've beaten the traitors. Now we must exterminate them. Every child with traitor's blood, every woman to bear them. Kill them all."

His men roared approval, the Thrill howling in their blood.

-x-x-x-​

"We lost nearly fifteen hundred men today, Brightlord," said Tulitan, his tone stiff.

"Almost a fifth of the army," Torol mused, swirling the wine in his goblet. "A shame. Send messengers to my loyal highlords—particularly Amaram—and call on their levies to bolster our forces. Now that we've won a victory, we can call on them without shame."

"A costly victory," Tulitan said. "We lost more men than the entire defending force."

"Such is a siege." Torol shrugged and sipped his wine. "Highlord Obrodal remains in rebellion. I trust you to see him crushed while I am in Kholinar."

"Shall I order an assault on his walls as soon as we have a ram, as well, Brightlord?" Tulitan asked.

Torol looked him in the eye. "Do you think a united Alethkar is making my princedom weak, General? Are you of like mind with Highlord Malotam?"

Tulitan paled. "Of course not, Brightlord."

"Good," said Torol. "Today was a victory. See to it that it is talked of as such. And no—you may take the siege of Obrodal's walls as slowly as they merit. Should I return before the castle falls, I will deal with the situation then."

"Yes, Brightlord," said Tulitan. He saluted quickly before leaving.

I have got to replace that man, Torol thought, before turning to the man seated beside him. "Well," he said. "The battle is won, and it seems I am now free to come to Kholinar at His Majesty's command."

"It appears so, Brightlord," said the messenger, eyes following a servant girl as she approached the table with a tray laden with several plates of food. She offered Torol his first, as was customary, before offering one to the messenger. "When do you intend to leave?"

"Tomorrow," Torol said. "The stormwardens predict a highstorm just before dawn. I'll wait for the riddens to pass, then take my guards and go south."

"Very good, Brightlord," said the messenger. "I shall bring word of your coming to His Majesty."

Torol raised an eyebrow. "Surely you don't intend to leave on the eve of a storm?"

"I must make all haste, Brightlord Sadeas," said the messenger, smiling thinly. "You need not fear for my safety."

"You may be assured that I do not," said Torol, tucking into his food.

A little under an hour later, Torol stepped outside of the keep. All around, the army's support staff were hard at work washing the blood from the walls and floor. The wine had left his head buzzing pleasantly.

A runner approached from outside the castle. "Brightlord," said the young man, saluting. He couldn't be more than fourteen or fifteen. "Companylord Maleam reports that the reinforcements recruited from Sadear have arrived. He asks whether he has leave to fold them into his company to offset his losses."

"The Sadear reinforcements?" Torol asked, surprised. "I didn't expect them for several more weeks."

"I wouldn't know anything about that, Brightlord," said the boy humbly.

"Fair enough," said Torol. "You may tell Maleam that he has leave to use the newcomers as he sees fit."

As the boy jogged off, Torol realized that another boy only a little older was probably among the recruits who had just arrived. Sarus was a quick study—if enough of the recruits were as talented as that boy, that might explain why they had been dispatched so much earlier than Torol had expected.

Torol knew Sarus had ambitions of acquiring a Shardblade and becoming lighteyed. Privately, he approved. As long as the boy was darkeyed, he could not support his friendship with Tailiah. But his daughter's minders reported that, even when they caught her sneaking to visit him after nightfall, there was no evidence that he had tried anything untoward beyond simple conversation. And the lad was undeniably clever, even brilliant.

If Sarus acquired Shards, Torol could not think of someone better to support his daughter. Not as her husband, of course—even though Shards would make the boy fourth dahn, he would still not be a suitable match for Torol's own daughter—but certainly as an advisor and highlord. But that was vanishingly unlikely. If any darkeyes had ever ascended by winning Shards in battle, it was so long ago as to be more myth than history.

Still, Torol thought as he went to bed that night. That would be a stroke of excellent fortune.

 

[Lithos Maitreya]

Thanks to Elran and @BeaconHill for betareading, and to Phinnia for the commissioned icon.

-x-x-x-

54

Compromise



-x-x-x-​

If anyone reads this, they will be used to a spherical world. But before Númenor was destroyed, Arda was a flat plane.

-x-x-x-​

The sun had nearly set when Sarus finally made it back to the barracks. The men were outside, gathered around the campfire and eating Rock's stew. At a glance, the scene looked entirely normal, as if the evening ritual was completely unaffected by all that had happened—but in every man's eyes, Sarus could see the highstorm of emotion brewing. These were men on the very edge of doing something truly rash, though what, exactly, varied from one to another.

That had to be his first priority—getting the men's rage, fear, and confusion under control. His promotion was as much a liability as an asset if he couldn't trust that Elhokar wouldn't find himself at the end of one of his subordinates' spears.

Murk was the first to see him. He stood up sharply, almost spilling his stew in his haste. "Sarus!" he called, holding up a hand. "You're back! We were worr…" He trailed off, his eyes fixing themselves on Sarus' shoulder, where a new set of captain's knots were tied.

One by one, the others followed his gaze. Sarus took note of the spread of their expressions. Several looked mutinous—Moash, Gadol, and Sigzil most of all—but most simply looked sad. Grieving.

Ah. "Kaladin is alive," he announced, taking a seat beside the campfire. He relaxed his shoulders, making them slump forward, as if he was as emotionally drained as the rest of them.

"Wait, was that not certain?" Moash demanded furiously.

"The legal punishment for slandering a lighteyes is determined by the difference in rank between the slanderer and the slandered," Sarus said. "Kaladin may no longer be sas nahn, but that doesn't mean he could accuse a third-dahn highlord safely. Legally, his punishment should have been summary execution. Fortunately, in light of Kaladin's contributions to his safety and that of his family—not least his heroism today—His Majesty showed mercy. He's been imprisoned, but won't be killed."

"Oh, good," Moash said. "His Majesty was feeling merciful. How nice."

There was a wave of agreeing grumbles around the campfire. "How dare he accuse Kaladin of slander?" Gadol said. "We knew Kaladin had been wronged. If he said those things about Amaram, it's because they're true."

"Yes," Sarus said. "I'm quite certain they are. But, unfortunately, Kaladin has no proof to offer."

"Because Amaram bought or killed off all the witnesses!"

"Presumably, yes." Sarus fixed Gadol with a look. "If you were unaware, we live in Alethkar. Are you surprised that the laws written by lighteyes make it easy for them to escape punishment for crimes done to darkeyes?"

Gadol grit his teeth and didn't answer.

"Talenelat's broken toenails," muttered Murk. "What a mess. I see you've been promoted to captain, Sarus?"

"Even if His Majesty were willing to allow Kaladin to keep the position, he couldn't very well lead from inside a cell. So, yes—I've been promoted to captain of Bridge Four." He buried the envious flare as he added, "At least for now."

"Convenient," murmured Sigzil, almost too quietly to be heard. But Sarus wasn't the only one who caught it.

"I'm sorry," Murk said to him in disbelief, "you think Sarus wanted this to happen?"

Sarus was left with a decision. Did he allow this conversation to play out in the hopes that his silence would make him seem more like their fellow former bridgeman, rather than like a man with a guilty conscience? Or did he intervene and make an example of Sigzil, as a warning to the others who might doubt him? The latter would all but guarantee that several of the men would never trust him, but it might also prevent active mutiny, at least for a while.

I'll bide my time, he decided. I can intervene if the conversation turns south.

Sigzil looked down, avoiding both Murk and Sarus' gaze. But Moash spoke up, eyes full of challenge as he met Sarus' gaze. "We know Sarus is jealous of Kal," he said.

And you aren't? Sarus thought, annoyed. But speaking the words would achieve nothing. He could discredit Moash, but that wouldn't actually help build his own credibility. Not with these men, in this context. So he let the man continue.

"He has been since before he started speaking," Moash said. "Obviously he didn't make Kaladin go down into the arena—not that Kal would have needed pushing—and he didn't make Kaladin say what he said. But he knows the ins and outs of lighteyed laws. He'd have known what Elhokar would do. And Elhokar trusts him—he could have stopped this."

"I'm flattered that you think so highly of my influence," said Sarus, hoping his dry tone would have the desired effect. "But although His Majesty trusts me with his safety, that doesn't mean I can change his decisions."

Moash snorted. "The king's a paranoid wreck, and you manipulate people like it's your Calling."

It is my Calling. "Knowing how to navigate among lighteyed politics, as a darkeyes, is as much about knowing one's limits as about achieving one's goals, Moash. I might well be able to get Kaladin out of prison before too long, but I certainly couldn't gainsay His Majesty in public in the arena. And once the order to imprison Kaladin had been given, His Majesty couldn't immediately reverse it lest he be seen as weak and arbitrary."

"He is weak and arbitrary!"

"All the more reason to ensure he doesn't look it," Sarus snapped, glaring at Moash. I know you want the king dead, but would it kill you to be a hair more subtle? "Sadeas is already scheming to depose Elhokar. Do you think he needs the help? That the civil war he will cause will be a good thing for any of us? A real civil war, not the sort of border skirmish Kaladin fought in before he was sent down here. You may think politics are a lighteyed matter, but you should have learned by now that when lighteyes go to war, it's the darkeyes who die.

"The last time even a minor rebellion was raised against the Kholin dynasty, the entire city of Rathalas was put to the torch. Women and children were slaughtered by the thousands. And that atrocity was led by the honorable Highprince Dalinar—by the Blackthorn. Do you think that a true civil war, where our enemies are led by Sadeas, will be less brutal? And once the war ends, even if we survive and win, what about when Jah Keved and Herdaz invade an Alethkar that has lost a quarter of its darkeyed population to battle, slaughter, siege, and sickness? Do you think they will be more merciful, after all that the Blackthorn did to them during the post-Unification border wars?

"Highprince Dalinar promised not to force us to go into battle on the plateaus, but do you think that will apply when the entirety of Alethkar is a battlefield? Do you think that the fact that we won't need to carry bridges will mean we're safe? I assure you, it will not. Of the men here, it's likely half will die.

"So yes, Moash, I want to keep His Majesty safe. Both from assassination and from lighteyed politics. Because understand me—the alternative is far, far worse. If that means that Kaladin has to stay in prison for a few weeks, then so be it. I am certain he would understand, if only the intricacies of these politics could penetrate his skull."

A terrible silence fell. Moash's face was ashen, his eyes so wide that a white ring was visible all around his dark irises.

"Do you really think it would come to that?" someone whispered. Dunny?

"Absolutely, lad." It was Teft who spoke, a heavy sigh underscoring the words. "I remember the unification wars. They were bloody at the best of times. At the worst… you could have told me they were a Desolation, and I'd have believed you. And that was when the Kholin-Sadeas alliance was fighting individual highprincedoms that could barely avoid killing each other long enough to try and negotiate their own cease fires. If it were between two united forces of roughly equal strength? It'd be a bloodbath."

"I thought the Alethi considered war a glorious thing," Sigzil said. His eyes were narrowed as he studied Sarus.

Teft snorted. "The lighteyes and people back home in the cities, maybe. Any darkeyed spearman who's been on the field for more than a few weeks knows better."

"And even if most soldiers did feel that way, we should know better. We've seen the ugliest face war can offer. But the bridge crews are not its only ugly face." Sarus looked around the small circle at the men who were now under his command. "I do not want Kaladin to stay in prison long," he said. And that much, at least, was true. "Nor does Highprince Dalinar. We will not leave him there. But we have to be patient, or we could make things far worse."

"Is that why you shut your mouth for five years?" Gadol grunted. "Because you made things worse?"

To Sarus' surprise, it was Moash who snapped out an arm and cuffed Gadol upside the head. "That was uncalled for!"

"Yes, it was," Murk said, with a face like a stormwall. "Do you see anyone asking about what happened to land you in the bridge crews, Gadol? Do you see us implying it was your fault?"

"Enough," Sarus said. "To answer your question, Gadol… yes. But when we got out of there I promised myself that I would not let the fear of making things worse prevent me from acting at all anymore. I do not intend to break that promise. But I still intend to act carefully. I'd rather we not be the reason Kaladin ends up executed."

That sobered the men very quickly. "This is wise," Rock said, offering Sarus a bowl of stew. "The guard rotations will need to be changed, without Kaladin."

Sarus sighed and nodded. "Yes. And we'll need to change Prince Adolin's rotation. He's refusing to leave His Majesty's jail until such time as Kaladin is freed, so we'll be watching over them both for the time being."

"Wait, he is?" Leyten asked.

"It would appear so. It remains to be seen if he stays committed. Either way, Teft, I need to know if any of the trainees from the other bridges are ready to be folded into the rotations…"

-x-x-x-​

After the door to the captain's quarters closed behind Sarus, he found himself staring at the dark room for a long moment, perfectly still. That had gone better than he could have hoped. Sigzil and Gadol were still leery of him, and he didn't know where exactly Moash stood, given his part in the attempt on Elhokar's life mere weeks ago. But the rest of the men seemed to have been convinced that he was just as committed to seeing Kaladin freed as they were.

And he was, truly. He had no desire to see Kaladin languishing in jail for a crime as stupid as slandering the highlord who had slaughtered his squad. He was no use to Sarus—or anyone else—trapped in a cell. And he couldn't imagine it was easy for a man who had grown accustomed to being able to run up walls to be trapped in a single room with nothing but a cot and a chamber pot for company.

He might be able to win something out of Kaladin's time in prison, but anything he could achieve would be done quickly. The longer Kaladin remained jailed, the more reason the men would have to suspect his motives. What Sarus needed to do now was to demonstrate himself capable—show that, despite lacking the gravitic quality that drew men's loyalty to Kaladin like windspren to a highstorm, he was more capable of representing his darkeyed subordinates to the lighteyes than Kaladin was. And that meant he needed to get Kaladin out of prison, now that he was there.

There was a knock on the door—Sarus still couldn't quite think of it as his, yet. That would come with time. "Enter," he said, turning on his heel to face it.

It opened, and Moash startled to see Sarus standing just a pace inside the room. "Sarus. Can I have a word?"

The men called Kaladin Captain and it came as naturally to them as breathing. Sarus didn't know if that would ever happen to him, and he couldn't press for it. Not now. It was frustrating, but right now the only source of his authority was that the men saw him as a peer, a fellow working to get their real leader freed. Changing that attitude would be slow work. "Of course," he said, stepping back to allow Moash in.

The man shut the door behind him, then stood for a moment, facing it, his back to Sarus. His shoulders were tense. His left hand fiddled with the hem of his blue jacket.

Sarus decided to take a chance. "Is this about your attempts to get His Majesty killed?"

Moash's fist tightened on the door handle. "Did Kal tell you?"

"Yes. But I'd figured it out long before that. Who was the Shardbearer?"

"I'm not going to tell you." Moash shot him a look, and Sarus was startled to realize his eyes were bloodshot with suppressed tears. "I'm… I can't sell the others out. I can't."

Sarus frowned at him, sitting down slowly in Kaladin's—no, the captain's, his—chair. "You've changed your mind," he said softly.

Moash slumped suddenly, as if those words were a Shardblade to the neck. "No," he said. "But I don't… I don't know what to do, Sarus. I can't let him get away with it—I can't let him live. But I don't want… what you and Teft said about what a civil war would look like. I don't want that, either. I don't know what to do."

And you came to me for advice? Sarus didn't allow his astonishment, his gratification, to show on his face as he folded his hands together. "His Majesty—Elhokar—wronged you somehow."

"He killed my grandparents. They were silversmiths in Kholinar, and a lighteyes who owned a few silver smithies in the city wanted them out of the way. Elhokar did his friend a favor—had my grandparents dragged in on some charge or another, and left them in prison to rot. They died there a few months later. I was out of the city at the time, didn't even hear about it until after."

"Kholinar silversmiths should have been third nahn at least," Sarus said—softly, to make it clear he wasn't questioning the truth of Moash's story. "More likely second. Did they not have the right to demand a trial?"

"They did. Elhokar had them jailed pending a trial, then left the paperwork sitting until it was too late." Moash's fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles popped. "I hate him, Sarus. I've hated him for years. I don't know how to stop hating him. I don't even want to."

"I wouldn't expect you to," Sarus said. "We darkeyes have precious few rights. The right to our hatred is something they can never take from us, even when we're made sas nahn."

Moash met his eyes. "You understand."

"Highprince Sadeas cut my mother's throat in front of me. I understand." Sarus' lips twitched into a mirthless smile. "And he'd have been dead or crippled right now if events in that arena had gone as planned."

Moash's eyes widened. "That wasn't Kaladin's fault!"

"It was as much Kaladin's fault as King Elhokar's. Which is to say—not entirely. Kaladin doesn't know the intricacies of caste law or dueling traditions. He didn't know that what he was doing was both a crime and a grievous insult to His Majesty and Prince Adolin. But he could have known these things, if he had asked."

"He had no reason to ask!"

"True. But that does mean he jumped into a dueling arena without an understanding of what he was doing." He held up a hand to forestall Moash's next protest. "I don't blame him for doing so. But he could have stood to be cautious—circumspect, after the fighting was done, knowing he was in a more formal situation than he had ever been before. Understand me, Moash—I don't blame Kaladin for losing his head and doing what he did. I know as well as anyone that sometimes we cannot help but follow our first impulse. Like you, Kaladin has spent months, perhaps years, festering in his anger at Highlord Amaram. He saw an opportunity, and could not help but take it. That does not stop me from being angry with him—not angry enough to want him trapped in prison, but angry nonetheless."

Moash looked away. "I can understand that," he murmured.

"All three of us want vengeance, Moash," Sarus said quietly. "You, me, and Kaladin. All of us have been wronged by lighteyed men with more power than we could have hoped to challenge. All of us want to see that pain paid back. But we must think before we act, or we will bring each other down and leave our enemies standing—just as Kaladin, entirely by accident, denied me my revenge today."

"It's one thing to say that we should think before we act," Moash said. "It's another to tell me not to take my revenge at all."

"I know," Sarus said. He needed to find a way to channel Moash's rage at another target—at the advisor who had convinced Elhokar to jail the man's grandparents. "Let me tell you something else. After ordering Kaladin imprisoned, King Elhokar spoke to me."

"He did?" Moash blinked at him. "He talked to you? A lowly darkeyes?"

"Yes," Sarus said. Moash had been convinced that Elhokar's death would have a terrible cost. Now Sarus needed to show that there was a potential benefit to keeping him alive. It wasn't hard to find an argument Moash would find persuasive—the man was, after all, the same kind of cremling as Sarus. "What did you call him earlier? Weak and arbitrary? A paranoid wreck? Well, imagine what someone like that might share with the man responsible for his safety, a man he spends quite a lot of time with. Especially a lowly darkeyes. After all, what harm could I possibly do?"

Sarus smiled—a deliberately insincere expression, and Moash smiled back.

"I doubt I'll manage that trick a second time, even if we were able to replace the king without bringing Alethkar down entirely. I will not tell you all that was said—if your conspirators hear of it, he'll never trust me again. But His Majesty admitted that he made a mistake in reacting so strongly to Kaladin, that he and Kaladin both shared responsibility in giving Sadeas the opportunity to escape."

"Then why did he do it?"

"I think you know the answer."

Moash hesitated. "For the same reason that Kaladin did what he did," he murmured. "He was caught up in the moment."

"King Elhokar is desperately afraid of appearing weak. He knows to his bones that his subjects consider him unworthy of the crown his father forged. He agrees with them. His only claims to authority, in his mind, are tradition and legalism. In that arena, Kaladin directly challenged both—and in so doing, threatened Elhokar more directly than you ever did by cutting that balcony railing. Elhokar reacted as so many men do when afraid—on instinct."

"That doesn't make it right," Moash whispered.

"Of course not. And it doesn't stop us being angry with him, any more than I have stopped being angry with Kaladin because I understand why he did what he did. But I do not want Kaladin jailed for his mistake. And I do not want Elhokar killed or deposed for his."

"Letting Sadeas get away isn't the same as killing my grandparents."

"Certainly not. But—let me ask you. Who was the lighteyes who owned those silver smithies?"

Moash scowled. "Highlord Roshone. As much a cremling as any of them. Believe me, if I could see him dead, too, I would."

"And I'd have far less cause to stop you than I do to prevent the death of King Elhokar. The death of a minor highlord would be unlikely to throw the kingdom into civil war. When did this all happen?"

"About a year before Gavilar died. Why?"

Sarus leaned back. "I will never ask you to forgive His Majesty. Never. But I have interacted more closely with him than anyone else in Bridge Four—I like to think I know him relatively well, with all his many faults. I suspect I can guess at what happened from his perspective, if you're willing to listen."

Moash gritted his teeth. "If you think what he did was justified—"

"Under no sky would the deaths of two elderly citizens awaiting a trial they were entitled to because their reigning lord didn't want to give it to them be justified. I assume King Gavilar was out of Kholinar at the time? Likely negotiating with the Parshendi on the Shattered Plains?"

"Exactly. He left Elhokar in charge of the city."

Sarus nodded. "No, I do not think anything could justify what Elhokar did. But—just as Kaladin's rage and ignorance explain what happened in the arena today, perhaps something can explain it. If, again, you're willing to listen."

"Fine." Moash slumped back against the door. "Fine."

"King Elhokar is a man who, even now, is uncertain in his responsibilities as king. When he was still a prince, living in the shadow of the man who united Alethkar, it was likely even worse. When he was left in charge of Kholinar, he must have leaned heavily on the advice of whatever friends he might have had—fellow lighteyes whom he had known for years, in some cases his entire life. I can only assume Highlord Roshone was such a man—likely Elhokar's senior by several years, if not more than a decade."

"He was," whispered Moash. "He was almost Dalinar's age."

Sarus nodded. "When Prince Elhokar—a boy who had never been given this sort of responsibility before, who didn't know what was expected of him or how to win the respect his father so effortlessly commanded—was informed by a trusted advisor that two darkeyes had committed some crime, but that there was not sufficient evidence to legally convict them… well. He was a sheltered child who was accustomed to watching the man in his chair do whatever he wanted. It does not make what he did right, certainly not. But it means that his crime was foolishness, not malice."

"If it happened like that," Moash said. But something in his expression had broken, and Sarus knew he had won.

"True," Sarus said. "I may be wrong about the details. But I don't think I am. King Elhokar needs to survive. His death would lead to untold carnage. It's infuriating, that so many lives should hinge on such a flawed man, but that is the Alethkar we live in. But Roshone? He has no such protection. And if I am right about how that story played out from within the palace at Kholinar, it was Roshone, not Elhokar, who truly wished your grandparents dead."

"He couldn't have done it without Elhokar."

"Couldn't he? He was a highlord, Moash. If a highlord wants a darkeyes dead, they tend to find ways to make it happen."

Moash swore. "Damnation, you're right."

"Then will you accept this compromise? I cannot allow you to kill His Majesty. But if you agree to stop trying to kill him, I will help you hunt down Roshone and see him brought to justice. Of one sort or another."

Moash hesitated for a long moment. Salas' light through the window slats cast his face in violet, like a purpling bruise. "Fine," he whispered.

 

[Lithos Maitreya]

Thanks to Elran and @BeaconHill for betareading, and to Phinnia for the commissioned icon.

-x-x-x-

55

Sons of Honor



-x-x-x-​

Then the one the Elves called Ilúvatar struck out in terrible vengeance and destroyed Númenor. Where it sank, He bent the paths.

-x-x-x-​

"Husband?" Ialai asked softly, poking her head around the door.

Torol didn't look up. He sat slumped in an armchair, Oathbringer dangling limply from his right hand. On a small table to his left was a heavy goblet of violet wine.

Not a single other piece of furniture in the room remained whole.

Ialai closed the door behind her, then carefully stepped through the debris to his side. "Torol," she said softly. "Are you all right?"

Torol didn't answer for a long moment. "I'm still alive," he mumbled finally, without looking up. "Haven't had my face caved in by Adolin. So, all told, it could be worse."

She rested a hand on his shoulder. "Far worse," she said softly. "You slipped the noose, love."

"After walking freely onto the gallows," Torol grunted. He straightened just long enough to bring his cup to his lips before putting it back down and hunching over again. "This was a disaster."

"But not a calamity," Ialai murmured, rubbing his back. "None of the Sadeas princedom's Shards were lost. You were not forced into a duel. You—"

"I have been forced into a duel," Torol pointed out. "I've just delayed it by a year. That puts us on a much stricter timeline than I'd like."

"You didn't expect our plans to take that long anyway."

"That was before Adolin nearly doubled his family's Shards in a single day. Three sets of Plate and two Blades. Storms."

"Do you think Dalinar will take one of the new sets?"

"No." Torol shook his head. "No, he'd have kept his Plate and taken a new Blade by now if he wanted it. No, Dalinar is actively choosing to avoid taking up Shards. I assume it's more of his ridiculous notions about the Codes or some such."

"That's good, at least," Ialai said. "We won't have to worry about the Blackthorn coming back to the field."

"Won't we?" Torol finally looked up and met her eyes. "You saw Adolin on the field today. What do you think they'll call him? Bluethorn doesn't exactly have the same ring to it."

Ialai's lips thinned. "You fear him."

"I know for a fact that if I had ended up on that field today, I would have left without this sword," Torol said, gesturing vaguely with Oathbringer. "Assuming I left at all. I don't fear him any more than I fear a chasmfiend while I'm here in the warcamp. But if I were alone in the chasms, yes, I would be afraid. Today only proved—I never imagined Adolin would be capable of something like that. He's a better duelist than his father ever was, though he's yet to surpass the Blackthorn on the battlefield."

"He did have help," Ialai pointed out.

"Yes. From his invalid brother and a darkeyed slave. It was impressive that each of them managed to keep a Shardbearer busy, but let's not pretend he wasn't at least twice the warrior of any other man in that arena."

Ialai was silent for a moment. "What do you propose we do?" she asked.

Torol heaved a breath. "I'm not sure," he admitted.

"Sssss." The hissing sound emerged from behind a shattered cabinet. Both Torol and Ialai froze. "Admitting blindness is the first step."

Jerkily, Torol turned his head. The spren was there again—the strange, shifting pattern hid in the corner, barely visible in the gloom. "You," he said.

"I," said the spren.

"What are you doing back here?" Torol asked. "What do you want from me this time?"

The thing hissed thoughtfully. It seemed… not friendly, far from it, but it wasn't practically spitting its dislike of him today. "You stand at a crossroads. Ssss. Sometimes, the broken foundation must be cleared away before the tower may be built, yes?"

Torol stood slowly, finding he was slightly unsteady on his feet. Perhaps he'd had too much wine—or too much excitement. "What are you talking about?"

"What was the moment that Dalinar became the man he is?" the spren asked. Its tone suggested the question was rhetorical, but it didn't continue.

"Gavilar's death," Torol said.

"True," the spren said, as if acknowledging a fair counterargument. "But, ssss, the moment he ceased to be the man he was?"

"Rathalas. Evi's death."

"Yes. Do you understand?"

Torol blinked. "Understand what? Is there a point to this, creature?"

"Of course there is a point." The spren sounded annoyed now. "There is, sss, always a point. Do you think wood enjoys being set ablaze? That a seedpod enjoys being split open? Of course not, sssssss. But after the fire, the smoke may fly. The vinebud may bloom."

Torol stared at the spren. "What are you saying?" he murmured.

"I am saying," said the spren, "that you, Torol Sadeas, must find the most important words a man can say."

A cold shock ran down Torol's spine. He was helpless to say a word as the spren slid along the floor and slipped out the window.

"What?" whispered Ialai. "But those were—"

"Gavilar's last words," Torol said. "The words he scribbled in blood. How did that thing know them? What do they mean?"

"And why is it telling you to do what Gavilar demanded of his brother?" Ialai asked softly.

Torol shook his head. "I don't know."

Ialai was silent for a long moment. "…I might," she whispered.

Torol blinked at her. "What?"

Ialai didn't look at him. She was staring at the place the spren had been. Her face looked conflicted. Perhaps even ashamed. After a long moment, she took a deep breath and stepped away from him. She looked out the window as she spoke. "Shortly after we were married," she said, "Gavilar called in my debt to him for introducing us."

"Your… debt?" Torol's mind whirled through the implications. He had always known, of course, that Gavilar must have had specific motives for introducing Torol and Ialai—it wasn't like the man to simply play matchmaker for the sake of it. But he'd always assumed his motives were about tying Ialai's family to the burgeoning kingdom to prevent them rising as a challenge to his authority. Had he wanted something out of Ialai specifically?

Ialai nodded, still without looking back at him. "He swore me to secrecy and introduced me to an organization he himself had only recently joined," she said. "They—we—call ourselves the Sons of Honor. I joined as a favor to Gavilar, and the position has served me well. It's served you, as well—I acquired the services of half my spies and assassins through the Sons."

"But what is this organization?" Torol asked. "How have I never heard of it before? Why have you never mentioned it?"

"I never mentioned it because I was sworn to secrecy," Ialai said. "I've kept my ears open, of course, and the instant I sensed a threat to you or our house I would have broken that oath without a second thought. But I thought it best to keep my position in case that ever became necessary." She finally looked at him, and her eyes were hooded with regret. "I'm sorry."

Torol waved her apology away. "I've kept secrets from you for the same reasons," he said. "Go on. What do the Sons of Honor want? What do they have to do with the words Gavilar wanted Dalinar to find? That this spren wants me to find?"

"I have only suspicions," Ialai said. "Guesses. You know Dalinar named Amaram as the first of a new order of Knights Radiant?"

"Yes." It had been a particularly pathetic move. Torol had no idea what Dalinar hoped to accomplish besides alienating the fundamentalist factions within the ardentia. If he intended to tempt Amaram away from his oaths to House Sadeas, he would be disappointed.

"Well, we think Dalinar might have…" She hesitated, "…stumbled into the right idea."

"Explain."

"The general members of the Sons believe that if the Voidbringers return, the Heralds will follow and lead Alethkar and Roshar into a new Heraldic Epoch. Gavilar and I both believed that to be, well, stupid." Ialai shrugged. "Myself, I mostly stayed in the organization for the contacts it gave me, and to be sure I heard of it if any of them did anything monumentally stupid. But Gavilar… I'm not sure exactly what he believed. He definitely didn't hold the same ideals as the rank and file, but he also wasn't completely cynical like I was. Or at least, he eventually stopped being cynical."

"The Codes," Torol said softly.

"That was part of it," Ialai agreed. "I think he started to buy into the idea of redeeming Alethkar. Making it something close to ancient Alethela. He started meeting with the leader of the Sons, Restares, in secret. His artifabrians and scholars started doing research into fabrials and Stormlight. I was never able to get my hands on their notes—I'm still trying to this day, but being so far from the capital hasn't made it easy." She hesitated. "I don't know if he actually thought the Voidbringers existed, or if he actually thought bringing them back was a good idea, but I suspect he did want to recreate either the Heralds or the Knights Radiant—with himself at their head."

Torol rolled his eyes. "That sounds like Gavilar," he said. "Self-aggrandizing to the point of foolishness."

"At times, yes," Ialai agreed. "I've suspected for years that his last words were a hint at something he'd figured out, something he'd guessed about either the Radiants or the Heralds. Now a talking spren comes and tells you to do exactly as he told Gavilar? And you told me what that ardent said about legends of talking spren."

"He said that some myths suggested the Knights Radiant made partnerships with spren," Torol said slowly. "You can't be serious, Ialai."

She flushed. "Of course this sounds insane, Torol. I'm only bringing it up because, well, I've been looking for a good excuse to tell you about the Sons for years anyway. And it is the only idea I have, even if it's a bit of a crazy one."

Torol nodded slowly. "I understand," he said. "It's all right, love. I don't think you're insane. Even a mad idea might be better than no idea at all."

She looked relieved. "Exactly," she said. "Regardless of why the spren is echoing Gavilar, I think it makes sense to start trying to figure out what they're both talking about. Start trying to find those words."

Torol nodded slowly. "It's worth looking into, at least," he said. "If for no other reason than that I want to know why there's a talking spren following me around." He stepped forward and laced his fingers with hers. "Thank you for telling me about this."

"Keeping the secret has never sat well with me. I'm glad to have it open between us." Ialai frowned. "Restares hasn't been heard from in months. No one will question me if I officially bring you into the organization, if that's what you want. Though why you would…"

"You know me so well." He grinned. "No, you can take charge of our connection to this… cult. I have no desire at all to have people frothing at the mouth as they explain why the Voidbringers have to return."

She laughed. "A shame," she said. "It would be nice to have another sane person in the correspondence. The closest I have now is Amaram, and he hardly counts."

Torol blinked. "Meridas Amaram is a member?"

"Oh, yes. I should get you a list of all the relevant members," Ialai mused. "Amaram's been with the Sons of Honor nearly as long as I have. I suspect that's part of why Gavilar tried so hard to get Jasnah to marry the man."

Torol snorted. "I always assumed he was punishing her for something, or just trying to get rid of her after her illness."

"It was likely both. In any case, I'll go through my correspondence and figure out which highlords are members. I don't believe any of the highprinces are."

"Thank you, love," said Torol. "And I will see if any of the neutral highlords have heard anything about Dalinar's efforts to understand Gavilar's last words. Though I doubt they'll turn up much."

"Most likely," Ialai agreed. "But it never hurts to check. I'll ask my network as well." She smiled at him. "It may not be much of a plan, but it's better than tearing apart the furniture."

Torol laughed. "I suppose it is, at that."

 

[Lithos Maitreya]

Thanks to Elran and @BeaconHill for betareading, and to Phinnia for the commissioned icon.

-x-x-x-

56

Volunteer



-x-x-x-​

Thereafter, only His chosen people could return to His lands in the Utter West.

-x-x-x-

Six Years Ago​

Twenty spears struck twenty softwood targets with a sound like a drumroll. Sarus's struck the exact center. The target was not in the shape of a man—that sort of carving wasn't an efficient use of resources for training hundreds of ordinary darkeyes—but Sarus knew where to aim on a man's body when performing this strike from years of drills. If they're lightly armored, the bottom of the chest—where the two sides of the ribcage meet. If they're more heavily armored, the exposed neck or face.

And if they were a Shardbearer, the miniscule slits in the visor. Sarus had heard that a Shardbearer's visor was translucent only to him while he wore it, but not fully transparent—which was why they still had slits. That had always struck him as odd. It wasn't that he didn't believe the armor had magical properties. Of course it did, it was Shardplate. Nor did he doubt those effects could affect their wearer differently from other bystanders. After all, Shardplate augmented the strength of a wearer, but armorers had no such benefit when fitting the Plate onto its owner.

No, the oddity was in the imperfection. Sarus might not know much about whatever ancient power went into the creation of Shards, but somehow the idea that the Shardplate visor should exist in an uncomfortable middle ground—translucent enough to allow light through, but not transparent enough to eliminate the need for slits—seemed wrong somehow. It was flawed. The weapons of the Heralds, of the Radiants, shouldn't have been flawed.

"Reset!" called the drill sergeant—a Sadear second-nahn named Matalar.

Sarus pulled his spear out of the target in a quick burst of force, taking a quick step back and returning to his Whitespine guard. Most darkeyes never learned the names of the katas and forms for spear-work. It wasn't like the swordplay of lighteyes, with the formality one might expect from a tradition which grew out of Shardblade dueling. Sarus had done what study he could of the ten dueling forms, but that was all theoretical to him. Preparation for a fight which would probably never come. And while the great masters of the spear had developed similarly formal forms and stances for the weapon of the darkeyed masses, those traditions were often cast aside in favor of the simplicity necessary to train vast numbers of soldiers as quickly as possible. The five basic forms—Whitespine, Chull, Axehound, Larkin, and Skyeel—were only ever taught and remembered by more formalized units, such as the honor guards of highlords.

Fortunately, Sarus had trained with the Sadeas honor guard, and thus benefited from that education.

"Strike!" shouted the sergeant, and the soldier on Sarus' left accidentally swung wide, striking Sarus in the shoulder with the haft of his spear. Sarus' blow still hit the target, but off-center, diverted by the shock.

Unfortunately, the men training with Sarus were not always pleased to be shown up by a boy scarcely even of age to carry a weapon.

Sarus didn't look at the man, didn't even acknowledge his insincere apology. He just remained still, his muscles still taut on his weapon, waiting for the sergeant's next command. The time between strikes was almost as important as the strikes themselves, in training like this. At least for Sarus.

For a spearman to have a cremling's chance in a highstorm of challenging a Shardbearer, he would need to be better than the Shardbearer in every way. More alert, more focused, smarter, quicker, stronger—because the Plate and Blade would be more than enough to compensate for the difference. Sarus wasn't competing against the men beside him for promotions and better duty rotations. He was competing against the dread knowledge of the impossible goal he had set before himself.

So every time the drill sergeant called "Reset!" Sarus made sure he was pulling his spear back before the second syllable had left the man's lips. He made sure his speartip emerged smoothly from the target in one motion. He made sure that no distractions could knock his spear off target.

Another boy might have stumbled when the man to his left, nearly half again his size, struck him like that. Sarus's speartip went a few inches off his target, and he counted it a failure.

-x-x-x-​

"Sir," Sarus said as the tent flap fell shut behind him. He saluted. "You wanted to see me?"

"Hm?" Sergeant Matalar glanced over from the rack of spears he was examining. "Ah, right. Saras, wasn't it?"

"Sarus, sir."

"Right, right." Matalar looked him up and down. "Bit young for the army, aren't you?"

"I'm fifteen, sir. Younger than many, but old enough to volunteer."

"Which I guess you did." But the man was frowning. "Aren't you Captain Yarel's aide? How'd a kid like you end up with a post like that?"

"He knows the ardent who taught me, sir. I believe I was recommended, though I haven't asked."

"Probably wise. Don't want to draw attention to that sort of thing." The man's eyes had narrowed, and Sarus cursed internally. It was a difficult position he was in—he couldn't pretend to have no idea what could have happened to place a boy his age in a position like his, not if he wanted to excel in his training and push himself to improve. But even his superiors were jealous, sometimes. It made things… unstable. He didn't expect to be stabbed in the back directly, but if the soldier's meals weren't all prepared in the same massive pots, he'd have expected to find undercooked cremlings in his.

"Yes, sir," he said stiffly. "I just want to do my job and learn to do it better."

"Saw you in training today. How long have you been drilling with a spear?"

"Since the day I chose my Calling, sir."

"It shows. Keep it up and you'll rise through the ranks quickly."

"Thank you, sir."

Matalar nodded. "I called you in to ask if you were having any trouble adjusting to life in a warcamp. You're younger than most of the soldiers here, and I can't imagine you're used to sleeping in a barracks."

"No complaints, sir." Complaining to the sergeant, in their first one-on-one conversation, would be a lethal blow to any prospects he had in this battalion.

"Good. Feel free to come to me if anything comes up."

"Thank you, sir." Not a chance. Not unless someone does something so stupid that I can come out of complaining to the officer looking better.

Matalar nodded. "You'd best be going," he said. "There's supposed to be a highstorm tonight. Probably not for a few hours, but you don't want to be caught out in the open once it hits."

Sarus saluted and left the tent. There was no sign of the highstorm yet, but he'd heard about the stormwardens' prediction days ago. From the last forecast he'd heard, the storm should be passing through Kholinar within the next hour. It should reach the warcamp, here in the northern Sadeas highprincedom, three or four hours after that. It was premature, but the roads were already starting to empty as soldiers and staff made for shelter.

Sarus was more leisurely, as he strode past the lighteyes' and officers' compound. He had already eaten, and he'd stowed some salt-cured rations in his trunk in case the highstorm lasted unusually long. The camp wasn't so large that he'd have trouble making it to his barracks even if the storm came over the horizon at that very moment.

"…Reach Sadaras tonight, before the storm."

Sarus paused mid-step, listening. He didn't know that voice, but the tone was furtive. Suspicious.

"How many?" That voice, however, Sarus did know. That was Captain Yarel, the lighteyed soldier to whom Sarus was an aide. He hadn't interacted much with the man in person—mostly his responsibilities just involved running errands for the man's more senior support staff, when he wasn't training—but he had met him. His voice was distinctive. Higher-pitched than average, with a forced resonant quality layered over a naturally reedy tone. But right now, that voice was pitched down to be almost inaudible from where Sarus was standing.

"Ten, in two teams of five. Thought it best to appeal for the Almighty's support in any way we can," said the first man.

Sarus moved slowly as he approached the corner of a building. He didn't try to look into the alleyway. But from here, he could easily hear the men talking there.

"And they've memorized the castle blueprints?" Yarel asked.

"Yes. Tested them on it myself before they left yesterday morning."

"Good." Yarel let out a breath, shaking with tension. "They'll have to time this perfectly. You're confident they can do so?"

"That's why they left yesterday. They should already be in the woods outside Sadaras now. They can make it."

"I hope you're right. If they're caught outside the castle…"

"If they're caught outside the castle, they'll be charged with poaching at worst. As long as they time it right, by the time there's any evidence of what they're there for, the guards will all be sheltering from the highstorm."

"Not all of them," Yarel cautioned. "They know that, right? There will still be guards in the hallways, posted outside the ladies' bedrooms."

"Of course they know that," scoffed the other man. "But you're the one who told me those patrols are three men at most. These are five of our best for each target. It'll be fine, Yarel."

Yarel sighed. "No, it won't," he said grimly. "Even if everything goes off without a hitch and both Ialai and Tailiah die without any evidence to trace it back to me or the others, we're still bringing an angry Highprince Sadeas down on the army's heads."

"Better angry and desperate than calm and tactical. You heard what Paleran said. And even if he kills all of us, this is the best chance we have to end his line. He's getting too old to father a new heir, let alone find a new wife to bear him. And he'd never be settling for a girl as heir if he wasn't having trouble getting a boy out of his wife. We might not see the end of this, Yarel, but this is our best chance to make sure it does end."

Sarus turned and walked away, moving carefully to prevent his feet from scraping against the rock. Once he was out of earshot, he broke into a dead run. He wasn't making for the barracks anymore. He was heading directly for the officers' stables, where the two dozen horses belonging to the higher-ranked lighteyes were kept. He might never have ridden one before, but he'd seen it done many times and he'd always been a quick study.

He had no choice but to try, after all.

There were two guards standing guard outside the stable door. He ran past the stable to make it seem like he had business elsewhere, then doubled back. Unfortunately, the stable windows were already shuttered in preparation for the storm.

Damnation. The hard way, then. He pulled out his shortspear from the sling on his back and rounded the corner, facing the two guards. They turned to him, but he didn't give them time to react.

Where the two sides of the ribcage meet.

One of the men had time to shout as Sarus pulled the spear out of his partner before he fell. Then Sarus was inside the stable, counting the seconds until reinforcements arrived.

Yarel had no horse of his own, or Sarus would have stolen that one. Instead, he picked one at random—a mostly-black beast with a splotch of white running up its nose.

He'd once watched a more experienced aide prepare the saddle, reins, bridle, and all the other nameless straps and buckles that made a horse rideable. It had taken the better part of half an hour. Sarus didn't have that kind of time. So he didn't bother.

He just leapt up on the horse's bare back with strength he hadn't even known he'd possessed. The horse stamped and took a couple steps backward, nervous and startled. Sarus rested a hand on its neck, willing it to calm. Miraculously, it did.

"I'm going to need you to work with me," he said to it, speaking in a deep, soft tone. It seemed right to try and soothe the animal. "We have a long way to go and not long to make it."

The horse let out a rattling, snorting sound that Sarus had once heard described, for some unfathomable reason, as a whinny.

Sarus patted its neck. "Let's go." He pressed his heels into its side. It took a few steps forward, then paused. He pressed more firmly. It started again, then sped up. Its movement was bouncy and erratic, forcing him to carefully bounce with it lest he bruise against its back in a sensitive place.

It left the stable, and immediately Sarus saw that several soldiers were already jogging towards them. "Out of time," he growled, digging his heels into it. "Go!"

It whinnied again and began to run. They sped past the soldiers. A single arrow shot past Sarus' ear, but most of the men had been armed with spears. They passed the officer's compound, passed the palisade, and escaped the warcamp.

Three hours, maybe less, to make it all the way to Sadaras. Sarus had never been the most faithful, but that day he prayed that he would make it in time.