This story takes place in a shared multiverse with my Worm/Lord of the Rings crossover Ring-Maker. While I don't intend to bring in Worm elements beyond Elysium, and his abilities will be deconstructed in a Cosmere way, that is the connection here.
I've been having a lot of trouble keeping up on both this story and Empyrean for quite a while now. More, though not all, of the interruptions have been on Empyrean, but it's been a problem for both. And as of right now I have no chapters written for either story, and not even a clear outline for what to write next. I have only a very basic sketch of the first chunk of Part 3 of Of Many Colors, and only a handful of scattered notes for the next couple chapters of Empyrean. I'm simply not able to outline properly when I'm scrambling to get my chapters written by the deadlines.
So I'm going on hiatus—for both stories. I realize those words are filled with dread for anyone who has been reading fanfiction for more than a few weeks. We've all seen stories 'go on hiatus' and then end up abandoned without even the courtesy of a clear announcement. This is not one of those cases. I hope the fact that I've been updating on a moderately regular schedule for years now is enough to earn me at least some trust on that score. I do not think this will be a long break. I expect to be back before the end of June, actually, but I don't want to commit to that just yet.
I have three things I want to have done before I come back:
A complete outline of the rest of Empyrean. I believe I'm more than halfway through the story, probably 60-65%, and it's high time I had a full outline.
An outline of Part 3 of Of Many Colors. I still don't know what's happening in Part 3 beyond the first few chapters. I have a lot of specific ideas for things to happen later on, but they haven't crystallized into a clear thread.
At least three chapters of each story drafted and in the pipeline.
If I was at my best, I could theoretically have all of that done in less than two weeks. More realistically, it'll take me a few. But I have clear goals, and a clear roadmap, and these will set me up for success with (hopefully) minimal interruptions after I return.
Sorry to have to do this. It sucks for me as much as for all of you. Hopefully it won't be long.
Why was Ungoliath so fearsome? How powerful/dangerous would be her spawn? Oh I read the wiki, but honestly she sounds kind of a heel. Sure she scared Melkor, but the way its written she doesn't inspire dread or wonder. Ancalagon reads far more badass, even if he was a gecko compared to Ungoliath.
Why was Ungoliath so fearsome? How powerful/dangerous would be her spawn? Oh I read the wiki, but honestly she sounds kind of a heel. Sure she scared Melkor, but the way its written she doesn't inspire dread or wonder. Ancalagon reads far more badass, even if he was a gecko compared to Ungoliath.
to put that into context, you know your, well you? yeah, you're made of song.
so is the sun
the moon
the ground under your feet.
the air in your lungs
the thoughts in your head
and the soul in your heart.
ungoliant unmakes all of that. she stops the song. ungoliant or to be more exact, the concept ungoliant embodies, is an existential threat to everything.
melkor might raise armies, bring devastation unmatched to creation, may martial the incredible might he was named for, but he can't end things. not truly, his goal is beyond his power. it is not beyond ungoliant.
more than morgoth, more than ancalagon, more than any creature of darkness or destruction.
the Silence is the end of everything. for if left to work, it will swallow all things and drown out the music that is creation.
that's why ungoliant is a big deal narratively.
physically? you don't fight ungoliant, you survive her.
like, ungoliant went to the house of God and ate his trees, then left completely unharmed.
the same house where all the incredibly powerful Archangels, who pretty much all could individually kill Ancalagon the black, live.
and they tried to kill The Silence That Devours. really hard. best they managed was making it leave, by driving off melkor instead.
like, in the silmarilion, No One killed ungoliant. she just left one day, in search of better food because middle earth was a bit bland for her tastes after drinking all of The Light That Came Before Dawn.
she never found anything that suited her new more refined tastes and starved to death. but not before spawning many young.
comparing ancalagon to ungoliant is a bit like comparing a nuclear bomb to the Sun. sure the sun doesn't look all that threatening when it's so far away and the nuke is right there, but it needs only shift in your direction the tiniest amount to end you and everything you know and love. it might not even know you are there, it probably doesn't in fact, but that won't save you.
and if you could see the sun closer up, and not be instantly erased by it, you'd realise that the sun is a giant lidless eye filled with hateful fire that only looks pleasant when behind an atmosphere to protect from the worst of it's dread glare and at any moment, it could end eveything on earth. not out of hate, or intent, simply by the fact of it existing.
ancalagon is a weapon purpose built to cause devastation. The Silence simply is. it exists, and that is an existential problem you just have to live with and hope it never actually becomes relevant. much like the fact that a poorly timed solar flare could just end modern civilisation by destroying all of our unshielded technology in a single event.
Why was Ungoliath so fearsome? How powerful/dangerous would be her spawn? Oh I read the wiki, but honestly she sounds kind of a heel. Sure she scared Melkor, but the way its written she doesn't inspire dread or wonder. Ancalagon reads far more badass, even if he was a gecko compared to Ungoliath.
To provide some background, it is not entirely clear from Tolkien's own writings what exactly he envisioned in Ungoliant. Like Tom Bombadil, she defies categorization. The Silmarillion implies that the Elves, at least, thought her possibly a Maia. However, she explicitly connected with a concept of 'unlight', an oppositional force to light in a way that mere darkness is not.
Tolkien does not linger on her, but that concept along makes her perhaps the most classically eldritch entity in the entire Legendarium. Couple that with her story of consuming the light of the Two Trees—almost all the light that existed in the universe, at that point—and eventually consuming even herself in her endless hunger, and you have a very rich foundation on which to build an eldritch horror.
But it would be accurate to say that Tolkien didn't entirely do that within his own writings. It doesn't seem to have been something he was particularly concerned with doing. I think the Ungoliant I have been writing is a fairly reasonable extension of what we have in canon, but she is that—an extension. Tolkien does dwell more on Ancalagon the Black than he does on Ungoliant, because dragons as a storytelling device were something Tolkien himself had spent much of his life studying, whereas I have no idea if he even read Lovecraft and rather doubt he liked him if he did.
Hilariously, I'm not sure this is true. Ancalagon is barely in Tolkien's writings. We know a lot more of what he is because Tolkien wrote more extensively on dragons in general, but Ancalagon gets effectively three mentions in all of Tolkiens writings. One is the one from the published Silmarilllion, where he dies to Eärendil, one is from the Lord of the Rings, where it's mentioned even his fire could not destroy the One Ring, and the last is one from his later years where he's mentioned being killed by Túrin in the Last Battle.
While Tolkien never focuses much on Ungoliant or her origins, she has much more material. Including one version where she is in fact believed to be a spirit of the Void (believed because in that version, even the Valar don't know what she is).
While Tolkien never focuses much on Ungoliant or her origins, she has much more material. Including one version where she is in fact believed to be a spirit of the Void (believed because in that version, even the Valar don't know what she is).
I think that the main thing that truly carries her over into Eldritch Horror is something that brings her close with Ziz, Behemoth and the Leviathan of early Christianity:
One by one, the other Fused were each assigned one of Elysium's Fragments, until at last the only one remaining was Raboniel herself. And to you, Raboniel of the fannahn-im, Elysium murmured, you with a mind like diamond and a will of iron, I bestow a Fragment befitting your curiosity, a Fragment I have guarded jealously for many cycles. To you I offer the Engineer. May all your questions find their answers.
I can confirm that the Engineer is not PtV. That does not mean it's not dangerous. I'm still workshopping so I don't want to confirm, but I think it's going to be analogous to a different canon Worm character's Fragment.
Thanks to Elran and @BeaconHill for betareading, and to Phinnia for the commissioned icon.
-x-x-x-
74
Investiture
-x-x-x-
I don't think it would be wise for me to act directly and personally against Rayse. I maintain that we Shards must remain separate whenever possible.
-x-x-x-
Sarus sat on the rocky hill of a plateau overlooking Narak. The Weeping rain pattered against the outcrop he was using for shelter, occasionally spattering the thick canvas he'd draped over himself for warmth at Archive's insistence. Even through all his protection, the cold felt bitter—frustratingly so.
"You should be resting," Archive said softly from her perch on his knee. She didn't look at him. Her eyes, like his own, were fixed on the procession just outside the city. "You have no need to be here. Your health still is not."
"Need, no," Sarus agreed quietly. "But this occasion won't wait for my recovery. I'd rather not miss it."
"Why?" Archive asked.
Sarus' lips twisted into something that might have been a smile or a grimace. "I'm not sure."
At the head of the procession, the ardent raised his hands to the sky. Sarus had placed himself far enough that none of the attendees would be able to identify him out of the sentries stationed all around the city, but with his hearing the ardent's words, while quiet, were entirely audible.
"Glorious Almighty, the man beholds Halls Tranquiline. To welcome him, bid him welcome to Tranquiline Halls. Behold, man, the Almighty's glory."
It was one of several traditional keteks spoken at the funeral for honored lighteyes in Alethkar. As with everything in Alethi society, it was rigidly stratified by caste. There were keteks for the king at first dahn, for highprinces at second dahn, for highlords at third dahn, and so on. There was even a single ketek to be spoken at the funeral of any tenner who could afford an ardent's services at their funeral. There were, of course, no such rites for darkeyes.
The ardent gestured to the woman beside him, who approached the body on the slab between the ardent and the mourners. Torol Sadeas looked almost at peace. Almost, save for the patch of embroidered green-and-gold cloth covering the ruin where one of his eyes had been. The woman reached out, the gemstones and metal of her Soulcaster glinting on her wrist, and laid her hand on the dead highprince's breast. From where her skin touched his robes, the matter transformed. Stone replaced cloth and flesh alike, until after only a moment all that was left of Torol Sadeas was an impossibly detailed statue.
Archive made a disapproving sound. At his questioning glance, she quietly said, "They use an Elsecaller's abilities to revere what I revile. It is… unsettling."
"Yes," Sarus agreed. "Yes, I suppose it is."
The transformation was done. The sermon continued, the ardent delivering keteks and speeches recycled from ancient, half-remembered and entirely misrepresented traditions. Sarus stared down at the statue of the man who had been so many different things to him—the distant father to his dearest friend, the murderer of his poor mother, the slaver who took joy in his suffering. He watched as Ialai Sadeas bent over the man's bier, her tears mingling with the rain as it pattered against the stone. The only Kholin in attendance was Elhokar, who hung awkwardly near the back of the procession.
"I've seen enough," Sarus said quietly. "Help me up?"
Archive nodded, and as she stood she took shape, transforming into a rod of black metal. When he needed a walking stick, she became something between a quarterstaff and a mace, with four sharp flanges on one end. He used her to lever himself upright. Slowly, leaning heavily on her, he hobbled down the hill towards one of the bridges leading back towards the city.
"Speaking of our Surges," he said aloud, his voice rasping in his throat. "I've sworn the Second Ideal now. That's when Kaladin started gaining conscious control of his Surges, isn't it?"
Do not compare yourself to Kaladin, Archive cautioned, her voice passing into his mind through the link between their souls, rather than by way of his ears. Not because he is better or worse than you, but because he is a Windrunner and you are an Elsecaller. Many differences are. Your Surges are the most difficult, the most complex. Kaladin used Gravitation accidentally on every bridge run, even before swearing the First Ideal, because Gravitation is intuitive. Simple. By comparison, your Surges are opaque. This is why you can already manifest me as a physical object, where Kaladin could not manifest Syl until he swore his Third Ideal.
"Then I won't begin Surgebinding until after my next Ideal?"
I did not say this. We can begin training now. But where Kaladin had already developed an intuition for using Stormlight by the time he gained conscious control of his Surges, you will be starting from the beginning. It will be difficult. It will take time.
"Fine," Sarus said. "It's not as if I've much better to do while I can barely walk."
His recovery from the Everstorm was taking even longer than recovering from Szeth's attack had. More than a week had passed already.
Kaladin had left to scout southern Alethkar only a few days after Sarus had awakened. Communication had been all but cut off with the kingdom at large, except by spanreed, and what little anyone heard from Kholinar was never good news. The city was practically in open revolt, apparently as a result of some truly spectacular mismanagement by Queen Aesudan.
And, of course, the specter hanging over the entire disorderly mess was the Everstorm, passing repeatedly over Roshar from west to east.
Sarus had ideas for what needed to be done, who would be best to do it, how they might be convinced. But they were only vague suppositions at this point. To make more concrete plans, he needed more information. Real intelligence regarding the state of Alethkar and Kholinar, ideally not filtered through the biases of lighteyed scholars with spanreed access and a connection to Navani Kholin.
And, even more importantly, he needed to know what the Everstorm was doing. He was certain, down to his still-aching bones, that it was more than just a storm blowing down the buildings of everyone who had never thought to reinforce the leeward side of their constructions. The Everstorm was the first stage in Melkor's—Odium's—invasion of Roshar, a plan which the dark god had been constructing for well over four millennia. He would not stop at knocking over a few houses.
Sarus took a somewhat circuitous route back to the Oathgate, minimizing the chance of running into any of the mourners. It took him several minutes to hobble back to the platform.
"Welcome back, Sarus," Shallan said, giving him one of her many-layered smiles. "Back to Urithiru?"
"Please," Sarus said. "I'd rather not wait for all the mourners, if it's all the same to you." He didn't much relish the idea of traveling back to the tower in the company of people mourning Torol Sadeas.
She shrugged. "It doesn't take much Stormlight to transport just one person, and you're the one person who can actually replenish our Stormlight right now," she said. "Up to you."
She embedded her Shardblade into the slot in the gate, and rotated the panel. There was a momentary sense of disorientation, a sudden surge in the everpresent music of the world that only Sarus could hear—and then they were back in Urithiru. The lamps around the walls of the Oathgate dimmed only slightly, and one, already dim, went out entirely.
"Thank you," he said, passing her his sphere pouch. She held it up and breathed in.
Nothing happened.
He frowned. "What?"
She blinked down at the spheres, glimmering with orange light. "It's… not working," she said. "Why isn't it working?"
"Mmm." Her spren, Pattern, hummed where he rested against the wall, a play of shadows against the stone. "We have no Connection to this Investiture."
Sarus blinked at him. "Kaladin and I have always been able to use the Stormlight I generate," he said. "Why wouldn't you be able to?"
"A better question is, why can Kaladin use it?" he asked. "We do not have a Connection to this Investiture. Why does he?"
Sarus frowned at him. "Investiture. Is that another word for Stormlight?"
"Mmmm. Lies. But also, true."
Sarus took a steadying breath. "Are you capable of answering my questions plainly, Pattern?"
"No," Pattern said simply. "My memory, mmm, is incomplete. Stormlight is Investiture, but Investiture is not Stormlight. Perhaps."
"Brightness Navani might know something," Shallan suggested. "Or Dalinar. If anyone would know more, it would be the Stormfather, and Dalinar can ask him now."
"Assuming the Stormfather is willing to answer his questions," Sarus said. "Not exactly a conventional Radiant-spren pair, those two."
Shallan grinned. "Are any of us conventional? There aren't even half a dozen yet. It might be worth asking? Either way…" she passed him back the sphere pouch. "Could you invest that empty gem for me?"
He took the spheres, breathed in the Stormlight, and infused the lamp. "You should return to Narak," he said. "I'll wait until you leave, to make sure you can still use the Gate even though it's infused with my… Investiture."
She nodded. As he stepped off the platform, she inserted her Blade and rotated the structure. A moment later, she vanished.
Archive hummed thoughtfully in his mind. The fabrial can use your Stormlight, even if the Radiant activating it cannot. Interesting.
"Unless it was only using the normal Stormlight in the other lamps."
Possible. We will have to experiment.
"Do you have any idea what makes Kaladin different from the other Radiants?" Sarus asked.
She was quiet for a moment. I feel it, she said. When he uses your Stormlight—it feels as if the energy is passing through me.
"Why on earth would that be happening?" Sarus asked blankly.
The first time he used your Stormlight—the first time we noticed you were generating it—was after he was strung up during the highstorm, she said. After I—foolishly, dangerously—gave him the words of the First Ideal. Perhaps that somehow connected the Nahel bond between him and Syl to me—and, through me, to you?
"That… makes as much sense as anything else," Sarus said slowly, starting to hobble back into the tower proper. "Then what exactly is Investiture?"
A general term, I believe.
"A general term for what?"
What Stormlight is. Stormlight is the Investiture of Honor. But other gods are, and so other forms of Investiture are. Other Lights.
"Such as Odium and Cultivation."
And others, elsewhere in the cosmere, yes.
"Then what form of Investiture am I generating, if not that of Honor? Cultivation?"
Doubtful. Cryptics are nearly as much of Cultivation as inkspren are. If it were Cultivation's Investiture you were generating, I suspect Shallan would be able to use it.
"Odium, then?"
No.
Sarus grimaced as he slowly tottered down a corridor. "Are you sure?"
Yes. The Everstorm is made of Odium's Voidlight. It is not the same as what you create.
"But why would I have a Connection of any sort to a god not even on Roshar?"
This question is, Archive said.
Sarus turned off the corridor into a room he knew had not yet been claimed by anyone. Despite its disuse, there was already some stone furniture inside—a slab that might once have been the base for a bed, and a ledge at the perfect height for a seat. Sarus carefully leveraged himself down into the makeshift chair with a sigh. "All right," he said. "Surgebinding. How do I begin training?"
Archive transformed back from a rod of lightweight metal into her usual shape, at her full human size. She sat on the bed-slab, facing him. "First," she said, "I recommend we start with Transportation."
"Because I've already used it?" he asked. "When Kaladin and I came to Narak?"
"I am… unsure whether that was the Surge of Transportation," Archive said. "If it was, it was far more advanced Surgebinding than I would have expected so recently after your Second Ideal. The Surge of Transportation is capable of movement within one Realm, I believe, but that is difficult and dangerous. It is much easier to move between the Physical and Cognitive Realms."
"Like you did, to come here?"
She nodded. "Although I made use of a permanent Perpendicularity—a place where the Realms intersect. The Surge of Transportation allows an Elsecaller or Willshaper to create a temporary Perpendicularity."
Sarus leaned back against the wall, considering her. "It seems to me that my Surges are much more… discrete than Kaladin's. Either I do open a Perpendicularity, or I do not. Either I do transform matter with Soulcasting, or I do not."
She nodded. "This difficulty is," she agreed. "While Kaladin learned Gravitation, he could invest as much or as little Stormlight as he had, achieving half-measures where he lacked the resources for more. You have fewer options. But not no options. You can try to create a very small, very brief Perpendicularity—too small to travel through, but perhaps large enough to see through."
"A window into the Cognitive Realm."
"Shadesmar, we call it," Archive said. "Try."
"How?"
She shrugged. "Draw out your Stormlight and infuse the very space before you. No spheres are. Only the stuff of the cosmere itself."
Sarus reached for his sphere pouch and pulled out a glowing orange clearmark. With a sharp inhalation, he drew the Stormlight—no, the Investiture, it wasn't Stormlight at all—into himself. Holding it inside, he lowered the sphere and reached out with his other hand. Then he breathed out, trying to will the Light into the air before him.
A puff of blue-green mist floated out of his nose. Nothing else happened.
"Again," Archive ordered.
"I don't feel like I'm doing anything," Sarus said.
"A problem is," Archive agreed. "But Surgebinding is an internal process, the Elsecaller Surges particularly. I cannot see inside your mind, so I cannot see what you are doing rightly or wrongly. A change is, and another attempt follows."
Sarus nodded, pulled out another sphere, and tried again. This time, he tried to imagine the air before him tearing open, imagining his Investiture as a spear ripping flesh apart. Nothing.
"Again," Archive said.
Another sphere, another breath in, another breath out. This time, he imagined his Investiture as a hand reaching out to grasp the handle of a door. Nothing.
"Again."
Again. This time, he imagined his Investiture as a sphere, infused with Light, dropped into a pool of still water.
An image appeared in the ripples before his eyes. He could see a spire of crystal a hundred or more feet ahead of him, brilliantly luminous. Far below him was a sea of black beads, small enough to resemble a fluid at this distance, but glinting individually in the pale light of a distant sun hanging immobile in the western sky, dim and white, framed by thin strips of cloud streaking outward like a starburst.
Then his Investiture ran out, and the image vanished.
"Excellent," Archive said.
"Was that…?" he asked, breathing heavily.
"Shadesmar, yes," she said. "My home."
He looked at her. "Do you miss it?"
She seemed to give this question due consideration. "Sometimes," she said. "Not often."
There was the sound of someone bustling down the corridor outside. Sarus looked towards the open door as they passed and met the eyes of a soldier in Kholin blue. The man blinked. "Oh, Shardbreaker, there you are!" he said. "Brightlord Dalinar has asked for a meeting of the Radiants. Are you well enough to go to him?"
Sarus reached out, and Archive flowed into the shape of a staff between his fingers without being asked. With her help, he rose to his feet. "Certainly," he said. "Lead the way."
Thanks to Elran and BeaconHill for betareading, and to Phinnia for the commissioned icon.
-x-x-x-
75
Design
-x-x-x-
Even if I was willing to leave the Nalthian system, I don't think I should come to Roshar personally.
-x-x-x-
"…And may we all be welcomed, as he is welcomed, in the Almighty's embrace."
Elhokar found himself tensing as the ardent's sermon ended. What should I do? he thought desperately, staring at the stone body of the man who had been like an uncle to him—but who had also tried to have his actual uncle, and half his family, killed, and who had all but openly tried to depose Elhokar in the past several months. Do I stay and offer condolences? Do I leave now that I've been seen at the funeral? What should I do?
He looked at Ialai, standing beside her husband's bier. She didn't so much as glance his way. Her eyes were fixed on her husband's face, the rain soaking through her long safehand sleeve where it rested on Sadeas' stone chest.
None of the other mourners seemed to be paying him much attention, either. That was a slight, wasn't it? Meridas Amaram had already approached Ialai and was standing silently beside her, looking down at the body of his Highprince. The other Brightlords of the Sadeas princedom—all of them who had been on the Shattered Plains—gathered closer to pay their respects. Not one tried to get the king's attention, or draw him into a conversation. Which was good, he supposed. It would have been disrespectful to be so openly political at a funeral. But that sort of politicking was also expected when he made a public appearance. That there was none of it here…
"Your Majesty," the leader of his five guards for the afternoon said quietly beside him, his Bridge Four tattoo glistening in the rain. "Shall we return to the tower?"
Elhokar looked at all these people, grieving for a man he wasn't sure he was even allowed to grieve, and sighed. "Yes," he said. "Yes, let's go."
The walk back to the Oathgate was silent. Elhokar noticed as he and his guards walked that they weren't alone. Many of the funeral's attendees—those too low-rank to really be considered true mourners, but who owed fealty to House Sadeas and therefore couldn't ignore the prince's death—were taking his departure as a sign that they could leave as well. None of them approached him. This wasn't unusual on its face. These men ranged from tenth to sixth dahn, most of them far too insignificant to presume upon their king's time. Elhokar's father would never have tolerated any of them daring to speak to him without his invitation.
Somehow, the fact that none of them tried still felt wrong to Elhokar. It felt like all of them were watching him out of the corners of their eyes, judging him, finding him wanting. Every single one of these men and women, all of them nominally far beneath him—they weren't supposed to try and speak to him, but some part of him couldn't help but wonder if part of the reason they didn't was because they thought he was beneath them.
Part of him couldn't help but wonder if they were right.
He shook the thoughts off as they reached the Oathgate platform. Brightness Shallan was seated on a stool inside, sketching something on a pad in her lap. She looked up as they approached. "Your Majesty," she said, standing and bowing.
False respect, he thought, watching her rise again. She's a Knight Radiant. She is better than me. She just shows respect because it's not worth the hassle of dismantling my authority. But she could. Any of them could.
"Brightness," he said. "Return us to Urithiru, if you please."
She lazily stretched out a hand and summoned her Shardblade, heedless of the usual ten-heartbeat requirement. "Of course, Your Majesty. Everyone into the chamber, please."
They filed in. There were enough of them that they should have all been moderately crowded together—not pressed against one another, but near enough that no one would be beyond an arm's length from their neighbor. Instead, Elhokar found himself alone, save for his guards, while the entire rest of the group bunched together on the other side of the chamber.
They're giving me space, as they should for their king, he thought.
They're trying to stay away from someone who could bring calamity on their heads at any moment, he thought.
They're avoiding the village idiot, he thought.
The lamps—he noticed one glowed orange, instead of pale blue—dimmed as Brightness Shallan operated the Oathgate. "Here we are," she said. "I'll return to the Shattered Plains to wait for the next group, Your Majesty."
"Very good," he said stiffly, and walked away, his guards following. Behind him, he heard Brightness Shallan's other passengers shuffling out, talking to one another in low, indistinct voices.
-x-x-x-
"There has been no new information from Kholinar, Your Majesty," said one of Elhokar's secretaries. She was a woman in her early twenties, with pale blue eyes and slightly darker skin than the average Alethi, perhaps from Azish ancestry.
She was quite pretty, Elhokar couldn't help but notice. That was something he'd had a very difficult time learning to notice, when he was younger. It had been necessary—one of the only things his father had asked him every time Elhokar came with him to any sort of diplomatic function within the kingdom was whether any of the young noble ladies caught his eye. It had been necessary to learn to distinguish that sort of thing, unless he wanted to get another of his father's disappointed looks. But now he was married, had been for most of a decade, and that hard-won discerning eye just refused to stop catching on every other woman under the age of forty-five.
He'd never strayed, of course. The very idea made him slightly ill. Even harboring the thoughts was sin enough for him.
"Several of the more experienced scribes are working on compiling the information we do have from different sources to prepare a full report on the state of Alethkar," the secretary continued. "That should be ready sometime tomorrow. With your permission, one of them will come to read it to you then."
"Good. Yes. Thank you."
She bowed. "Will there be anything else, Your Majesty?"
"No." Do I thank her? No, I just thanked her. Tell her to go? Ask her to leave? Do I need something else?
Before he could figure out what he should say, she had already walked out, shutting the door behind her. Elhokar was left alone, his guards gathered outside the door.
He leaned back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling. The cold mountain sunlight filtered in through his window. Urithiru's windows were nothing like those of Alethkar, with their wooden slats and reinforced frame to shutter against the highstorms. Urithiru's windows were pure and clear panes of glass, with no reinforcement. The only shutters were frail things meant only to keep light out, not to stand up to highstorm winds.
The tower was high enough in the mountains that the everpresent clouds of the Weeping blanketed the valleys below. Mother's scholars had theorized that even highstorms might pass beneath the tower, meaning the windows had no need for reinforcement. Elhokar believed them, especially given that the Everstorm had. Nonetheless, he did not intend to be near a window when the first true highstorm of the year arrived.
He let his head slump down against his shoulder as he looked down at the map on his desk. It was a painted depiction of Alethkar, with each of the ten highprincedoms filled in with the color of their ruling house—blue for Kholin, green for Sadeas, red for Roion, and so on. His eyes found the Sadeas princedom in the nation's northwestern corner.
Why did you have to make so many enemies, Sadeas? Elhokar wondered. I wanted your help. I needed your help. Look at me now, barely a puppet to my own uncle. You could have helped me balance his authority, if only you could have controlled your ambitions. If only I had been better at managing you.
He sighed, glancing at the Kholin princedom. At the dot labeled with the familiar glyphs for Kholinar. What good am I doing here? Uncle Dalinar is a Radiant now—a Bondsmith. He's the one who finally united the princedoms, not me. He's the one who finally pushed for us to finish avenging my father. How pathetic—the king's son, his heir, couldn't make that happen for five years, until finally his brother decided to do it himself.
…Maybe that's not the only thing Uncle Dalinar would do better than me.
It wasn't the first time such a thought had occurred to him. They had become harder to ignore over the past few years. Unbidden, the sight of Uncle Dalinar standing over him, his bloodstained, Shardplate boot on Elhokar's chest, glaring down at him, telling him what he would do next. He shuddered, his chest tightening painfully at the memory once again. He'd been afraid, for a moment, that his uncle had finally had enough of his incompetence. That Alethkar was about to crown a new king. And he hadn't been able to ignore the insistent voice in his head that maybe that would be for the best.
He shouldn't have had to go that far, Elhokar thought, not for the first time. I should have already been doing the things he wanted done. The things we all needed done. If I'd listened to him from the beginning, maybe we wouldn't be in this mess. Maybe we could have finished the war in a year or two, before the Parshendi had time to learn about their 'stormform' and summon the Everstorm. Maybe Kholinar wouldn't be in revolt. Maybe I would be home, being a father to my son, instead of half a world away, hiding in a tower straight out of legend.
With a sudden burst of motion, Elhokar stood up, clenching his eyes tightly shut. These thoughts were always there, but sometimes they were louder. Today was particularly bad. He felt like a lone building in a highstorm, listening to the winds roar around him, waiting in dread and anticipation for a boulder or an uprooted tree to knock him over.
He opened his eyes with a shuddering exhale, trying to get his thoughts back under control. You are King of Alethkar, he told himself. The greatest nation on Roshar, son of the greatest monarch in a thousand years. You must not be a disappointment.
His eyes caught on a momentary flash of movement out of the corner of his eye. It was his mirror. He'd thought about having all mirrors removed from his rooms, but that would have been another sign of weakness. He felt his entire body tense at the twitch in the glass. He knew that if he turned to look, he would see the strange figure again, hovering over his reflection's shoulder, its head a strange mess of shifting patterns, watching him like his own personal Voidbringer.
Only… he knew what the Voidbringers were, now, didn't he? Brightness Shallan had brought Jasnah's research, and he had heard the reports of the battle at the center of the Plains. The Voidbringers were the parshmen, so Jasnah—his heart clenched in still-fresh grief—had claimed. So… what was the shape in the mirror? Just a figment of his imagination, or—
What does it matter that he's a prospective Radiant, just like you and me?
—Or something else. Jerkily, forcing his muscles to obey, Elhokar turned to face the mirror fully. The figure was there, hovering over his shoulder, watching him with its eyeless, faceless head of mind-bending, twisting lines.
He swallowed, resisting the urge to look behind him. Every time he'd done that in the past, when he looked back at the mirror, the figure was gone. This time, he stared it down. And then he spoke.
"Life before death," he whispered. The words had been whispered throughout the tower lately, spread by the men of Bridge Four who knew Kaladin and Sarus, by Uncle Dalinar's aides who had heard of his confrontation with the Stormfather, by Adolin telling everyone who would listen about his Radiant brother. "Strength before weakness. Journey before destination."
The figure behind him in the mirror moved, stepping around him. And at his feet, he saw a shadow—a shadow which resembled the strange pattern of its head in the mirror, come around to rest in front of him, as if it were the figure in the mirror, only outside the mirror all he could see was the shadow its strange head left on the floor. And then, in a soft, feminine voice, it said, "Finally."
"You're a spren," Elhokar breathed. "Like Brightness Shallan's—Pattern."
"Yes," it—she?—said. "A Cryptic. Do you have any idea how long I've been waiting on you? I hope you appreciate it. Patience doesn't come naturally to me."
"I'm sorry."
She chuckled. It was an odd sound, seeming to echo around him. "Keep feeding me lies like that and I'll forgive you eventually."
"What is your name?" Elhokar asked.
"Don't know," she said cheerfully. "Doubt you'd be able to say it anyway. I don't think we Cryptics give each other names that would make sense to you. That's why Shallan's spren is just called Pattern, because he looked to her like a pattern on the wall. At least, that's what I assume happened. Call me—I don't know, Design."
"Design," he said faintly. "Very well. You don't… sound much like him."
She snorted. It was an exceedingly unladylike sound. "Mmmm, if you insist, mmmm, I can, mmm, add some humming, mmm," she said mockingly. "Or I could just talk like a normal person. I'd think that'd be easier, personally."
"I… suppose so." He blinked a few times, staring at her—his eyes darting from the… design on the floor to the shape in his mirror. "Why can I see you in the mirror?"
"Don't know," she said. "I just started messing with you because I noticed you could and I figured it was the safest way to get your attention."
"I thought I was going mad!" he exclaimed. "For years I've thought I was going mad!"
"Madness might be an improvement," she said dryly, "if the people you surround yourself with are what passes for sane around here. Besides, you have to be a little cracked to form a Nahel bond. Otherwise, what is it supposed to latch onto?"
He stared helplessly at her for a long moment, suddenly aware that his heart had settled, that he was no longer panicking. The strange, awful shape in his mirror had lost all its dread when he learned that it was this… person, snarky and dry and self-satisfied. "I… I don't…" He shook his head. "That wasn't kind. That wasn't right."
"I'm a Cryptic. We're not attached to being either. You want kindness, find a cultivationspren."
He stared at her for a long moment. Then he turned away. "Come on."
"Hm? Where to?"
He didn't answer. He just opened the door. "Guard?" he said. "Could you take me to my uncle? I believe he's meeting with the other Radiants right now."
Thanks to Elran and @BeaconHill for betareading, and to Phinnia for the commissioned icon.
-x-x-x-
76
Find a Way
-x-x-x-
But that doesn't mean I can't help you.
-x-x-x-
"I don't think this makes much sense," Rlain said to the Rhythm of Skepticism, though he still allowed Eshonai's hand on his wrist to pull him along.
"If you think I'm going to a meeting with half a dozen of the most important humans on Roshar, all of whom have plenty of reasons to want me dead, without the one Listener they actually trust, you're crazy," Eshonai said to Amusement.
"I don't know how much they do trust me anymore," Rlain cautioned her. "Sarus does, I think—he knew about me for months, and never turned me in—and Kaladin let me go after finding out, but I have no idea how Highprince Dalinar, Renarin, or Brightness Shallan will react."
She shot him a look. "That's another reason I want you with me. You understand what all of their titles mean. If I was going in there alone I'd have no idea what to call anyone."
He shrugged helplessly, humming to Consideration. "I don't think it matters as much as they like to pretend. Particularly not to Kaladin or Renarin. I don't know Shallan or Dalinar well, but I doubt they'd make an issue of it either. I only learned because Sarus is so strict about using the titles for lighteyes, and I don't think that's because he particularly cares about them."
"Then why?"
"Because…" Rlain paused, trying to put words to an understanding of his friend and mentor that had become instinctive. "Sarus likes to be whatever people want him to be," he said finally. "Or what they expect, or both. Not every lighteyes expects or wants every darkeyes they interact with to treat them with the sort of strict respect all of the Alethi traditions create, but some do. And those that don't, in Sarus' mind, never mind it. So it costs him nothing to use those titles, to use them almost religiously, because it's easy for him and sometimes it can give him an advantage. He approaches everything in his life that way—tactically." He thought back to what little he had heard, from both Kaladin and Sarus, about the confrontation in the warcamps a few weeks ago. "Most of the time, at least."
Eshonai was frowning. "That seems like a difficult way to live," she said, humming to Confusion. "Especially without the Rhythms. He sounds like… like everything the oldest songs say about humans. That they live their lives surrounded in a shell of lies, and never let their walls down for anyone."
Rlain softly hummed to Praise. "I don't think anyone is more afraid of that than Sarus himself."
They emerged onto the high floor where the Gallery of Maps had been established, stepping out of the strange fabrial lift. There were several such lifts throughout Urithiru—cylindrical chambers, lined with filaments of metal, with housing for spheres. Once those spheres were infused, these chambers could ascend or descend the tower. There were several such lifts lining an open shaft in the middle of the tower, though none of these lifts reached the tower's extreme base. No one had yet found a safe way to get to the bottom of the tower from the inside, though with the sheer size of Urithiru such exploration was still very much ongoing. There were other lifts throughout the tower, but these were among the few that could take one all the way to the roof of the central spire. Dalinar's Gallery was only a few floors down from the summit, and it was there that the Radiants had taken to meeting.
As Eshonai led Rlain into the Gallery, he saw that Dalinar and Renarin were already present. So were Prince Adolin and Brightness Navani—despite not being Radiants themselves, Rlain was not surprised to see Dalinar's wife and firstborn son there. Sarus and Shallan did not seem to have arrived just yet, and Kaladin was still away in Alethkar.
"Ah, Eshonai," Dalinar said, nodding to her. "And Rlain. Good to see you both. How have the Listeners been settling in?"
Eshonai shrugged. "As well as could be hoped," she said to Peace, clearly forcing the Rhythm. "There have been… arguments, between some of the Listeners and the humans nearest the part of the tower where we are staying. But so far there has been no violence."
"That's good," Dalinar said. "We cannot afford to fight amongst ourselves. Human, Listener—we will need to work together through this."
"Yes," Eshonai said. "I hope you don't mind that I've brought Rlain with me."
"Not at all." Dalinar turned to Rlain. "I've heard a little about what you did in Narak, Rlain. I can't say I fully understand what this stormform did to the Listeners who took it, but I've gathered that resisting it as you did was nothing short of heroic."
Rlain stuttered through a measure of the Rhythm of Confusion in embarrassed surprise before settling back into the Rhythm of Resolve. It had become something of a constant companion, ever since it had kept him grounded while in stormform. "I had a unique perspective on things, that's all," he said. "I'd already heard in advance of Eshonai's discussion with you on the Plains, so I already understood that stormform was affecting her mind in a way most forms do not. The other Listeners—the ones willing to take stormform, at least—either didn't realize that was happening or put those concerns aside in the interest of the war."
Dalinar nodded grimly. "I predict we'll all face dangerous compromises like that in the coming months. The War of Reckoning was only the beginning. This conflict is now far bigger than the Shattered Plains."
"Yes," said a voice from behind Rlain. He and Eshonai stepped aside to allow Sarus to enter. The man was pale, his mouth a thin, tense line as he stumped forward, leaning heavily on Archive in the form of a black staff. Behind him Shallan filed in—not helping him to walk, but clearly making herself available in case such was necessary. Sarus, however, ignored her, staggering to a chair and lowering himself painfully into it with a sigh. "Yes," he said again. "By now, whatever the Everstorm is going to do to the parshmen of Roshar, it will have happened."
"It will turn them into Voidbringers," Dalinar said. "We know this from Jasnah's research."
"I'd argue we suspect it," Sarus said. "We haven't had confirmation. But even if we take that as true, we still don't know what that means. It certainly doesn't mean that every single parshman on Roshar will become a direct manifestation of Odium's will, capable of wielding powers equal to any Radiant."
"Why shouldn't it mean that?" Navani asked.
"Because the warcamps were left standing," Sarus said. "There were enough parshmen in those camps that, particularly with so many of our soldiers on the expedition to Narak, they could have utterly leveled them, slaughtering everyone we left behind—if they were so powerful, and if they were all aware of the enemy's plans and goals. They did not do this, so we can assume that they lack one of those resources—either power, or information. Or perhaps something else entirely. We cannot assume we know exactly what the Everstorm did until we have word back, either from Kaladin or from any other scout who encounters former parshmen while exploring."
Eshonai shot Rlain a look. He gave her an encouraging nod, humming to Confidence. "It may be simpler than that," she said, looking at the other Radiants. "We—the Listeners—have a great many songs to record parts of our history. From them, we know that we were not always the only people who both looked like us and were capable of thought. Something happened to the parshmen to turn them into what they have been for the past several centuries. Maybe all the Everstorm has done is revert that change?"
"I remember worrying, while I was in dullform, that I might wake up one day in slaveform instead," Rlain said. "That is what we call the form of those you call parshmen. Dullform is already a case of failure to properly take another form. A Listener enters dullform by failing to properly bond a spren during a highstorm. Slaveform… might be some form of catastrophic failure. A version of dullform caused by a much worse mistake than simply reaching for the wrong spren or singing the wrong Rhythm."
"And in that case, the Everstorm might simply make every parshman on Roshar a Parshendi," Dalinar said. "But that wouldn't guarantee that they would worship him, would it?"
"No," Sarus says. "But assuming they remember, even vaguely, the treatment they faced at humans' hands—that might be incentive enough."
Dalinar looked shocked. "But they're—they were—parshmen! If humans didn't intervene, they would stand in a field until they died of exposure! They can't possibly blame us—"
"Brightlord," Sarus interrupted. "I realize I am the only darkeyes in this room, but understand that I know what it is to face the cruelty of well-meaning men at the top of a hierarchy. You do not. Even if every lighteyes in Alethkar, every man and woman of authority on Roshar, was as committed to the ideals of honor and justice as you are—there would still be ample reason for the parshmen to be bitter at their treatment, if Eshonai is right about what has happened. We humans breed parshmen like livestock, and like livestock we separate parent from child. Like livestock, when a parshman has outlived their usefulness, we put them down. Like livestock, we stable them with none of the comforts we afford our own kind."
"We could not have foreseen that they would one day be able to think!" Dalinar exclaimed.
"Do you think that will matter to them?" Sarus asked dryly. "True, it might count in our favor if we were able to speak to them. If we apologized. But we have no way to apologize to every single parshman who has suffered abuse at the hands of our species. There are too many of them, and Odium is surely already reaching out to gather any of them who will listen—and most of them will listen—to his cause. And we are here—in a tower in the middle of nowhere, struggling to make contact with the rest of the world. No, Brightlord, the fact that we did not intend to harm people when we heaped indignities upon the parshmen will not matter one clearchip. Not in this context, not in a way that matters."
"It does matter," Dalinar insisted. "Acting with honor always matters."
Sarus let out an exasperated huff of air. "Of course, Brightlord. Regardless, we cannot make any concrete plans without information. Kaladin will likely not be able to return to the tower until he can replenish his Stormlight with the first highstorm, still some weeks away. What other channels do we have to learn what is happening in the rest of Roshar?"
"We have spanreeds," Navani reported. "I have scholars with contacts all over Roshar. The Everstorm has swept through every major city multiple times now, but we were able to warn several of them in advance. Few believed us at the time, but that may have won us some trust after the storm came."
"We need to reestablish the Oathgate network across the continent," Dalinar said. "Right now, the only active Oathgate connects Urithiru to the Shattered Plains, but there were once ten Oathgates connecting all of Roshar to this tower. We've determined where those gates likely are—the surviving ones, at any rate."
"Aimia is lost," Sarus said. "The gate may have survived, but even if it has, there is no value in reestablishing that connection. No one lives on that island. I assume there is one in each of the Silver Kingdoms?"
"Yes," Dalinar said. "I'm reaching out to the monarchs who control the cities where we believe the Oathgates to be, but many of those kingdoms are in chaos now. The Assassin in White killed several of their leaders in the past year. I've made contact with King Taravangian—who has taken the throne of Jah Keved following the Assassin's rampage—and he seems receptive to an alliance. Unfortunately, no one else does."
"Your reputation precedes you, Blackthorn," Sarus said dryly. "Perhaps—"
The door swung open. Rlain turned to see King Elhokar step inside. For a moment, everyone was silent, staring at the newcomer.
"Your Majesty," said Dalinar, nodding at the king without standing. "Has something happened?"
"Ah… yes." Elhokar swallowed. "This is a meeting for Radiants, isn't it?"
"Indeed," Sarus said. "Welcome. Why don't you introduce us, Your Majesty?"
Introduce…? Rlain wondered.
Elhokar swallowed. Then he gestured at a pattern of shadows on the floor, his hand following it as it skittered up the wall beside the door. "This is Design," he said. "She—I've just sworn the First Ideal. I… I'm a Radiant as well, now. I suppose."
"I suppose, he says," the spren, Design, said with caustic amusement. "Well, then, I suppose I'm a Cryptic who supposedly has been trying to get this supposed Radiant to say the supposed words for months. Hello."
Elhokar winced. Sarus chuckled, but something about the sound put Rlain on edge. "Good to know that His Majesty will have someone supporting him," he said.
"That—I've been thinking about that," Elhokar said quietly. "Uncle—I think I should abdicate in favor of you."
Dalinar's eyes widened. "What—"
"Absolutely not," Sarus said flatly.
Everyone turned to him. "Sorry," Adolin said. "How is that your decision, exactly?"
"It's not my decision," Sarus said. "But it is an extremely foolish decision." He shot Dalinar a look. "We were just discussing how you were having trouble winning the trust of the monarchs of Roshar because of your reputation as the Blackthorn. Usurping your own nephew would not improve matters."
"He wouldn't be usurping me," Elhokar protested.
"Tell that to them," Sarus said. "See if they believe you."
Elhokar threw up his hands. "I am a poor king!" he exclaimed. "I—"
"That does not matter," Sarus snapped. He stared Elhokar down, dark eyes flashing. "It does not matter whether you deserve to be king of Alethkar. It does not matter whether your uncle would be more effective in the role. It does not matter, Your Majesty, whether your father would be proud of what you have done with his crown. You are king. You must, therefore, be king."
"And if I can't?" Elhokar demanded.
"Find a way."
"I agree," Dalinar said. "Alethkar cannot undergo a succession crisis now, Your Majesty, and I cannot be king of Alethkar and also Urithiru's only Bondsmith."
Elhokar slumped. "Then what am I supposed to do?"
"You have friends and family with all the experience and skills you need," Sarus said. "Make use of them, Your Majesty."
Yeah Odium dose not have a hard sell when convincing Parshendi that humans need to die considering what they were put through. Also nice to see Elhokar more assertive.
Thanks to Elran and @BeaconHill for betareading, and to Phinnia for the commissioned icon.
-x-x-x-
77
Secret Keeper
-x-x-x-
You've probably found him already, but there is a Returned on Roshar right now. He's had a few names—the last one he used before leaving Nalthis was Vasher. He has a weapon that could be useful in fighting a Shard, if you can use it safely. You probably can't. I don't think even he can. But it's something to consider.
-x-x-x-
Renarin sighed as he shut the door to his chambers quietly behind him. He leaned back against it, looking at the dimly lit gloom surrounding his bed and table. A servant must have come by during the meeting, because there was a plate of food slowly cooling on a tray there, waiting for him. The sun had set, and only the mingled pinks and orange of late twilight illuminated the room. Soon, even those would fade, leaving only the deep violet of dim Salas.
"Are you all right, Renarin?" Glys asked. He emerged slowly from Renarin's breast pocket, and his red light filled the chamber. Stars dripped upward from the spren's crystalline body, vanishing into the mottled stone of the ceiling.
"Fine," Renarin said automatically.
There was a brief pause. Then Glys gently pressed, "Don't lie to me. What's wrong?"
Renarin swallowed. Then he stepped away from the door, past Glys, and looked out his room's wide window at the sunset. Even on these lower levels of the tower, the structure was not hardened against highstorms the way Renarin was used to in Alethkar. The scholars had already determined that they were much further west here, in the impassable mountains of Ur just east of Azir. This placed them much further from the Ocean of Origins than Renarin's homeland—and, as they had seen with the Everstorm passing below the peak on which Urithiru was built, they were high enough that the storms did not touch them anyway.
Renarin's own window looked out at the western sky, away from Alethkar. So he could see the last rays of sunlight disappearing behind the other peaks which had sheltered Urithiru from the view of explorers for centuries. And he could watch as Salas' light first began to kiss those peaks, violet dripping down the mountainsides like wine spilled from a chalice.
"Renarin?"
"Why was I at that meeting, Glys?" Renarin asked quietly, not looking back at his spren.
Glys was silent for a long moment. Renarin watched a small flock of windspren ride a breeze, ribbons of blue light streaking across the darkening sky. "Because you're a Radiant," Glys said finally, sounding confused. "I—why wouldn't you be at the meeting?"
"Because I didn't say anything," Renarin said. "I didn't do anything. There weren't even any instructions for me. I didn't know what I was supposed to do in Urithiru before the meeting, and I still don't after."
"You've been doing things, though," Glys said. "You've been working with Bridge Four. You've been doing your duties as a Brightlord of House Kholin. Being a Radiant was never going to be saving the world all the time, and that's a good thing."
"Especially since I'm pretty terrible at that part of the job," Renarin mumbled.
"What makes you say that?" Glys asked.
"Are you joking?" Renarin asked. "I was practically insensate at Narak!"
"You were being tormented by visions of the calamity coming," Glys said. "No one else was—"
"Does that matter?" Renarin demanded. He turned around, facing the red crystalline spren, the room between them lit only by the crimson glow. "It doesn't matter why I wasn't helping. The fact is that I was the most useless member of Bridge Four in that battle—and both of Bridge Four's other Radiants only arrived halfway through it! One of Bridge Four was with the enemy when the battle started!"
"You're the reason the Alethi were even at that battle in the first place!" Glys exclaimed. "If it weren't for your visions, Dalinar would still be spinning his wheels trying to deal with Sadeas! He'd have been doing that right up until the Everstorm came and flattened both of their warcamps!"
"And how much more could we have done if we hadn't been so storming careful? If we weren't hiding everything behind numbers scratched on Father's walls, if we just told him what we were seeing?"
A silence fell as those questions echoed in the air between them. "Is that what this is about?" Glys finally asked, voice soft.
"No—no," Renarin said, shaking his head. "I know we have to be careful. I know. I'm Alethi—if the ardentia found out I could see the future, they'd have me excommunicated before the day was out. I still don't think our friends would hurt you if they knew the truth… but I won't push you on it. I just…"
"You're tired of keeping secrets," Glys guessed.
"I'm tired of keeping secrets from my family," Renarin said. "I thought telling Father I was a Radiant would make it easier, but it hasn't. I still—I used to tell Adolin everything, Glys. Now I feel like I can hardly talk to him. Storms, I took a Shardblade from him because I couldn't tell him I was a Radiant. I still have that Blade, not that it made me any less useless at Narak. The screaming probably made things worse."
"Well…" Glys said hesitantly. "Let's… try something. Hold out your hand."
Renarin obeyed, and the red crystalline spren drifted towards his palm. Drawing nearer, his floating body contorted. Shifted. Lengthened. And Renarin's fingers closed, almost unbidden, on the Shardblade suddenly pressed against his hand. It felt nothing like the dead, screaming thing still bonded to him. Glys, as a Blade, was almost warm to the touch. His shape was much simpler, with a long two-edged blade and only a very minimal crossguard. The only ornamentation took the form of flowing waves rippling along the metal of the blade. The gemstone in the pommel glowed with the same soft red light as Glys' body usually did.
It works! Glys crowed in Renarin's mind. I thought you'd need to be Third Ideal for me to take the form of a Blade, but then Sarus started using Archive as a staff and he's only Second Ideal. I thought it was worth a try, and it works!
Careful not to accidentally cut through any of the walls or furniture, Renarin took a couple of experimental swings. Glys cut through the air easily, seeming lighter even than the unnaturally light Shardblade Adolin had given him all those weeks ago.
I think I can take other shapes, too, Glys said. Like Archive, taking the shape of a staff while Sarus is still weak. Just tell me what weapon you want, and I'll do it. You want a longer sword, a dagger, a spear, just say so.
"Incredible," Renarin whispered. Standing there, bathed in Glys' red glow, a living Shardblade in his hands, it suddenly sunk in the sheer monumentality of all that had happened, all that was happening.
The Knights Radiant had returned to Urithiru. And he was one of them. For a moment, he almost felt like he deserved it.
"Well," he said. "I know what we have to do next." He glanced out the window at the deepening night. "Maybe in the morning."
He still worried about the secrets between him and Adolin. He still remembered with longing the days when, even as different as they were, even as isolated as Renarin felt from everyone else, he had known there was one person he could trust with anything, who would never hurt him or shame him.
But even if he still clung to secrets like a starving man to spheres, at least he could let go of the Shardblade now. That was something.
-x-x-x-
"Adolin!" Renarin called, jogging over to where his brother was sparring with General Khal. A cold wind—but not nearly cold enough, Renarin thought, given how high up they were—gusted through the enormous balcony that served as Urithiru's training ground. The two men broke apart, and Adolin glanced over, nodding at Renarin, an easy smile coming to his sweaty face.
"Brother," Adolin greeted, glancing back at Khal with a nod. Recognizing the dismissal, the relatively inexperienced Shardbearer—he'd been granted a Shardblade whose wielder had died at Narak—went to find another partner elsewhere in the training ground. Adolin turned back to Renarin, dismissing his Blade. "What brings you here, Renarin? I thought you'd be with Bridge Four."
"It's… not my shift," Renarin said, searching Adolin's face for any sign of judgement or pity. He found none. That wasn't unusual, but in this case he thought he might not be seeing anything because, just maybe, there was nothing there to see. "I've been looking for you. I need to give this back." He held out his hand and summoned the dead Shardblade Adolin had given him. As it fell into his hand, he couldn't hold back the wince as the dead spren's screams filled his head.
Adolin blinked. "Why?"
"It… hurts to hold," Renarin admitted. "It always has, to be honest. I think that happens with all Radiants. We can't use the dead Blades."
"Your spren don't like sharing?" Adolin asked. Renarin wasn't sure whether his tone was sympathetic or amused.
Either way, Renarin shook his head. "No, it's not that. It hurts our spren, too. Or at least it hurt mine. It's just… not right. I think it interferes with the Nahel bond, somehow, but now isn't the time for more extensive research."
"I suppose not." Adolin took the Blade. "I can find someone for this, but by right of bestowal, it's yours. You should probably choose who gets it."
"I'd… really rather you choose," Renarin said. "I don't know the warriors well, outside of Bridge Four, and I don't think any of Bridge Four will want it. Not after they've started developing Radiant abilities, at least when Kaladin's here. Especially since it seems like Moash didn't develop those abilities, possibly because he has a Shardblade already."
Adolin nodded. "Still, that leaves you unarmed." He searched Renarin's face. "Or… no, it doesn't, does it? You've already got a replacement!"
Renarin flushed. "I… yes." Glys? Do you mind?
Of course. The spren appeared in Renarin's hand in Blade form, long before ten heartbeats had passed.
Adolin studied the Blade, beaming. "Amazing, Renarin. Incredible."
"Thanks," Renarin said, squirming and looking away. "I—"
"Prince Adolin, Prince Renarin!"
They both turned to face the messenger running towards them, the breeze making her hair whip around her face. Ignoring it, she skidded to a stop before them and snapped a military salute. "Your father calls for both of your presence," she says. "There has been another murder."
-x-x-x-
The chamber, Renarin thought, had once been a bathhouse. The floor was dominated by a cavity perhaps four feet deep, with a wide step around the edge which might have served as a seat if the pool were filled with water. Four sets of more ordinary stairs descended into the basin from the center of each of its four sides. The chamber was high, with curling reddish strata encircling the walls like trails of old blood. Eight stone sculptures, like horse's heads, emerged from the walls—spouts from which water had once poured into the bath.
There are so many functions of this tower that we have no idea how to use, Renarin mused.
What? Glys asked.
The spouts, Renarin said. How did they pump water all the way up here? From where? It has to be a fabrial, but how is it powered? How can we reactivate it?
Is now really the time?
Renarin blinked and, with a slight flush he hoped no one could see, refocused his attention on the corpse at the bottom of the empty pool. Aunt Navani was already kneeling beside it, with Dalinar watching her from the top of one of the staircases.
"This is… remarkable," Navani said slowly. "The same injury, he's even lying in the same position. It has to be the same killer as whoever attacked Sadeas."
Dalinar hummed, his mouth a thin line as he looked down at the corpse from above. If he'd been planning to say anything, however, he was interrupted by another arrival. Sarus stomped into the chamber by a different door, Archive clanking against the stone rhythmically as he leaned on her. Shallan followed close behind him. She had taken to doing that, Renarin had noticed, whenever she wasn't with Adolin. Renarin had never heard her offer to help Sarus walk, but he had seen her start a few times when the sickly man stumbled.
Sarus looked down into the pit, eyes dark as jet beneath his mostly white brows. He frowned. "How odd."
"Agreed," Navani said. "What on Roshar does this man have in common with Sadeas? Has anyone identified him?"
"His appearance," Sarus said.
"What?" Navani glanced back at him.
"His build, his proportions," Sarus said. "They're similar to Sadeas'. I don't suppose anyone measured the size of the entry wound on Sadeas' corpse?"
"No," Dalinar said slowly. "You think the murders were committed with the same knife?"
"I think that I would like to know whether they were committed with the same knife."
"The man's name was Vedekar Perel," Dalinar said. "One of Sebarial's infantry." He glanced past Sarus at Shallan. "Did you know him, Brightness?"
Shallan shook her head wordlessly. She looked a little pale. Renarin watched her tear her eyes from the corpse, seeking Adolin's gaze. Something Renarin couldn't read changed in her expression.
Hoping for a clue, he followed her gaze. Adolin looked white as a sheet. He was staring transfixed at the corpse, and Renarin saw from a glance down that his hands were shaking.
Renarin was bad at reading people because he didn't know people. He was bad at inferring from what an emotion looked like on one face what it might look like on another. But Adolin, he knew. He had seen all those emotions on Adolin. He knew how to identify them. He could remember the last time he had seen a similar expression on Adolin's face, and remember what emotion Adolin had been feeling.
This was not grief. Renarin had seen grief on Adolin's face—awful, heartstopping grief, when word had come back from Rathalas. It hadn't looked like this.
It wasn't horror, either—not entirely. Renarin would have been surprised if Adolin were so affected by the gruesome sight, but that wasn't it.
No. This… this was guilt. And shock.
Oh, Damnation.
What? Glys asked. What is it?
Adolin killed Sadeas.
What!? Are you serious?
Yes. But he didn't kill this man. So who did?
"Adolin." Both brothers started, looking towards their father. Renarin noticed that the soldiers seemed to have left the room, giving the Kholins and Radiants some privacy. "Most of the men I'd normally assign to an investigation like this are dead, and skilled as Bridge Four is in battle, they have no experience with this sort of thing." He glanced over at Sarus. "You have keen instincts, Captain, but…"
"But I also can hardly be expected to chase a murderer through the tower if it comes to it," Sarus said with a dark chuckle, rapping the base of his Archive-staff on the stone floor. "I understand, Brightlord."
"So," Dalinar said, turning back to Adolin. "I'll leave it to you."
"Me?" Adolin asked incredulously.
"You did well investigating Elhokar's saddle, even if that turned out to be nothing."
"Highprince Aladar has been named Highprince of Information, I believe," Sarus said, his piercing gaze fixed on Adolin. For the first time, Renarin found himself suddenly afraid of what the man might see. Was this how Glys felt all the time? "I think, Highprince Dalinar, that Adolin's role should be at best as liaison to Highprince Aladar. You don't want to be seen taking control of this investigation—not as a known enemy of Highprince Sadeas. Before Aladar marched with you to Narak, he was Sadeas' ally. That makes it less likely that he will be seen as covering up your actions."
Dalinar nodded slowly. "I wish Jasnah were here," he said. "She always had good instincts for this sort of thing. But I expect you're right, Sarus. So, Adolin, I want you to go to Highprince Aladar and set some of his men to investigate. Keep me apprised of the search. Find the killer."
"You want me to hunt for Sadeas' killer," Adolin said.
"Yes," Sarus said before Dalinar could reply. His lips had twisted slightly, but Renarin couldn't guess as to what emotion tugged at their corners. "You are more than qualified." He turned back to Dalinar and gave a salute with his off hand, his right still holding his staff. "I must return to my shift at the Oathgate, Brightlord."
"Of course," Dalinar said. "Thank you for coming, Captain."
Sarus nodded, turned and started stomping away. Shallan looked between his back and Adolin, for a moment, then seemed to make up her mind and jogged around the perimeter of the basin, the skirt of her havah rustling about her legs.
"Did you know this man?" she demanded of Adolin. "Do you know who killed him?"
Adolin swallowed, seeming to rally. "No," he said. "I didn't know him, and I don't know who killed him. But I will find out." He took a last glance at the body, then turned to leave. He squeezed Renarin's shoulder as he passed, but didn't meet his gaze.
Renarin watched him leave, Shallan at his heels. Storms, he thought. What do I do with this?
Thanks to Elran and @BeaconHill for betareading, and to Phinnia for the commissioned icon.
-x-x-x-
78
Shardbreaker
-x-x-x-
I have no idea what a Dawnshard would be doing on Ashyn either. I can confirm that Endure was still contained as of my last correspondence with its keeper. That was less than a year ago. I can't see how it could have gotten all the way to the Rosharan system that quickly.
-x-x-x-
More than qualified, Archive said in Sarus' mind, her tone dryly amused. I suppose the murderer's qualifications to find himself are. Why do you tolerate this?
Because I don't have all the information I need to decide what to do, Sarus thought back to her as they limped together down the long corridor towards the nearest lift. He leaned heavily on her as they went, the black metal staff carrying his weight easily.
What information must be?
Whether Adolin is dangerous. I can guess why he killed Sadeas—he has more than one obvious motive—but why this man? I don't know anything about him. I'm not even sure Adolin did kill this second man. In which case, he will have a very good reason to find the copycat—if only so he can frame them for Sadeas' death as well. I don't know whether Adolin's attack on Sadeas was an isolated incident or a pattern of behavior, whether a new one or one that is simply more obvious in the close quarters of this tower. If it was isolated—if Adolin has no intention of committing murder beyond Sadeas, and did not kill Perel—then I see no need to take action against him.
Some will say the murder of Sadeas was a dishonorable act, Archive said, though her tone was not judgemental. That punishment should be regardless of who was killed.
By 'some' you mean Dalinar.
Among others.
Dalinar has many talents. Unfortunately, he appears to be afraid of most of them. Sarus shook his head, infusing a scrap of his own orange Light into the lift fabrial. It began to bear him downward, toward the Oathgate platform. Sadeas was a cremling swimming in our wine barrels. There was a time when the Blackthorn would not have tolerated such a confounding factor in his plans. The man who put Rathalas to the torch would never have let Sadeas live this long.
An improvement may be, in this, Archive pointed out. The man who put Rathalas to the torch could not have been a Bondsmith.
Perhaps, Sarus agreed. But if idealism has its place, then so has pragmatism.
Yes. But what place is that?
Sarus shrugged. I'm not sure what you mean.
Something to consider, she said. There is a risk to leaving justice undone.
Certainly. If the secret comes out anyway, anyone around Adolin will become suspect. Those outside Dalinar's inner circle will suspect all of the Radiants of covering this up.
Not this—yes, this risk is, but that is not what I mean.
Then what do you mean?
She was silent for a moment. I am… not certain. An instinct is.
I'd be a fool to disregard the instincts of a spren, Sarus thought in her direction. But I confess, I can't bring myself to worry overmuch about Sadeas' death. This new murder is more concerning, which is why I'll keep an eye on Adolin.
I understand.
-x-x-x-
After Shallan came to relieve him at the Oathgate, Sarus made his slow way up the tower to one of the higher explored regions. It was time to stop putting off an overdue conversation.
Ahis and Gadol saluted him as he approached the door. He nodded at them then walked past, rapping on the door with Archive. "Enter," Elhokar's voice called from inside.
Sarus pushed open the door, limping into the king's suite. "Your Majesty," he said, bowing slightly—even that aborted maneuver difficult while he leaned on his staff.
Elhokar stood from beside his table, quickly putting something down behind himself, out of Sarus' view. "Ah, Captain. Good to see you."
"Hey," came Design's voice from the wall to Sarus' left.
Sarus nodded at the spren. "Brightlady Design."
"Oh, don't you try that on me," Design groaned as Sarus shut the door. "I'm a Cryptic. You know, a liespren? I've been watching you call everyone 'brightlord,' 'brightlady,' 'brightness,' and 'Your Majesty.' Cultivation, some of these people actually think you mean it! But I know better. None of that."
Sarus grinned. "As you wish, spren." He turned to Elhokar. "Your Majesty, I owe you an apology."
Elhokar frowned at him. "Is it true?" he asked, glancing at Design. "Do you not mean it when you call people by their titles?"
"What, pray tell, should I mean?" Sarus asked dryly. "When I call you 'Your Majesty' I am acknowledging that you are king of Alethkar. Is that not as it should be?"
"Oh, come on," Design complained.
Sarus shot her a look. "You disagree?"
"You disagree," she snapped. "You know what people hear when you use those titles, and it's not just the societal fact of their rank."
"I… don't understand." Elhokar looked lost.
Sarus sighed. "When I call a lighteyes 'brightlord,'" he said, "they often hear an implicit acceptance of my station relative to theirs. An acceptance that because they have light eyes, they are superior to me, with my dark ones. But that is not something I am saying."
"No," Design grumbled. "Just carefully implying."
Sarus' staff shifted slightly in his grip. He took hold of a table in his other hand, then released it. Archive took her human form, nearly as tall as he was. She stayed beside him, however, putting her arm beneath his to help him stay upright. "Envy does not become you, Cryptic," she said.
"Oh, keep your Elsecaller, inkspren," Design said. "Even if he would make a good Lightweaver. But no—not for me. I'll stick with my Radiant, thanks."
Archive nodded, then allowed herself to take the shape of a staff again. Sarus leaned gratefully on it. "Your Majesty," he said to Elhokar. "As I said, I owe you an apology."
"What for?" But Elhokar didn't look at him as he asked the question. On the wall, Design made a derisive noise.
Sarus ignored her. "For allowing the plot on your life to progress as far as it did," he said. "I had not identified the suspects until the confrontation outside your chambers—but I did know that a plot was being hatched. And I should have done more to prevent it from progressing so far. For that, you have my sincere apologies."
Elhokar glanced at Design, then back at Sarus when she was silent. "I… you're forgiven," he said. "I suppose I should thank you. What you said in that hall, about me being a prospective Radiant… if you hadn't, I might never have tried to make contact with Design."
"And instead, kept jumping at shadows on a daily basis," Design muttered.
Sarus pursed his lips, shooting the Cryptic a look before refocusing on Elhokar. "She is a very… interesting spren," he said diplomatically. "I've not spoken much with Pattern, but he seems much less… opinionated than she."
"Boring, in other words," Design said.
"Opinionated is… not inaccurate," Elhokar said with something like a wince. "I'm not… I have to admit, Captain—Sarus—I'm not sure why she approached me. It can't be as simple as me telling lies to myself."
"It's not," Design said. "Believe me, even I wish you told a few less of those. Some of them are funny. Some of them, not so much."
"Then why?" Sarus asked. "Would you care to explain yourself, spren?"
"No," she said brightly.
Sarus rolled his eyes. "Do you even know yourself?" he asked. "Or is that one of the things you haven't quite remembered since coming to the Physical Realm? I gather the journey from Shadesmar is difficult."
"You're trying to bait me," she accused. "It won't work."
"Worth a try." Sarus turned back to Elhokar. "She seems difficult."
Elhokar flushed. "I'm… I recognize the opportunity she represents. The chance I've been given."
"Meaning," Sarus said, "you've seen the transformations in your uncle, your cousin, and you want that for yourself."
Elhokar looked away.
"It is worth remembering, Your Majesty, that Highprince Dalinar only swore the First Ideal as we arrived in Urithiru. The transformations he has experienced in the past five years can hardly be attributed to the Stormfather. And Prince Renarin still has many of the same problems he always has—he's simply more at peace with them, more stable in himself."
"That's not nothing," Elhokar said quietly.
"Certainly it isn't. But it's also not a solution to all his problems. Renarin finds stability in his Nahel bond with Glys, but all those traits which made him an outcast in Alethi society remain part of him."
Elhokar shrugged helplessly. "Even so. I'm just… Captain, I've known I'm a poor king for a long time. Years. If Design can help me, can make me less of a terrible king, she can laugh at me all she likes. It will be worth it."
"Is that even something she intends to do?" Sarus asked. "A Lightweaver's Ideals are uncomfortable personal truths. I don't know what Brightness Shallan's truths have been, I haven't asked. But I don't know whether Pattern has made any effort to make those truths go away after she shares them. Are you certain you're not just signing up for more uncomfortable revelations with no promise of solace?"
What are you doing? Archive asked him silently.
Trust me, he told her.
Elhokar swallowed. He shot Design a glance. "I… hope not."
"Well?" Sarus said, looking directly at the spren. "Anything to offer this discussion?"
"You're still baiting me," she said.
"Is that what you think?" he asked. "Let me be clearer, then. His Majesty does not need yet another person to hurl derision and disappointment down on him from above. He has had far too much of that, from many who should instead have been supporting him. Take it from a Radiant who has had to navigate troubles with his spren—if you intend to be just another set of judgemental eyes over him, it will go poorly for you. If that is all you intend, you had best start investigating how to break your Nahel bond without being killed now, because it is only a matter of time." He shifted his grip on Archive, leaning heavily on her. "To put it another way, Design—you need your Radiant as much as he needs you. Start acting like it."
She said nothing.
Sarus turned back to Elhokar, who was staring at her with wide eyes. "She offers you power," he said. "But you are king of Alethkar, Your Majesty—you don't need power. If she offers you nothing else, then you don't need her."
"Is this because I caught you lying?" Design asked.
"No," Sarus said. He did not elaborate before turning back to Elhokar. "That being said, Your Majesty—she did come to you. I'll tell you what Archive told me—the fact that a spren demands growth and progress from their Radiant does not mean they are not pleased with the Radiant they have now. Design chose you because of what she saw in you as you are now. It is up to you—both of you—how far you want to progress from this point."
Elhokar nodded, slowly, his eyes going from Sarus to Design on the wall. "Thank you, Captain. Sarus."
Sarus nodded and left, nodding at the guards as he walked away. Archive clanged against the floor as he limped down the corridor.
…My apologies are, Archive said after a time. Again.
No need, Sarus reassured her. That highstorm has passed us by, Archive.
"Shardbreaker!"
Sarus stopped and turned. A young man in the robes of an ardent was jogging down the corridor towards him.
"Shardbreaker," the man gasped, staggering to a stop in front of him. "I've been looking for you. Brightness Shallan said I'd just missed you at the Oathgate, and then Lieutenant Murk said you were off duty, and Brightlord Moash said you were going to see the king, and—"
"And now you've found me," Sarus said. "What did you need?"
The ardent flushed. "Ah… Sir, the ardentia, we—there have been a great deal of rumors surrounding your… experience with the Assassin in White's Shardblade. We were hoping you would be willing to offer your own account of the event?"
"Certainly," Sarus said. "Although I'm told those who were in the corridor with me saw something different. A giant of a man standing where I had been a moment earlier, or some such. For myself, I had a vision."
"That was rumored," the ardent said eagerly. "But there are several conflicting reports of just what it is you saw."
"Then let me resolve those conflicts," Sarus said. "I saw a room, filled with glittering fabrials and glowing panes of glass. In the room were two people. One was a man, with ears pointed like speartips and clothes of green and gold. The other was a girl. She was young, perhaps fifteen or sixteen, and she wore a strange black suit, something not entirely unlike the padding soldiers wear beneath their armor. She was forging something, a silver-white hammer in her grip, an anvil beside her."
"Forging?" the ardent asked, surprised. "A woman, blacksmithing?"
"We have women swearing the oaths of Knights Radiant now," Sarus reminded him. "It seems likely that much of what we Alethi have taken for granted regarding the will of the Almighty may have been introduced by men during the Era of Solitude." Still, Sarus decided not to mention that the girl's safehand had been uncovered. Her existence would be shocking enough to the ardentia.
"I… suppose," the ardent said, looking doubtful.
"There was a window in the room," Sarus continued. "And hanging in the blue sky like skyeels I saw a fleet of ships with hulls of white wood and silver, and sails like spun gold. The man and the girl were speaking. Laughing. Then the girl turned to me. She seemed surprised, but I thought she recognized me somehow. She was just beginning to speak my name when the vision ended."
"Fascinating," the ardent said, eyes wide. "Thank you so much, Shardbreaker. I will speak to the others of this. Perhaps your vision was of the Tranquiline Halls? Perhaps that fleet is the Almighty's own host, soon to descend into Damnation to end this last Desolation forever?"
"Perhaps," Sarus said, trying not to let his amusement show on his face. "Please let me know if you have any more questions."
"Of course, sir!" The ardent dashed off.
That was exceedingly forthright, for you, Archive said. Why?
Why not? Sarus shrugged, continuing down the corridor. I didn't tell him about the name Curumo, or my connection to Melkor, or anything else that I'm trying to keep hidden. Telling them about the girl stands to benefit us, given that women appear just as likely to become Radiant as men. Better not to have the ardentia standing in the way of that. My status as the mythical Shardbreaker could benefit me, us, greatly, but only if I can keep the ardentia on my side. Better to cultivate that relationship with honesty. It's simpler than keeping track of lies.
Hm. Archive let out a hum that sounded almost amused. I disagree with Design. You would not make a good Lightweaver. When you lie, it is too… intentional.
