42: Sanctified
Lithos Maitreya
Character Witness
- Location
- United States
Thanks to Elran and @BeaconHill for betareading, and to Phinnia for the commissioned icon.
Until, one day, I heard a thrumming deep within the mountain I had made my home. It was as though the very stones had come to life, complete with a sonorous heartbeat.
Torol always had one of his ardents deliver a report to him every morning at breakfast. He'd gotten into the habit in the early days, when he and the Kholins were fighting a war on three or four fronts at once and he'd needed to know at once if one of the other highprinces had done something provocative. He'd never stopped, even once Alethkar united and something resembling a tenuous peace had settled over the highprincedoms.
The news he received changed in type, of course. Where once he could expect to have troop movements dictated to him, now he usually received much more inane intelligence. Still important, but he couldn't quite bring himself to care as much about which highprince had embarrassed himself at which party compared with learning how many thousands of men had died while he slept, and which color uniform they had been wearing.
So when he sat down to a bowl of spiced tallew porridge with Thaylen aquatic cremlings, and no ardent arrived to deliver his briefing, he grew concerned very quickly. His ardents knew that their positions were on the line if they failed in their duties, just like anyone else in his employ. What could be keeping them?
He found out not long before he finished eating. One of his ardents rushed into the dining hall, red-faced and gasping for breath. He immediately flung himself into a bow lower than any Torol had received from an ardent before—normally, despite their nominal status as slaves, the respect they showed their highprinces was tempered by their unique position of religious authority. "Forgive me…" the man wheezed, bald head shining with sweat, "for my… tardiness… Brightlord."
"Why are you so late?" Torol asked sharply. "Has something happened, or was this merely a mistake?"
"It was… both, Brightlord. I was… distracted… by something, but I… should not have… allowed it to… slow my service to you."
Torol pursed his lips. The man seemed extremely contrite—almost excessively so, but not in a way that seemed indicative of insincerity. "What was the distraction?"
The man took a few deep breaths to recover himself before straightening. "News from the Kholin warcamp, Brightlord," he said.
Torol felt a thrill—and a hint of the Thrill—flicker through him. "Don't leave it strung up, ardent—out with it. What happened in the Kholin warcamp?"
The man hesitated. He looked at once reluctant and eager; a strange combination, especially on a usually-stoic ardent. "Based on the word we received from House Kholin's ardential staff, Brightlord, a… well, a miracle."
Torol raised an eyebrow. "Those have been catching lately," he commented. "What is it this time? Did a whole regiment survive outside in the storm this time?"
"Ah, no, Brightlord. It appears the Assassin in White attacked His Majesty and Highprince Dalinar during the highstorm."
Torol blinked once, very slowly. "And… the miracle is that they are both still alive?" All that means is that Dalinar did a better job defending Elhokar than he did his brother.
"No, Brightlord—well, yes, they are both alive, but that is not the miracle. Brightlord—the Assassin in White was captured after—after attempting to kill a man with his Shardblade."
"Attempting to…?"
"The Shardblade… shattered, Brightlord. They are calling the man Shardbreaker."
Torol stared at the man. For a long moment, he thought he must have misheard. Then he frowned. "And you believe this?"
"One of our number went to the Kholin warcamp to verify, Brightlord," said the man in a hushed, reverent tone. "He saw the sixteen pieces of the broken blade."
"Shardblades don't break." It was one of the few constants of warfare. Shardbows and Shardhammers might appear to equalize battles against other Shardbearers, and horses and cavalry might grow more numerous, but Shardblades were unbreakable.
"Um, yes, Brightlord. That's why it's a miracle." The ardent cleared his throat. "Apparently the Assassin tried to run his victim through, and then a man appeared in the path of the blade and shattered it with his bare hands before vanishing again. We have been debating who this man might have been for hours, Brightlord. The current leading theory is that the Almighty has sent Jezerezeh'Elin or Talenelat'Elin back to aid mankind once again, but some are saying—"
"I will leave you to debate the theology of it," Torol said, waving a hand. A sinking feeling had started in his chest, and by now had already reached his stomach. "The man—the one the Assassin tried to run through—he survived?"
"He did, Brightlord. We haven't yet been able to send one of your own ardents to the Kholin hospitals to verify that independently, but all reports say that he is unconscious in their care. What his exact status is, no two sources agree. Some say he has been disfigured, others say he has become lighteyed, still others say that he has transformed into the giant man who broke the Blade. We will of course inform you the moment we have any reliable information on the topic."
"The man was darkeyed?" Torol asked quietly.
"So we have heard, Brightlord. Apparently he was one of the Kholin house guards."
"Which?"
The man blinked. "P-pardon?"
"Which guard, Damnation take you! Or, failing that, which Kholin was he guarding!?"
"O-oh," the man was visibly quailing, and suddenly Torol realized that he had stood up from his seat. His fists were clenched and shaking at his sides. With great effort, he composed himself and sat down.
"Have you been able to discern exactly who this man is?" Torol asked, his voice quiet and his teeth gritted.
"Ah—n-no, Brightlord. We know that the Kholin ardentia have tried to enhance the symmetry of his name, but we have no idea how similar his original name is to his new sacred moniker."
Torol vaguely remembered learning about this. Apparently some of the legendary figures of myth had taken new names as part of the ardentia's efforts to tie Vorinism to their achievements. The king who had written the storming book both Dalinar and Gavilar had been obsessed with, Nohadon, was apparently such a one. "And what," he said tightly, "is his new name?"
"Saruhas, Brightlord."
A sound like breaking glass rang in Torol's ears. It took him a moment to realize that it was breaking glass, and that his hand was bleeding quite heavily where his fist had tightened enough to shatter his wine cup. His eyes drifted towards his hand, dripping with blood and orange wine, then back to the ardent, who looked like he might have just removed his own need to visit the privy for the next few hours. "Thank you," Torol said, almost serene, "for bringing me this news. You may go."
The man fled.
Torol was normally finished with breakfast by the time Ialai arrived. She always preferred to snatch an extra hour of sleep while he dealt with the responsibilities of his army. But it felt as though the ardent had scarcely closed the servants' door when he heard the main door open behind him.
Ialai shrieked. "Torol! What—" Then she was at his side, taking his bloodied hand in both of hers, then hurriedly letting go as she felt the glass shards in his palm. He barely felt them worming their way deeper into his flesh.
"You're here early," Torol said, his voice perfectly smooth and somehow distant, as if there were an entire chasm between his ears and his lips.
"I'm late," Ialai snapped. "You should have been out of here two hours ago, Torol! What in Damnation—" She crossed the room in three quick strides and rang the bell for a servant, then returned to his side and began delicately picking the shards of glass out of his hand. The bleeding resumed as they came free. "What could have possessed you to do this to yourself?" she asked, eyes intent on her task.
Torol took a brief moment to decide how to answer her. When he looked back up, an ardent was wrapping a bandage around his hand. "I think he's been poisoned," Ialai was saying. Torol hadn't heard her sound this worried since Tailiah had been sick with the plague that had shot briefly through Kholinar ten years ago. "He's unresponsive, and you can see what he did. An involuntary spasm in the hand?"
"It could be, Brightness," said the ardent, wrapping his hand. "Boy—see to it that an apothecary and a surgeon are brought in to see to the highprince!"
Torol heard running feet fading away down the corridor. "I'm perfectly responsive," he said.
Ialai laughed shrilly. "Torol, you've heard one thing in ten I've said, at most. You probably are already off in your head again—"
"I am not." Torol tugged his arm away from the ardent and surged to his feet.
The ardent protested, "Brightlord, I haven't finished—"
"I know how to tie a bandage," Torol snapped. "I haven't been poisoned, and the glass is out of my hand. You may go."
"Paranoia?" Ialai said, but she was speaking to the ardent.
Torol slammed his injured hand against the wood of the table. The pain shot through him like the Thrill coursing in battle, clearing his mind and setting his blood aflame. "Enough!" he bellowed.
The ardent took two hurried steps back from him, but Ialai just reached out and laid a hand on the back of his own, her fingers shifting the loosened bandage. "Torol," she said softly. "Please. If you don't know what's wrong, at least let me have you tested—"
"I know exactly what is wrong. You, ardent—out. I need to speak with my wife. In private."
"Yes, Brightlord." The ardent seemed only too happy to put a closed door between him and Torol.
Ialai frowned up at him, her beautiful eyes—Tailiah's eyes, she had inherited her mother's eyes, oh Almighty why—narrowed in concern. "What happened, love?" she asked softly.
"They're sanctifying him, Ialai," Torol whispered, and his voice broke while he spoke. "They're—they're saying it's a miracle. That he is working miracles. I—I can't—"
"Who?" Ialai asked, staring at him in confusion. "Dalinar?"
"Sarus." The name left his lips like the vilest oath in any language of men.
Ialai's eyes widened. "What? Why? How?"
"The Assassin in White tried to run him through with a Shardblade," Torol croaked. "The Shardblade broke, Ialai."
Ialai's hands had come up to cover her mouth. Tears were glittering in her eyes. Had Tailiah cried, when he banished her into thin air? Had it hurt? Had it been frightening? Oh, Almighty why why why WHY WHY
Torol threw his arms around his wife, buried his face in her shoulder, and wept. He felt her shaking against him, felt her own tears dampening his coat. "This is impossible," she muttered, her voice muffled against the fabric. "This—they're lying to you. They have to be."
"For what?" Torol demanded. "Not a single one of the ardents I have here on the Plains ever met the boy. Even if they had, only a few people ever knew what happened to him. And if it were untrue, we would know in a matter of minutes just by listening to the rumors. Even ardents aren't stupid enough to risk being put to death for no reason at all. They're calling him Saruhas, Ialai! They're—as if he were a Herald, or a king of the Heraldic Epochs! They're calling him Shardbreaker! Him! The man who killed—who killed—"
WHY
They clung to one another, there in the dining room of their war palace. Torol felt as if the Shattered Plains had crumbled away, leaving him standing on a single island surrounded by bottomless cliffs, and hearing the rumble of a highstorm on a horizon. He didn't know yet whether he would brave the highstorm on the exposed rock, or if he would throw himself into the blackness.
But at length, both of their eyes grew dry. Their breathing calmed; their shaking slowed.
"I do not think I will be leaving the palace today," Torol whispered.
"Nor I, husband. Nor I. We must at least send someone to verify these rumors."
"Agreed. I'll send Latharil. He's reliable, cynical, loyal, and not prone to hysterics."
For a long moment they stood there, the late morning sun streaming gold into the room through the open shutters, outlining Ialai's hair in a honeyed halo. "And if they turn out to be true?" she finally asked.
"Then we kill him," Torol said simply. "No more biding our time, no more waiting for the opportune moment, no more letting him escape. If It is true, we kill him now, martyrdom or no martyrdom, before he has time to leverage this new fame into whatever he desires."
"If he truly survived a Shardblade—"
"We won't use a Shardblade," Torol said flatly. "Side-sword, spear, arrow, poison, rope, hammer, I don't care. Any of them. All of them. I will not suffer him to survive this."
Ialai nodded against him.
It took them a while longer before they parted and were ready to leave the room. Just before they did, Torol saw something out of the corner of his eye. He paused.
Ialai stopped at the door, looking back at him. "Husband?"
"Go," Torol said, looking at her; but his attention was fixed on the shape in his peripheral vision. "I just remembered something. Send for Latharil—I'll be there before he arrives."
"Very well," said Ialai, looking at him with concern. But she turned and left all the same, closing the door softly behind her.
Torol crossed the room, walking slowly, nonchalantly, towards some of the food he had abandoned on the table. Then, as he passed the thing, he lunged.
His fingers hit it just before it could escape. He felt the wood of the table vibrating under his fingers. The thing hissed sharply, like the sound of cold water being poured onto a heated stone.
He stared. It was a spren—what else could it be? It looked a bit like a glyph, if glyphs moved and shifted constantly in strange, incredibly complex shapes and configurations. It looked not unlike the pattern light made on a surface after passing through a cut gemstone.
What sort of spren was this?
"Too many lies!" it hissed at him.
Startled, he jumped—and accidentally let the thing go. It darted away from him, moving along the surface of the table, and then dropped over the edge and was lost in the shadows on the floor. For a long moment, he looked at where it had disappeared, before sighing and leaving the dining room. He would look into the strange talking spren later.
For now, there were more important things to find out.
-x-x-x-
42
Sanctified
-x-x-x-
42
Sanctified
-x-x-x-
Until, one day, I heard a thrumming deep within the mountain I had made my home. It was as though the very stones had come to life, complete with a sonorous heartbeat.
-x-x-x-
Torol always had one of his ardents deliver a report to him every morning at breakfast. He'd gotten into the habit in the early days, when he and the Kholins were fighting a war on three or four fronts at once and he'd needed to know at once if one of the other highprinces had done something provocative. He'd never stopped, even once Alethkar united and something resembling a tenuous peace had settled over the highprincedoms.
The news he received changed in type, of course. Where once he could expect to have troop movements dictated to him, now he usually received much more inane intelligence. Still important, but he couldn't quite bring himself to care as much about which highprince had embarrassed himself at which party compared with learning how many thousands of men had died while he slept, and which color uniform they had been wearing.
So when he sat down to a bowl of spiced tallew porridge with Thaylen aquatic cremlings, and no ardent arrived to deliver his briefing, he grew concerned very quickly. His ardents knew that their positions were on the line if they failed in their duties, just like anyone else in his employ. What could be keeping them?
He found out not long before he finished eating. One of his ardents rushed into the dining hall, red-faced and gasping for breath. He immediately flung himself into a bow lower than any Torol had received from an ardent before—normally, despite their nominal status as slaves, the respect they showed their highprinces was tempered by their unique position of religious authority. "Forgive me…" the man wheezed, bald head shining with sweat, "for my… tardiness… Brightlord."
"Why are you so late?" Torol asked sharply. "Has something happened, or was this merely a mistake?"
"It was… both, Brightlord. I was… distracted… by something, but I… should not have… allowed it to… slow my service to you."
Torol pursed his lips. The man seemed extremely contrite—almost excessively so, but not in a way that seemed indicative of insincerity. "What was the distraction?"
The man took a few deep breaths to recover himself before straightening. "News from the Kholin warcamp, Brightlord," he said.
Torol felt a thrill—and a hint of the Thrill—flicker through him. "Don't leave it strung up, ardent—out with it. What happened in the Kholin warcamp?"
The man hesitated. He looked at once reluctant and eager; a strange combination, especially on a usually-stoic ardent. "Based on the word we received from House Kholin's ardential staff, Brightlord, a… well, a miracle."
Torol raised an eyebrow. "Those have been catching lately," he commented. "What is it this time? Did a whole regiment survive outside in the storm this time?"
"Ah, no, Brightlord. It appears the Assassin in White attacked His Majesty and Highprince Dalinar during the highstorm."
Torol blinked once, very slowly. "And… the miracle is that they are both still alive?" All that means is that Dalinar did a better job defending Elhokar than he did his brother.
"No, Brightlord—well, yes, they are both alive, but that is not the miracle. Brightlord—the Assassin in White was captured after—after attempting to kill a man with his Shardblade."
"Attempting to…?"
"The Shardblade… shattered, Brightlord. They are calling the man Shardbreaker."
Torol stared at the man. For a long moment, he thought he must have misheard. Then he frowned. "And you believe this?"
"One of our number went to the Kholin warcamp to verify, Brightlord," said the man in a hushed, reverent tone. "He saw the sixteen pieces of the broken blade."
"Shardblades don't break." It was one of the few constants of warfare. Shardbows and Shardhammers might appear to equalize battles against other Shardbearers, and horses and cavalry might grow more numerous, but Shardblades were unbreakable.
"Um, yes, Brightlord. That's why it's a miracle." The ardent cleared his throat. "Apparently the Assassin tried to run his victim through, and then a man appeared in the path of the blade and shattered it with his bare hands before vanishing again. We have been debating who this man might have been for hours, Brightlord. The current leading theory is that the Almighty has sent Jezerezeh'Elin or Talenelat'Elin back to aid mankind once again, but some are saying—"
"I will leave you to debate the theology of it," Torol said, waving a hand. A sinking feeling had started in his chest, and by now had already reached his stomach. "The man—the one the Assassin tried to run through—he survived?"
"He did, Brightlord. We haven't yet been able to send one of your own ardents to the Kholin hospitals to verify that independently, but all reports say that he is unconscious in their care. What his exact status is, no two sources agree. Some say he has been disfigured, others say he has become lighteyed, still others say that he has transformed into the giant man who broke the Blade. We will of course inform you the moment we have any reliable information on the topic."
"The man was darkeyed?" Torol asked quietly.
"So we have heard, Brightlord. Apparently he was one of the Kholin house guards."
"Which?"
The man blinked. "P-pardon?"
"Which guard, Damnation take you! Or, failing that, which Kholin was he guarding!?"
"O-oh," the man was visibly quailing, and suddenly Torol realized that he had stood up from his seat. His fists were clenched and shaking at his sides. With great effort, he composed himself and sat down.
"Have you been able to discern exactly who this man is?" Torol asked, his voice quiet and his teeth gritted.
"Ah—n-no, Brightlord. We know that the Kholin ardentia have tried to enhance the symmetry of his name, but we have no idea how similar his original name is to his new sacred moniker."
Torol vaguely remembered learning about this. Apparently some of the legendary figures of myth had taken new names as part of the ardentia's efforts to tie Vorinism to their achievements. The king who had written the storming book both Dalinar and Gavilar had been obsessed with, Nohadon, was apparently such a one. "And what," he said tightly, "is his new name?"
"Saruhas, Brightlord."
A sound like breaking glass rang in Torol's ears. It took him a moment to realize that it was breaking glass, and that his hand was bleeding quite heavily where his fist had tightened enough to shatter his wine cup. His eyes drifted towards his hand, dripping with blood and orange wine, then back to the ardent, who looked like he might have just removed his own need to visit the privy for the next few hours. "Thank you," Torol said, almost serene, "for bringing me this news. You may go."
The man fled.
Torol was normally finished with breakfast by the time Ialai arrived. She always preferred to snatch an extra hour of sleep while he dealt with the responsibilities of his army. But it felt as though the ardent had scarcely closed the servants' door when he heard the main door open behind him.
Ialai shrieked. "Torol! What—" Then she was at his side, taking his bloodied hand in both of hers, then hurriedly letting go as she felt the glass shards in his palm. He barely felt them worming their way deeper into his flesh.
"You're here early," Torol said, his voice perfectly smooth and somehow distant, as if there were an entire chasm between his ears and his lips.
"I'm late," Ialai snapped. "You should have been out of here two hours ago, Torol! What in Damnation—" She crossed the room in three quick strides and rang the bell for a servant, then returned to his side and began delicately picking the shards of glass out of his hand. The bleeding resumed as they came free. "What could have possessed you to do this to yourself?" she asked, eyes intent on her task.
Torol took a brief moment to decide how to answer her. When he looked back up, an ardent was wrapping a bandage around his hand. "I think he's been poisoned," Ialai was saying. Torol hadn't heard her sound this worried since Tailiah had been sick with the plague that had shot briefly through Kholinar ten years ago. "He's unresponsive, and you can see what he did. An involuntary spasm in the hand?"
"It could be, Brightness," said the ardent, wrapping his hand. "Boy—see to it that an apothecary and a surgeon are brought in to see to the highprince!"
Torol heard running feet fading away down the corridor. "I'm perfectly responsive," he said.
Ialai laughed shrilly. "Torol, you've heard one thing in ten I've said, at most. You probably are already off in your head again—"
"I am not." Torol tugged his arm away from the ardent and surged to his feet.
The ardent protested, "Brightlord, I haven't finished—"
"I know how to tie a bandage," Torol snapped. "I haven't been poisoned, and the glass is out of my hand. You may go."
"Paranoia?" Ialai said, but she was speaking to the ardent.
Torol slammed his injured hand against the wood of the table. The pain shot through him like the Thrill coursing in battle, clearing his mind and setting his blood aflame. "Enough!" he bellowed.
The ardent took two hurried steps back from him, but Ialai just reached out and laid a hand on the back of his own, her fingers shifting the loosened bandage. "Torol," she said softly. "Please. If you don't know what's wrong, at least let me have you tested—"
"I know exactly what is wrong. You, ardent—out. I need to speak with my wife. In private."
"Yes, Brightlord." The ardent seemed only too happy to put a closed door between him and Torol.
Ialai frowned up at him, her beautiful eyes—Tailiah's eyes, she had inherited her mother's eyes, oh Almighty why—narrowed in concern. "What happened, love?" she asked softly.
"They're sanctifying him, Ialai," Torol whispered, and his voice broke while he spoke. "They're—they're saying it's a miracle. That he is working miracles. I—I can't—"
"Who?" Ialai asked, staring at him in confusion. "Dalinar?"
"Sarus." The name left his lips like the vilest oath in any language of men.
Ialai's eyes widened. "What? Why? How?"
"The Assassin in White tried to run him through with a Shardblade," Torol croaked. "The Shardblade broke, Ialai."
Ialai's hands had come up to cover her mouth. Tears were glittering in her eyes. Had Tailiah cried, when he banished her into thin air? Had it hurt? Had it been frightening? Oh, Almighty why why why WHY WHY
Torol threw his arms around his wife, buried his face in her shoulder, and wept. He felt her shaking against him, felt her own tears dampening his coat. "This is impossible," she muttered, her voice muffled against the fabric. "This—they're lying to you. They have to be."
"For what?" Torol demanded. "Not a single one of the ardents I have here on the Plains ever met the boy. Even if they had, only a few people ever knew what happened to him. And if it were untrue, we would know in a matter of minutes just by listening to the rumors. Even ardents aren't stupid enough to risk being put to death for no reason at all. They're calling him Saruhas, Ialai! They're—as if he were a Herald, or a king of the Heraldic Epochs! They're calling him Shardbreaker! Him! The man who killed—who killed—"
WHY
They clung to one another, there in the dining room of their war palace. Torol felt as if the Shattered Plains had crumbled away, leaving him standing on a single island surrounded by bottomless cliffs, and hearing the rumble of a highstorm on a horizon. He didn't know yet whether he would brave the highstorm on the exposed rock, or if he would throw himself into the blackness.
But at length, both of their eyes grew dry. Their breathing calmed; their shaking slowed.
"I do not think I will be leaving the palace today," Torol whispered.
"Nor I, husband. Nor I. We must at least send someone to verify these rumors."
"Agreed. I'll send Latharil. He's reliable, cynical, loyal, and not prone to hysterics."
For a long moment they stood there, the late morning sun streaming gold into the room through the open shutters, outlining Ialai's hair in a honeyed halo. "And if they turn out to be true?" she finally asked.
"Then we kill him," Torol said simply. "No more biding our time, no more waiting for the opportune moment, no more letting him escape. If It is true, we kill him now, martyrdom or no martyrdom, before he has time to leverage this new fame into whatever he desires."
"If he truly survived a Shardblade—"
"We won't use a Shardblade," Torol said flatly. "Side-sword, spear, arrow, poison, rope, hammer, I don't care. Any of them. All of them. I will not suffer him to survive this."
Ialai nodded against him.
It took them a while longer before they parted and were ready to leave the room. Just before they did, Torol saw something out of the corner of his eye. He paused.
Ialai stopped at the door, looking back at him. "Husband?"
"Go," Torol said, looking at her; but his attention was fixed on the shape in his peripheral vision. "I just remembered something. Send for Latharil—I'll be there before he arrives."
"Very well," said Ialai, looking at him with concern. But she turned and left all the same, closing the door softly behind her.
Torol crossed the room, walking slowly, nonchalantly, towards some of the food he had abandoned on the table. Then, as he passed the thing, he lunged.
His fingers hit it just before it could escape. He felt the wood of the table vibrating under his fingers. The thing hissed sharply, like the sound of cold water being poured onto a heated stone.
He stared. It was a spren—what else could it be? It looked a bit like a glyph, if glyphs moved and shifted constantly in strange, incredibly complex shapes and configurations. It looked not unlike the pattern light made on a surface after passing through a cut gemstone.
What sort of spren was this?
"Too many lies!" it hissed at him.
Startled, he jumped—and accidentally let the thing go. It darted away from him, moving along the surface of the table, and then dropped over the edge and was lost in the shadows on the floor. For a long moment, he looked at where it had disappeared, before sighing and leaving the dining room. He would look into the strange talking spren later.
For now, there were more important things to find out.
