Remove ads

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

View content
Remove ads
57: Titles
  • View content
    • Thanks to Elran and @BeaconHill for betareading, and to Phinnia for the commissioned icon.

    -x-x-x-

    57

    Titles



    -x-x-x-​

    That power struck out again, and once again it Sundered the world.

    -x-x-x-​

    Sarus walked down the line of men standing at attention outside Bridge Four's barracks. Nearly a week had passed since Kaladin's imprisonment, and there had been no major explosions of insubordination. In fact, things seemed to be settling—even Gadol was barely grumbling anymore. And at dawn, after the first bell, the men were forming up outside with the same energy and discipline that they'd given Kaladin. It was a start.

    "Teft," Sarus called. "How goes the training of the new recruits?"

    "Not as well as I'd like," Teft said. "They're discouraged. Word of what happened with Kaladin has spread."

    Sarus sighed. "Of course. I'd be surprised if morale wasn't affected." He didn't even take it personally—or at least, not much. It wasn't as though the men from the other former bridge crews knew him or Kaladin. This wasn't a matter of Kaladin's sheer magnetism paired against whatever ugliness put people on edge around Sarus. It was mere reputation. The men knew that Bridge Four—of which Kaladin had been bridgeleader—had saved Highprince Dalinar, which had bought all of them their freedom. They knew Kaladin had then been promoted to Captain as a darkeyes, and placed in charge of all of them. They knew he had secured the highprince's word that they would not be forced to fight on the plateaus.

    Certainly, Sarus had been part of all of those things. But these were not men who had been there, seen Sarus' contributions with their own eyes, and still committed themselves wholeheartedly to Kaladin over him. The men of the other crews were simply hearing of Kaladin's reputation secondhand. And reputations could shift all too quickly.

    "We need to reassure the men that the battalion will not fundamentally change while Kaladin is imprisoned," Sarus said. "I'll join you for my off shift this afternoon. I can't go around to every barrack and answer every man's questions, but I can do so for your recruits. And it'll do the men good to see that you and Kaladin aren't the only skilled spearmen in the force."

    Teft saluted. "I'll see you then."

    Sarus returned the salute, then turned to Murk. "I spoke to Highprince Dalinar yesterday," he said. "He's given us permission to set a guard rotation outside the jail where Kaladin is being kept, but he wouldn't let us take over the guard inside." Truth be told, Sarus hadn't even tried to convince him of that. No sane man would have agreed to it, and Sarus didn't think Dalinar was insane. More to the point, Dalinar nursed an instinctive dislike of Sarus—he suspected he reminded the man of Sadeas. Even asking for something as absurd as allowing the men of Bridge Four to guard their own captain's cell would inflame the suspicion that was finally starting to fade.

    "We figured," Murk said. "I've already got a rotation drawn up. When does he want us to start?"

    "Today. He didn't set a particular time."

    "Then I can take the first patrol over after we've talked through the schedule."

    "Good." Sarus turned to Moash. "No news from the night shift?"

    "None," Moash reported. "Sir."

    The deliberate inclusion of the honorific made something flare momentarily in Sarus' rotten heart. It wasn't pride, exactly, nor was it exactly satisfaction. But it was something adjacent to both. "No news is good news," he said. He cast his eyes up and down the line. "You all have your assignments for the day. Leyten, Ahis, we'll head over to relieve the graveyard shift with His Majesty as soon as I've spoken with Murk. The rest of you, dismissed."

    Several men—not all of them, not even half, but more than yesterday—saluted. Then they split into squads and jogged off to their various assignments.

    -x-x-x-​

    The door to the king's suite opened quite suddenly, startling Ahis and Leyten. Sarus just turned to face the king and bowed. "Your Majesty."

    "Ah, good, you are on duty," Elhokar said, nodding at Sarus. "Come inside, I want a word."

    Sarus followed him into the suite, shutting the door behind him. For a moment, he considered thanking Elhokar for asking to speak privately with Sarus in front of his men. It would leave an impression, lend credence to what he had been implying about his ability to represent the men to their lighteyed overlords. But he knew Elhokar hadn't done it deliberately, and he didn't want to make the man feel ashamed for not having considered the implications. So all he said, standing in parade rest, was "How can I serve, Your Majesty?"

    "I need your advice," said Elhokar, throwing himself down into a plush armchair and leaning back into it, his eyes drifting to the open window. "I need to let Kaladin out of jail."

    Sarus raised his eyebrows. "What brought this on?"

    Elhokar shook his head. "It's not—you and I both know I overreacted in the arena. I didn't really want to execute Kaladin, not after everything he's done for my family, and I don't want him rotting in jail indefinitely." He took a deep breath. "But Adolin's forcing my hand."

    "He still hasn't left?" Adolin had marched into the same jail where Kaladin was being kept the day before. The guards had feared he would break the captain out, but he had just sat down in an unoccupied cell and refused to leave. It was an honorable gesture—one Sarus still had difficulty believing of the vain princeling. Oh, he knew Adolin had inherited his father's honorable streak, but this gesture was imaginative, and Adolin simply wasn't that clever. He wondered if Renarin had originally come up with the idea, but he hadn't yet had a chance to speak with him today.

    "No. And since my uncle isn't going out into the field, that leaves Renarin as the ranking commander in the Kholin warcamp. Which doesn't work, no matter how impressive his showing a week ago."

    "No," agreed Sarus. "No, you need Prince Adolin to lead your family's armies."

    "Even if I wish I could actually lock him up for putting me in this position," the king grumbled. "I might be able to force Adolin to leave—I don't think he'd directly ignore my orders if I walked in there and demanded he return to his post—but I don't really want to keep Kaladin in there too long either." He looked over at Sarus. "And it occurred to me that you might have some ideas for how I can use Adolin's obstinance to my advantage."

    "Clever," Sarus praised. It wasn't anything he hadn't already considered, but he'd been watching the king for the past few days and had concluded he wasn't mentally prepared to begin negotiations. It was impressive that Elhokar had come forward with this himself. Sarus had been intending to suggest it in a few days. He unclasped his hands from behind his back and folded them in front of him. "There are some complexities to this."

    "There always are," Elhokar sighed. "If I make it too obvious that I'm acceding to Adolin's demands, that makes that branch of the family stronger. And I'm already barely more than a figurehead for my uncle—I can't afford to lose more."

    "Just so, Your Majesty." What had changed? Elhokar seemed to have grown overnight. He was still the same man—still consumed with paranoia and self-recrimination, still so paralyzed by the fear of looking weak that he had no idea how to be strong—but he had thought about this. And he had done so with some objectivity, rather than merely wallowing in his bitterness and self-pity.

    Still, Sarus had been doing this his whole life. Elhokar had suddenly improved, but Sarus still had plenty of advice to offer. "You cannot afford to leave Adolin in the cell too long, either," he cautioned. "And not only because you need the Kholin armies. From your enemies' perspective, the current deadlock looks… well, not good, Your Majesty. Your highest-ranked field commander, a member of your immediate family, is refusing to serve because of a single darkeyed man. A darkeyed man who acquitted himself admirably on the sand, it's true—I'm sure his part in the duel is the talk of every lighteyed winehouse in the warcamps—but still one darkeyes, and one who then catastrophically embarrassed himself before your entire court. Highprince Sadeas will be only too happy to spread rumors of how Kaladin became such effective leverage over the king."

    Elhokar grimaced, a splotchy flush rising in his cheeks. "I hadn't even considered that."

    "It's far less important than the factors you have considered, Your Majesty," Sarus soothed. "Your priority is indeed to get Adolin back in the field. But it is something to add to your considerations."

    "It leaves me with the same problem, though. I need to figure out when and how to release Kaladin."

    Sarus nodded. "Things are not entirely bleak," he said. "You have a few days of grace before Adolin's gesture becomes truly problematic, politically. For at least a few days, it will look like you are simply trying to wait him out—assuming that he will give up on this gesture once he starts to miss fine food and wine. Which, to be fair, he may."

    Elhokar shook his head. "Adolin's stubborn as a chull. I doubt it."

    He's also a spoiled third-dahn lighteyes. "Have you spoken with the guards about what Prince Adolin is to be fed?"

    "No?" Elhokar blinked. "Should I?"

    "I would recommend it. It would be a shame if a well-meaning soldier tried to ease Adolin's stay by ensuring some comforts were brought to his cell. The best outcome for you is for him to leave of his own accord before you release Kaladin."

    Elhokar nodded slowly. "That makes sense," he said. "I'll send word to the guards to make sure he's fed the same rations as the prisoners. But if that happens, don't I lose my best excuse to free Kaladin?"

    "Not at all." Sarus said, smiling. "If Adolin capitulates, you can release Kaladin afterwards. As a gesture. Doing so would make it clear that your alliance with that branch of House Kholin remains strong, but that you will not be overruled by your subordinates."

    "That… makes sense." Elhokar sighed. "But it probably won't happen. I don't think Adolin will be stopped by thin gruel and no wine."

    "Do you think he would be willing to leave as part of a plan to achieve this outcome?"

    Elhokar's eyes narrowed slowly. He leaned forward. "You mean… Adolin could pretend to capitulate, so that I can make the gesture of freeing Kaladin without it making me look weak."

    "Precisely. It would be a little embarrassing for him, perhaps, but his reputation can survive it."

    Elhokar nodded slowly. "Adolin doesn't mind a little embarrassment," he said. "He's brought it on himself plenty of times, with his dozens of failed courtships. Yes… this might work."

    "You cannot bring the suggestion to him yourself, unless you do so a few days before the actual performance is to take place," Sarus said. "That… might be best, actually. If you are seen visiting your cousin, and then this false capitulation occurs almost at once, it will not be difficult to guess what happened. But if you visit, and no such capitulation occurs for a week or more… that might improve your position. Especially if…" His small smile widened slowly. "Yes. I have an idea, Your Majesty."

    "Don't leave me in suspense," Elhokar said, lips twitching in wry amusement.

    "You go and visit Prince Adolin today. You explain to him that he has put you in a difficult position—that you do not actually want Kaladin to stay locked up indefinitely, but that by tying his fate to Kaladin's, he has made it so that you cannot release him without looking weak. He may offer to leave at once—if he does, explain that if he does so immediately after your visit, and you release Kaladin afterward, it will seem like you capitulated to him. Suggest that he wait in the cell for a few days—four, perhaps, so that he has been imprisoned for a week—and then leave his cell and come to you. If he does this, then you will publicly commute Kaladin's sentence in thanks for his service to your family. I think he will agree. If he does, tell your guards to ensure he is fed well and given a reasonable allotment of wine." He hesitated—could he afford to make this request?—before continuing. "I… would appreciate it if you could offer something similar to Kaladin, Your Majesty. Perhaps not wine befitting a lighteyes, but at least a soldier's meals rather than whatever prisoners are fed."

    Elhokar nods slowly, acknowledging Sarus's request. "I will consider it."

    As much as Sarus could hope for, and more than he had really expected. "Thank you, Your Majesty," he said, then added one more piece of advice. "Do not tell them to do this until Adolin has agreed, because if he resists you may yet have to try and outlast him."

    "Yes… yes. It makes sense. You should have been born lighteyed, Captain." He shook his head wonderingly, then squinted, looking into Sarus' eyes. "In fact, your eyes aren't very dark at all, are they? A fairly neutral grey."

    "I've been told they look darker depending on the lighting."

    "Hm." Elhokar considered him for a long moment. "Well, your advice is more than sound. I do appreciate it, Captain, truly."

    "I am entirely at your service, Your Majesty."

    "I trust it goes without saying that nothing of this conversation leaves this room?"

    "Of course."

    "Good. Then you may go. I'll go talk to Adolin after lunch."

    -x-x-x-​

    The knock came at Sarus' door about an hour after dinner. "Enter," he called.

    Moash stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. "I talked to them," he said, without preamble.

    "Ah. Somewhere you could be seen, as I suggested?"

    "Yes. I still don't think it was necessary. They wouldn't have killed me."

    "People willing to assassinate a king must necessarily be willing to take extreme actions, Moash. You may think you know these men, but presumably so do the other Shardbearers your friend trains against. I rather think they would be surprised to learn of their fellow's plans."

    "Fair point." Moash shook his head. "They said they'd give it up. That I was right about how bloody a civil war would be. But I don't know if I can just trust their word."

    "I certainly don't," Sarus said dryly.

    "Right. But I don't want to betray them if there's a chance they're sincere."

    Sarus sighed. He had been unaware that honor was contagious, but Kaladin's certainly seemed to have infected Moash. Not enough to convince him not to kill Elhokar on its own, but enough that he didn't want to turn in his co-conspirators even once he'd been convinced of the importance of Elhokar's survival. "I will compromise with you," he said. "Give me their names and identities, and I will give you my word not to turn them in until and unless I find proof of their plans."

    "I… I need your word, Sarus. Sir. Please."

    "You have it. I swear not to turn your former co-conspirators over to His Majesty and the guards unless I find damning proof that they still intend to see their assassination attempt through."

    "Okay." Moash took a deep breath. "The Shardbearer is a man named Graves."

    "Damnation."

    "What?"

    "It's a false name." Sarus rubbed at his temples. "I'd remember if a Shardbearer in the warcamps had such a non-Vorin name. Unless he keeps his Blade secret?"

    "He does, I think. I don't know for sure, but I've never seen anyone treat him like he was fourth-dahn."

    "Storms, that makes this even worse. I can't watch him if I don't know who to watch, Moash."

    Moash grimaced. "You can probably find the others. I know more about them. Maybe you can find Graves through them? I can describe him, but the warcamp is big."

    Sarus nodded. "Anything you can give me, please. I'll keep my word, but everything you tell me will better prepare me to keep an eye on them—or to defend His Majesty, if I can't find proof in time."

    Of course I'll keep my word, Sarus thought as Moash described Graves and the other conspirators. Fortunately, some of them could be identified with ease. Apparently one of them was one of Elhokar's scribes. That was a lead Sarus could track down.

    Sarus had no intention of turning Graves in before the man had a chance to make an attempt on Elhokar's life. After all, that attempt would be Sarus' best chance in years at winning a Shardblade of his own. All he'd have to do was beat the man in a fight. And knowing what his voice seemed capable of now, that did not seem so impossible.

    And if Elhokar died in the struggle, that would be a tragedy. But Sarus had grown accustomed to tragedy, and there were many dead he would mourn before he mourned the king.

    "Thank you," he said when Moash finished. "Again, I swear not to tell His Majesty about any of this without proof. And even then, your name will be kept out of it."

    "Thanks." Moash fidgeted. "Why do you do that?"

    "Do what?"

    "Call him His Majesty all the time. Even in private, when it's just us. Neither of us like him. So why?"

    Sarus laughed in startled delight.

    "What?" Moash blinked at him. "What's so funny?"

    "No one's ever asked me before. Even before I went silent in the bridge crews, none of those poor wretches at the beginning asked why I still insisted on referring to Highprince Sadeas by his title."

    "Huh. You know, I never noticed, but you do. Why?"

    "Because the title has no meaning other than the people who wear it."

    Moash frowned. "…What? What does that mean?"

    "If I refuse to call the lighteyes I dislike by their titles, it implies that I believe that there is a nobility in those titles that they do not deserve. I do not. Nothing good is implied by Highprince Sadeas' rank, nor by His Majesty's, nor even by Highprince Dalinar. It isn't that Highprince Dalinar deserves to be highprince, and Highprince Sadeas doesn't. They simply both are men who have been given power for a reason that has nothing at all to do with virtue or aptitude. I use these men's titles, Moash, not as a show of respect to the men, but as a show of disrespect to the title."

    Moash was still frowning at him. "Sounds convoluted."

    "Have we met?" Sarus laughed again.
     
  • View discussion
    • 58: Stormform
  • View content
    • Thanks to Elran and @BeaconHill for betareading, and to Phinnia for the commissioned icon.

    -x-x-x-

    58

    Stormform



    -x-x-x-​

    The earth beneath my feet shattered, and I found myself lingering on a single piece of what was once the only world.

    -x-x-x-​

    Rlain paused for a moment as he crested the final plateau. It was a slanted one, one of the rare few where its eastern side was higher than its western one. It paid for that defiance against the highstorms, however, by having eroded away until it was little more than a speartip on its eastern side, sharpened by centuries of winds to a deadly point aimed at the heart of the Shattered Plains.

    And there, at last, was Narak. It had taken days to cross this distance, partly because he had to avoid anything that might be a chasmfiend preparing to come out to pupate. He couldn't afford to get caught in one of the battles between the Alethi and his people. Not now.

    Narak had not visibly changed. It remained as it always had—a collection of ruins so dilapidated that many of them were scarcely distinct from the plateaus on which they rested. Atop the crem-encrusted bones of the ancient city was the Listeners' settlement. There was the central plateau, with the great tower that had somehow survived all these generations of storms. There was the circular plateau with the domed structure in its center, where Rlain remembered drilling with his fellows. His friends.

    Oh, Eshonai, he thought, attuning the Rhythm of Anxiety. Please, let Sarus have misread the situation. Please, let me be wrong.

    He leapt off the plateau, sailing through the air and landing with a thud on the crem-encrusted surface of the next. The lookouts would have seen him now, and would likely send someone to collect him.

    Sure enough, about halfway across the next plateau a Listener in warform met him. "Welcome home, friend," she said to Confusion. "Where did you come from? What were you doing out on the Plains alone?"

    "I am Rlain," he told her, the fierce tones of Determination on his tongue. "I am one of the dullform spies sent to the Alethi warcamps. I was likely presumed dead after missing several rendezvous, but I am alive. I came back to report, and because I heard dire news about what has happened here."

    For a flickering instant, the warrior attuned the Rhythm of the Terrors before audibly suppressing it in favor of Tension. "Dire news?" she asked. "Has word reached the Alethi, then?"

    "Nothing they will understand," Rlain said. "But I think I do. Is it true, then? Has Eshonai taken a Form of Power?"

    A single note of the Terrors burst out through Tension again. "It is," said the femalen stiffly. "She and two hundred others have taken Stormform."

    Rlain found himself cycling through Rhythms, almost faster than he could process them—Betrayal, Resignation, Despair, the Terrors—but he took a deep breath and forced himself into Resolve. "I must speak with her. I must hear of this from her own mouth."

    The femalen nodded. "Come with me, then. But…" She paused, humming to Consideration for a moment. "You should know that she and Venli are pushing for more of us to take Stormform. The Five are not convinced yet, but she is respected."

    Rlain nodded, still humming Resolve. "I understand."

    -x-x-x-​

    "Rlain? Rlain, is that you?" The call came to the Rhythm of Joy.

    Rlain had been walking down the closest thing Narak had to a main road, on his way to the Council of Five. He turned at the sound of his name and was greeted by an achingly familiar pattern of marbling. "Thude!" he exclaimed, joining him in Joy.

    Thude jogged up to him, alternately humming a few beats at a time of Surprise and Joy. "We thought you dead!" he said. "You missed three meetings in a row. We assumed…"

    "It was a near thing," Rlain said. "It's a long story."

    "Well, I want to hear it. But I suppose you have to report in to the Five."

    "Yes. And… I have some questions. I've heard only a little of what's been happening here. The guard who saw me approach confirmed some of it. Thude—is it true? Has Eshonai…?"

    "Yes," said Thude, his tone abruptly shifting to the Rhythm of Tension. "Venli discovered a spren which would allow Listeners to take Stormform. Eshonai has been… odd, ever since."

    "You fear the form is affecting her judgement?"

    "I fear… I'm not sure what I fear, exactly. I know that taking a different form doesn't change who we are, it never has. But…"

    "But you're not sure that a Form of Power will be the same," Rlain finished for him.

    "Exactly." Thude shook his head. "I don't… I think it's still Eshonai. I do. But she's changed. More decisive. Quicker to anger. Do you remember how she agonized over killing the unarmored humans carrying their bridges at the beginning of the war?"

    "Bridgemen," Rlain said. "Yes, I remember."

    "She no longer fights with my unit, but the last time I was near her in a battle, I saw her smiling as the—bridgemen, you called them?—fell. Any hesitation is gone from her. I think she is willing to do anything to win this war now. She was going to negotiate with the human leader, before—the king's brother, do you remember him?"

    "Highprince Dalinar," said Rlain. "That is why I rushed back, Thude—I heard about what she said in that meeting. She implied that the Listeners were going to call the gods back."

    Thude's eyes widened. "I haven't heard about that plan," he said. "You're certain?"

    "No. I wasn't there." What had Sarus told him, exactly? He was sure Sarus had remembered the exact words Eshonai had spoken, but Rlain no longer did. "All I remember is what I was told by someone who was—that Eshonai admitted the Five sent the assassin to stop King Gavilar from summoning back the gods, but that now things have changed."

    "They have," Thude agreed. "But if Eshonai intends to call the gods back, I haven't heard a word of it. There is a plan, however."

    "And?"

    "Eshonai believes that a large enough group of Listeners in stormform—"

    "Well, this is a pleasant surprise!" a booming voice called from down the main road. Rlain and Thude both turned, and Rlain's gemheart felt as if it had suddenly become host to a gravitationspren.

    Eshonai was walking towards them, but she was barely recognizable. The bulky armor of warform was gone, but it was replaced by thin ridges in strange, sharp patterns. But that was not what frightened Rlain, made him instinctively attune the Rhythm of the Terrors before he forced himself back into Surprise.

    No, what terrified Rlain was the vile red glow in Eshonai's eyes.

    "Rlain, welcome home! We had feared you dead!" There was an odd quality to her voice. Rlain did not think he would have even noticed it—it was subtle, like a slight imperfection in the pitch of Eshonai's recitation of the Rhythm of Joy—except that he remembered Sarus had mentioned the oddity of Eshonai's rhythms.

    "I nearly was," Rlain said, meeting her in Joy. "It's good to see you, Eshonai."

    "Likewise," she said. "What kept you so long in the human warcamps, Rlain? Why did you miss your rendezvous, and why didn't you come back to us sooner?"

    "The humans grew uncomfortable with me," Rlain said. "I don't think they suspected I was actually a Listener, but I was smarter than they were comfortable with in a parshman. So, they sent me to die in their bridge crews."

    Both Eshonai and Thude attuned Surprise, although Eshonai momentarily brushed against some other Rhythm Rlain had never heard before—an angry, vicious beat, hummed in righteous fury.

    "But—how did you survive?" Thude asked. "And why did no one report seeing a Listener carrying the humans' bridges?"

    "They would not have been able to see Rlain's patterns at that distance," Eshonai said to Irritation. "And we agreed from the beginning to fire at parshmen if the humans forced them to carry the bridges. We could not afford to do otherwise."

    Rlain nodded. "Fortunately," he said, "I was placed in the command of a particular human bridgeleader—a man named Kaladin. He was determined to protect his crew. Even me."

    Thude frowned. "A human tried to protect a parshman?" he asked to the Rhythm of Confusion.

    "Did he suspect that you were one of us?" Eshonai asked, suddenly attuned to Suspicion. "Was he trying to subvert you?"

    Rlain shook his head. "No—it wasn't about me. Captain Kaladin simply… doesn't know how to let people die. Even parshmen. It was his crew that remained behind to give Highprince Dalinar a chance to escape, the day you surrounded him at the Tower, though I was not on bridge duty that day."

    "The Tower?" Thude asked blankly.

    "That must be the human name for the eastern bulwark," Eshonai said, glowering. The expression was startlingly feral with her eyes glowing red. "The humans have never managed to beat us there, and have never tried to press past that plateau. But apparently we have this 'Kaladin' to thank for the human leader's escape."

    "I don't know why they call it the Tower, but yes. Kaladin's crew was in service to a rival highprince who intended to betray Dalinar, but they disobeyed orders to save him. In thanks, Dalinar bought the freedom of all of that highprince's bridgemen. I was briefly a soldier under Kaladin's command before I escaped."

    "Ha! A Listener soldier in Alethi colors." Eshonai shook her head to Amusement, and for a moment the way the skin around her eyes crinkled was achingly familiar. Then they opened again, and the red put Rlain back on guard. "Well, it's good that you've managed to escape. We need every Listener we can get."

    "Thude was just telling me that you have some sort of plan to win the war?" Rlain asked.

    "Yes." Eshonai raised a hand and formed a fist. Unnatural red lightning arced in tiny strands as her fingers closed. "I assume you've heard about our new form?"

    "It seems there's some internal debate about it," Rlain said to Consideration. "The guard who met me at the edge of the city seemed worried."

    Eshonai briefly attuned a strange, discordant rhythm Rlain had never heard before. She quickly settled back into Amusement. "It unsettles some," she said. "But it is powerful, Rlain. I can feel it, although I can't do as much alone as I need to. There is a storm building beneath the Rhythms. A large enough group of Listeners in stormform could call it forward, call down a storm on the humans and destroy them once and for all."

    "The humans have been dealing with highstorms as long as we have," Rlain pointed out, still calmly projecting Consideration. "One storm, even an unexpected one, won't destroy them."

    "It will if they're in the open when we call it," said Eshonai. "You may not have heard, but the humans are planning a final offensive during the lull. It is the only time they can hope to cross the entire Shattered Plains between highstorms. A storm then, when their entire army is exposed and expecting only calm rains… that would destroy them."

    Rlain kept humming to Consideration. "It's a good plan," he acknowledged. "But how large would the group of Listeners in stormform have to be?"

    "As many as possible," Eshonai said. "I intend to suggest to the Five that all of the Listeners take stormform. The more we have, the better our chances of successfully summoning the storm.

    "That will be difficult to organize. How will you even find enough spren for all of the Listeners to take this form? And who will make blankets and clothing if no one is in nimbleform? Who will work the rockbud farms if no one is in workform?"

    Eshonai frowned, studying him. "We can do these things in stormform. You haven't felt it, Rlain—it's better than the other forms. More."

    "It's a Form of Power. I'd be surprised if it wasn't. But there were once many Forms of Power, just as there are many common forms. That implies that even a single Form of Power isn't designed to do everything."

    "There's no need to be afraid of this form, Rlain," Eshonai said. She attuned to the Rhythm of Peace for just an instant before something seemed to catch in her throat, and she switched abruptly to Confidence. "You'll understand when you take it."

    "You may well be right," Rlain said. "And I do agree with you, Eshonai. Securing our survival against the humans is our highest priority. But we also have to secure our survival against famine, the highstorms, and all the other things that will kill us if we're not able to farm, build, or care for our children."

    Thude was staring at Rlain, attuned to the Rhythm of Confusion. Eshonai, however, was humming Consideration—though it seemed somewhat forced. "I will consider what you've said. But you must want to rest. Go—get something to eat, and then come to the training grounds to give your full report." She smiled at him, those red eyes boring into him like embers burning a hole through cloth. "It is good to see you again, my friend."

    As she left, Rlain turned to meet Thude's eyes. Thude was still humming to Confusion. "What… what was that, Rlain?" he asked. "You almost… you almost seemed to agree with her. Even if you were arguing that not everyone can take this new form, it was all logistical arguments—nothing about how it's changing her. How it's wrong. Surely you noticed?"

    "I did," Rlain confirmed. "And I'm just as worried as you are, Thude, I promise."

    "Then why did you…?" Thude slowly shifted to the Rhythm of Awe. "…When did you get so good at—at lying?"

    "I had an excellent teacher. I'll tell you about him when I have a chance."
     
    Last edited:
  • View discussion
    • 59: Prince of House Kholin
  • View content
    • Thanks to Elran and @BeaconHill for betareading, and to Phinnia for the commissioned icon.

    -x-x-x-

    59

    Prince of House Kholin



    -x-x-x-​

    I saw thousands, millions, perhaps billions of other scintillae scattering out into the Void, leaving those terrible stone monoliths far behind.

    -x-x-x-​

    "Prince Renarin! Highprince Hatham!" The scout jogged up to where Renarin and General Khal rode beside Highprince Hatham at the head of the column of infantry. With how slow the chull-pulled bridges were, House Kholin had taken to sending scouts ahead at each plateau, to make sure the Parshendi never took them by surprise. It was especially important at the end of a run, where the final chasm could be scouted in advance to see whether the Parshendi had already arrived.

    "Any word?" Hatham asked.

    "Yes, Brightlord," said the scout. He wore Kholin blue, but faced directly at Hatham as he spoke—not deliberately ignoring Renarin, exactly, just… not prioritizing him. "The Parshendi are ahead of us. They hadn't reached the chrysalis when I saw them, but they will have by now. We have only a few minutes before they get it open."

    "Then we must hurry," said Hatham. He looked past Renarin, at General Khal. "General Khal, I will send my lighter bridge crews forward with my cavalry. Have your shock troops join them across the plateau when convenient."

    General Khal shot Renarin a look. "Prince Renarin?" he asked. "Is that acceptable?"

    Renarin was keenly aware of the three former bridgemen marching along behind his horse, who knew intimately just what Hatham meant by lighter bridge crews. "Fine," he said softly.

    Hatham nodded. "See you at the battle," he said—speaking more to Khal, resplendent in his newly-won green Shardplate, than to Renarin. Then he turned and spurred his horse away from the combined column of infantry, towards his cavalry unit.

    "Brightlord," General Khal said, leaning across the distance between their horses to speak quietly to Renarin. "You have every right to demand more respect, from both Highprince Hatham and from the rank and file."

    Renarin just shook his head. "What good would that do?" he asked. "No, General—better for you and Hatham to run things. I'm just here as a figurehead in Adolin's place."

    "You have the right to respect even if you defer on military tactics to those more familiar with them," Khal said.

    "If you have ideas for how to manage that, I'm all ears."

    Khal hesitated, seemingly trying to come up with something, so Renarin just shrugged at him. "My reputation is pretty set in stone at this point. The last thing I want is to undermine you by being petulant about it. Just do your job, General, and I'll do mine—which is to look pretty as a Prince of House Kholin at the head of this army, and try not to die."

    Khal sighed. "By your leave, I'll see to the bridges."

    "Go."

    Khal rode away, leaving Renarin to brood.

    He's right, you know, Glys murmured in Renarin's head. You do have the right to respect.

    Maybe in Azir or Shinovar,     Renarin countered dryly. Not so much here in Alethkar.

    …I hate this,     Glys mumbled. You shouldn't have to be marching at the head of an army. It was bad enough you felt like you had to march with the army even when you weren't supposed to be in charge.

    Well, Adolin's honor is very important,     Renarin said.

    More important than you?

    Adolin certainly seems to think so.     Renarin let out a quiet sigh. That was uncharitable.

    Nothing I haven't been thinking,     Glys growled. It's almost enough to make me want to reveal myself, just so I can give your idiot brother a piece of my mind.

    If I'd known it was that easy, I'd have asked Sarus to force me to lead the army weeks ago.

    Ha, ha. I said almost.

    They approached the plateau. Renarin could see the scout had been right; the Parshendi were working on cutting open the chrysalis. A line of archers were already set up as Hatham sent his bridge crews forward. Renarin watched, his stomach turning, as dozens of men died running into the storm of arrows.

    "Storms," muttered one of the former bridgemen.

    Sometimes I think Father should have to keep making these runs, Renarin said to Glys. He should have to look his so-called allies in the face and remember that every time he approaches a battle with one of them, dozens of bridgemen die. Even if he's not the one fielding them.

    You won't hear any argument from me,     Glys said. You would have made a good Edgedancer, you know, if you weren't already such a good Truthwatcher.

    Edgedancer?

    They're all about remembering people who get forgotten or ignored, I think. Their spren are cultivationspren. I remember getting along well with their kind.

    "Brightlord," said one of Renarin's guards. "Will you be riding at the head of the infantry?"

    He wanted to correct the man—Malop—to tell him to call him by his name. Renarin was supposedly a member of Bridge Four as well, after all, even if he hadn't been able to come by the barracks for more than a few minutes since Adolin had dumped all of his responsibilities on him. But there was no point. He knew the men didn't accept him as one of them, and he couldn't blame them. He wasn't one of them, even if he desperately wanted to learn from both Kaladin and Sarus.

    "I think I have to," Renarin said. "The men are used to having a Kholin prince at their head." He glanced back at them. "I don't expect you to go with me, of course. I'll be fine—I have Shards and an army at my back."

    Malop grimaced. "Captain Sarus would never forgive us if you died on our watch, Sir."

    Captain Sarus. It was still new to hear that, and somehow it seemed less natural than hearing Captain Kaladin, despite the fact that both men were darkeyed. But Renarin was quickly growing accustomed to it. It wasn't as though Sarus wasn't eminently capable. Indeed, Renarin thought he was probably a better officer than Kaladin, at least when it came to the politicking a lighteyed officer would have to do.

    Only, that wasn't really what was expected of a darkeyed leader, even one who had been given a nominal promotion to captain. What Sarus' subordinates expected was a leader who would inspire them to be better. That was what Renarin had come to Kaladin for. And Sarus, despite his brilliance, wasn't that. But he seemed to be managing nonetheless.

    "I won't," Renarin promised. "I'll be careful, and fall back if things get dangerous. You have my word."

    Malop sighed. "Yes, sir."

    Renarin watched the battle progressing between Hatham's cavalry and the Parshendi frontline as the Kholin bridges drew near to the chasm. It seemed to be going well, but cavalry was poorly suited to holding a beachhead long-term. Hatham's light infantry were following them in, but he lacked the heavy shock troops that House Kholin fielded. He needed their support.

    The wait for the bridges to finally reach their place was interminable, but eventually they did. The heavy, wooden panels dropped across, spikes digging into the rock on the chasm's far side. And Renarin, gritting his teeth in dread and distaste, spurred Melial on, summoning his screaming Shardblade as he went.

    -x-x-x-​

    "Prince Renarin," said the spearman standing outside Elhokar's meeting room with a salute. His name was Moash. Renarin hadn't spoken with the man more than twice. He didn't get the impression Moash much liked lighteyes in general, and Renarin couldn't fault him for it. "Your father and the king are already inside."

    "I assumed as much," Renarin said. "Is Sarus inside, too?"

    "He is," Moash said.

    "Good. Thank you, Moash."

    Moash saluted again, and Renarin passed him, stepping into the meeting.

    Both Renarin's father and cousin looked up as he entered. Sarus remained standing behind Elhokar's chair, face perfectly expressionless—the consummate guard, his feelings entirely unreadable, though he did give Renarin a small nod. "Welcome back, Son," Dalinar said. "How did the battle go?"

    "The Parshendi beat us to the plateau," Renarin said, taking a seat. "Hatham used his bridges to get his cavalry across before they escaped, and our shock troops arrived in time to back him up. We got the gemheart, but Hatham sustained heavy losses. Particularly his bridge crews."

    "I'll need to make sure he's allocated a good share of this month's spoils, then," Elhokar said, completely ignoring the comment about the bridge crews despite the former bridgeman standing at his shoulder.

    Renarin shook off the vague bitterness. It always lingered with him, after a battle, and it had only gotten worse today as the ranking brightlord on the field.

    "We were just discussing the plan for the Weeping," Dalinar said. "Elhokar, this will work. Brightness Shallan has apparently been working on mapping the Plains. Navani thinks she might be able to help us find a path to the center."

    "It's a significant risk," Elhokar said. "Not just the risks involved in moving such a large force on treacherous terrain—it could very easily open us to betrayal by Sadeas and his allies. Again."

    "We won't let that happen."

    "And how do you propose to prevent it?" Elhokar demanded. "Do you think he'll come with you on the assault? I'm not at all convinced he won't refuse even if I make it a royal decree. We're very close to open civil war at this point, Uncle. Neither of us wants that, but I'm starting to think Sadeas does."

    "I'll continue negotiating with the other Highprinces," Dalinar said. "We'll figure something out. We'll make it too expensive for Sadeas to jump on the opportunity."

    "I hope you're right," said Elhokar flatly. "At any rate, I agree that the Weeping is our only chance to bring this war to a decisive end. The real question is whether we can feasibly take that chance, and you and I both have further work to do to make that possible. There's no point debating it further at present. Besides, we have something else to discuss."

    "What?" Dalinar asked.

    "Your son."

    Renarin leaned back in his chair at the naked displeasure in Elhokar's voice.

    "What about him?" Dalinar asked, shooting Renarin a glance.

    "Not Renarin," Elhokar said, waving a hand. "Adolin. Do you even realize what a difficult position he's put me in, Uncle?"

    Dalinar sighed. "You could release Kaladin—"

    "No, I can't!" Elhokar exclaimed. "Do you realize what that would imply about my position? It implies that not only do you control me—that your son thinks he can blackmail me over a darkeyes! And that he's right!"

    "It's not that simple," Dalinar said.

    "No," Elhokar said. "Kaladin is not an ordinary darkeyes. But he is still a darkeyes. Adolin is doing a better job undermining me in a few days than you've managed in years."

    "I've never tried to undermine you."

    "And yet," Elhokar said, biting off the words so they snapped like burned flatbread. "Fortunately, Adolin and I have come to an understanding."

    Dalinar frowned. "An understanding?"

    "I visited him yesterday," Elhokar said. "We discussed things like adults. I explained the situation to him, and offered an idea. He agreed. I only tell you in advance so you won't be taken by surprise."

    "And what is this idea?" Dalinar asked.

    "In a few days, Adolin is going to leave the jail voluntarily," Elhokar said. "He's going to admit that he missed the comforts of the outside world and apologize for causing trouble. In exchange, as a gesture of goodwill, I'm going to release Kaladin. I will not be reinstating him as captain of the Cobalt Guard. Captain Sarus will keep that position. But he will be returned to his barracks and be pardoned for his crime."

    Renarin caught Sarus' eye. For a fraction of a second he saw the ghost of a smile flicker across the man's face before it became impassive again.

    That man is brilliant, he said to Glys.

    You think this was his idea?

    Of course it was.

    Dalinar leaned back in his seat. "It'll be embarrassing for Adolin," he said.

    "So were the two dozen betrothals and courtships that have been broken off with him," Elhokar said. "His reputation survived those. It can survive this. Mine, meanwhile, is in desperate need of maintenance."

    "Fine," Dalinar said. "Adolin's actions were more drastic than I wanted anyway. Speaking of Kaladin's release, however—we have a Shardblade won in the duel that has yet to be allocated."

    "Absolutely not," Elhokar said flatly.

    "You can't deny he defeated a Shardbearer," Dalinar said. "If you want Shards to be held by our greatest warriors, can you honestly say there's anyone better suited?"

    Renarin caught a momentary twitch in Sarus' face. When he glanced back, however, the man's expression was perfectly serene again.

    "How about someone who didn't actively embarrass me in front of my court?" Elhokar shot back. "Someone with a bit more loyalty?"

    "Kaladin's loyalty is beyond question," Dalinar said. "It's his judgement that needs work."

    "Lest we forget," Elhokar said, "he's only in your service because he betrayed his previous highprince."

    "Betraying Sadeas is practically a show of loyalty to the Crown," Dalinar said. "Besides—those Shards were won by my branch of House Kholin, and by Adolin specifically. Not you. I spoke to Adolin after the duel—this was his idea."

    "He didn't mention it to me," Elhokar grumbled.

    "Can you blame him?"

    Elhokar sighed. "Fine, fine. I can't deny that Adolin has the right to give that Blade out however he sees fit. I suppose I should be grateful that I got a set of Blade and Plate out of it, given you and Adolin could easily have kept the whole group to yourselves."

    "You are our king," Dalinar said.

    "Sometimes, I wonder," Elhokar muttered. "In any case, that's all I wanted to discuss today." He glanced at Renarin. "With any luck, Adolin will be back at the head of House Kholin's armies before we have to meet the Parshendi in battle again."

    "With luck," Dalinar agreed, standing. "I'll continue negotiating with the other highprinces. I'll let you know if any of them have specific demands that I can't address."

    "Yes, Uncle," Elhokar said with a sigh, rising to his feet. "I'd best be going. I have a meeting with the ardentia."

    Dalinar left first, flanked by Moash. Elhokar swept out after, turning the other way. Sarus started after him.

    "Sarus," Renarin said quietly as the man passed his chair.

    Sarus glanced down at him.

    "Are you… all right?" Renarin asked, hesitantly. Something about the look that had flashed across Sarus' face at the mention of Kaladin receiving Shards…

    "Of course," Sarus said smoothly. "Why wouldn't I be?"

    Renarin shrugged helplessly. Sarus shrugged back, a slight smile on his lips, then turned and followed Elhokar out.
     
  • View discussion
    • 60: Contentment
  • View content
    • Thanks to Elran and @BeaconHill for betareading, and to Phinnia for the commissioned icon.

    -x-x-x-

    60

    Contentment



    -x-x-x-​

    Then, beneath my feet, the shard on which I rode twisted. It transformed. What had been a stretch of shoreline and a few shattered mountains grew into a world in its own right. Then many worlds.

    -x-x-x-​

    "I hear your concerns, Aladar." Elhokar idly swirled his goblet of sapphire wine. "As I've said, the gemhearts gathered this month will be allocated on the first of the new year. However, you can be assured that I have noted both your loyalty to the new policies and your successes on your hunts. These will not be ignored."

    "Yes, Your Majesty." Aladar visibly hesitated. Sarus watched with veiled amusement from his post behind Elhokar's throne as the man tried to find a way to ignore the king's implied dismissal without giving offense. Eventually, he settled for giving only a little offense. "I only wonder if the clerks you assign to those calculations will be impartial."

    "I'm sure I don't know what you mean," Elhokar said smoothly. It wasn't what Sarus would have recommended. In this case, Elhokar could simply acknowledge the conflict of interest inherent to having his uncle as one of his vassal highprinces. He needed to demonstrate that he was aware of—and fighting against—the undue influence Dalinar wielded over the Crown. However, the poise with which he parried the verbal strike was almost as good.

    "If I might speak plainly, Your Majesty, Prince Adolin—and, by extension, House Kholin as a whole—have not demonstrated as much loyalty as a king has a right to expect of his vassals. Especially those of his own house."

    "You refer to Adolin's… tantrum regarding the imprisonment of the darkeyed spearman," said Elhokar. His voice was even, betraying none of the displeasure Sarus knew was stewing beneath the surface. The king had grown significantly over the past few weeks under Sarus' tutelage. It was genuinely enough to stir something like pride in his chest. "If you must speak plainly, Highprince Aladar, I will do the same: I am aware of Adolin's behavior. It is unbecoming of a prince of the third dahn, let alone a member of my own household. And I have already made clear to Highprince Dalinar that it will be reflected in his allocation for this month. The calculations have not yet been completed, so I have no specific numbers to share with you at present, but you may trust that I am not well pleased with the behavior of the Highprince's branch of House Kholin at present."

    Aladar let out a breath in relief. "I see. That is reassuring, Your Majesty."

    "I am aware that only a limited number of gemhearts are gathered by the month," Elhokar said. "I realize the policies regarding their distribution are still new, and there is as yet only one example of them in action. Do you believe I was fair in my allocations at the start of this month?"

    Aladar hesitated. "For the most part, Your Majesty."

    "Which implies you have some objections," Elhokar said, putting down his goblet. It made contact with the wood of his small desk with an almost unnaturally loud clink. "Please, speak them."

    "Well, Highprince Sadeas saw admirable success on the plains last month."

    "True. He also betrayed Highprince Dalinar and Prince Adolin to death within that same span, and has categorically refused to take part in the joint chasmfiend hunts as I've ordered."

    "Dalinar and Adolin survived—"

    "Yes. Through the heroic actions of a single crew of darkeyes, at great personal risk. I am capable of acknowledging that fact, even when the captain of that crew is currently imprisoned for an unrelated crime." Elhokar leaned forward slightly, gripping the arms of his throne. "Highprince Sadeas is a warrior of great renown. His reputation is well deserved. There is much to admire in him. But so long as he refuses to be loyal to the crown, all the martial prowess in the world will not earn him many of my gemhearts. And lest you forget, Highprince Dalinar is still my uncle, and Prince Adolin is still my cousin. It would be one thing if Sadeas fought them honorably over some slight or just cause, but he betrayed their trust and left them to die against what should be our mutual enemies. That was not behavior befitting a highprince of Alethkar, let alone the man who—at the time—I had named Highprince of Information. No, Aladar—Sadeas may have won many gemhearts when this war was foundering as a shallow contest between highprinces, but we require more unity now. And Sadeas has not demonstrated much of that virtue. You may be assured, however, that your efforts to mediate his conflicts with House Kholin, as well as your continuing loyalty to my decrees despite your personal misgivings, have done much to distinguish you from Sadeas' flaws."

    Sarus had to hold in a laugh at the conflicted expression on Aladar's face, as relief, frustration, resignation, and naked greed all warred for purchase. At length, he simply bowed. "I am your loyal servant, Your Majesty."

    "Very good. Is there anything else you wanted to discuss?"

    "No, Your Majesty. I will take my leave."

    "Very good."

    Aladar turned and left. When no one stepped into the throne room after him, Elhokar visibly slumped in his seat. "Storms," he muttered. "This would be so much easier if Aladar was…"

    "More obviously in one camp or the other?" Sarus offered.

    "Precisely." Elhokar rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. "He's a strange man. He admires Uncle, but still sides with Sadeas. I don't fully understand why."

    "Highprince Aladar does not believe Highprince Dalinar's approach to leadership is a winning strategy in the long term," Sarus said. "He considers your uncle morally admirable but foolishly idealistic. He considers it his duty as a highprince to be more practical, and so he emulates Highprince Sadeas despite his personal distaste for the man."

    "Yes, that's it exactly." Elhokar sighed. "The worst part is, I'm not sure he's wrong. Uncle is being a bit unreasonable lately. He's been right more often than not, but he's also taking a lot of risks. You just have to look at what almost happened to Adolin in that duel—one more mistake like that could be catastrophic."

    "Yes, Your Majesty," said Sarus. "But, fortunately, you are not your uncle."

    Elhokar shot him a glance. "I don't follow."

    "Highprince Aladar sees himself as a mediating influence between Highprince Dalinar's honor and Highprince Sadeas' practicality. You are positioning yourself as much the same thing. If you are careful with your allocation of the gemhearts this month, you may be able to win Highprince Aladar's loyalty to yourself, rather than winning him over to your uncle's side. Which, as the king, should be your goal, should it not?"

    Elhokar nodded slowly. "Yes… yes, I see what you mean. It does mean I'll have to make sure to limit how many gemhearts Uncle Dalinar receives at the end of the month…"

    "In fairness," Sarus said, "the expedition to the center of the Plains will be undertaken before the month ends. That may throw all calculations into question, depending on how it goes."

    "True." Elhokar sighed again. "Speaking of terrible risks…"

    At that moment, the door to the throne room opened. Elhokar straightened, looking toward it, even as Sarus schooled his expression back into a guard's neutrality.

    "Your Majesty! Captain!" Morel called through the door, his Bridge Four tattoo stark against his paler than average skin. "Prince Adolin is in the courtyard, asking to see you!"

    "Ah," Elhokar said, standing. "Good. It's about storming time."

    Sarus followed the king out of the throne room and through the war palace's entrance hall. Elhokar stopped at the top of the stairs leading down into the courtyard's rock garden.

    Adolin knelt on the path leading up to the palace, his head bowed. His Shardblade was out and buried in the rock at his feet. "Cousin Adolin," Elhokar said, loudly enough for all the servants, ardents, and sundry other spectators who hadn't even bothered to come up with a real cover to hear. "This is a surprise."

    "Your Majesty," said Adolin without looking up. Sarus was surprised at the contrition he managed to inject into his voice. He hadn't expected Adolin to manage such a performance. "I've come to apologize."

    "What for, exactly?" Elhokar asked, clasping his hands behind his back.

    Adolin hesitated for a moment. "As the field commander for House Kholin," said Adolin, "it was… unbecoming of me to refuse to serve. I've behaved disloyally and dishonored our house. Forgive me."

    Elhokar took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He did not look at Sarus. "Ah, Cousin," he said. "We're family, and you of all people had reason to be displeased with the darkeyes' imprisonment. You're forgiven, but you understand I can't allow such disobedience again?"

    "I understand, Your Majesty."

    "Good. You will return to the Kholin warcamp and resume your post as field commander of the house armies."

    Adolin hesitated again. "…Yes, Your Majesty."

    Sarus could read that hesitation easily. He knew Adolin was wondering if Elhokar was going to refuse to release Kaladin now that he had secured Adolin's cooperation. It was a foolish thought—Elhokar couldn't afford to refuse to uphold his end of the bargain. For Adolin to return to jail in protest now, or worse, to announce what their bargain had been, would be far worse for Elhokar than Adolin's initial imprisonment had been. But, well, Adolin had never been brilliant.

    "But in addition to being field commander of my armies," Elhokar said, "you are also my cousin. Family. I cannot brook such open disobedience, Adolin—but I can offer small gifts to my family. In exchange for your loyal service going forward… I shall release the darkeyed spearman, Kaladin, from prison. Come, we'll see to that now."

    The king started down the stairs. Adolin rose to his feet and took a position at his flank. Sarus walked at his other side, the rest of both Kholins' guard contingents following them in an organized formation.

    "Thank you, Elhokar," Adolin said quietly—too quietly for the rest of the guards to hear, though Sarus could have caught it even if his hearing were not unusually keen.

    "No need to thank me," Elhokar said. "I appreciate your cooperation."

    Adolin shot Sarus a sharp glance. Elhokar caught it.

    "Sarus is aware of our arrangement," the king said. "But don't spread it further, of course."

    "Of course," Adolin echoed, frowning briefly at Sarus before visibly shrugging and looking away again.

    It was only a short walk to the jail. The guards—the official jailers, as well as the six men of Bridge Four standing watch outside—all saluted. Moash was among them—Sarus had made sure everyone in Bridge Four had a turn on the coveted rotation watching over Kaladin's jail, and that included his best spearman whose time would be better spent guarding a higher-priority target like Renarin or Dalinar.

    "Your Majesty," said the head jailer, a lighteyes with a lieutenant's knots on his shoulder. "Your Highness." He hesitated, looking wary. "Please tell me you're not here to lock yourself up again, Your Highness."

    "No," Elhokar said. "Jailer, fetch the darkeyes—Kaladin—from his cell. As a gesture of goodwill to my cousin, he goes free today."

    The jailer's eyes widened for a moment. "Yes, Your Majesty. Right away." He scurried inside.

    "Your Highness." A servant in Kholin colors approached the two nobles, but he spoke to Adolin. "The Shards are here, as you ordered. They're in the jailers' break room for now."

    "Good," Adolin said. He shot Elhokar a look. "I… know I didn't talk to you about this…"

    "I know," Elhokar said. "Your father discussed it with me. I don't approve, exactly, but you're within your rights."

    "Thanks," Adolin said. "He's earned it, you know. And he'll be—" He fell silent as the jailer stepped out of the jail again. Kaladin followed him, blinking in the sudden light. Sarus's stomach clenched at the sight of him—his beard had grown out again, and there were dark shadows under his eyes. He looked… well, he looked a great deal like the man Sarus had seen bundled off a slave cart and told to carry a bridge, all those months ago.

    "Soldier Kaladin," Elhokar said stiffly.

    Kaladin looked up at the king, his face slack and expressionless.

    "By my authority as king of Alethkar, I hereby pardon you for the crimes of slander against a highlord and contempt of traditional law," Elhokar said. "Your position as Captain will not be reinstated, but you are a free man once more, and your record shall have your crime struck from it. In your place," he nodded at Sarus, "Captain Sarus will remain in command of your unit."

    Kaladin stared at him for a long moment in complete silence.

    "Do you understand?" Elhokar demanded.

    "I understand, Your Majesty," Kaladin said in a raspy voice. Sarus saw Syl fly a wide circle around the man's head, looking at him with an expression of deep concern on her tiny face.

    "Good," Elhokar said. "Now, I believe my cousin has a matter of his own to attend with you."

    Adolin stepped forward. "I… did my best to get you out," he said awkwardly. "It didn't seem right."

    "Right," Kaladin said flatly.

    Don't ruin the ploy, Adolin, Sarus thought.

    Fortunately, Adolin seemed to keep his head. He cleared his throat. "So, as the leading duelist on our side, I won the spoils for that fight," he said. "That's three full sets of Plate and two Blades. One full set's already gone to General Khal, and a second set of Plate's been given to a lighteyes of rank in my father's army. That leaves one full set. And, well," he shrugged. "I'm curious to see if the stories are true. If a darkeyes bonds a Shardblade, will his eyes change color?"

    Kaladin's eyes widened, and Sarus saw the flash of raw panic in them. Suddenly, he knew what was about to happen.

    Of course Kaladin wouldn't accept Shards. Sarus, unlike Adolin, knew his history. He knew what had happened the last time Kaladin had been offered Shards. Besides, Syl hated Shards, and Kaladin loved her dearly.

    The only question was, who would Kaladin give the Shards to instead?

    "I can do with these as I wish?" Kaladin asked hoarsely, looking at Adolin.

    "Take them," Adolin said. "They're yours."

    "Is that a yes?"

    Adolin blinked. "Uh. Yes?"

    "Then, no, they aren't." Kaladin met Sarus' eyes for a long moment before turning away. "Moash. Take these. You're now a Shardbearer."

    Sarus' heart nearly stopped. Even as Adolin jerked forward and pulled Kaladin aside to hurriedly question whether the man had gone entirely mad, his mind was running through the implications, and something very near to hatred surged up in him.

    Kaladin had met his eyes. Did Kaladin really blame Sarus for his imprisonment? Was that why he had passed Sarus over? How dare he? How dare he? Sarus had been beside him from the beginning! Had, on multiple occasions, put aside his own ambitions to support Kaladin when he needed it! Now Kaladin had cast him aside simply because Sarus wasn't willing to jeopardize everything both of them had worked for after Kaladin stumbled into lighteyed politics where he had no business?

    How dare he!?

    No, Sarus told himself. No, Kaladin knows about Archive, who doesn't like Shards any more than Syl. He can't know that I'm questioning my partnership with her as it is. That's part of it, at least.

    And there was another part. A part which, while less personally infuriating, was no less darkly sinister. Last Kaladin heard, Moash still intended to assassinate Elhokar. Kaladin knew about that plot. Whereas I have made no secret of my efforts to protect the king. The implications are clear.

    Elhokar had, by imprisoning Kaladin, made an enemy of the man who was supposed to lead his guard. Sure, Sarus had been promoted to captain over him. But how loyal would Bridge Four remain, now that Kaladin was free again?

    Would Moash remain committed to the course Sarus had charted, how that Kaladin had been brought around to his former way of thinking?

    Kaladin and Adolin rejoined the group. "You," said the prince. "Moash, was it? I guess those Shards are yours now. Congratulations, you now outrank ninety percent of Alethkar. Pick yourself a family name and ask to join one of the houses under my father's banner, or start your own if you're so inclined."

    Moash looked from Adolin to Kaladin for confirmation. Kaladin nodded once.

    Then, to Sarus' surprise, Moash turned to him, as if seeking Sarus' approval. For one moment, Sarus entertained the fantasy of refusing to grant permission, of taking up the Shards for himself, of casting aside all pretense and taking what he wanted.

    Then he smiled and nodded.

    With shaking hands Moash took up the Shardblade. The heliodor embedded in the pommel flashed, and gloryspren rose up around the man, dozens of them.

    "Congratulations," Sarus said. "Unfortunately, Kaladin's release does not relieve all of us from our duties. Moash, you're off duty for the next five days to bond that Blade. Keep it with you at all times, holding it often. Stay in the barracks, and if you must go out do not do so alone. The only possible time to steal a Blade is when it is still being bonded."

    Moash saluted. "Understood, Sir."

    Sarus nodded. "Brightlord," he said, turning to Adolin. "Where do you intend to go now?"

    "Probably to my father," Adolin said. "Why?"

    "Because Highprince Dalinar and Prince Renarin already have guard contingents, and if you're intending to join them I don't have to reserve anyone to guard you. Which is good," Sarus smiled slightly at the men who had been guarding the jail, "as I don't think any of my men would like to be kept from their celebration over Kaladin's freedom. I'm sure Rock is more than ready to break out the stew he's been simmering for the past two weeks."

    The men of Bridge Four all cheered. Even Kaladin's grim expression cracked slightly.

    "I will, of course, finish my rotation with Your Majesty," he said to Elhokar.

    "Good, thank you," said Elhokar. There was something odd in the king's face as he met Sarus' eyes—something between confusion, respect, and sympathy. "Then let's be off. I have more meetings to attend today."

    Sarus nodded at Kaladin. "It's good to see you free," he said. It wasn't quite a lie. But it wasn't quite the truth, either.

    "It's good to be out," Kaladin muttered. He gave Sarus a nod—not a salute—before turning and joining the other men of Bridge Four on the way back to the barracks.

    -x-x-x-​

    Sarus returned to the barracks several hours later to find the celebrations still ongoing. Rock had produced a second pot of stew and was already cooking a third. Lopen had apparently managed to get his hand on the oil necessary to fill another pot and was producing batches of chouta with Sigzil and Dunny's help. There was a roaring campfire just outside the barrack, and several bottles of wine were being passed around.

    Sarus came to a halt just outside the ring of men, looking in at the laughing faces lit by the campfire. For a moment, the aches in his body that had been ever present in the days after his Shardblade injury rushed back with a vengeance. He felt exhausted, and old, like a fieldworker suffering the kind of fatigue gained by decades of hard labor without ever truly knowing rest.

    For a moment, he wondered what it would be like to be one of these men. To sit around that fire and simply be happy. To fill a wooden goblet with cheap wine and grab a greasy chouta wrap to eat, laughing at the jokes of the man beside him without the weight of his own envy and ambition weighing him down. It was not the first time he had wondered such a thing, and it would not be the last.

    For one glittering instant, he imagined putting aside his desire for a Shardblade. Imagined sitting down beside these men and being content, as they were, with the station he had. He was already higher rank than a darkeyes had any right to be. A captain was normally a lighteyes of sixth or seventh dahn, and here he was, still arguably sas nahn—he'd never formally had a rank bestowed after being freed from slavery—and with a captain's knots on his shoulder. Some part of him yearned to be content with that. To sit beside these men and enjoy the world as it was instead of constantly striving to reshape it in his own image. Kaladin was free. Could that not be enough?

    Then he saw Moash raise up his new Shardblade, showing it off to several admiring men, and the moment was broken. Sarus was what he was. He could be no other.

    "Hey, Captain!" Murk called from a bench by the fire. "Welcome back! Come grab some stew! Rock's outdone himself this time!"

    Sarus painted a smile on his face, as genuine as any artist's rendition, and stepped forward. "I'm sorry I missed your celebratory stew, Rock," he said, accepting a bowl from the large Horneater. "I'm sure it was excellent, with how long you've been working on it." Rock had started simmering the stew the day Kaladin had been imprisoned. He had tended to it every night since.

    "Nonsense!" Rock said, pointing at the bowl in Sarus' hands. "I saved that bowl for you! Is celebration stew! For everyone to share!"

    Sarus blinked at the still-warm bowl in his hands. "You put it over the coals?"

    "Cold stew is not stew at all."

    Sarus chuckled. "Well, I'm touched, Rock. Truly." He took a bite of the stew. It really was excellent.

    And speaking of Kaladin, Sarus could see him approaching the fire, a chouta wrap in one hand. He was in the middle of a conversation with Teft about training the recruits. "They'll be glad to hear you're back," Teft was saying. "I know they don't know you well, but hearing you were in a cell wasn't good for their morale."

    "Kaladin," Sarus called, ruthlessly quashing the part of himself that wanted anything but to speak to the man right now. Both Teft and Kaladin looked his way. "We'll get you rolled back into the guard rotations in a few days. In the meantime, why don't you join Teft in training the new recruits when you're feeling up to it? I imagine you'll want to get back into shape."

    "Yeah," Kaladin said, walking over and sitting down near—but not beside—Sarus. Teft sat on Kaladin's other side, watching the both of them with something like concern. "The knots suit you," Kaladin commented, eyes darting from Sarus' shoulder to his face.

    "Freedom suits you," Sarus said. It was true—Kaladin's face had cleared of some of the grim shadow that had been painted over it when he first emerged from his cell. But Sarus didn't miss how a veil of hurt and suspicion passed over his eyes when they met Sarus'.

    "Yeah. It's not my first time in a cell. It's never agreed with me."

    "No, I imagine not." Sarus considered telling Kaladin about his own part in securing Kaladin's freedom—and his request for better conditions during Kaladin's stay in jail—but thought better of it. He didn't want to beg for Kaladin's forgiveness. Not when there should be nothing to forgive, and not when he needed to retain the men's respect. He was their captain. He was Kaladin's captain. He needed to act like it. "It should go without saying, but even though His Majesty stripped the rank of captain from you, you remain a lieutenant," Sarus said. "Take as long as you need to recover and to refamiliarize yourself with freedom. When you're ready, we'll discuss your new responsibilities."

    "Sure," Kaladin said.

    Sarus forced a smile on his face as he stood. He reached out and clasped a hand around Kaladin's shoulder companionably. "I'm sorry this all happened," he said. "Truly. I know it hasn't been easy for you. But you're free now. It will be all right."

    Then he turned and walked off to join a conversation between Sigzil and Murk about the vagaries of Vorin doctrine, leaving Kaladin behind.

    -x-x-x-​

    "Your leadership is," came a voice from behind Sarus as he hung his captain's coat on the rack beside the door.

    Sarus turned to see Archive in full human size, seated on the chair behind Sarus' bed, watching him with her ink-black hands clasped in her lap. "Is that a compliment?"

    "An acknowledgement," she said. "Your men's growth is. Your command has been good for them."

    "You think so?" he asked, placing his spear in the rack on the wall.

    "I do. Kaladin motivated these men to be better. You have shown them how to be wiser."

    Sarus paused in his preparations for bed. What was this? He and Archive had scarcely spoken these past few weeks. He had thought her hesitance over his killing of those assassins, and her concern over the ways he had regressed, had driven a wedge between them. A wedge he had not even been certain was unwelcome, as exhausted as he was with having to constantly chase growth. "A few dozen former slaves need more than motivation to survive among lighteyes and officers," he said. "I can't be Kaladin, but I can be that. My education prepared me for it."

    "And yet you question your place."

    "I do," he acknowledged. "It is in my nature, I fear."

    "Your nature is," she said. "But your growth is, also. One day, you will learn to trust."

    He took a slow, steadying breath, pressing the fire that threatened to burn free in rage into a cold ingot of fury, stored deep within his belly. "Perhaps," he acknowledged.

    "Do you not wish it?" she asked. "Do you not want to overcome? You are not content."

    "Is there not a contradiction there?" he asked stiffly, internally reprimanding himself for his lack of control. "How can I be content if I'm constantly striving to overcome myself?"

    She blinked black eyes at him. "How can you be content if you are not?"

    Before he could come up with an answer to that, there came a knock at his door. Archive shrunk back down as he turned. "Enter."

    Moash stepped inside, his new Shardblade resting on his shoulder. Sarus held up a hand to stop him before he could step inside. "Careful," he warned, "of the doorway."

    Moash looked up, then grimaced sheepishly and angled the Blade so it would not cut a slit through Sarus' wall. "Sorry about that, Sir."

    "No harm done," Sarus said. "Just be careful while you're growing accustomed to the Blade, all right? I'd rather not have to request too many repairs to the barracks at the end of the week."

    "I will," Moash promised. Then he met Sarus' eyes with sudden solemnity. "Kaladin and I talked a bit about… things."

    "He intended to allow you to go through with the assassination attempt on the king," Sarus said. "I concluded as much when he gave you those Shards."

    "Yeah." Moash shut the door behind himself, taking a deep breath. "I figured you'd guess, but I wanted to make sure. He seemed… a little disappointed when I said I wasn't planning on doing it anymore."

    "Of course," Sarus said. "It must have been incredibly difficult for him to make the compromise with himself to step out of your path. And then it turned out to be entirely unnecessary. That must have been a shock."

    "Yeah. You'd think it'd be a relief, though."

    Sarus shook his head. "Kaladin has good reason to be displeased with His Majesty," he said. "Being imprisoned for two weeks isn't a pleasant experience at the best of times. You can't compromise your morals to that magnitude without committing to it. Realizing the compromise wasn't necessary must leave him unfulfilled."

    "I… guess that makes sense," Moash said. "You think he'll be all right? Even at the celebration, he was…"

    "Kaladin is not a man who does well in solitude," Sarus said. "You remember the first thing he did, the day he decided not to give up on the bridge crew? He learned all of our names. Well, except mine, but he gave me a name anyway." For a bizarre moment, some part of Sarus missed being Tesh. Or at least missed the simplicity of the camaraderie he'd had as Tesh. "Kaladin needs people. He needs to feel as though there are human beings whose lives he can touch and interact with—and protect, if it's called for. He's been alone for two weeks save for his jailers. I'd be surprised if he recovered at once."

    "But he will recover?"

    "Kaladin was able to pull himself out of a pit of despair without any outside help in the bridge crew," said Sarus. "This time, he has all of you. He'll be fine."

    "All of us," Moash said. "You're one of us too, Captain."

    Sarus' lips twitch. "I am sleeping in the room that was his, in the bed that was his, wearing the knots that once adorned his shoulder," he said. "And the only way those things fell to me was because I did not stand with him in that arena."

    "You couldn't have done anything to help," Moash protested. "He understands that."

    "If he does," Sarus said, "not merely on an intellectual level, but on an emotional one, then he is truly a Herald come again. No, Moash—he will accept it, eventually. I hope. But for now, I don't think my presence will be much comfort to him."

    "You should talk to him," Moash said quietly. "He should know you worked to get him out. I don't know what you did, exactly, but I doubt Elhokar would have come and released him the day Adolin left the prison without you doing something."

    Sarus smiled slightly. "Or perhaps Kaladin will be better served by having someone to resent besides His Majesty," he said. "I can survive Kaladin's displeasure for a time, I think, so long as he does not actively undermine the men's loyalty." And I don't want to go back and beg for his approval. I am better than that. I deserve better than that. And if the men of Bridge Four are so fickle that Kaladin's petulance is enough to break their loyalty, then I want to know that now.

    Moash sighed. "I'll try to get through to him, then," he said. "But—Sarus, sometimes I wonder if you don't need people, too."

    "I was at the celebration," Sarus protested. "I would have come sooner if I didn't have to finish my shift with His Majesty."

    "I know. But…" Moash visibly hesitated, as if trying to put words to an idea he hadn't fully pieced together yet. "You have this way of interacting with people, Sarus. I've seen it when you talk to the lighteyes. It's like you smooth away all the hard edges and let people see what they want to see."

    "It's something of a survival skill as a darkeyes moving in lighteyed spheres, Moash."

    "I know. But you've been doing it to us lately, too. I saw it outside the jail, and at the celebration. It feels like you treat the men like they—like we—are potential enemies, just like the lighteyes. But we aren't."

    The careful dismissal was already forming in Sarus's mouth – but one misplaced look at the Shardblade resting on Moash's shoulder sent forth vitriol in its place. "Aren't you, Moash?" he snapped, and instantly regretted it.

    And yet as he met Moash's eyes, he didn't see the distaste he expected there. Instead, as Sarus watched, Moash smiled and then began to laugh.

    Why? Even Moash, when he wasn't tainted by the bitterness that Sarus had been stewing in for years, was an honest, honorable man. What could he possibly find to respect in Sarus's naked envy?

    "I knew it," Moash said. "I could believe you found a reason not to stand in the way. But Kaladin looked right in your eyes and passed you over, and you smiled."

    "I'm… sorry." Sarus spoke slowly to cover the way his words stumbled over one another in his confusion. "I don't—"

    "You'd have to be a Herald come again," Moash echoes, "and, Sarus, you don't have to be. Not with me." Moash was still smiling—and with his free hand, he reached out and clasped Sarus's. "I'm sorry. I'll let you get some sleep. We'll talk tomorrow, okay?" He turned away. "Good night, Sarus."

    "Sleep well, Moash," Sarus managed to reply through lips that felt like lead.

    After the door shut behind Moash, Archive grew back to full size on the chair again. "Moash's affection for you is," she said. "Kaladin's also. Their understanding can be."

    "Perhaps."

    "You are not content," she said softly. "You settle. These are not the same thing. You have the potential to be spectacular, but you must want to become so."

    Sarus sighed. "I'll take it under advisement."

    "You must find the words," she said. "You are adrift. Your goals are not, your direction is not. You must find stars by which to navigate."

    "And when I find the words," Sarus said, "I'll become a Surgebinder, yes? Like Kaladin."

    "You already are. Recall Kaladin using Gravitation to redirect arrows in the bridge crews, long before gaining conscious control of his abilities. Your Surges are different, and may be more difficult to use accidentally, but they are."

    "What are they?" Sarus asked. "Assuming you remember."

    She frowned. "I believe I do. The Elsecaller Surges are Transportation and Transformation. You humans know the latter as Soulcasting."

    Sarus' heart froze solid.
     
    Last edited:
  • View discussion
    • 61: The Legacy of Man
  • View content
    • Thanks to Elran and @BeaconHill for betareading, and to Phinnia for the commissioned icon.

    -x-x-x-

    61

    The Legacy of Man



    -x-x-x-​

    A whole cosmere blossomed forth from the seed on which I had laid down to die.

    -x-x-x-

    Six Years Ago​

    The stormwall was already visible in the valley below the castle when Sarus galloped his stolen horse into Sadaras' courtyard. He drove it directly to the nearest window, which had already been shuttered by a guard.

    The castle staff had taken shelter from the storm. Of course they had. What thief or assassin would try to assault Sadaras—a fortress standing alone, with no other shelter for miles in any direction—so close to a highstorm?

    The answer, of course, was simple: an assassin who did not care if he lived, so long as his target died.

    Sarus leapt from the horse. The window's shutters were simple wood, which broke easily against Sarus' fist after only a couple blows. The splinters left his knuckles bleeding and lacerated, but there would be time to deal with that later.

    Behind him, the horse whinnied in terror. The roar of the highstorm was almost upon them now; Sarus could hear the gale rising. He leapt inside, ripping his clothes against the broken glass and splintered hardwood, and ripped the broken shutters open. The window was a large one, wide and tall. Just enough. "In," he snapped at the animal. He didn't stay to see it safely inside, though as he turned and sprinted up the familiar corridor towards the princess's suite, he saw it hesitantly stepping over the sill.

    The highstorm hit before he reached Tailiah's rooms. He felt the castle shudder slightly as the stormwall struck it. It was a sensation that was at once familiar—for he had been in Sadaras during a highstorm before—and entirely new. His whole body felt like a taut bowstring, hypersensitive to every sensation, every minute shift in the stone beneath his feet, the air on his skin.

    He sprinted up a spiral of stairs and emerged onto a landing. Somehow he could feel how the wind affected this upper floor more than the ground level—the way the storm set the whole building rocking, so that the higher up one was, the more one's feet were moved by the gale.

    He raced down the hall towards Tailiah's rooms. But as he rounded the corner, the door hung ajar. It swayed on its hinges, swinging free in the gale of the highstorm creeping in through the open window. He looked in to see that the shutters had been forced open. There was no other sign of a struggle, however.

    The assassins had come to kill Tailiah, but either she had not been here when they arrived, or she had been able to escape the room before they could enter. But there was nothing to indicate the assassins had been killed, or had fled. They couldn't flee—not with the highstorm raging outside, promising death to any who ventured out of the castle. They were all trapped in here together—assassins, brightladies, guards, and Sarus alike.

    He allowed himself a moment to think, standing outside Tailiah's door with the highstorm wind filtering through the window to brush by him. Where would she be? Where would she have gone? Does it matter if she left before they arrived, or after?

    The answer to that last question was no. If Tailiah had known about the assassins, she would have gone to the largest concentration of guards in the castle proper. If she had not, the only place she would have been likely to shelter from the storm besides her own chamber was with her mother. Fortunately, the largest concentration of guards in Sadaras proper would be around Brightness Ialai's chambers. Either way, he knew where to go.

    He turned and sprinted down the hall. Ialai's rooms were practically on the other side of the castle and a floor above Tailiah's. He took the steps three at a time. By the time he reached the landing, he could already hear the sound of battle down the hall.

    He rounded a corner just in time to see a figure in a nondescript black gambeson drive a shortspear through a green-armored guard's gut. The guard let out a weak, rasping cry as he went down, hands clawing at his belly as if he could force his blood back inside. He fell beside another green-clad corpse whose light brown eyes stared sightlessly at the wall.

    Sarus reached the assassin as he was tugging the shortspear free. His own was already out, and he drove it into the man's neck before he could react. The assassin fell with barely a gurgle. Sarus pulled his weapon free and stepped into the antechamber of Ialai's suite.

    The battle was going poorly. Two more green-clad guards lay dead on the floor, joined by one of the assassins. Another guard was cornered by two of the enemy—one dueling him with a longspear, the other trying to get a clear shot with a bow—and the door into Ialai's bedchamber hung ajar, its lock visibly broken where it had been forced. The antechamber window had been forced open, and the highstorm roared in Sarus' ears, howling like a rabid animal baying for blood.

    Ialai and Tailiah were each usually accompanied by four guards. If Sarus remembered what he had overheard, there should be ten assassins. Five of the Sadeas guards were accounted for—one in the corner, beating back two assassins with a longspear, and four dead. Five of the assassins were also accounted for—two dead here, one dead outside, two cornering the guard in the corner.

    Sarus ignored the skirmish in the corner, shoving open the door to Ialai's bedchamber. Much of the floor was slick with blood. Of the three remaining Sadeas guards, one lay face-down on an ornate rug, an arrow buried in his back. Another was making a valiant effort to get at an assassin carrying a bow, but two others carrying shortspears were beating him back. The last remaining guard had cornered one of the assassins and was looking for an opening to deal a killing blow with his longspear. However, the final assassin, carrying a bow, seemed to be creeping past him, an arrow nocked in his bow as he rounded the overturned bed in the corner of the room. He took aim at the two women who no doubt cowered there, out of Sarus' sight.

    Sarus threw his shortspear. It buried itself in the archer's shoulder. He shouted in pain, the arrow flying from his bow and ricocheting off the wall. He spun to face Sarus, but in the time it took him to react Sarus had already crossed the room, leaping onto him and grabbing the haft of his spear, driving it deeper into the man's flesh. The man fell on his back, and Sarus landed on top of him.

    They wrestled on the ground for a moment—Sarus trying to get the spear free and drive it somewhere lethal, the assassin trying to get Sarus off of him. But Sarus was better, and in less than a minute of struggle Sarus ripped the spear free from the assassin's grasp and drove it deep into the man's throat. Blood surged forth like a crimson geyser, covering Sarus' face and getting in his eyes. He ignored the stinging pain, just wiping the fluid away as he stood up.

    "Sarus!" Tailiah gasped. He turned, met her eyes. She was huddled behind her mother, whose slim frame prevented her from truly covering her daughter—not that she wasn't trying her best. "What are you—"

    "Later," Sarus said, turning to face the battle. "Stay in cover!"

    Just then, the guard who had been embroiled in a duel killed his target. He turned to Sarus with wide eyes. "Storms," he said. "One of them—"

    "Got past you, yes," Sarus said, turning from him to the ongoing battle between two assassins and a guard on the bedroom's other side. Unfortunately, it was no longer ongoing. Even as the words left Sarus' lips, one of them found an opening, and the guard went down.

    The remaining guard in the room hefted his weapon. "I'll take the one of the right," he told Sarus.

    "Understood," Sarus said, and charged.

    His spear clashed with that of the assassin on the left, haft meeting haft in a thwack of wood on burnished wood. The man carried a longspear, so Sarus tried to get in close with his shorter weapon, too close to be effectively attacked. The man was good—he backpedaled immediately, trying to bat Sarus away with the point of his spear. Sarus was better, but it still took him a few precious moments to fool the assassin with a feint to the left before driving forward from the right.

    Even as he slipped inside the assassin's guard, he heard a pained, gurgling scream beside him. He slashed his opponent's torso open with the bladed tip of his spear, then spun around.

    The two assassins who had been fighting the guard in the antechamber must have finished, because they had come up behind the guard who had been fighting beside Sarus. He had gone down with an arrow in his back. Now three men faced Sarus, and one of them was already lunging with a shortspear.

    Sarus sidestepped, beating the weapon aside with his own, but before he could capitalize on the overextension he had to bring his weapon around to deflect another thrust by a bloodstained longspear.

    Fighting two men at once was far, far more difficult than fighting one. And to make matters worse, these two knew each other. They were coordinated. They took turns striking at him with extremely aggressive attacks—attacks which, were he fighting them alone, he would have easily punished. But because they were together, by the time he evaded one blow all his attention had to be focused on the next one. And even as these two men drove him back, he saw the third pass him by, pulling an arrow from the quiver on his back. Sarus, locked in combat with the other two assassins, could only watch helplessly as he rounded the bed and nocked the projectile.

    Finally, one of the assassins made a careless move, striking too far to the side with his longspear. Sarus capitalized—stabbing his fellow through the heart as he dodged the next blow, then shoved the survivor aside as he rushed past. He had crossed half the distance towards the assassin with the bow when the man loosed his arrow.

    Time did not slow. Sarus' mind simply sped up—comparing trajectories and distances, the position of the assassin in the corner, Ialai and Tailiah by the window, and himself nearer the door. He changed course, diving over the bed, trying to put himself between the arrow and women.

    Sarus leapt over the overturned bed. Even as his feet left the ground, he knew he was too late. The arrow was moving faster than he was. It would pass him before he reached its path.

    As he cleared the bed, he saw that Tailiah had tried to shove her mother out of the arrow's path. Unfortunately, she had misjudged its trajectory—and had placed herself in its path, instead of her mother. The arrow slid past Sarus' nose, driving unerringly towards Tailiah's head.

    Sarus reached out, desperately, every screaming axi of his body singing with a single overwhelming demand—get Tailiah out of the way of that arrow. His eyes met hers just as the fingertips of his left hand brushed against the fabric of the dress on her shoulder.

    For one glittering instant, her bright green eyes, blown wide with terror, met his own. Then, in the space between heartbeats, she vanished. In her place, for a fraction of an instant, hung a silhouette of black smoke. Then that, too, broke apart, melting away into mist as it slipped through his fingers.

    He landed in a crumpled heap against the wall, staring at the place where Tailiah had vanished.

    "What in Damnation?" A voice cried out. One of the assassins? Ialai? Sarus wasn't sure. It seemed to reach his ears from a long way off.

    Tailiah, he thought.

    "What did the boy do?" A different voice demanded. "What did—?"

    Another arrow whizzed by Sarus' ears. His head snapped up, turning to face the assassins.

    Two of them stood facing him. Both visibly paled. The archer tried to loose another arrow at Sarus, but his hands were shaking. It shot at Sarus' shoulder, and Sarus dodged it with ease.

    "What are you?" demanded the spearman in a high-pitched voice. "What did you do?"

    Sarus didn't know. Blood was rushing through his head. Was Tailiah dead? Was it his fault? Had he somehow doomed her by trying to save her? What had happened? What had he done?

    None of these questions had answers. But these men, he knew, had come here to kill her. Regardless of what had happened, that was something he understood. That was a crime he knew how to punish. He leapt for them with bared teeth.

    The next few moments were a frenzy of maddened activity. Screams echoed in his ears as the two men died under his onslaught. Then they were still, and he was crouched over them, breathing heavily.

    One of the dying guards took a rattling breath into lungs half full of blood. "Not so tranquiline these halls!" he hissed out. "Thus always the legacy of man—ash and death, ash and death!"

    Then he fell silent and breathed no more.

    Sarus stood up and turned to face Ialai. She was huddled against the wall, staring at him in horror. "What did you do?" she asked in a shaking voice. "What did you do to my daughter, you monster? Did you Soulcast her?"

    Sarus stared at her. Suddenly he was aware that no one else in the room was breathing. There were only two witnesses in this room. Only two people to report what had happened. Himself and Ialai. Only two people could report that no arrow had struck Tailiah. Only two people could tell Highprince Sadeas that the only person who had managed to touch his daughter was Sarus himself.

    His hand tightened involuntarily on his shortspear. In an instant the plan came into his mind, fully formed—use one of the assassin's weapons to kill Ialai, then report that they had kidnapped Tailiah before he could stop them. She would never be found, of course—

    Never, never, never

    —but nor would anyone be able to trace anything back to Sarus. It was possible Sadeas would still try to use him as a scapegoat, but that possibility was far better than the certainty of punishment if Ialai lived. If she told Sadeas what had happened. If she pointed at Sarus with condemnation on her lips.

    "What did you do?" she demanded.

    It was the only thing that made sense. The only way to protect himself. Kill Brightness Ialai, and he had a chance. Fail to do so, and he had none.

    "I don't know," he whispered. Then he slumped back against the wall, pulled his knees up against his chest, and buried his face in his arms. He was still there when the guards came to take him down to the cells after the storm had passed.

    -x-x-x-​

    Over the past two weeks, I've come to realize that I'm a little burnt out on writing. It's been hard to get this chapter written, not because of the content, but because I've been writing almost constantly for about two years with few breaks. So I'm going to take a (brief) hiatus from all stories. I intend to resume posting on January 1st, at the new year, but don't be too surprised if I end up tacking one more week onto that. I'd hoped to finish Part Two before doing this, but that's not going to happen. I'll see you all in 2024!
     
  • View discussion
    • 62: Lies Are Not Armor
  • View content
    • Thanks to Elran and @BeaconHill for betareading, and to Phinnia for the commissioned icon.

    -x-x-x-

    62

    Lies Are Not Armor



    -x-x-x-​

    When at last the sound and terror ended, I was standing on this very ground. The world that would, one day, come to be known as Yolen.

    -x-x-x-​

    "Remember," Torol told the darkeyed man kneeling in the dust. "Do not, under any circumstances, approach him. Stay as far away as you can reliably make the shot."

    "Yes, Brightlord," said the assassin. Then he hesitated. "There are… rumors, Brightlord, of the Shardbreaker's abilities. Of his voice. Am I given to understand that—"

    "A man whose hand had been severed by a Shardblade reported those stories to me," Torol said. "Personally, I think it more likely that the fool was just covering for his own failure. But the Shardbreaker—" and, Almighty, was that title corrosive on his tongue "—is captain of the Cobalt Guard, now, which means that getting close to him is dangerous regardless. The mundane dangers should be cause enough to stay at a distance without speculating about more… fantastical ones."

    The man looked faintly relieved, his heavy, half-Thaylen eyebrows drooping slightly. "I understand, Brightlord."

    "Good. Then off with you. And remember—you and I have never spoken."

    "Of course, Brightlord."

    Torol watched the man duck out of the alley, then turned and left as well. His guards—who had been playing a card game at the table of a nearby winehouse so as to keep his presence discreet—joined him. He led them back down the wide lane towards his war palace.

    Once he reached his suite and shut the door behind him, he allowed himself to relax with a sigh. "Ialai," he called softly. "Are you in here?"

    There was no answer. Ialai must be out.

    "Sssss."

    …But that didn't mean he was alone. He reluctantly turned to see the strange shadowy spren glide along his wall and settle beside a small table near the window. "What do you want?"

    It hissed thoughtfully for a moment. "You sent that assassin to kill someone," it said finally. "Ss, why?"

    "Vengeance," Torol said, turning away from it. He opened the wine cabinet, trying to decide which shade he wanted to drink.

    "Is he dangerous to you, this man?"

    "Unlikely."

    "So what do you gain by killing him?"

    Sapphire. This was a sapphire-worthy conversation. Torol sighed and pulled out the decanter. "Closure."

    "Do you think you will gain that by his death, sssss?"

    "Yes."

    "I think you are wrong," the spren declared. "Ssssss, I think that by seeking to kill for no other reason than to pay back pain, you are only keeping yourself within the past."

    "And you would know, I'm sure," Torol said.

    "Yessssss." The final sound of the word flowed into one of the creature's hisses, like grains of fine sand pouring through a narrow gap.

    "You are a spren," Torol snapped, patience quite suddenly running dry. "What do you know about hate? About grief?"

    "I am a Cryptic," the spren said. "I may not remember everything I was before I came here, but I know that I have tasted loss, sssss. And I know what it looks like when a man lies to himself."

    "I'm not lying to myself."

    "No? This man's death will not give you back your daughter."

    "You think I don't know that!?" Torol roared, Oathbringer falling into his hand unbidden. A sound, like a man screaming in tortured agony, echoed just on the barest edge of hearing. "You think I don't know that my daughter is dead!? That she will stay dead, no matter what I do!? You think I don't understand that with every passing day the distance between me and her grows!? Of course I know that, wretched creature! And the knowledge that he gets to carry on, gets to grow and change and increase his influence when he didn't even leave a body for me to bury—"

    His voice broke. Oathbringer melted into the air as his fist loosened. He fell into a chair, resting his head on his hands. Painspren like orange hands and anguishpren like teeth sprouted from the floor around his chair.

    The Cryptic was silent for a long moment. "This," it said finally, "this is truth. There is truth in your heart, even as you surround yourself with lies. Sssssss, you wear them like armor. But they are not armor. The grief is already inside. You are not keeping it out, you are ssssealing it in."

    "Maybe that's the idea," Torol murmured without lifting his head. "I can't hold my daughter ever again, but I can cling to the grief."

    "She would not want thissss."

    "You don't know that," Torol said. "You never even saw her."

    "If she cared about you at all like you care for her, ssssshe would not want this."

    "Then that was just one more failure on my part," Torol said, finally raising his head and standing up. "Vengeance is part of the Alethi way. It's why we're here on these blasted Plains to begin with. If she didn't understand that, it's only because I failed to educate her properly."

    The spren let out a hissing sound like a long sigh. "You are telling yourself more lies. Making excussssses."

    "I don't need to justify myself to you."

    "No," the Cryptic said. "No, I sssuppose you do not."

    -x-x-x-​

    "Brightlord!"

    Torol turned. An ardent was hurrying towards him from the other side of the courtyard. Buildings, beasts, men, even rockbuds all cast long, ghastly shadows in the reddish-tinted evening light. The ardent's own long shadow followed him like a dark cloak, stretching back and to the side as though in a strong wind.

    It took Torol a moment to place him. This was the ardent who had told him about the possible connection between talking spren and the Knights Radiant. "Yes?" he prompted as the man approached.

    "I've done some further research into the matter we discussed some weeks ago," the ardent said. "Shall I—when would you like my report?"

    "After dinner," Torol said. "Come to my chambers."

    "Yes, Brightlord," said the ardent with a deferential bow.

    Dinner was a pleasant enough affair. Ialai—who had been gone for most of the day—returned just before the first dishes were brought in.

    "Where were you all afternoon?" Torol asked her as a servant set a plate before him—steamed cremlings in a smooth brown sauce, served on the shell.

    "An unexpected social occasion," Ialai said. "One initiated by Highlord Amaram."

    Torol paused with a bite of cremling halfway to his mouth. "Indeed?" he asked slowly.

    "Oh, yes," Ialai said. "He swore us to secrecy, you know, all those he invited. Claimed that what he had found could 'change everything.'" She sounded dryly amused.

    "Well, I wouldn't want to make an oathbreaker out of my wife," said Torol, his lips twitching.

    She chuckled. "Have you heard of the mysterious prisoner brought down from Kholinar? The Shardbearer?"

    "I believe I heard about him from your network, as it happens. Why? He's not become lucid, has he?"

    "No, not at all. He's still repeating the same thing over and over—repeating that he is the Herald Talenelat. It appears it took Amaram a few weeks to find out about him, and he rushed to the rest of our little organization to tell us about the Herald in our midst."

    Torol snorted. "Meridas believes him?"

    "It seems so," Ialai said, rolling her eyes. "Most of the lower-ranked members of the organization do, as well, of course—they're all true believers, which is why they're useful. I thought you ought to know."

    "I appreciate it," said Torol. He didn't see how it would be immediately useful, but even just knowing that Meridas Amaram was gullible enough to believe that this madman was a Herald of the Almighty was valuable on its own. "Oh, the ardent I asked about talking spren a few weeks ago apparently has new information. I've asked him to report to me in my suite after dinner."

    "Do you want me there?"

    "No—I told him to keep it secret, and you know how guileless darkeyes can be. Especially ardents. I don't want him thinking that because I told someone I trust, that he can do the same with his colleagues."

    "That would be treason," Ialai pointed out. "You gave him a direct order."

    "Yes, but treason committed in stupidity is much harder to guard against than treason committed intentionally. The best thing we can do is prevent the idea from entering into his head. No, you go to your rooms, and I'll come and find you afterwards."

    "Very well." She smirked. "I wonder if he'll have any useful information?"

    "Unlikely," said Torol. "But it is possible. Worth hearing him out, at least."

    The ardent arrived at his rooms only a handful of minutes after Torol himself did. He couldn't fault the man's eagerness. "Brightlord," he said, bowing at the door. "Might I have leave to enter?"

    "Yes, yes," Torol said impatiently. To the guards outside, he said, "shut the door behind him, and then go post yourselves several paces away."

    "Yes, Brightlord."

    The door closed. Torol couldn't hear the guards' footsteps walking away, but that was by design. The door was designed to muffle sound effectively. "Now," he said to the ardent. "You had information for me?"

    "Yes," said the ardent excitedly. He visibly restrained himself, however, taking a deep breath to calm down. "Yes, Brightlord. I believe I've pieced together a fraction of the creed of the Knights Radiant."

    You, Torol Sadeas, must find the most important words a man can say. Torol remembered the Cryptic's words like a jolt of lightning to his spine. "Have you indeed?" he asked, carefully controlling his expression.

    "I believe so, Brightlord. My research indicates that these words have something to do with the bond between Radiant and spren companion—if, indeed, such a bond existed."

    "I see," Torol said evenly. "Well, out with it. What was this creed?"

    The ardent paused. "To be clear," he said, "this is only one part of the oath. I hope that, perhaps, the rest of the oath might be inferable from this piece of it—but I have, as yet, failed to find any further sources, and I have exhausted most of the books I know of on the topic. I fear that we may have to guess at the rest of the oath of the Radiants—to determine it for ourselves."

    Torol waved a hand. "Stop stalling. Out with it, if you please."

    "Life before death," the ardent said.

    Torol waited, but he said nothing more. "That's it?"

    "That is all I've been able to uncover, Brightlord," the ardent said. "A portion of the oath of the Knights Radiant. I am fairly confident in its veracity. Why, if you had not sworn me to secrecy I would already have published my findings among the ardentia!"

    Torol sighed. It seemed like such a little thing—he was tempted to punish this man for wasting his time—but…

    You must find the most important words a man can say.

    "Thank you," said Torol. "This is interesting. But I don't think it's directly related to your research into talking spren, is it?"

    The ardent paled. "…Ah. Forgive me if I have wasted your time, Brightlord."

    Torol shrugged. "I believe I told you to report if you found anything associated with the topic, and this is at least loosely connected. There is no harm done. But you have my permission to publish your findings on this—this specifically, mind. Nothing that has any more direct link to your research into talking spren."

    "Of course, Brightlord."

    "Very good. You may go."

    As the ardent left, Torol was left standing in the center of the room, surrounded by silks, wines, and the other trappings of his wealth and privilege, his standing within Alethi society.

    "Life before death," he murmured. "What on Roshar does that mean?"

    "Sssss." The spren hiding in the corner made a soft sound. "Knowing the words is only part of it."

    Torol glanced at it. The shifting array of twisting shapes was barely visible where it lingered in the shadows. "Then that is part of the Radiants' oath?" he asked. "The ardent is right?"

    "I think so," the Cryptic said. "My memory of the time before is imperfect as well, ssssss. But the words themselves are only part of it. You must mean them. Even if you were told the full oath, merely saying it would not be enough. You would have to convince me that you understand what it means. That you will keep it."

    Torol shrugged. "Well, I have no real intention of becoming a member of an order that has been called heretical by the ardentia since the day they vanished. Whatever Dalinar thinks, it would be political suicide. It's a curiosity, nothing more."

    The spren didn't answer.

    Despite his dismissal, Torol found himself turning the words over in his mind as he walked to Ialai's rooms. Life before death. Obviously life comes before death. It must have some further meaning. But for the life of him, he could not guess at what that meaning was.

    -x-x-x-​

    Welcome back. The break took a little longer than I expected, and I still don't have the kind of prewritten backlog I'd like, but I'm feeling much better. Thank you all for the messages of support.
     
  • View discussion
    • 63: Context
  • View content
    • Thanks to Elran and @BeaconHill for betareading, and to Phinnia for the commissioned icon.

    -x-x-x-

    63

    Context



    -x-x-x-​

    That is the secret. The mystery that Men and Sho Del alike have tried in vain to uncover. The mythical birth of the cosmere.

    -x-x-x-​

    "You have your assignments," Sarus said. "Go."

    The men of Bridge Four saluted as one, then split into squads. Sarus watched them leave. He still felt—wrong, after the revelations of the previous evening. Tainted.

    You humans know the latter as Soulcasting.

    He took a careful, slow breath. His expression was perfectly controlled. It would not do to alienate Archive at this juncture.

    Sarus was not on duty for this shift, so he began a slow walk around the barracks, watching the former members of the other bridge crews slowly emerging from their own. They varied, he noticed, in their discipline. Some crews emerged and formed up in clear imitation of Bridge Four—albeit with less professionalism and pride. Others had barely changed since their days pulling bridges, with men stumbling blearily out one by one and wandering vaguely in the direction of the nearest mess hall.

    An instinct had him pause between steps, one foot raised. He glanced back over his shoulder, looking down the alley between two barracks. For a moment, he'd thought he'd seen someone—

    The arrow whistled past his ear, missing him by inches. He didn't hesitate before crouching down and sprinting for cover. "Archers!" he called, voice echoing around the square. "Take cover!" Most of the men from the other crews just blinked, looking around. Some of the cleverer responded properly, diving for the nearest doorway, calling for their friends to join them.

    Another arrow shot past Sarus just as he reached the corner of a building and ducked behind it. "You!" he snapped at a man cowering in the doorway just a few feet from him. "Your spear! Now!"

    To his credit, the man jumped to obey. In just a few seconds Sarus caught the longspear tossed in his direction. He stood up and stepped out of cover.

    There were five assassins he could make out, all holding bows with shortspears on their backs. They wore nondescript black and brown, but he didn't need to see deep green uniforms to know which highprince had sent them. They had been creeping up the alley towards him, but as he stepped out, they all fired at him, five arrows loosing in unison. He sidestepped, moving further out into the alley, and shifted his grip on the longspear before hurling it point-first at the nearest man's chest. It struck true, piercing so deep that he saw blood and viscera spray out behind the assassin as the spearpoint emerged from his back. He went down, but by the time he hit the ground Sarus was already there, yanking the spear out of his corpse with enough power that he felt ribs cracking as the spear tore back through them.

    One of the other four yelped in terror. They all started firing at him, as quickly as they could. Sarus dodged—although he still felt one of the projectiles bite into him—and thrust his spear at a second man. It buried itself in his throat. Two of the others were behind that one, so he jumped, vaulting over the body with the spear as leverage before using the force of his impact with the ground on the other side to wrench it free. He shifted his grip, guiding the spear's momentum so that its haft struck a man in the eye. As he staggered back, hands coming up to his face, Sarus turned the spear on his friend, beating aside the bow with its nocked arrow before spinning the spear around and thrusting the point into his side.

    Another arrow buried itself in Sarus' back. He ignored it for the moment, busying himself first with driving his spear into the uninjured eye of the surviving opponent in front of him. Then he turned to face the last assassin. The man's face had gone so white he looked dead already, his hands shaking as he tried to nock another arrow to his bowstring.

    Sarus stepped forward, reached out, and closed his fist on the bow. With what felt like hardly any force, he tore it out of the man's grip. The man staggered back, dark brown eyes so wide that the irises were entirely rimmed with white.

    "Oh, Almighty," he whispered. "Please, please, no, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

    Sarus hand closed around the man's throat. His whimpering cut off abruptly.

    "I don't think Highprince Sadeas needs another warning message," Sarus said softly. "Do you?"

    The man struggled feebly in his grip. His eyes glittered with unshed tears.

    "Glad you agree," said Sarus, and snapped his neck.

    As the body fell at his feet, Sarus half expected it to dissolve into smoke. He stared at it for a moment, but it did not.

    It was so easy to imagine it. Just reaching out and Soulcasting the body into nothing but a wisp of fume and a momentary stench of rot. But it seemed the only people he could ever do that to were those he wanted to save, to protect.

    Kaladin would have saved her. The thought popped into his head, fully formed, and not even the sharp pain as he tugged the arrows out of his back and side could dislodge it.

    He retrieved the spear from the body it was impaling. Gore clung to it like moss to the leeward side of a tree, so he cleaned it on one of the dead men's tunics before returning it to the former bridgeman who had given it to him.

    As he turned to return to the Bridge Four barracks, he saw Kaladin jogging toward him. "I heard a commotion. What happened?"

    "Assassins," Sarus said. "Five of them, for me. I dealt with them."

    Kaladin blinked at him. "Again?"

    "Yes," Sarus said, passing him. Kaladin fell into step beside him. Somehow Sarus found that… comforting? No—he wasn't in distress, to need comfort. It was just reassuring to know that, maybe, his friendship with Kaladin hadn't been broken beyond hope of repair.

    "You think it's still Sadeas?"

    "Assuredly," Sarus said. "But there won't be any identifying marks on them, I'm sure. Still, we should inform Highprince Dalinar, see if he wants to send the bodies back to the Sadeas warcamp."

    "We should do more than send the bodies back to him," Kaladin growled. "He can't just keep trying to kill you."

    "I assure you, he can."

    "He shouldn't be able to!"

    "Ah, but when has that ever mattered?"

    Kaladin stopped, staring at him. Sarus stopped walking too, turning to face the man. Kaladin's eyes were hooded and dark, his expression stormy. All of the easing Sarus had observed over the past few days seemed to have fled, leaving the same grim man who had emerged from the king's cells. "I guess it never has," Kaladin said quietly. "Lighteyes do whatever the Damnation they want, and all we can do is hope to survive."

    "Just so." When Kaladin didn't seem inclined to say anything else, Sarus turned and continued on his way back to the barracks.

    -x-x-x-​

    "You took pleasure in those men's deaths."

    Sarus turned away from the window, where Salas's violet light cast the Plains in strange, deep shadows. Archive sat in the chair by his bed, watching him with her inscrutable black eyes. "Pleasure is… a strong word," he said evenly. "You have an opinion on the matter?"

    "No." She shook her head. "But if not pleasure, then what term should be?"

    Sarus forced himself to engage with the conversation, despite the fact that a large part of him wanted nothing more than to ignore Archive entirely. He couldn't so much as look at her without remembering that awful night.

    —smoke slipping through his fingers—

    For five years, Sarus had looked back on that terrible moment with confusion and horror. He had never understood just what had happened. He had never been sure whether or not Tailiah's death truly was his fault, as her parents believed. No one else had ever turned to smoke under his hands before. In the same way that Sadeas had been bereft without the closure of a body to bury, Sarus had been left without any answers.

    Now he had them, and they tasted like bile. It wasn't even comforting to know that it wasn't an ability of his that had destroyed Tailiah, because Archive couldn't have used Soulcasting without a Surgebinder bonded to her. The fault might not be all his, but he had still been an essential part of what had happened.

    And he couldn't even act on the revelation. He couldn't deny he still had questions—that he was still curious. Why had he only accidentally Soulcast that one time, and then never again? How could he ensure it never happened again? He guessed that his ability to generate his own orange Stormlight had provided the fuel for the Surge, but was there a way to detect when he was consuming his own supply in that way?

    But he couldn't ask them. He couldn't risk alienating Archive, not yet. She clearly didn't remember the event—it must have happened very shortly after her arrival in the Physical Realm, before her mind and memory had stabilized. As much as he wanted to rage at her, to force her to acknowledge what had happened, what she had done to him, to Tailiah—that was senseless. It was purposeless.

    Archive served a purpose, for now. Eventually, she would not, and then he would have his catharsis. But until then—until he had a Shardblade in his hand and eyes slowly lightening as Moash's were—he would endure. He would tolerate this cursed Nahel bond until it delivered him what he wanted.

    "Satisfaction, perhaps?" he finally answered.

    "Why?"

    "Two reasons," Sarus said. "First, because their deaths weakens Highprince Sadeas. Not significantly, to be sure—he will disavow the operation, and few will even hear about it. But those who matter—the other highprinces, his more relevant vassals—will. They will know that he sent five men to kill one darkeyes, and that only the darkeyes walked out of the alley. And second, because their attempt on my life was a contest—one I won."

    "Yet you taunted the last man," Archive said. "What purpose was there in service to those two satisfactions?"

    "Do you judge me?" Sarus asked sardonically.

    "No," she said. "They were men who sought to kill you, and you are a warrior. I am no honorspren, so obsessed with preservation that I feel any death as a keen failure. Their lives are not, but nor was those lives' sanctity, except insofar as life comes before death. If you take pleasure in defeating your enemies, my judgement is not. So long as you are aware of it, and are careful who those enemies are."

    "Noted," said Sarus. "And if I were to sneak over to the Sadeas warcamp in the dead of night and kill every armed man there? Or cut the man's own throat? Would you have an opinion then?"

    "It would depend on the context," Archive said with a shrug, perfectly nonchalant. "Do you believe that if Sadeas was not, more lives would be spared? Or more innocent lives? Do you believe Roshar is better if he is not?"

    "I suppose I do."

    "Then I find no fault in seeking his death," she said. "But I do find it difficult to believe that you would make the same calculation for every armed man in his employ."

    "True enough," Sarus said. "Is that the line, then? Dealing death is acceptable if and only if it makes the world better?"

    "A line is not," Archive said. "Hard lines—hard rules, principles, laws—are attempts to enforce order on a disorderly cosmere. You are an Elsecaller, and I am your inkspren. We are more concerned with the cosmere as it is than as we wish it was."

    "Surely there have to be boundaries, though," Sarus prodded, unable to help himself entirely. "Things I could do which you would find unjustifiable in principle."

    "Unjustified, yes. Unjustifiable? Perhaps, perhaps not. The context always matters, my Elsecaller. Journey before destination."

    Don't call me that, Sarus wanted to snap. I'm not your Elsecaller. My bond to you cost the life of the only person who ever storming understood me. I don't want this Nahel bond, and I don't want you. He swallowed the words down. "Somehow," he said, "I don't think that's how Kaladin and Syl see that part of the oath."

    "Likely not," Archive said. "But we are not them."

    At that moment, a ribbon of blue light darted in through the window. Sarus blinked as Syl coalesced back into her usual form as a glowing girl the size of his hand. She looked around, her head darting about on her neck oddly, almost as if her gaze was being dragged around the room unwillingly. She did a double take when she met his gaze.

    "Oh, hello Sarus," she said brightly, waving vigorously at him.

    Archive's eyes darted to her suddenly. Sarus assumed that meant Syl had made herself visible. "Hello, Syl," he said.

    "Hello," she echoed, already darting over to examine the spear on its rack by the door.

    "Do you… need something?" he asked.

    "Hm?" She looked over at him. "Oh. No, I don't think so."

    "Then… why are you here?"

    She narrowed her eyes at him. "I spend most nights here."

    "I think I would have noticed," Sarus said dryly.

    "Oh, right. I guess I did spend most nights here, when it was Kaladin's room. I forgot it was yours now." She suddenly blinked at Archive, as if noticing her for the first time. "Hello, Archive!"

    "Syl," Archive said, her voice uncharacteristically gentle. "Are you… well?"

    "Hm? No, probably not." Syl sighed, tone shifting suddenly into despondency. "Is Sarus a good Elsecaller, Archive?"

    "I'm right here," Sarus said dryly, but he was listening intently. Was Syl implying…?

    "I have had no other," Archive said. "But my complaints are not. I worry for him, at times, but my faith in him is. I believe it will prove warranted, in the end."

    Even as skilled as Sarus was in controlling his expressions, he still had to avert his eyes. Hopefully Archive would interpret that as embarrassment or humility.

    Syl hummed, studying her reflection in the tip of Sarus' spear. When she had said nothing for several heavy seconds, Sarus cleared his throat. "Syl?"

    "Yes?" she blinked at him. "What were you saying? Or, no, it was Archive speaking."

    "Syl," Archive said. "Has something happened to your bond with Kaladin?"

    Syl pursed her lips. "I don't think he'd want me talking about it," she said. "And I don't want to betray him. Even unspoken oaths are still oaths."

    "I understand," said Archive quietly.

    Syl nodded absently, still not looking at Sarus or Archive. "I feel like I'm almost remembering something," she said softly. "Which doesn't make sense. I'm having trouble even remembering what was happening thirty seconds ago. Why would I be uncovering new memories now?"

    "What are you remembering?" Sarus asked.

    "Words," Syl said, still looking at the spear as if her reflection in the polished metal of its tip held the answers to all her questions. "Words. An oath, maybe?"

    "Perhaps," Archive said.

    Syl kept staring. "I do not love the… spear?" she whispered. "No, that's wrong. That's all wrong." Then she blinked and turned to look at Sarus. "Sorry, this is your room now. I'll go."

    "Is Kaladin upset that I've taken his former position?" Sarus asked.

    "Kaladin's… upset about a lot of things, right now," Syl said. "But he loves you, Sarus. Even when he's angry and hurt."

    Sarus tried not to think to heavily on the relief which lightened his heart. "I did try to get him out," Sarus said. "I think I even helped, a little."

    "I know," Syl said, smiling at him. "You love him too. Sometimes it's hard to tell, with you. But I can see it, most of the time. And so can he. Most of the time."

    "I'm glad," Sarus whispered.

    She nodded. Then she transformed back into a ribbon of blue light and darted out the window.

    "Their Nahel bond is weakening," Archive said softly.

    "Because Kaladin was going to allow Moash to kill Elhokar?"

    "Most likely. Since that plot no longer is, hopefully their recovery will be."

    Sarus felt sick. "Is that what happens, when the bond starts to fail?"

    "We need the Nahel bond to think, here in the Physical Realm," said Archive. "As the bond decays, so does thought."

    "And if the bond breaks entirely, you die."

    "Yes." Archive sighed. "It will not come to that. Kaladin is a Windrunner. He will remember before it is too late. My faith is."

    "You have a great deal of faith to go around, it seems," Sarus said quietly.

    "Perhaps," Archive said. "Or perhaps faith is not a resource to spend, but a choice to make."

    "And what if it's a mistake?"

    Archive's ink-black lips twitched. "It would depend on the context."

    "Misplaced faith can be a death sentence," Sarus said quietly.

    "Yes," she said. "But so can misplaced suspicion."

    Sarus didn't reply.
     
  • View discussion
    • 64: Resolute
  • View content
    • Thanks to Elran and @BeaconHill for betareading, and to Phinnia for the commissioned icon.

    -x-x-x-

    64

    Resolute



    -x-x-x-​

    Ilúvatar destroyed one world to create many more.

    -x-x-x-​

    "I have been considering what you said."

    Rlain turned away from his vantage overlooking the drilling warform division on one of Narak's outer plateaus. He affected the Rhythm of Surprise, then transitioned to Joy—though, of course, he had been keenly aware of Eshonai's approach for more than half a minute.

    The new Rhythms that she attuned whenever she thought herself unobserved, or exclusively among her fellow stormforms, somehow grated against his ears. It wasn't painful, per se, but it was impossible to ignore. It made it very easy to know whenever she was near him. Which was good, considering his precarious position.

    "Eshonai," he greeted. "I'm glad to hear it. What have you concluded?"

    She approached, standing beside him and looking over the soldiers training. She was attuned to Determination, but he could somehow tell that it was forced. Not that it was difficult to guess—all of the old Rhythms were forced, when she attuned to them. If they did not unsettle the other Listeners so much, he was sure she would spend all her time attuned to one or another of the new. Her red eyes seemed to glow unnervingly in the midday sunlight. "You made good points," she said. "I agree that we cannot all transition to stormform indefinitely. Quite apart from everything else, we need mateform to replenish our numbers."

    Rlain caught the use of the word indefinitely. "There are only two storms before the Weeping," he said quietly to Anxiety—instead of the Rhythm of his heart, which was Resignation. "And if the Alethi truly do attempt an assault on Narak itself in the long lull between the storms…"

    "Then even if we do not all remain in stormform after the Weeping, it is a perfect opportunity that we can only seize if we take stormform during it," she finished for him.

    The worst part was that she was right. It was tactically sound—more than sound, it was brilliant. Stormform was a new weapon, one the Alethi had no way of understanding or predicting, and if it truly could summon a highstorm then it made perfect sense to bait the Alethi into the open where such a sudden storm would wreak the most possible damage. He would even agree, if it wasn't for the nature of stormform.

    He thought he understood, now, why they had preserved for millennia the warning against the Forms of Power. The songs said that the Listeners had been only a very small minority of the singers who had been the army of the gods in the dread war against the humans. This was why. A Form of Power was a baited snare offered by the gods, power in return for freedom. And Eshonai had walked right into the trap.

    "It is sensible," he said to Consideration. "Although I warn you—the Alethi are unlikely to field their entire force against us in one battle. They have too much infighting. Highprinces Sadeas and Dalinar will never march together on the same side of a battle again, and the rest are one bad argument from falling into similar squabbles."

    "You mentioned that a rival had betrayed Dalinar, that day on the eastern bulwark," Eshonai said. "This was Sadeas?"

    "Yes."

    "I think I remember him," she said, quietly, joining him in Consideration briefly. "He was at the feast when we signed our peace treaty with the Alethi, though he slipped out with their king before the assassin acted." Then she abandoned Consideration, saying to Confidence, "Never mind. If we can destroy even half, even a third of the Alethi force, it will make the rest hesitate. Especially if we can call down a highstorm on the battlefield. Who would dare face such power? The mere threat of it will be enough to force the survivors to withdraw."

    "True enough," said Rlain. "Speaking of the assassin, I assume you've heard that he has reappeared, in service to someone else?"

    "Yes," she said to one of the new Rhythms, something like Amusement. "The spies said he had been captured, and his Shardblade taken from him."

    Rlain was silent for a long moment. "I have not heard what happened to his Blade," he said finally, still to Consideration, "but he could not have been captured and held if he still possessed it, that is certain."

    "I suppose we should consider ourselves fortunate that his cowardice in surrendering his Blade did not rear its head while he served us," Eshonai said, still to that new Rhythm. Then she shook her head, returning to Confidence. "But regardless, Rlain—I agree that we need the other forms, at least until we can find better ones to replace them. But right now, as we prepare for the Weeping and this final great battle, we need everyone who can in stormform. We need this storm. We can return to other forms as soon as the highstorms return after the Weeping."

    Rlain hummed to Consideration, hiding the dread he felt. "It's a compelling argument," he allowed. "But I don't think it will be enough to convince the more traditional among us."

    "We won't force them into stormform," Eshonai said. "It would be very difficult to do so, anyway—how can you force a Listener to accept a spren into their gemheart? But we need everyone we possibly can convince. I'm going to speak to the Five now. With luck, they will see reason."

    Rlain nodded, still humming Consideration.

    "I can see I haven't entirely convinced you, either, old friend," Eshonai said to Amusement—true Amusement, now, not the discordant substitute of a few moments ago.

    "You know me, Eshonai," he said, switching from Consideration to join her in Amusement. "I like to take my time with any decision. But your arguments are very compelling. If the Alethi reach Narak, and we do not have some kind of plan, we will be destroyed. That is true. I haven't heard any other plans besides yours, and I can't come up with anything better."

    "Then you are with me?" The façade of the old Rhythms fell away as she began humming to something fierce and triumphant that seemed to rattle the carapace on his bones.

    "Allow me a little longer to think," he demurred. "Go speak with the Five. I will think, and talk with Thude—see if he has any ideas worth considering. We will meet again later today."

    "Very well, Rlain," she said. "I hope you will join me in this form. You'll see—it's an incredible feeling, having this much power contained within you."

    Rlain remembered feeling a surge of strange power as he thrust a spear directly into the bare rock of the plateau at his feet. "I believe you," he said, attuning Awe almost without meaning to. "I will consider this carefully, Eshonai, I promise."

    "Good," she said. She turned and started walking towards the city's central spire, attunine one of the fierce new Rhythms as soon as she thought she was out of earshot. Rlain watched her go until she actually left his hearing, and the grinding against his ears stopped, before turning to go and find Thude.

    A Listener's form was not meant to change who they were. But it was becoming increasingly clear that Forms of Power were, to a large extent, meant to do just that. Eshonai had changed drastically, seeking power and control in a way that she never had before.

    "And yet," he murmured to himself to the Rhythm of Anxiety. "And yet…"

    Eshonai was not completely twisted by her new form. He still caught glimpses of his old friend, behind the red eyes and dread Rhythms. It was in the way that his hesitation drove her to Amusement, rather than Annoyance. It was in the way that her response to hearing he had been forced into a bridge crew had been fury on his behalf, even if it was fury tinged with the chaos of stormform. It was in the way she had listened to what he had said about needing other forms, had briefly backed away from her arguments in favor of stormform until she had come up with a counterargument.

    And there were other unanswered questions. Rlain remembered the day Venli had given them painspren trapped in gemstones and told them she had unlocked warform. He remembered Eshonai's laughter as she sparred with him after the storm, as they discovered the might of their new forms. They hadn't known how strong their carapace was, or how powerful their arms, or how swift their feet. They'd had to test these things. Had to experiment.

    So how had Eshonai known that she could summon a highstorm? Where had the idea come from? He had seen red lightning arcing down her arms as she flexed, but the obvious assumption was to learn to harness that directly, how to make their strikes contain the energy of a lightning bolt. The idea of summoning a highstorm during the Weeping was not a natural extension of the form's obvious, latent abilities.

    So where had that inspiration come from?

    Where had Venli found the mysterious spren who bestowed stormform?

    Why did the new Rhythms grate against him in a way they did not everyone else? They unsettled the others, but no one else could hear a Listener in stormform coming from hundreds of feet off just by the Rhythms she was attuned to.

    He had too many unanswered questions. It would be one thing if he knew that Eshonai was beyond saving, that his friend was already lost to him. But he didn't. He couldn't.

    So the question was, how much was he willing to risk on the chance that he might be able to make a difference?

    He found Thude seated atop the crem-covered mound of one of the ancient buildings of Narak, looking down at a group of stormform Listeners going about their business. As he approached, he heard the grim tones of the Rhythm of the Lost. Rlain sat beside him, humming Peace. After a moment, Thude joined him, and their two voices mingled in an island of serenity, surrounded by the storm.

    "Eshonai is going to try and convince the Five to let her offer stormform to all the Listeners," Rlain said, still to Peace.

    Thude's rhythm abruptly shifted to Anxiety. "I suppose it was bound to happen. Most of Narak already wants to be allowed into stormform."

    "Perhaps," Rlain said.

    After a moment, Thude returned to the Rhythm of Peace. "What should we do?"

    "I'm not sure," Rlain admitted. "If we ignore the fact that stormform is a Form of Power, her plan makes perfect sense."

    "But it is a Form of Power."

    "Yes." Rlain sighed. "I'm not reaching her. I try, and sometimes I think I'm making headway, but she goes away and by the time she comes back she's convinced herself again."

    "It's that form. It influences her. Those new Rhythms—they… guide her thoughts. Their thoughts." Thude shook his head, and the Rhythm of Peace slipped away from him, replaced by Despair. "Sometimes I worry that she's already gone. That whatever is walking around in her body isn't really her anymore."

    "No," Rlain said. He let Peace go, and attuned Resolve. "As I said, sometimes I think I'm making headway. Maybe I can find an angle that will work."

    "She doesn't really listen to you, Rlain," Thude said. "She hears your arguments so that she can find counterarguments, not because she is willing to be persuaded. She can't be persuaded."

    "Perhaps," Rlain said again, quietly. He continued humming to Resolve.

    Silence fell between them for a moment, save for their voices quietly joined in opposed Rhythms. Then Thude shook his head and audibly forced himself into Curiosity. "Are you not worried about what Eshonai's plans will mean for the men who took you in?" he asked. "For this Captain Kaladin, and Lieutenant Sarus? You spoke of them as though they were friends."

    "They are," Rlain said. He'd told Thude of his time with Bridge Four over the past few days. It was good to have someone he could confide in without fearing that his commitment to the Listeners' survival would be questioned. It was something he would never have imagined before, but now he knew that if he tried to talk to Eshonai about Sarus, it would go poorly. To say the least. "But Bridge Four isn't required to go with the army to attack plateaus. They'll be fine."

    "They are Alethi. Won't they seek glory in battle?"

    "That's mostly a lighteyed thing, I think," Rlain said. "Not that the darkeyes don't believe it, but they have a more developed sense of self-preservation. And Kaladin doesn't like battle. He'll keep them safe."

    "You know so much about them," Thude said to the Rhythm of Awe.

    And that reminded Rlain of something else. I know more than I'll say, he thought, remembering Syl darting about the barracks and Archive's ink-black eyes. The Neshua Kadal have returned. There is hope. But he couldn't tell Thude that. It wasn't his secret to share, not even with his oldest friend.

    The Listeners had songs which remembered the glory of the Knights Radiant. But unlike most songs of history, which were sung to the Rhythm of Memories, these were sung to the Rhythm of Awe. Rlain had never fully understood why—the Radiants had killed singers by the thousands, hadn't they? Even if they had been in the service of the gods before they broke free, those were still his people who the Radiants had killed.

    But now, he thought he did. If the Radiants of the ancient days had been like Kaladin and Sarus—and, more importantly, if serving the gods was like this, watching his friends lose themselves to madness, bloodlust, and forced obeisance to gods they had feared for thousands of years?

    Yes, Rlain thought he understood why the Radiants were immortalized in the Rhythm of Awe.

    "We should go to the spire," he said. "We'll want to be there when Eshonai finishes with the council."

    There was already a crowd assembling outside the Council of Five's meeting chamber by the time Thude and Rlain arrived. The Rhythm of Anticipation thudded through the air, tense and vibrant, almost enough to make Rlain's hands shake.

    They had only just found a place to stand when Eshonai emerged, Venli at her heels. Both their eyes glowed red as they surveyed the crowd. Eshonai stepped forward to address the Listeners.

    "In two days," she shouted, Confidence's steady beat underlying the words. "I will bring all of you who are willing into the storm to take this new form!"

    Silence fell. Even the Rhythms themselves seemed to be holding their breath, though Rlain felt Resolve still beating in his gemheart.

    "The Five," Eshonai continued, "would deny you this right—and in so doing, deny us any chance of defeating the Alethi when they come to destroy us in the Weeping. They are frightened—frightened of the Alethi, of this new form, of what they do not understand. But we cannot afford to be ruled by fear."

    She held out a hand, and a tiny storm bloomed in the air over her palm, scattering red lightning into her fingertips and the air around them. As she brought her hands together over her head, the storm grew until it was a cyclone over her head, red and black and entirely unlike any highstorm Rlain had ever seen. It grew still further until it engulfed her in a cloak of whirling dark mist, so that the red of her eyes blended in with the flashes of scarlet within it. Then she let her hands fall, and the storm faded away. Rlain heard the Rhythm of Awe being hummed all around him—not by every Listener, but by far too many. Rlain saw the other members of the Five standing below the landing where Eshonai addressed the crowd, looking up at her. He could not hear the Rhythms they hummed, but he could guess that they, at least, were not humming Awe.

    In his chest, Resolve still beat.

    "With this power," Eshonai was saying, "we can destroy the Alethi and protect our people! We can survive this war! I have heard you humming Despair, heard the Rhythms of Mourning and the Lost in your voices. No more! When the Alethi come to slaughter us, it will be they who are destroyed! Come with me into the storm. It is your right and your duty. Together, we will secure our future!"

    She started down the steps, then began moving through the crowd, which parted for her. Rlain knew at once where she was going—the barracks, where the soldiers in warform were waiting to hear from their beloved, trusted leader.

    He hummed to Resolve. Beside him, Thude was softly singing Despair. "Take heart," Rlain said to him. "Come, we need to get to the barracks. Not all is lost."

    "How can you say that?" Thude asked. "She's defying the Five! She's seizing control of Narak for herself—for the gods!"

    "Yes," Rlain said, still to Resolve. "She is. But I have a plan."

    "A plan…?" Slowly, the Rhythm of Despair faded from Thude's voice, replaced by Hope. "What is it?"

    "I need you to do two things for me," Rlain said. "The rest… is my part. Even if I fail, your part is still necessary."

    "What do you need?"

    "Eshonai needs complete control of Narak for her plan," Rlain explained. "And she cannot have that while there are still those who refuse to take stormform. She will not allow the dissidents free rein. She will at least keep them contained. At worst, she may have them killed once all those loyal to her are also corrupted by stormform."

    "Killed?"

    "But you are still her friend, Thude, do you see?" Rlain asked. "There is some part of her that still remembers that—a part of her that cannot openly act against the goals of the gods, perhaps, but one which we can ally with nonetheless."

    "I don't understand…"

    "You don't need to," Rlain said, as the barracks entered their view. They were nearly out of time to talk. "Just remember this—when the opportunity comes, you and the other dissidents must ally with Highprince Dalinar Kholin. Tell him this: the gods that Eshonai is trying to summon are the creatures his people remember as Voidbringers." At this point, Rlain was nearly certain of that fact. "He will understand, and will happily aid you in stopping those Listeners who remain in stormform."

    "He will kill them," Thude whispers.

    "Yes," Rlain said softly. "That is our backup plan. If I succeed, it will not be necessary. Either way, the war will be over by the end of the Weeping."

    "And what is your plan?"

    "No time," Rlain said as they stepped across the threshold and found themselves among a lobby full of Listeners in warform.

    They had barely arrived when a lookout let out a call. Rlain looked and saw Eshonai, Venli, and the other stormform Listeners approaching the barracks from another direction. She stopped when she was near enough to address the group.

    "It is time to end the fight against the Alethi," she said to Determination. "Which of you will follow me in doing so?"

    All around Rlain, Listeners attuned Resolve. Rlain raised his own voice to join in. Beside him, Thude was silent.

    "This will require all of us in stormform," Eshonai said.

    The humming continued.

    "I am proud of all of you," Eshonai said, and there was a sincerity in the way that Confidence thrummed in her voice that almost cracked Rlain's gemheart. "I am going to send the Storm Division among you to take each of your word, individually, on this transformation. If there are any who do not wish to change, I must know of it. It is your decision to make, and I will not force it, but I must know." She gestured at the stormforms, who began to disperse among the soldiers still in warform.

    "Come," Rlain murmured to Thude. "And attune Resolve."

    Thude did, and Rlain led him up towards where Eshonai was watching the crowd. As they approached one of the Storm Division approached them. It took Rlain a moment to recognize her marbling—Melu, once of a rival to the First-Rhythm family he, Thude, and Eshonai had all been born into. Those old quarrels seemed so far away, now.

    "Thude, Rlain," she said. "Will you take stormform?"

    Thude looked at Rlain. Rlain nodded at him.

    "I will," said Thude, hesitantly.

    "I will," said Rlain, firmly.

    "Good," Melu said, smiling slightly. Her red eyes bored into theirs for a moment before she moved on, allowing them to approach Eshonai.

    "I am surprised that you overruled the Five," Rlain said to Resolve. He didn't even have to force the Rhythm. He was resolute.

    "It was necessary," Eshonai said. "They are too afraid, and we are running out of time. We need everyone we can possibly muster in stormform within the week, when the last storm passes and the Weeping comes."

    "I understand," Rlain said. "Do you truly believe that everyone needs to be in stormform?"

    "Everyone who is willing," Eshonai said. "I cannot force anyone, but everyone who takes stormform improves our chances."

    "The counting is finished, sir," Melu said, approaching Eshonai, barely sparing Rlain and Thude a glance.

    "Excellent," Eshonai said. "Spread the word—we're going to do the same counting for everyone in the city."

    "Everyone?" Thude exclaimed, unable to hold back the sharp tones of the Rhythm of Anxiety.

    Eshonai's crimson eyes snapped onto him. "Our time is short," she said to Resolve. "We do not have time to train more warform soldiers and then offer them stormform. Our workform, nimbleform, and mateform fellows can return to their old forms later—for this Weeping, we need everyone." She turned back to Melu. "I want every willing Listener to be in stormform before we lose the last two storms. Those who are still unwilling have that right, but I want them gathered so we know where we stand."

    So we know where we stand? Rlain thought, torn between Amusement and Despair, but suppressing both in favor of momentarily wavering Resolve. Eshonai didn't need to round the dissidents up to know where they stood. She only needed to do that if she was planning to imprison or kill them.

    But it was such a clumsy excuse. Eshonai was no fool—she was smarter than this. Or at least she was when all of her was in accord. Perhaps it was wishful thinking on Rlain's part, to imagine that stumblings like this one were the outward signs of an internal struggle in his old friend, but hope was all he had now.

    "It sounds like you're rounding up those who disagree with you," Thude said hesitantly, oscillating between the Rhythms of Resolve and Anxiety. "I agreed to take stormform, like everyone else, but this… this seems wrong, Eshonai."

    Eshonai sighed, humming to Irritation. Something odd shifted in her face, a sudden motion in her red eyes, but singers did not show emotion through their faces as readily as humans did, and her Rhythm did not change. "Fine," she said. "You can watch over the group—you, and any soldiers you trust. That way you can assure their safety."

    Rlain could barely contain the Rhythm of Joy as it threatened to break through his renewed Resolve. There was still hope!

    "And you, Rlain?" she asked. "Are you willing to take stormform?"

    "I am," he said.

    "Excellent," Eshonai said, grinning at him. "Thude, I realize you and Rlain are friends, but I need him. His insight into the Alethi will be invaluable."

    "Of course," Rlain said. He nodded to Thude, meeting his friend's eyes, wondering if this would be the last time they saw one another. "Go find a division and get to your post, Thude. Remember what we discussed."

    Thude's eyes widened momentarily before he nodded. "I'll… yes." He hesitated for a moment. "Good luck," he said finally, and left.

    I'll need it.

    "What did you discuss with him?" Eshonai asked.

    "I was encouraging him," Rlain said. "He's felt trapped for some time between his fear of stormform and of the Alethi. I was reminding him of our childhood together—all of us." He smiled at her, still attuned to Resolve. "I said that he could still trust you."

    If he had not spent so long among humans, learning to read their expressions almost as well as he could hear the Rhythms, learning at Sarus' knee to understand the effect his words were having on those around him, he would never have seen the way raw agony flashed in Eshonai's face before it smoothed away again. Her Rhythm, however, never wavered from Resolve. "I'm glad you see that, at least," she said.

    As she walked away, Rlain turned his gaze eastward, towards the Origin, where the Stormfather was even now preparing the gale that would in two days transform him into another of Eshonai's stormform soldiers.

    I don't know if I can resist, he admitted to himself in the privacy of his thoughts. Maybe, in three days time, I will be just as twisted and corrupted as Eshonai. Maybe these next two will be the last sunrises I see as myself. But I know I must try to save her.
     
    Last edited:
  • View discussion
    • 65: One Liar to Another
  • View content
    • Thanks to Elran and @BeaconHill for betareading, and to Phinnia for the commissioned icon.

    -x-x-x-

    65

    One Liar to Another



    -x-x-x-​

    And, if we do not act before the fain can consume the Well of Crystal, Adonalsium will end what the God behind it began.

    -x-x-x-​

    "Captain."

    Sarus glanced over as Murk climbed the stairs onto the battlement beside him. "Your squad's training went well?" he asked.

    "Of course." Murk stopped beside him, following his gaze as he looked over the warcamp. Men in blue uniforms bustled all around, taking stock of their supplies, packing them into chull-pulled carts, and making ready to mobilize. The first drizzle of the Weeping pattered in curtains upon the rock.

    "The army will be leaving within the day," Murk said. "You sure you want to stay here, sir?"

    "Quite certain," Sarus said.

    "Kaladin's back, now," Murk pointed out. "It seems like one of you should go with the army, doesn't it?"

    "That is Kaladin's prerogative," Sarus said. "He extracted an oath from Dalinar, when first we entered his service, that no former bridgeman would be forced to join an assault against the Parshendi."

    The agreement had originally been for plateau runs, specifically, but that had been before the plans for a final assault had even been conceived. Sarus had brought the topic up with Elhokar, pointing out that if the men of Bridge Four—and therefore much of the Cobalt Guard—were required to join the advance force, they would not be here to defend him. It had been easy to get him to agree that Dalinar's oath applied to this scenario as well.

    "Kaladin's been… gloomy, lately," Murk said. "He might come, if all of us asked him. But he doesn't want to."

    "Kaladin has little appetite for battle," Sarus said. "I certainly don't begrudge him that, after everything. He's been improving these past two weeks; I'll see him folded into the guard rotations with everyone else who remains by the time you return."

    "You could leave him in charge here," Murk pointed out. "You and he have both commanded Bridge Four. Doesn't it make sense to split up?"

    "I need to be here, Murk," Sarus said. "His Majesty's enemies have not had such an opportunity to remove him since the war began. All but the barest dregs of the Kholin army will be gone, leaving only His Majesty's personal contingent of the Cobalt Guard. I command that contingency, and His Majesty trusts me specifically." He shot Murk a look. "Which benefits us all, as you know."

    Murk sighed. "Yeah, I know. Just thought I'd ask one more time."

    Almost all of Bridge Four had volunteered to join the assault force, which would seize the opening provided by the Weeping to seek out the center of the Plains and attack the Parshendi city believed to be at its center. Only a few—particularly the non-Alethi, like Sigzil, Rock, and Lopen—had not immediately jumped at the opportunity. But even Lopen and Rock had come around once they realized most of their fellows would be going, though neither of them would be active combatants.

    Kaladin himself had not volunteered, despite looks of surprise from several of the men.

    Sarus had been forced to invert the process—asking for those men who would be willing to remain. In the end, he had kept twenty men, some from the original Bridge Four, some from the other crews who had progressed far enough in their training to be folded into the guard rotations. Twenty men were sufficient for four standard five-hour shifts of five men each at the palace. It was actually a slightly heavier defense than they usually set around the king. He had told the men that, with the barracks otherwise empty, he wanted to have enough to feel secure even in the event of sickness or injury.

    His true motive, of course, was that he needed enough to maintain a defense around the king in case Moash's erstwhile allies decided to strike. Sarus had still not been able to identify this 'Graves', though he had done his best to investigate. Most of the other conspirators, he had found—but the most dangerous, the Shardbearer, had so far evaded notice.

    Sarus saw movement in the roads approaching the Bridge Four barracks, perhaps a five minute walk away. He looked, narrowing his eyes to pick out details in the distance. He identified Moash and his squad, formed up around Dalinar—and beside Dalinar, resplendent in his yellow-gold cloak embroidered with the double-eye of the Almighty, was Brightlord Meridas Amaram. His badge of office as first of the refounded Knights Radiant. Sarus didn't bother to suppress his momentary sneer before turning away. "Back to the barracks," he said to Murk. "We'll have guests soon."

    "What did you see?" Murk asked, following him down the steps.

    "Highprince Dalinar," he said. "And his dear friend, Knight Amaram." He chuckled. "I wonder what he would say if we asked him which order he had sworn to?"

    "Wouldn't know what we were talking about, presumably," Murk said dryly.

    "And we would only expose ourselves by asking. But the thought is amusing nonetheless."

    "Should we try to keep him away from Kaladin?"

    "If possible." Sarus shrugged. "I doubt Highprince Dalinar would be bringing Brightlord Amaram to the barracks without cause. He was at the duel, he has more than sufficient cause to know of the… rivalry between the two of them."

    "You think he's going to try and make Kaladin apologize?" Murk asked darkly.

    "Dalinar isn't such a fool," Sarus said. "He trusts Kaladin. Unfortunately, he also trusts Brightlord Amaram. But I don't think he'll insist either man apologizes without proof of wrongdoing on their part."

    "And there isn't any," Murk said.

    "Just so. With luck, Kaladin won't be in the barracks."

    Kaladin had lately taken to long, solitary walks around the warcamps and in the chasms. Sarus hadn't tried to follow him—Kaladin needed time to hash out the difficulties he was having with Syl, the struggle between his sense of honor, his oaths as a Windrunner, and his certainty that Elhokar was unfit as King of Alethkar. There was a time when Sarus thought his input in that struggle would have been welcome—but that time had passed when he had watched Kaladin be dragged off the sand and done nothing.

    "We're not that lucky," Murk said.

    "No," Sarus agreed. He shot Murk a look. "Has Kaladin told you? About what passed between him and Amaram?"

    "No, but I've guessed some of it." Murk shook his head. "Amaram sent him down here, that much is clear. But that's not all, is it? He killed people Kaladin cared for."

    "Yes," Sarus said. "And all the witnesses, so far as Kaladin or I can guess, are either dead or loyally Brightlord Amaram's."

    "Pailiah's plucked eyebrows," Murk sighed. "So Dalinar just expects Kaladin to tolerate him?"

    "Highprince Dalinar has a bad habit of assuming other men think the same way he does," Sarus said. "He tolerates Highprince Sadeas, after all, despite the betrayal at the tower, the deaths of a massive portion of his army, and the attempted assassinations of himself and his son. He will never trust Sadeas, of course, but nor is he forced to resist the almost overwhelming urge to strangle the man every time they meet. He doesn't understand why it would be different for Kaladin."

    "At the risk of exposing my inner ardent," Murk said dryly, "the Almighty made each of us differently. For a man so devout as Highprince Dalinar, he seems not to understand a great deal about God."

    "The attitude of most Highprinces is that matters of God are best left to their ardents," Sarus said. "So long as their ardents tell them the Almighty is pleased, they don't tend to consider the details." He shot Murk a look. "And I'm sure you're intimately familiar with what happens to ardents who say otherwise."

    "Yeah." Murk's eyes were hooded. "Yeah, I am."

    They rounded a corner and approached the barracks. Rock was outside, tending his cookfire, a red-brown stew slowly simmering in his large pot. "Captain," he greeted, nodding at Sarus. "How goes the mobilizing?"

    "The army is hard at work," Sarus said. "I expect you will be out of here within a few hours at most."

    Rock grimaced. "Is not right, that I go. I should stay."

    "It's your choice, of course," Sarus said. "But I promise, you will have plenty of men to cook for in either case."

    "Both you and Kaladin are staying here."

    "Yes. And Murk, Moash, and half the crew are going with the army." He clapped a hand on Rock's shoulder. "We can survive a few weeks without your excellent cooking."

    "If only Rlain were still here," Rock lamented. "He was beginning to learn! He could have stayed as cook for you here while I went with the army. But, alas." He shot Sarus a look. "Do you know where he went? I know he said he had to leave, but he did not say goodbye."

    "Did you expect a parshman to say goodbye?" Murk asked.

    "I expected Rlain to say goodbye," Rock said. "He told us his name. He was no longer an ordinary parshman. Not to us."

    "I do not know where he went," Sarus lied. "I believe he left the warcamps. Perhaps, once the war is over, we will see him again."

    "I hope so," Rock sighed. Then he glanced over at a commotion from one of the nearby barracks. "Oh, the Highprince is coming."

    "Yes," Sarus said, following his gaze. "And with him, the esteemed Brightlord Amaram. Is Kaladin inside?"

    "He is," said Rock grimly. "Saying goodbye to some of the men. But he will come out with them, I expect—soon. Should we…?"

    "No point," Murk said, pointing. "Look, they're coming right towards us. They won't let Kaladin get out of this, whatever it is."

    "Get out of what?" The barracks door opened, and Kaladin stepped out among a group of uniformed men of Bridge Four. "What's happening?"

    Sarus nodded in the direction of the approaching lighteyes, flanked by Moash's squad. "We have guests," he said evenly. "We can run interference, Kaladin, if you like."

    Kaladin was silent for a moment, his brown eyes hard as he stared at the approaching men. "No," he said finally. "No, I'll behave. Amaram will be gone soon anyway. He's going with the army, isn't he?"

    "I believe so," said Sarus. "Though I don't think he's formally broken his fealty to Highprince Sadeas just yet."

    Then there was no more time, as Dalinar and Amaram entered earshot. "Captain Sarus," the highprince called as they approached. "Is Kala—ah, there you are. I want a word."

    "Yes sir," said Kaladin dully, eyes fixed on Amaram.

    Sarus stepped to the side, carefully placing himself between Kaladin and Amaram without obstructing Dalinar's view of the man. "How can we help you, Brightlord?" he said politely, carefully looking only at Dalinar.

    "This won't take long," Dalinar said, looking at the lighteyes beside him and gesturing to Kaladin. "Amaram. You told me you'd never seen this darkeyes before you came down to the Shattered Plains. Is that true?"

    "Yes," Amaram said. Sarus almost laughed. The man couldn't even meet Dalinar's gaze, let alone Kaladin's. His expression was controlled passably well, and he kept his gaze moving between the former bridgemen as if surveying a troop of soldiers, so it might have fooled an ordinary, military-minded Alethi. But Sarus could easily imagine laughing with Tailiah over the transparency of the lie.

    The image twisted the knot of old pain in his heart.

    "What of his claim that you took your Blade and Plate from him?" Dalinar asked.

    It took Sarus a moment to understand what Dalinar was doing. Then he got it. He's giving Amaram enough rope to hang himself with. What proof has he uncovered, I wonder?

    "Brightlord," Amaram said, touching Dalinar's arm. "It's possible the lad served in my army—he bears the correct slave brand for my fief—but his allegations regarding me are preposterous. I couldn't tell you whether he merely seeks attention, or if he's touched in the head."

    Sarus reached out without looking and closed his hand on Murk's wrist tightly before the man could do more than inhale. The no doubt blasphemous tirade cut off with a small squeak before he could launch into it.

    Dalinar was nodding to himself, as if having something confirmed. "In that case, I believe an apology is due."

    Kaladin's face fell, but Sarus shook his head, catching Kaladin's eye. "Not you," he said softly.

    Kaladin frowned. "What?"

    "Pardon, Captain?" asked Amaram.

    Sarus turned, ignoring Amaram, and met Dalinar's intrigued gaze. "I do feel I should ask what proof you found convincing, Brightlord," he said. "Given Lieutenant Kaladin's word was clearly insufficient."

    Amaram's eyes widened. He thrust his hand out to the side—a reflexive motion.

    Sarus smiled at him. "Please," he said. "I would love the opportunity to relieve you of that Blade."

    A Shardblade fell into a hand. But it was Dalinar's which came up to hold it at Amaram's throat. A moment later, a second fell into Amaram's grip. All around Sarus, soldiers had tensed, going for their weapons. Off to the side, he saw a third blade appear in Moash's palm.

    Sarus himself remained perfectly still, standing between Kaladin and Amaram.

    Amaram held perfectly still, staring down at the weapon mere inches from his throat. Silence fell for a long moment.

    "There is a madman in the care of the king's ardents, Captain," Dalinar said conversationally. "A madman who was found with a Shardblade in Kholinar some months ago. He was sent down here shortly afterwards. I knew Amaram had snuck in to see him, so I asked him to investigate the man's claims—and specifically to find the man's missing Shardblade. I gave him several days to tell me, after he found it. He claimed that he had found nothing."

    "Ah," Sarus said. "The Shardblade currently in your hand, I take it?"

    Dalinar nodded. "I had hoped to put the Blade behind me," he said. "And I intend to do so again, once this coming battle is behind us. But it will be helpful in the coming days." He turned his face away from Sarus, looking back at Amaram. "So. Old friend."

    "When did you…?" Amaram began.

    "The week he spent sick, after Lieutenant Kaladin's arrest," Sarus said impatiently.

    "Just so," Dalinar said. "After which, we hid the blade, and you found it. Four days ago. As long as I could possibly give you to come clean without risking that someone else would bond the Blade away from me."

    "Damnation," Amaram sighed.

    "Why, Amaram?" Dalinar asked, and the genuine hurt and confusion in his face stirred pity in Sarus' heart. "Of all people, I thought you were…" He let out a sound like a growl, his knuckles whitening on the hilt of his weapon.

    "I did it," Amaram said, letting his own Shardblade dissipate into mist, "and I would do it again. The Voidbringers are returning, and we need practiced, competent Shardbearers to face them. In sacrificing a few of my soldiers, I hoped to save far more in the coming years."

    "Liar!" Kaladin roared, suddenly shaking in rage. "You just wanted the Shards for yourself!"

    "I am sorry," Amaram said, looking Kaladin in the face. There was something like relief in his expression, as if he was glad to finally have the lie in the open. "I wish what I did to you and yours had not been necessary. Sometimes, good men must die so that others can live."

    Life before death, Sarus thought. And Dalinar put a Radiant cloak on your soldiers. If the Almighty exists, He has an impeccable sense of irony.

    "What now?" Amaram asked Dalinar.

    "You are guilty of murdering men for your personal gain," Dalinar said coldly.

    "And how is that different than when you send thousands to die so that you may secure gemhearts, Dalinar? We all know that sometimes lives are the cost we pay for the greater good."

    "Take off that cloak. You are no Radiant."

    Amaram reached up and unclasped it. It fell into the dust at his feet. Then he turned to walk away, ignoring Dalinar's blade still hovering at his neck. Dalinar did not strike.

    "No!" Kaladin said, starting after him. "You can't let him—"

    "Let him go, son," Dalinar said. "His reputation is broken forever. That's all we can do for the moment."

    "Not all," Sarus said softly. Then, raising his voice and lacing it with the strange power that made men heed, made them obey, he called out, "Hold a moment, Brightlord Amaram."

    Amaram paused. Then he turned. There was none of the abject fear in his face that had filled Sadeas' assassins, for Sarus had been subtler this time—only enough to encourage Amaram, a man who desperately craved to be respected, to see this as an opportunity to do so. "Yes, Captain?"

    "A word, before you go." Sarus stepped towards him, walking past Dalinar's Shardblade without a second glance. "Am I right in thinking," he said, "that if Kaladin had taken the Shards for himself, rather than trying to give him to one of his men, that you would have let him keep them?"

    Amaram frowned at him. "I had intended to, yes. He fought a Shardbearer with nothing but a spear. He would have been magnificent with Shards. That's exactly what we need to be ready for the coming Desolation."

    Sarus nodded. "And did it not occur to you to say that to him?"

    Amaram started, blinking at him. "I—"

    Sarus leaned forward. "Isn't it wonderful," he murmured, "when we can have everything we have ever wanted, and call it righteousness, only by choosing not to look for a better path?"

    Amaram paled. "I—"

    "Isn't it wonderful," Sarus continued, still in a tone barely above a whisper, "when the only sacrifices made in service to the greater good are those other people make? Isn't it wonderful when the needs of the many and the needs of the self are so perfectly in line?"

    "What are you implying?" Amaram growled, voice shaking.

    Sarus smiled at him. Amaram was perhaps an inch or two shorter than he was, but somehow the man seemed to be standing in his shadow. "I do not think honor is a flexible thing, Brightlord," he said. "It does not stretch. It breaks."

    He stayed just long enough to watch Amaram's expression shudder. Then he turned and walked back to Dalinar and Kaladin. "There," he said quietly to them. "That is all we can do to him for now."

    Dalinar looked past him as Amaram walked away. Sarus could hear the man's footsteps—not running, but certainly a hurried walk. "What on Roshar did you say to him, Captain?"

    "He thought he was speaking the truth," Sarus said. "I made him understand that he was mistaken—one liar to another." He met Dalinar's eyes. "In future, Brightlord, I ask that you inform the captain of your guard of such things. It would have been helpful to know that we had a Blade behind us when we stood outside your room."

    "You know as well as I do, Captain, that secrets have a way of getting back to Sadeas," Dalinar said dryly. "And Sadeas would be only too glad to share this with Amaram."

    Sarus shrugged. "I would like to think you would understand that you can trust me, at least, not to betray your secrets to Highprince Sadeas."

    Dalinar sighed. "You make a good point, Captain. Partly, I hadn't yet grown used to the idea of you as captain of my guard. Your appointment was barely a day old at that point."

    "True enough." Sarus shrugged, as if the oversight didn't matter, as if the reminder that in Dalinar's mind he would never be the true leader of Bridge Four didn't sting. "I doubt Amaram will be joining you on the assault after this. Do you have any standing orders regarding him for those of us who remain here?"

    "Just be careful with him. I don't think he has any cause to seek harm to the king, but he's shown himself a liar and a cremling. I've misjudged him once already."

    "Understood, Brightlord."

    "On that topic," Dalinar said. "Are you certain I can't entice you—either of you—to join us on the assault?" He looked between Sarus and Kaladin. "You're excellent soldiers and officers, the both of you. I'd be glad to have you."

    "Someone has to watch His Majesty," Sarus said.

    "And I'd rather not go back out on those plateaus again," Kaladin said. "Not that far."

    Dalinar nodded. "Very well." He grasped Kaladin's shoulder. "I don't hold that against you, son. You extracted that promise from me for a reason, all those weeks ago, and I'm glad to honor it."

    Kaladin looked away. "Thanks."

    Dalinar stepped back. "Keep my nephew safe while I'm gone."

    "We will," Sarus said. "End this war for us, Brightlord."

    Dalinar smiled. "I will."

    As he left, Moash met Sarus' gaze. The man's eyes truly had lightened, slowly turning into a pale tan. The process hadn't completed yet, but Sarus knew that in a few short months Moash would be unmistakably lighteyed. Carrying his Blade, clad in his red-on-blue Plate, he would blend in perfectly among the other fourth-dahn brightlords.

    As several of the men approached Kaladin to say goodbye, Sarus approached Bridge Four's only Shardbearer. "Keep Dalinar safe," he said. "We will need him as much as ever, even if the coming battle goes as well as he hopes."

    "I will," Moash said. "You do the same with Elhokar. Like it or not, we need him. And if he keeps listening to you, maybe he'll be less terrible one day."

    "We can only hope."

    Moash saluted him, Shardplate gleaming in the late morning light. "I'll see you in a few weeks, Captain."

    Sarus saluted back. "Best of luck, Lieutenant. Now go—you're still on duty. Kaladin and I will come to see you off."

    Moash grinned, then turned to follow Dalinar, taking his squad with him.
     
  • View discussion
    • 66: Ishatev
  • View content
    • Thanks to Elran and @BeaconHill for betareading, and to Phinnia for the commissioned icon.

    -x-x-x-

    66

    Ishatev



    -x-x-x-​

    Perhaps no one will read this. It seems all too probable, given that if we fail, Yolen is unlikely to survive.

    -x-x-x-​

    Four. The number was in Renarin's head from the moment he awoke, the patter of the Weeping rains drumming on the fabric of his tent. It was there as he went about his morning routine—washing, dressing, shaving. Four.

    Four more days. On the fifth…

    He paused halfway through washing his hands in a basin of water, staring at his spherelit face reflected in the ripples.

    Renarin? Glys asked. The mistspren barely came out of hiding anymore, with as little privacy as Renarin had in the midst of an army on the march.

    "It's Ishatev," Renarin whispered. "Four more days until Ishishach."

    Yes. Glys was silent for a moment. Are you afraid?

    "Of course," Renarin said. "Aren't you?"

    Extremely.

    "Do you think… maybe we shouldn't be here?" Renarin asked. "I'm not a warrior, like Father or Adolin. What am I doing here?"

    You're a Radiant, Glys said. It's not always about who can hit harder. You're a Truthwatcher. That means you see clearly. Sometimes that makes all the difference. Besides, you defeated that Shardbearer in the arena.

    "With Surgebinding," Renarin said. "Which I barely even know how to use. And Stormlight is in short supply, anyway, with the Weeping."

    There's still plenty in spheres, for now. We may not have had as much time as I'd like to train, but you're talented. It'll be okay. Besides… where would we run? When the Everstorm strikes, nowhere will be safe.

    Renarin's lips twitched. "That's comforting, I suppose."

    Is it? I wasn't sure.

    "Yes. I once heard an ardent say before a battle that it was better to die in honor than to live in shame. Whether or not he was right, in this case I'm likely to die either way. That makes the decision easy, doesn't it?"

    …I guess so. But try not to die, all right?

    "I'll do my best."

    -x-x-x-​

    "Prince Renarin," Moash said, saluting. The rest of Bridge Four looked up from their breakfast. Several of them held up their hands in greeting.

    "Ah, you have come for breakfast!" Rock said in his booming voice, ladling a helping of stew and holding out a bowl.

    Renarin took it gratefully. "Thank you, Rock." He looked at Moash. "How is the march going for all of you?"

    "Well enough," said Moash. "I think we've all slept in worse conditions."

    "At least we had a roof over our heads in the bridge crews," grumbled a man sitting cross-legged on the ground. Renarin didn't recognize him—he must be one of the recruits from the other former bridge crews.

    Gadol, sitting on a stump beside him, aimed a kick at his side. "Don't be an idiot," he said. "A roof over our heads at night, and a bridge over our heads in the daytime. I'll take this, thanks."

    Moash rolled his eyes at them, then turned back to Renarin. "You need something from us?"

    Renarin shook his head. I know I'm not really one of you, he wanted to say. But I want to be. I really, really want to be. But he didn't.

    "In that case," Murk said from the other side of the cookfire, "maybe you can help us. Do you know where in the formation you and your family are going to be marching today?"

    "My father and Adolin have both been spending much of their time with Brightness Shallan," Renarin said. The young Veden woman had been researching the chasms since her arrival on the Plains, and it seemed that after a conversation with Wit—who Renarin hadn't seen since running into him disguised as one of Sadeas' ardents—she'd had an epiphany which allowed her to passably navigate the plateaus. She had been assisting the highprinces in finding a path for the army since they departed four days ago. "I expect they'll march near Sebarial's army for that reason."

    "Right, the girl's staying with Sebarial, isn't she?" Moash asked.

    "I suspect she's the only reason he's marching with us," Renarin admitted.

    "Safe bet," murmured Murk. "Given how rarely he participated in plateau runs." He looked over at Moash. "If the Highprince and Adolin are sticking together, that makes our job easier."

    "What about you, Renarin?" Moash asked. "What are you planning for the day?"

    Renarin shrugged self-consciously. "I thought about joining the scouts marching ahead of the army?" Mostly, Renarin just wanted to get out of the thick of the encampment. So many men bustling around, all of them offering him deference, most of them doing so reluctantly… it was overwhelming.

    "We shouldn't see any Parshendi," Murk said. "Haven't yet. Moash—you take your squad with Renarin, and I'll watch the Highprince with an expanded squad in case Prince Adolin decides to go off on his own."

    Moash nodded. "Let me get my Plate on, and we'll head out, Renarin."

    "I should do the same," Renarin admitted reluctantly. "I'll meet you at the perimeter."

    Less than an hour later, Renarin found himself astride Melial riding ahead of the army, circling along the outer edge of the next plateau on their route. One of Aladar's bridge crews—a group of wretched, exhausted-looking men—laid their bridge across the chasm to allow Renarin and his guards to cross ahead of the army and their slower, chull-pulled bridges.

    "This is weird," Moash muttered as they stepped onto the rock on the chasm's far side. "It feels wrong."

    "I agree," said Renarin quietly. "But we won't let them be used the way you were. No running directly into archers. And hopefully, in a few days, bridge crews won't be necessary any longer."

    "You think we're that close?" Moash asked. "The Shattered Plains are big. And we're not exactly making great time."

    We have to, Renarin thought. Four days. If we haven't found the Parshendi within four days, it's all over. But aloud, all he said was, "Brightness Shallan learned from my cousin Jasnah. If she thinks she can navigate the Plains, I believe her."

    "Lot of trust to give someone you haven't known all that long," Moash said.

    "I see it as trust in Jasnah," Renarin said. "And I've known Jasnah since I was an infant."

    "I suppose so." Moash hesitated. "I'm sorry about her. I heard she died."

    Renarin grimaced. He had seen Jasnah in visions since that event—Jasnah at the front of an army, clad in blue-green Plate with a simple, straight Shardblade in her hands. He didn't believe she was dead, but he couldn't exactly say that.

    And he did miss her. More now than he did when his family was at least receiving word from her periodically. He hoped she was doing well, wherever she was.

    "What's that?" Gadol called out suddenly, pointing. It took Renarin a moment to identify the dark mass on the rock as a body—a body with black and red marbling across its skin, and thin ridges of carapace protruding from the arms, legs, and head.

    "It's a Parshendi!" he said, spurring Melial towards the corpse. He slid off the mare as he drew near, kneeling beside the body.

    It looks different from the soldiers we used to see, Glys observed.

    Do you know why?

    I probably did before I came to the Physical Realm. I don't anymore.

    The body had breasts, more prominent ones than Renarin could remember ever seeing on a Parshendi before—although those he'd encountered in the past might have simply hidden any curves under their carapace armor. She wore cloth armor, cut with slits in specific places to allow the ridges of hard chitin to emerge. On an instinct, Renarin reached out and peeled back one of her closed eyelids.

    A dull red eye glared at nothing.

    "Never seen a Parshendi with red eyes like that," Moash said.

    Renarin swallowed and let the eye fall shut again. "Nor have I," he said. Not outside of my visions.

    "We should report this in," Moash said. "If nothing else, it's probably a sign that we're—"

    "Sir, look!" Eth called, grabbing for the spear on his back.

    Moash turned, quick as only a man in Plate could be, already thrusting out his hand to call his Blade. Renarin did the same, though he hesitated to call for his weapon.

    A figure stood on the next plateau over, watching them. When it saw that it had their attention, it started running towards the chasm. A single, powerful leap took it all the way across the gap until it landed only a few dozen paces from them. It was a Parshendi, this one clad in the same sort of heavy carapace armor Renarin had been seeing for five years.

    "Alethi," the figure called in a deep voice. He spoke in a strange, rhythmic cadence, as was typical of his people. "I would like to surrender. I bring news to your Highprince Dalinar."

    Moash pointed his Shardblade at the Parshendi. "What brought this on?" he asked. "Parshendi never surrender."

    The Parshendi's humming changed to a confusing, staccato beat of irregular tones. "We tried, in the early days of this war," he said. "Our people were slaughtered for attempting so."

    "That… makes sense," Renarin sighed, something slotting into place.

    Moash shot him a look. "Your father would never kill a soldier after they surrender."

    The Blackthorn would. "But Sadeas would," Renarin pointed out. "As would Ruthar, and several of the others. To the Parshendi, we're all just Alethi. How are they to know the differences between the princedoms?" He turned to look at the Parshendi. "I am Prince Renarin of House Kholin," he called. "I accept your surrender. Come with us, and you won't be harmed."

    The Parshendi approached. "House Kholin," he said slowly. "I was told to seek out Highprince Dalinar of House Kholin. Are you related to him?"

    "He is my father," Renarin said. "Come, we'll take you to him. What's your name?"

    The Parshendi hesitated for a moment. "I am Thude," he said finally.

    -x-x-x-​

    Renarin looked up as his father stepped inside the tent. He slipped off his rain cloak and hung it on a post before coming towards the table where Renarin and Adolin were seated.

    Adolin offered their father a glass of orange wine. "Did the prisoner have anything to say?"

    "Several things," Dalinar said grimly. "Some of which confirmed some of young Shallan's suspicions."

    "What suspicions?" Renarin asked.

    "Among other things, he explained that Parshendi can take different 'forms', one of which looks nearly identical to a parshman. He did not directly confirm it, and I did not ask, but I suspect they've had spies in the warcamps in disguise as parshmen since the war began."

    Rlain, Renarin realized. The parshman of Bridge Four, beside whom he had defended Sarus' bed as he recovered from the Assassin in White's attack. He had known peripherally that Rlain had vanished, but he had not made the connection until now. He wondered if Sarus had known.

    "I suspect," Dalinar continued, "that I finally know what the warnings I've found etched on my walls have been referring to, these past weeks."

    "What?" Adolin asked, leaning forward.

    "Thude claims that one of his people's leaders has devised a plan. She claims that a new form—they call it stormform—will allow her people to summon a highstorm in the middle of the weeping, but it's more than that. He claims that one of their spies, a friend of his, believes that this plan will be the tipping point that begins a new Desolation."

    Adolin breathed in sharply. "How do the Parshendi even know about the Desolations?" he asked.

    "I don't know if they do," Dalinar said. "But that spy did. It was he who told Thude to bring word to me that the Parshendi gods—the beings who grant this new form of theirs the power to summon a storm—are the same as those we remember as Voidbringers."

    "And you believe this spy?" Adolin asked.

    "I wouldn't," Dalinar said grimly, "if Shallan hadn't told me that Jasnah had concluded something very similar. Jasnah apparently believed that the parshmen—all parshmen—are themselves the Voidbringers of myth, somehow rendered docile. I don't know how it all fits together—the Parshendi gods, this highstorm, the parshmen being Voidbringers—but I am more certain than ever that it does. And in four days, that storm will be summoned. Whatever the Parshendi are planning, it will happen then. We have to reach their city before that point, and stop them."

    "May I speak with him?" Renarin asked suddenly.

    Dalinar blinked at him. "Son? I suppose, but why?"

    "Just… curious about something," he said. "Excuse me a moment."

    He left the table, setting down his own barely-sipped glass of orange wine, and slipped outside with a rain cloak. He crossed to the nearby tent where two of Bridge Four stood guard. They let him pass without a word.

    Thude looked up as Renarin entered. "Renarin Kholin," he said. "Does your father have further questions for me?"

    "Not now, no," Renarin said, sitting in the chair in front of Thude's makeshift cell. It wasn't the most secure way to hold a prisoner, just a loose cage of iron bars held shut with a length of chain, but the Parshendi hadn't tried to resist. "But I do." He looked the prisoner in the eye. "Do you know if one of your spies was named Rlain?"

    The rhythm underlying Thude's voice, which he seemed to be humming constantly, changed suddenly. "Why do you ask?"

    "Because I knew a Rlain in the warcamps," Renarin said. "I… like to think I considered him a friend." They hadn't exactly been close, but Renarin had felt a sort of kinship with the parshman—his fellow outcast within Bridge Four, both of them only barely considered members of the group. "He vanished a handful of weeks ago. I was told he had decided to leave."

    Thude was silent.

    "Please," Renarin said. "I just want to know if I should expect to face him in battle. All of Bridge Four will want to know. They've been worrying about him."

    "You know Bridge Four?" Thude asked.

    Renarin's heart stuttered. "I'm… sort of a member?"

    Thude studied him for a moment. "Rlain returned to Narak perhaps three or four of your weeks ago," he said finally. "Several storms before the Weeping. It was he who gave me the opportunity to escape with our elderly, our infirm, and those who protested the change to stormform."

    Renarin breathed in. "But he didn't come with you?"

    "No," Thude said quietly, a different rhythm coloring his voice. "He said he had a plan, but I had to flee before I had an opportunity to hear it from him. I suspect he was hoping he could convince Eshonai to turn aside from her current course."

    "Eshonai?"

    "She was once the leader of our soldiers," Thude said. "And my friend. But she was the first of us to take stormform, and since then she has gone mad. Rlain would have to take the form as well to remain in Narak. I do not know if the same madness would have corrupted him. I hope it has not… but I do not know how he could escape it."

    Renarin swallowed. "So… as far as you know, he's in your city as just another of our enemies, now."

    "As far as I know, yes." Thude's words were spoken to a dark, plodding rhythm, not unlike a funeral dirge.

    Renarin took a deep breath and stood up. "Thank you," he said. "The rest of Bridge Four will want to know about this. I appreciate your trust."

    "It is best this way," Thude murmured. "If he has truly been corrupted, his friends should know that he may have betrayed any secrets he refused to divulge when he was sane."

    Renarin's heart sank. "I'll tell them," he promised, before fleeing the tent.

    -x-x-x-​

    "We should have known, honestly," Moash said, staring into the campfire where it burned beneath a canvas cover to protect it from the Weeping rains. The men of Bridge Four were all huddled around, clad in rain cloaks over their blue uniforms, faces set in various states of despondency and grimness.

    "He might still be all right," Murk said.

    "Oh, he's all right for sure," snarled Gadol. "All right, after betraying us to the enemy!"

    "He was trying to stop the Parshendi from—whatever they're planning," Renarin reminded him.

    "Still a Parshendi," Gadol growled. "Still one of those storming cremlings who shot at us every day for months. He was one of them. The enemy."

    "Since when was the War of Reckoning our war, Gadol?" Murk asked tiredly. "What, are you a royalist now?"

    "Gavilar was a great king!"

    "So? You're a darkeyes. Great kings have just as many slaves as bad ones. Just as many darkeyes starve under their rule."

    Renarin looked away, gazing into the Weeping rain.

    "Airsick lowlander," Rock rumbled. "To you Alethi, this war has been about vengeance. Avenging a man you have never met, and paying thousands of lives to do it. Only really, it has been about enriching highprinces you have also never met, and spending even more lives to do that. But for the Lefu'tala'liki, the Parshendi? It has always been about survival. They are not the invaders. You are."

    "They did kill our king," Moash pointed out dryly, though it seemed more a casual comment than an expression of true anger.

    "And we never found out why," Renarin said softly. He didn't exactly miss Uncle Gavilar—in fact, given how much better his father had been doing since the king's death, he couldn't even muster up any real grief. Gavilar had never liked him, had never liked that Renarin had not matched his expectations for what a prince of House Kholin should be. "They must have had a reason. My father and Adolin tried to get it out of their envoy, when they parleyed a few weeks ago. She said that Uncle Gavilar had promised to summon back their gods, or something of the sort. Now he's dead, probably because they didn't want that. But because we're threatening them with extinction, they're going to do it themselves."

    "Talenelat's missing toenails," muttered Murk. "So all of this could have been avoided if they'd just spoken with us, or we'd spoken with them?"

    "All war is like this," Rock said. "Whether the smallest argument over a single homestead, or a great war for the fate of a nation. It is your airsickness that makes you leap to war first, instead of trying to talk."

    "It's not as though Horneater tribes don't have small wars over their mountains," Murk said. "Otherwise, why would you be here, hm?"

    Rock was silent. "Perhaps you are right, Murk," he said quietly. "Perhaps we Unkalaki are no better."

    "It's not about who's better," Moash said. "None of this was any of our fault. We didn't assassinate Gavilar, and we didn't decide to go to war over it. We didn't decide to summon a highstorm, and we didn't decide to attack the Parshendi city. We're just caught up in it. So." He stood up. "We do our duty. Like Kaladin and Sarus taught us. We're not here to kill Parshendi, or to win glory. We're here to keep House Kholin safe on the battlefield, and that's what we'll do." He grimaced, narrowing his light tan eyes. "I'll probably need to learn about all of this diplomatic and religious nonsense eventually. I'm a lighteyes now, I guess. But the rest of you don't, and I'm honestly envious."

    "Oh, poor lighteyed Moash," sneered Gadol. "How sad for—"

    "That's enough out of you, Gadol," Murk snapped. "What's wrong with you, anyway? You're even pricklier than usual."

    Gadol was silent for a moment. Then he muttered, "Sorry, Moash."

    "It's fine," Moash said curtly. "I get it, Gadol. I've spent years hating lighteyes. I still hate lighteyes, in general. Doesn't feel great being one of them, now. I keep worrying… worrying I'll wake up one morning having forgotten what it was like to have to bow and scrape and salute all the time. I get it. What is bothering you, though?"

    "…I just wish Kal were here," Gadol said. "Or even Sarus. No offense, but it feels wrong having you and Murk in charge."

    "None taken," Murk said with a dry laugh. "I feel the same way."

    "Me too," Moash said. "But neither of them wanted to come, and can you really blame them? After everything?" He sighed. "Anyway. It's late, and we've got another day of marching in the morning. Renarin, you should get to bed too."

    Renarin nodded, standing up. Three, he thought. In the morning, it will be three more days.

    "Night shift, escort him back to his tent," Moash said. "I'm going to bed. I'll see all of your ugly faces in the morning."
     
  • View discussion
    • View content
    You must login or register to reply here.
    Remove ads
    Back
    Top