Hmmm. While it is the name of the Hellenic paradise, Elysium specifies Elysium was the name of the world it devoured, not its afterlife. Thinking of worlds one could say where "being devoured by Silence", worlds named Elysium...did this Child of Ungoliant just finish munching on the Smallest Church in Saint-Saëns?
We prefer to be known by names to match the local conception of paradise. But the Men of this place lost all dream or memory of paradise long ago. So instead I shall use the name I took on the last world I devoured.
"This world has no conception of paradise, so I am going to use the name I had last time, which was Elysium." This implies that the paradise from the last world was Elysium. If it were otherwise, it would have said "I shall use the name of the last world I devoured."
"This world has no conception of paradise, so I am going to use the name I had last time, which was Elysium." This implies that the paradise from the last world was Elysium. If it were otherwise, it would have said "I shall use the name of the last world I devoured."
I somehow read "I took on the" as "of", whoops. It devoured an Earth then, probably, or somewhere with Hellenic naming sensibilities. Much less disco than the conclusion i jumped to, alas.
Thanks to Elran and @BeaconHill for betareading, and to Phinnia for the commissioned icon.
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27
Freedom
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I record these words because, should we fail tomorrow, there will be none left to remember them.
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"How is this?" Rock asked, holding up the small mirror.
Sarus' eyes traced the line of his beard. Rock was good with his razor, he had to admit. They stood in the shadow of the awning just outside Bridge Four's new barrack. It was even starting to feel like theirs. The effects of the dead men who once slept in those beds had been emptied out that morning, before the highstorm, though the process was still ongoing for several of the other barracks.
Just two paces to Sarus' right, water streamed down from the sloped roof, mingling with the rain still drizzling from the sky. The highstorm itself had passed, but the rain left in its wake would linger for an hour or more. In the thin shower several of the other former bridgemen were pouring water from buckets onto one another's backs. Sarus remembered with longing the heated baths of his youth, but here on the Plains such things were a luxury afforded only to the most elite of lighteyes.
"It looks good," he said finally, running his fingers down the black and gray bristles. "Thank you, Rock."
"You are welcome," said Rock, clapping him on the shoulder and pocketing his razor. "Is good that you can speak now, to tell me how you like it trimmed. I think there were cremling nests growing in the tangle you had before!"
Sarus rolled his eyes. "That seems unlikely."
"So did your beard."
Sarus' lips twitched, but before he could retort, the doors to the barrack opened. He turned, smiling as Kaladin stepped outside. Behind Sarus, the rest of Bridge Four raised a cheer. Kaladin looked around at them. There was a small smile on his face, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Sarus, Moash, Teft," he said, pointing at the three of them. "Come with me. I want to take a look at the rest of the barracks."
Sarus nodded, falling into step beside Kaladin, Teft and Moash flanking them. Teft's injuries were healing quickly, though he still limped slightly and tired easily. Together they stepped out into the rain, though all of them save Kaladin were already soaked.
They walked past one of the twenty barracks in the former bridgemen's new battalion quarters. Sarus saw a few dozen scribes working to carry out the effects of its former inhabitants. Several of the women did so with eyes red from weeping.
"Seems cruel to make them clear out their own husbands' barracks," Teft commented, looking at them with some pity.
"I doubt they are clearing their own husband's barracks," Sarus said softly, nudging Teft to get him to stop staring. "But I also doubt that Highprince Dalinar would have enough scribes, ardents, and support staff to do this work if everyone who was grieving was exempt. Thousands of men died on that plateau, and they left behind thousands of widows and orphans."
"As if we needed another reason to hate Sadeas," muttered Moash.
Kaladin grunted in agreement as they passed another barrack, one without a crowd of scribes working outside its doors. He glanced inside, and Sarus followed his gaze. Inside were three dozen men, seated or lying on bunks, expressionless faces and glazed eyes gazing at nothing.
There were nearly a thousand of these wretches. Former slaves, less than a full day into their newfound freedom, unable just yet to grasp that their lives were now theirs to save or spend. Sarus couldn't blame them.
"How are we going to turn these men into an army?" Moash asked quietly.
"Kaladin did it with us," Teft pointed out.
"But he started by learning every one of our names," Sarus said. "I doubt he can do the same with more than twenty times our number."
"No," Kaladin agreed. "No, we can't teach each of these thousand men personally. We need to delegate."
"You think we should split up?" Sarus asked him. "Disperse ourselves, Bridge Four, among the other men so that each of us can train a small squad more directly?"
Kaladin grimaced. "That might make the most sense, but I don't like the idea," he said. "Most of you are still training yourselves—as far as we've come, Bridge Four is still not a troop of soldiers. Besides, most of us still need to focus on protecting Dalinar."
He nodded in the direction of the palace. Sarus followed his gaze. It was relatively tall for a soulcast building on the exposed Plains, which meant that it was about three stories at its turrets. It loomed imposingly in the half-light, though it was brightening as the clouds began to thin.
"We should organize them into units," Sarus said. "If we assume that Bridge Four is going to stay organized as it is, the rest of them should be able to form nineteen crews of about fifty. We can house them in the other barracks, form companies."
Kaladin nodded. "Teft, I want you on that. First, though, I need you to find thirty-eight men who have at least a little spirit left in them."
"Are there thirty-eight men with some spirit left?" Moash asked darkly.
"There will be," Kaladin said firmly.
"And if not," Sarus added, "we can make do. As we've all learned, Moash, spirit—hope—is like a fire. Just because it's gone out doesn't mean it can't be reignited."
"Still, find the thirty-eight who look the most promising," Kaladin said. "Then spread them among nineteen groups of about fifty, two to a group. We'll train those thirty-eight first, and they can train the rest of the companies."
"I don't think I can train thirty-eight men on my own," Teft cautioned. "I'm not you."
"I'll give you a few men to help," Kaladin said. "But most of us will need to focus on our new duties as Dalinar's guard."
If someone had told a younger Sarus that a group of half-trained darkeyed former slaves would one day replace the famed Cobalt Guard of House Kholin, he would have assumed them disturbed. But here they were. Over five thousand men were dead, among them nearly the entire Cobalt Guard. And Bridge Four stood here as the only reason any survivors had escaped the Tower.
All this only because Kaladin had looked back and refused to let those men die. In the moment, Sarus had been right there beside him—had even encouraged him to act, to save Dalinar and prevent Sadeas' betrayal from succeeding. But now, here in the pouring rain, he realized that he had only been Kaladin's own conscience, speaking the lessons Kaladin had taught back to him. Just echoing Kaladin's own thoughts back to make the decision easier.
He forced his mind away from those thoughts. He had chosen to speak again. He had achieved the First Ideal. No, he was not Kaladin, and never would be. But he needed to learn to be satisfied with his station, satisfied with what he deserved—lest he lose everything all over again.
"We need to keep Dalinar alive," Kaladin said, almost to himself. "I don't know if we can trust him, exactly, but that man is the only one on these storming Plains who has shown even a hint of compassion for us. If he dies, we'll be sold right back to Sadeas to buy goodwill."
Sarus doubted that. Adolin might be a bit of a fool, if he was still anything like Sarus remembered, but he would not be quick to forget Sadeas' betrayal of his father. He might not treat Bridge Four with the respect Dalinar seemed inclined to—what lighteyes would, save apparently for the Blackthorn?—but he would never again seek the goodwill of Torol Sadeas. For once, Sarus and Adolin Kholin were entirely in accord on something.
"I'd like to see them try, with two Knights Radiant at our helm," Moash said dryly.
"First of all, keep your voice down," said Sarus. "Second, if you think the two of us can hold back the collective might of ten Alethi highprincedoms, I think you greatly overestimate us."
Kaladin turned to face them all. "Why did we choose to stay here on the Plains?"
"Wouldn't do us much good to run," Moash said. "We'd just end up conscripted, most likely, or contracted if we tried to set up as mercenaries. This place is as good as any, so long as we're free."
"So long as we're free," Kaladin agreed. "Dalinar Kholin is our best chance at keeping that. With him, we're bodyguards, not conscripts, and free despite the brands on our foreheads. No one else will give us that. So we keep him alive."
"And if the Assassin in White comes calling?" Moash asked. "He's been showing up all over Roshar for weeks. Even we heard about it. Didn't seem to matter when we were bridgemen, but now…"
"Hopefully, killing Gavilar was enough for him in Alethkar." Kaladin's voice lowered. "Listen. If worst comes to worst—as bodyguards, we'll be paid well. We'll be able to train and outfit ourselves—and the rest of the crews—as real soldiers. A group of thirty-something former bridgemen is easy to ignore or crush. But almost a thousand hardened mercenaries? That would be a force even the highprinces couldn't ignore. As a single crew we're an afterthought. As a battalion, we might be able to make this work. If we can buy a year with this thousand, we can do that."
"This plan I like," said Moash, grinning.
"It's better than nothing," Kaladin said. "I'm going to name the three of you, as well as Murk and Rock, as officers. My lieutenants."
"Darkeyed lieutenants?" Teft asked, eyebrows rising almost to his hairline.
"Dalinar made me a captain," Kaladin said. "Highest rank he dared commission a darkeyes, he said. Well, I have a thousand men now, and they need a command structure. That means something between sergeants and captain. For now, that's the five of you. Rock will be our quartermaster, and Lopen can be his second. Teft, you're in charge of training, Drehy's your second. Murk's the only one of us who can read, so he'll be our clerk. Sigzil can read glyphs, so he'll be Murk's second."
"I can also read glyphs," Sarus offered.
"You can?" Kaladin blinked at him. "Well, I need you with me anyway. The rest of us are going to be focused on protecting Dalinar Kholin. I want either you, me, or Moash personally watching him whenever possible. Another of us will watch his sons, but make no mistake—he is our priority. He's our only guarantee of freedom."
"Agreed," Sarus said.
"Good," Kaladin said. "Now, let's get the rest of the men. I have an idea for how we can convince the rest of Roshar to see us as free men too."
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Kaladin's idea, as it turned out, was tattoos.
"You all have official writs of freedom now," Kaladin explained as Bridge Four followed him to a tattooist in the Kholin warcamp. The scribes had distributed writs to the former slaves as they cleared the barracks of the effects of their erstwhile occupants. "But that's just paper. You can lose it, or it can be stolen or destroyed, and with those brands you could be captured again as a runaway. So we're going to replace those slave brands with symbols of freedom."
They arrived at the tattoo parlor, a small building near the middle of the warcamp. Kaladin turned to face the rest of them. "Well?" he said. "Who wants to go first?"
Several of the others turned to look at Sarus. He grimaced. Before he could accept the apparent nomination, Archive spoke up.
"The tattoos will not be," she said.
Several of the others started at the sound of her voice, looking around wildly as if to find her. Sarus just looked down at the speck of ink-darkness on his shoulder. "Why not?"
"Your tattoos are not now," she said. "Stormlight healing is. Your spirit will reject the alteration, and the ink will not be."
"Does that mean it's impossible for"—Kaladin paused, glancing around before lowering his voice—"people like us to get tattoos?"
"Unless no Stormlight is for several months," Archive said. "Long enough that your soul adjusts."
"Which is probably not even an option for me," said Sarus, "given that I appear to generate my own Stormlight."
"Perhaps," said Archive. She did not elaborate further.
"Well, I'm not going to be staying away from Stormlight for months either," said Kaladin dryly. "So—Murk, how about you?"
Murk hesitated. "…I was a slave before I ever came down here," he said. "I was an ardent, remember?"
"You're free now, though," Dunny pointed out.
Murk's expression was complicated. Conflicted. "Yes," he said finally. "Yes, I guess I am." He gave Kaladin a nod. "Sure. I'll go first. But I want another tattoo as well."
Kaladin raised an eyebrow. "What?"
"Vev gesheh," Murk said, eyes distant.
Bridge Four. "To remind you what you were freed from?" Kaladin asked.
Sarus shot him a look, but he seemed genuinely not to understand.
"No," said Murk. "To remind me what freed me. We may not have to carry a slab of wood onto the Plains every other day anymore, but we're still Bridge Four. Always will be."
"I like it," said Teft, grinning. "I haven't got slave brands to cover, but that's something I can get behind."
It seemed the rest of the men felt the same. Kaladin looked befuddled, but he agreed to ask the tattooist for the two additional glyphs.
The tattooist's shop was one of hundreds of nearly-identical soulcast buildings in the warcamps. Sarus remembered watching the Sadeas camp come together in the first months of the war. But once they were inside, the uniformity gave way to a much more personal space. The tattooist was an artist, and her art was draped in paintings and tapestries over the walls, hiding the featureless stone. She greeted them brusquely, took the sketched glyphs from Kaladin, sat Murk down, and began her work.
Sarus stepped up beside Kaladin as they watched Murk wince slightly as the needle pierced his skin. "Do you really not understand?" he asked quietly.
"No, I do," said Kaladin. He sounded strangely wistful. "I understand it. I just…" He sighed. "I promised to save them, Sarus. And I failed so many."
Sarus took a deep breath. Part of him wanted to lash out. Another part wanted to calmly explain his frustration with the ridiculous standards to which he held himself. It was infuriating, not because of the pain it caused Kaladin, but because Sarus simply wasn't that good a person. And Sarus couldn't help but envy Kaladin for that goodness.
But Sarus had never spoken of those darker impulses, and he would not start now. So instead, he simply said, "They don't see it that way. And nor do I."
"You should," Kaladin whispered.
Sarus forced himself to be the man he needed to be in this moment. Kaladin needed encouragement, and Sarus needed to be the one to provide it. "If we did, Kaladin," he said, "I don't think any of us would have escaped the bridge crews. If we hadn't been willing to accept the hope you offered, none of us would be standing here now. Sometimes, my friend, hope itself is the point."
"Maybe you're right," Kaladin said. Some part of Sarus, deeply buried, was pleased to see Kaladin didn't believe it.
Is it the corruption or the inherent flaw of character that lead to the corruption? A big thing with LOTR is that evil is made by choices made in weakness not some evil corruption. Even the One Ring could only ever prey on what was already their not make flaws from scratch.
I mean, what happened in the prologue has happened. What exactly happened in the prologue is, I suppose, still up for interpretation. I don't want to explicitly confirm something if I can see a quibble that might render it technically incorrect. But I can definitely say that Rayse is functionally dead, and Melkor is functionally in control of the powers and armies of Odium.
Thanks to Elran and @BeaconHill for betareading, and to Phinnia for the commissioned icon.
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28
Death Follows
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Gostir is dead. Even if he were not, his memory of that time would be markedly different from Koravellium's or my own. He remained loyal. Koravellium did not. I was born too late to have any loyalty in the first place, and Xisis is too young even to remember.
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"The storm is passing," Adolin observed.
Renarin glanced up. It was true. The pattering of rain on the walls of the palace was slowing, decaying into the rhythmic thrumming of the post-storm drizzle.
"You ready?" Glys asked from where he hovered in one corner of the room.
Renarin didn't answer for a moment. What will we do if someone sees us? he finally said.
"Get caught," said Glys succinctly. "But can we afford not to take the risk?"
No, Renarin admitted. Can you go into Father's room and let me know when it's empty?
"On it." Glys darted out the narrow window and left the room.
"Renarin?" Renarin blinked and looked over at his brother. Adolin was looking at him with some concern. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine," said Renarin, standing. He nodded in the direction of the door connecting their room to the one where their father would be discussing the details of his latest vision with Aunt Navani. "You don't suppose they're done yet?"
"I doubt it," Adolin said. "If Father's even woken up yet, he'll still have to clarify anything to Aunt Navani that he wasn't able to explain during the vision."
This was the second highstorm since the disaster on the Tower a week and a half ago. The first had been the night after the battle, and that vision had revealed the truth.
Dalinar's visions, they now believed, were legitimate. They had been sent forward in time in the dying days of God Himself. Dalinar visibly struggled with the notion of God being dead. Renarin had watched his father throw himself into Vorinism ever since recovering from his drunkenness, but he didn't seem to be in danger of slipping back into the habit, even though his faith in the Almighty had been shaken.
Apparently, although the humans in the visions reacted to Dalinar's decisions, actions, and presence, the Almighty Himself, who appeared at the end of most visions, did not. Dalinar had misinterpreted his prearranged messages as answers to his questions, which was part of why he had made the catastrophic mistake of trusting Torol Sadeas.
It made Renarin nervous. Because, after all, wasn't he taking a risk based on cryptic visions?
The golden numbers had appeared again. And this time, Renarin and Glys had been able to conclude a chilling truth. They were counting down—counting down days. Renarin didn't know exactly what the strange, red-and-violet storm that appeared in his visions was, but he knew that if his visions were right, it would arrive on Ishishach—two days from the end of the year.
He didn't know what to do about that. But he knew that, whatever needed to happen, he wouldn't be able to do it alone.
Renarin was jostled from his thoughts when Adolin suddenly sighed and stretched. Adolin's eyes were hooded, surrounded by dark shadows. He hadn't been sleeping well since the battle of the Tower. "Do you think we should be trusting those visions?" he asked quietly.
"Now that Father knows not to think the Almighty is directly answering his questions, possibly," said Renarin. Privately, he did believe in Dalinar's visions. They were too similar to his own to ignore.
"Hm." Adolin didn't sound entirely convinced. "You were the one who said we needed to try to prove the visions true or false. We haven't really done that."
"Aunt Navani said that Father was speaking in the language Dawnchant," Renarin said. "Her scholars are translating more of the Dawnchant every day. Isn't that proof enough?"
Adolin sighed again, sitting back down in his chair. "No, I suppose it is," he said quietly. "Sorry. I'm just… rattled, I suppose."
"A lot of soldiers died in the battle, Adolin," Renarin said, trying to sound soothing. "You're entitled to feel rattled."
"To feel it? Yes. But if I show it…" Adolin shook his head. "Everyone is watching our family now. People doubt father because they've heard of his visions, and because he gave away Oathbringer. It was the right thing to do, but now it falls to me to be our family's sword-arm." His lips twitched and he shot Renarin a look that seemed apologetic. "I suppose it's unkind of me to complain to you about this."
Renarin blinked, confused. "Why would that be unkind?"
"Because they've always looked down at you," Adolin said, grimacing. "And here I am, complaining that I'm the only member of the house that they aren't looking down on."
"I don't think either of our situations are enviable," Renarin said. "I'm bitter at times, but I have to admit that there are advantages to being the overlooked second son."
Adolin was silent for a long moment. "I suppose we're both better off than some," he said. He looked sad, gazing at a tapestry bearing the Kholin glyphpair. "I wanted to trust Sadeas, you know? I didn't, but I wanted to."
"Why?"
"Because I remember what it was like when Mother died. I wanted to believe that Sadeas was pushing us so hard because he was lashing out in grief. I wanted to believe that he was coming out of it, like Father did." Adolin's lips twisted into a wry smile. "But he was always a cremling. Even before Tailiah died."
Renarin grimaced. He hadn't spent nearly as much time with Tailiah Sadeas as his brother had. She had been an obvious match for Adolin, politically—and, unlike most of his courtships over the past few years, she had seemed willing to tolerate him. If nothing else, she had kept meeting him for years. To this day it remained Adolin's longest courtship.
"Did you love her?" Renarin asked quietly. He'd never asked before—he'd been too afraid to broach the subject, when the news of Tailiah's death had reached them, so soon on the heels of the assassination of Uncle Gavilar.
Adolin was silent for a moment. "No," he said finally. "No, I don't think I did. I liked her, certainly. And I respected her. She was brilliant, Renarin. Sharp as a Shardblade. I think we would have learned to work well together if we had decided to marry. But I suppose we'll never know now."
"I suppose not." But talking about Tailiah reminded Renarin of the other child he'd met in Sadeas' castle. How in Damnation had Sarus, one of the smartest people of his own age Renarin had ever met, ended up making Sadeas angry enough to condemn him to the bridge crews?
For a moment he considered bringing the topic up to Adolin, but his brother had never even met Sarus. The darkeyed boy Renarin had known had been much too careful to risk any trouble by seeming to interfere in Adolin's courtship of Tailiah. While Adolin despised Sadeas' bridge crews nearly as much as their father did, there was no reason for him to share in Renarin's curiosity over the story that had led one particular bridgeman into those crews.
I need to find a way to talk to him. But he won't thank me if I bring undue attention on him.
Suddenly, Glys slipped back into the room. "Dalinar's asleep," he said. "We can head in as soon as we can get away from Adolin."
Easier said than done. How was Renarin supposed to distract Adolin without making his brother suspicious? All their lives, Adolin had done whatever he decided, and Renarin was left to follow. How was he to invert that entire relationship without arousing any suspicion?
"Renarin," Glys whispered, suddenly mere inches from Renarin's face. The irregular red crystal of his body glowed softly, illuminating the stone walls with a light only Renarin could perceive. "You're spiraling."
Renarin found that his hands were shaking. So I am, he thought distantly.
"It'll be all right," Glys told him. "There's no rush. We don't need to force this. Adolin isn't going to stay here much longer—he never does. And once he's gone, we'll duck into your father's room and jot down a few glyphs. In and out in five minutes. It'll be fine."
"Renarin?"
Renarin jumped, whirling around at Adolin's voice suddenly breaking into his thoughts. "What?"
His brother didn't look surprised by his reaction. He just smiled indulgently. "I'm going out to see if the highstorm damaged anything," he said. "You want to come?"
"See?" Glys murmured. "Told you."
"No," Renarin said, trying not to let his relief show. Fortunately, not showing emotion was something he was good at. "No, I'll stay here. Might get something to drink."
"Save some for me," Adolin said, then turned and left the room. One of the former bridgemen, a man with brown hair and a lean build, gave Adolin a curt nod as he left. The door shut before Renarin could see more.
He took a deep breath. Then he turned away from the door out of his father's quarters… and towards the room's other door.
"We'll be fine, Renarin," Glys said.
"Yes, we will." Squaring his shoulders, Renarin carefully turned the knob and opened the door.
Dalinar sat slumped in a chair near the center of the room. His head rested on his chest, which rose and fell slowly as he quietly snored. Renarin passed him, doing his best to balance the need for haste with the need for silence. He stopped before the wall his father would be facing when he awoke. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a shard of soft limestone. It wasn't a common substance in Alethkar, but this 'chalk' would serve his purpose perfectly.
Carefully, he reached up and pressed the stone against the wall. He tried not to wince as it squealed against the soulcast slate. He paused after a moment, hardly daring to move, but Dalinar's breathing was entirely unchanged. He swallowed and continued.
Renarin had not written many glyphs in his life. It simply wasn't a skill that the highprince's son had much occasion to practice. His lines were clumsy. The number was easy, but the words…
"Careful," Glys said quietly. "That line should be a bit longer, shouldn't it?"
Renarin frowned, squinting. Glys was right. The glyph, as it was, read broken rather than death. He carefully made the repairs, lengthening the symmetrical lines as necessary. Once he was done, he stepped back, examining his handiwork.
Sixty-two days, read the glyphs. Death follows.
…Or, possibly, Sixty-two days follow death. Or Sixty-two days of death and following. Or something else entirely. Four glyphs were not enough to convey grammatical details, as Renarin was learning from his studies into the women's script.
He let out a soft breath. It would have to do. He needed his father to be able to read what he wrote. He couldn't risk the meaning being lost entirely, going unheard by the ears who needed to heed it. If he had written in the women's script, even if he had trusted himself to write it, there was a possibility that the ardent or scholar who read it would not accurately report its meaning to Dalinar, or might not report it at all if Dalinar wasn't curious. He could not risk that. The risk of a slight misunderstanding in grammar was, by comparison, far less.
"Renarin," Glys said. "We should go."
Renarin's hands twitched. He nearly dropped the stone in his hand. I can't lose focus like that! He berated himself. Not now, of all times! He pocketed his chalk and turned to leave.
Dalinar twitched in his chair. Renarin froze, but his father merely shifted his weight, allowing his head to loll onto his shoulder, and kept dozing. Renarin crept out of the room unnoticed, and shut the door behind him. He leaned back against the wood, shaking with relief.
"There," Glys murmured soothingly. "That wasn't so bad, was it? In and out, perfectly safe."
"Perfectly safe," whispered Renarin. He stood like that for a few minutes, just letting his heart rate come down, before he stood up and left his father's quarters. The former bridgeman gave him a curt nod with hard, judging eyes as he left, but Renarin didn't even mind. He just nodded in return and started down the corridor.
"Where are we going?" Glys asked.
"I need a drink," Renarin said. "I really, really need a drink."
Thanks to Elran and @BeaconHill for betareading, and to Phinnia for the commissioned icon.
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29
The Oath of an Elsecaller
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If Koravellium and I fail tomorrow, we will surely be consumed by the fain and die. If that happens, not a soul will remain in the cosmere who remembers the world that came before. Unless, of course, one counts Adonalsium itself.
-x-x-x-
Sarus looked up as Kaladin rounded the corner down the hall, Syl hovering just above his left shoulder, followed by Moash, Teft, Arik, and Bisig. The six of them approached Sarus' squad, on guard duty outside King Elhokar's chambers. At Sarus' sides, Gadol and Lesk saluted. Sarus just gave his friend a nod.
"Report?" Kaladin asked.
"Highprince Dalinar and the Queen Mother arrived several minutes ago. We're still waiting on Princes Adolin and Renarin." Sarus took a moment to listen for any sign of eavesdroppers or approaching lighteyes. When he heard none, he added, "His Majesty is nervous. I hear him pacing in there. I think he fears reprisal from the highprinces."
Dalinar, as the newly-named Highprince of War, had just announced a change in the structure of the war. Henceforth, the spoils of all chasmfiend hunts were officially property of the crown, not the claiming highprince, to be distributed back to the highprinces according to their contributions to the war. Ideally, this would allow King Elhokar to reframe the metrics of success on the plains—valuing incursions against the Parshendi higher than vain hunts for glory and wealth. However, it also displeased his vassals and placed him under further scrutiny. Even the most fiercely loyal might think him biased if he was not careful and transparent with how he weighed the value of their contributions.
"Good," Kaladin said. "Easier to guard a man who will take threats seriously."
"Unless he considers us a threat," Sarus pointed out. He caught a twitch in Moash's face, but didn't comment on it.
"Well, we'll have to see to it that he doesn't," said Kaladin firmly. "Gadol, Lesk, you're with Teft for the rest of the day. Teft, take them back to the barracks to help you drill the men from the other crews. Sarus, do you have another shift in you?"
"Of course."
"Then we'll take this shift together. Moash, gather a squad to come back to relieve us for the afternoon shift."
The men saluted and parted from them, marching back down the corridor. Only Kaladin, Sarus, Arik, and Bisig remained in front of the door to the meeting room.
After casting a wary glance over his shoulder, Kaladin looked Sarus in the eye. "You know how to handle yourself around lighteyes." It wasn't a question.
"I used to," Sarus said.
"You think you can convince the king to trust us?"
Sarus hesitated. King Elhokar was paranoid and high-dahn, which was not a combination that made it easy for any darkeyes to win his trust. However, he was also vain, proud, and inexperienced. Those were all traits Sarus knew how to exploit. "Most likely," he finally said.
"Then I'm going to have you watching him more often," said Kaladin. "Dalinar already trusts us, and as long as we don't alienate his sons too badly they don't need to trust us as much. But the king can override Dalinar if he decides he wants to. I need you to make sure he doesn't."
"I'll do what I can. But some of the men will be tempted to undermine my efforts. They all have ample reason to be bitter about lighteyes generally, and His Majesty hasn't won them over as Highprince Dalinar did."
"I'll keep the men in line," Kaladin promised.
"Then I'll keep His Majesty happy," Sarus returned.
"Good." Kaladin stepped past him and pushed the door open into the king's conference chamber. Sarus followed him inside.
The room had windows on its leeward side, wide and unshuttered. Its floor was adorned with an ornate rug—Sarus thought it was a Thaylen pattern—and had one door besides the one through which they had entered, situated just between two of the windows, leading onto a balcony. King Elhokar paced beside a desk near the back of the room. Highprince Dalinar and Queen Navani sat in two of the chairs situated around a small table, talking quietly to one another.
Kaladin pointed to the balcony door. "Arik, Bisig, go out there, close the door, and keep watch."
The two men saluted Kaladin and hurried out onto the balcony.
"I don't recognize these guards, Uncle," Elhokar said, shooting the former bridgemen, Sarus included, a suspicious look. He had seen Sarus earlier this morning, but had been seemingly lost in thought as he hurried into this room to await, apparently, this very meeting.
"They're new," Dalinar told him. "Captain, there is no other way onto that balcony. It's a hundred feet off the ground."
"Then that's how I'd try to get in if I wanted to, sir."
Sarus saw Elhokar nod jerkily to himself, muttering something approving.
"Are there any other ways into this room, Your Majesty?" Kaladin asked him. "Secret passages?"
"If there were, I'd not want anyone knowing about them," the king said stiffly.
"My men can't keep a room safe if we don't know what to guard. If you share any secret passages with me, I'll use only my officers guarding them."
The king looked Kaladin up and down before turning to Dalinar. "I like this one. Why hasn't he been in charge of your guard before?"
"I haven't had the opportunity," Dalinar said. Sarus wondered why he was trying to keep their identities as former bridgemen secret. Was it simply a question of class? Kaladin and Sarus' slave brands were still visible, though those of the other men were now hidden behind their tattoos. Or was he trying to draw scrutiny away from them? If so, why?
"Wait," Elhokar said, narrowing his eyes at Kaladin's shoulder—and the captain's knots on display there. "Is that—a captain's rank, on a darkeyes? When did that start happening?"
Dalinar didn't answer, instead standing and pulling Kaladin to one side of the room. Sarus took the opportunity to give the king a bow. "Captain Kaladin was promoted for incredible valor and honor on the battlefield," he said. "He brought many from his old unit, including myself, into his new position, Your Majesty."
"Hm." Elhokar studied Sarus' face. "Are those slave brands?"
"Yes, Your Majesty," said Sarus. "Many of the men in Captain Kaladin's unit are former slaves. He has turned us into a respectable fighting force nonetheless."
"You speak well for a former slave."
"Thank you, Your Majesty," said Sarus with a modest bow. "I had the good fortune to be somewhat educated before I was enslaved. It is good to be able to use that education again."
Elhokar frowned, but Sarus noticed that the nervous tapping on his fingers against his thigh had subsided. Good—Sarus' deep voice and smooth cadence were having a calming effect. That would help him win the king's trust. "Why were you enslaved, soldier?"
—blood running over the flagstones—
Sarus shook off the memory, giving Elhokar a self-deprecating, chagrined smile. "I made an error while in the service of Highprince Sadeas," he said. "Though the mistake was an accident, it angered the highprince and he saw fit to have me punished severely." Which was true, although missing every single important detail.
Elhokar nodded slowly. He looked like he wanted to continue the conversation before Kaladin returned. "Sarus," he said. "Dalinar wants me in here. Keep watch outside."
Sarus met Kaladin's eyes, saw the slight, apologetic quirk to his lips. He buried the envy once again. "Of course, sir," he said, saluting, and stepped outside.
"Four more people are expected," said Dalinar. "My sons, General Khal, and Brightness Teshav, his wife. Anyone other than those four should be kept back until the meeting is over."
Sarus bowed to the highprince. "Yes, Brightlord."
"A quick word," Kaladin said, joining Sarus outside the room and closing the door behind them. "Have you ever guarded lighteyes before?" he asked.
"A few times," Sarus said, thinking of that fateful night as the army bunkered down in preparation for the highstorm.
"Then you know what they mean when they say 'don't let anyone in'?"
"Of course." It wasn't complicated. If you let someone in, I'd better think it was important enough or it's on your head.
"Good," said Kaladin. "Sorry to kick you out. If it were my choice…"
"But it isn't," said Sarus, smiling around his jealousy. "Such is the fate of the darkeyes—even those of rank."
"True enough." Kaladin grimaced. "I can't tell you whatever they talk about in there, but if it's bad news for us…"
"I know," Sarus said. Kaladin's loyalty was unquestionable—and, unquestionably, first to Bridge Four, only then to Dalinar and Elhokar.
Kaladin nodded, clapping Sarus on the shoulder. "See you soon," he said, and entered the meeting room.
Sarus took a relaxed stance—carefully not leaning back against the wall, but still at rest with his hands clasped formally at the small of his back—and stood beside the door. Less than five minutes later, two men approached.
Adolin barely shot Sarus a second glance as he entered the room. Renarin, however, focused on him immediately. Sarus met his gaze and immediately knew that, sometime in the days since Bridge Four's arrival in the Kholin warcamp, Renarin had realized his identity.
Don't draw attention, Sarus thought, holding Renarin's gaze. You know how to be subtle, Renarin. I know you do.
Thankfully, Renarin did not cause a scene. He lingered momentarily at the door, seemingly debating whether to speak to Sarus, but when Adolin shot him a curious look over his shoulder, Renarin turned and hurried into the room. As he passed, Sarus glimpsed a faint, red glow coming from the prince's breast pocket. An infused ruby sphere, perhaps?
Then the door closed, and Sarus was alone in the corridor.
"Their meeting is, and you are not present," Archive observed, growing slightly so that she was visible on his shoulder.
Well, mostly alone. "Yes," Sarus said quietly, casting his senses about. No one was within earshot, and he was confident he would hear anyone approaching before they heard Archive.
"This displeases you. Why?"
Sarus raised an eyebrow. "Shouldn't it?"
"My judgement is not. I ask why. I do not judge whether your displeasure is worthy."
"Fair enough." Archive, Sarus had noticed, tended to speak more directly than most humans. Implications, connotations, and subtleties were typically absent. It was at once refreshing and frustrating, especially since Sarus so often relied upon those unspoken layers of conversation when trying to steer someone in a particular direction. "It frustrates me that Kaladin is being invited into the counsel of highprinces and kings while I'm being left behind."
"Your envy is."
"Yes. Again." Sarus grimaced. "I can't seem to escape it."
"You will grow past it," Archive said, with simple confidence.
"Why do you think so?"
"You are an Elsecaller," Archive said. "Our oaths are. An oath to protect, like the Windrunners, is not. An oath to remember, like the Edgedancers, is not. Our only oath is to ourselves. We will fulfill our potential. We will grow."
I will fulfill my potential. "What do you look for in an Elsecaller, then?" Sarus asked. "How do you determine whether a person has hidden potential to fulfill? After all, doesn't everyone?"
"Kaladin's potential is not hidden," Archive countered. "You and I both know what he is and will grow to be, if his strength is, and not his weakness. Yours is less clear. What will you be, in a year? Five? Ten?"
"Dead, most likely," Sarus said dryly.
"Life before death," said Archive chidingly.
"How do you know I have hidden potential?" Sarus asked. "How do you know I'm not exactly what I appear to be—a bitter, mean man, envious of those better than him but unwilling to truly emulate them?"
"That is why," Archive answered. "Your self-loathing is. Your intelligence is. You understand where you are, what you are. You do not like it. You reject the present circumstances."
"I resent the present circumstances. That's not the same thing."
"Strength before weakness. The one will become the other." She kicked him in the side of the neck. He felt it like the flick of a finger. "Your determination is not, but it could be. Your success is not predestined, but it may yet be all the same. I believe it will be."
"Why?" Sarus asked again. "What evidence have I given to suggest that my potential, even if it exists, is going to be fulfilled?"
"You spoke," said Archive. "I arrived after you had ceased to speak. Your suffering was. But your breaking, your death, was not. Life before death, Radiant, even when struggle is. Your tongue was not. Your hope was not. But your death, also, was not.
"The Honor Chasm was, for dozens of men, but never for you. Sometimes, Sarus, the thing needed for growth is simply to survive long enough to sprout. And when you spoke, when you pushed Kaladin to embody his oaths, I knew you had sprouted. You spoke no words, but I knew you had sworn the First Ideal in your own way."
Sarus found that his mouth had twisted slightly as Archive spoke, as if he had bitten into a sour, underripe jellafruit. He loosened his lips to speak. "I hope I can prove worthy of your faith," he said.
"Journey before destination," said Archive. "Grow because your potential is, not because my faith is. The oath of an Elsecaller is to himself."
Thanks to Elran and @BeaconHill for betareading, and to Phinnia for the commissioned icon.
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30
If Only
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And Adonalsium should not be counted. There is a consciousness behind it, but that consciousness does not reside within the hollow shell buried in the Well of Crystal. That consciousness remembers, as it remembers all things, but Adonalsium itself is no more conscious than my flame is once it leaves my lips.
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Torol stared out the window of his war palace's smallest sitting room. It was high, several stories above the rock of the Plains, and its window looked out eastward over the Unclaimed Hills. On a clear day like this, he almost imagined he could see the low forests of eastern Alethkar—the Deathbend River valley at the heart of the Eastern Crownlands. Somewhere to the north of that valley, at the mouth of the Sunmaker River, the blasted wreckage of Rathalas lay piled in a tangle of corpses and debris.
Why did his mind keep returning to that place? It felt as though it was one of only three places he had really been in his life. The rest of the world was an interchangeable panorama of scenery playing host to a vaguely connected chain of events. But Rathalas, Kholinar, and Sadaras were different.
Truthfully, he knew why he could not tear his mind from that destroyed city right now. His fingers clenched suddenly around the hilt of Oathbringer, gripping hard enough to turn his knuckles white. Then he turned sharply from the window. With sudden fury, he raised the sword and drove it, point first, into the center of the stone table in the middle of the room. It sank in with hardly any resistance.
For a long moment he stood there, his hand still on the hilt, staring down at the Shardblade. Then he stepped back and sank into one of the couches surrounding the table. He could see his face reflected in the curved metal of the Blade. His skin was wrinkled, especially around the eyes, and his dark hair was beginning to go gray in earnest.
Torol was getting old. He knew it. He could feel it, sometimes, in the reluctant creaking of his bones and the aches that lingered briefly in the morning after a highstorm.
It had taken him decades, but at last he had a Shardblade. It didn't help. Once, he had envied Dalinar this Blade, had lusted after it, coveted it. He still did. He was pleased to have it. But it did little to fill the deep hollow in his chest, nor to assuage the soul-deep envy that made some animal part of him want to strangle Dalinar until his face went blue and slack in Torol's grip.
Dalinar had collapsed completely after his wife's death. He had lost himself in drink, stumbling through life like a blind man through a storm. Torol, at the same time, had been working tirelessly to protect Alethkar from threats without and within. He had faced rebellions within his own highprincedom and malcontents throughout the kingdom. He had done everything that was asked of him, and done it well.
Yet now it was Dalinar who, in his old age, had two sons to groom to take his place. It was Dalinar who could one day pass his title to the next generation, secure in the knowledge that it would still be his blood, his legacy, in the seat of power.
Torol's eyes pricked. He raised a hand to cover them, rubbing at his temples.
The door opened. He didn't look up as Ialai stepped inside. "I see you've destroyed my table," she observed, closing the door and coming to sit next to him. He felt her put an arm around his back. "Are you all right?"
Torol rubbed his hand down his face before looking at her. "Fine," he said.
She met his eyes, and he could see that she knew exactly what was on his mind. It was never far from either of them, that grief. It skulked in the shadows, always just out of sight until the moment it reached out and placed its cold fingers upon their shoulders.
"I swore to avenge her, Ialai," said Torol quietly. "The sword is named Oathbringer, and I claimed it by breaking an oath."
"She would understand," Ialai said softly.
"She can't understand anything anymore," Torol said, leaning back and looking at the sword again. He felt hatred surging up in him—hatred for the sword, for Dalinar, for Gavilar, for Ialai, for himself, but most of all for the boy who should have protected his daughter, and had instead taken her from him.
Torol had never fully understood what had happened that night. Partly, that was because he hadn't been there. He had been in Kholinar, advising Gavilar. Even now, five years after the man's death, he had not entirely forgiven his dead king for being the reason he was away during that fateful storm.
But even once he had returned and interrogated all the witnesses personally, their reports made no sense. But all of them agreed on who, exactly, was responsible. Not just for taking his daughter from him, but for ensuring he didn't even have a body to bury.
He had sworn to avenge his daughter. Yet when the opportunity presented itself to have in his hand the thing he had coveted for so long—a Shardblade of his own, to finally stand as tall as anyone in Alethkar—he had been unable to resist. His greed had overwhelmed his honor, and he hated himself for it.
"She always understood that sentiment had to yield to need," Ialai said softly. "We haven't lost the opportunity to see Tailiah avenged. If anything, it may be easier now. The boy is no longer useful to us—so we have no reason to let him live any longer."
"Are you suggesting we send your assassins after him?" Torol asked. It was tempting. It would be highly unusual to send trained assassins after a darkeyed former slave—but that darkeyed former slave could not be suffered to live, to survive the war, to escape Torol's justice.
"I've placed many agents in Dalinar's warcamp," Ialai said. "His recruitment drive has given me opportunities aplenty. It wouldn't be hard to see to it that a knife found its way into one of their hands. Nor would it be difficult to ensure those hands were already trained in its use."
"Hm. Tempting." But… "Hold off for now. If the war comes close to ending, we can always take that approach then, before he has the chance to escape into the Kholin Highprincedom. But I want to see if we can arrange something more suitable than a knife in the back." The punishment should always outstrip the severity of the crime.
"Very well," said Ialai. "But remember that, one way or another, she will be avenged. You haven't given up on that in order to gain a Blade."
Torol took a deep breath and nodded. "You're right. We will have vengeance."
"We will," Ialai agreed.
He stared at the Shardblade for a moment before speaking again. "I'm tired of this, love," he said quietly. "These stupid hunts, this stupid game. It's all so meaningless."
"It enriches us," Ialai pointed out.
"Which is the only reason I've tolerated it so long. But it's so boring, Ialai! I'm made for war. This? Hours of marching in the hope of finding one little skirmish against barbarians with barely one set of Shards among them? This isn't war. I want it back. The conquest." It's the only thing that makes sense anymore. The only thing that has meaning.
"Do you want to go along with Dalinar's initiative, then?" Ialai asked neutrally.
Torol snorted. "He and I agree that this foolishness must end, but that is all we agree on. And I cannot afford to empower him by openly supporting it. No, we will take the opposition, but steer our conflict so that once we defeat Dalinar, this game will be on its way to ending anyway."
"How?"
That was always the hard part, wasn't it? "I need to speak with some of the other highprinces," Torol said. "Dalinar has made his announcement, yes? Of the new form of chasmfiend hunts?"
"He has," Ialai said. "Earlier today."
"That will alienate several of the others. We can certainly bring Ruthar and Thanadal to our side, as loathsome as Thanadal is. And as much as Aladar personally likes Dalinar, we may be able to sway him as well. Roion is too obedient, Bethab is too stupid, Sebarial is too lazy, and Hatham and Vamah are both too cautious to commit to either side before the conflict is decided."
"And what will we do with this coalition once it's built?"
Torol rubbed his chin. "If we show ourselves superior to Dalinar's alliance… that may allow us to harness his momentum without empowering him." The idea was building itself in his mind like a building being Soulcast into existence. "If our armies, lighter and faster than Dalinar's joint runs, can beat the other highprinces to the plateaus but still give up the gemhearts according to the new decrees, that will win us influence while at the same time letting Dalinar's new initiative build the momentum of the war. The only issue is that it still empowers Elhokar."
"Could we pry Elhokar away from Dalinar?"
Torol shook his head. "I don't think so; not anymore. Dalinar is openly courting Elhokar's mother—if that isn't already enough to drive them apart, then her influence over him will be too much for us to overcome. Especially after Dalinar's escape from the Tower. I could probably have fooled Elhokar if none of the Kholin witnesses survived, but now? He's paranoid, and I just betrayed his uncle and cousin. He's not likely to trust me again anytime soon." Torol's lips twitched. "Honestly, I'm not too displeased with that."
"Oh?" Ialai asked curiously. "What happened to trying to keep this kingdom together?"
"I will keep Alethkar together," said Torol. "But Elhokar is a failure, and it's time to acknowledge it. I want conquest again—and of the men who conquered Alethkar thirty years ago, I am the only one still alive and in control of his faculties. I can do it again." I want to do it again.
"Is that our plan, then?" Ialai asked. "Finish this war on the Plains, discredit Dalinar, then seize the kingdom from Elhokar?"
"I don't want to commit to open rebellion just yet," said Torol. "But the option is certainly open." He reached out and pulled Oathbringer out of the table. "Three more days until I've bonded the Blade. After that, I'll go speak with Ruthar and Thanadal. Aladar will have to be handled more carefully. Once we've built an alliance to counter Dalinar and Elhokar, we'll figure out the details of outrunning their planned hunts." He smiled thinly, holding up the sword to look his aging reflection in the eye. "Dalinar's proclamation will fracture the kingdom. And I will be the one to reforge it stronger."
"What will we do if he succeeds?" Ialai asked. "Dalinar has surprised us once already. What if he finds a way to unite the other highprinces, if his coalition outnumbers our own?"
Torol smiled at her. "That is when your assassins will be of use, my dear. One way or another, I will conquer Alethkar anew. Herdaz and Jah Keved will follow. I will have my conquest again. I will reclaim the Thrill of war."
You will never rule the kingdom I will build, my daughter. But I will build it in your honor nonetheless.
Ialai nodded and stood. "I'll continue sending agents to infiltrate Dalinar's new support staff," she said. "The moment he so much as sneezes, we will know about it." She glanced past him, out the window, and there was something wistful in her eyes. "This would be so much simpler if Tailiah were still here," she murmured. "If we could marry her to one of Dalinar's sons, we could make this whole process much less uncertain."
"If Tailiah were still here," Torol said, "everything would be different. There's no sense dwelling on what might have been. We'll hurt ourselves and no one else."
"I suppose you're right." Ialai stood still for a moment, clutching her hand to her breast. Then she glanced at him once, briefly, before turning away and leaving with a quick farewell.
As she shut the door behind her, Torol turned and gazed out the window again. He was somewhat comforted. The world made more sense when he thought of conquest and war. A little bit more sense, at least.
If only, he thought. If only.
For a moment, he thought he caught a glimpse of something moving on the very edge of his vision. But when he turned his head, there were only the shadows in the corner of the room.
Thanks to Elran and @BeaconHill for betareading, and to Phinnia for the commissioned icon.
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31
Envy
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That leaves only Koravellium and myself. The last two dragons to remember what that means. A race once so terrible that our wingbeats heralded the endings of civilizations. The greatest experiment and success of the king of power.
-x-x-x-
"To start with," Murk said, tapping his pen against the ledger in his hand, "we should try to figure out how to measure quantities of Stormlight. We can't make any calculations without units."
Kaladin nodded. "Makes sense. How do we start?"
"First, are you infused with Stormlight now?"
Kaladin shook his head. "I don't stay infused long once I draw Stormlight in. Longer now than before the Tower, but still not long."
"Is that normal?" Sarus asked, looking at where Archive was leaning against the chasm wall.
She nodded. "Radiants leak Stormlight, like gemstones. For stones, the rate varies. Some flawless gemstones are. These hold Stormlight indefinitely. The same may be for Radiants who have sworn all the Ideals of their Order."
"How many is that?" Kaladin asked.
"My memory is not. I would guess five or ten. These numbers are… sacred."
"Are spren Vorin, then?" Murk asked. "I… sort of assumed you didn't have religion the way men do."
Archive frowned. "No. Syl would be better to ask, as an honorspren."
"I can hardly remember any of this," Syl complained from where she hovered over Kaladin's shoulder. "All I know is that spren are tiny pieces of gods. I think some of Vorinism's traditions are based on the real stories of those gods, but other parts have been filled in along the way. Archive is right about five and ten being sacred, though."
"Gods, plural?" Murk asked. He didn't sound as affronted as Sarus would have expected of an ardent being confronted with contradictions to his religion. If anything, he sounded eagerly curious. "How many?"
"Depends how you count them," Syl said. "I remembered a little more. The spren you know are all fragments of two gods—Honor and Cultivation. Mostly we're… blends of the two of them. Honorspren are almost all Honor. There's another type of spren, Cultivationspren, that are almost all Cultivation."
"Inkspren are more of Cultivation than of Honor," Archive interjected quietly.
"That makes sense. I think the Almighty of Vorinism might be based on Honor or Cultivation, or maybe both." Syl settled on Kaladin's shoulder, tucking her knees up to her chin and wrapping her arms around her legs. "And then there's the other god."
"Odium," Kaladin said.
A sudden jolt ran through Sarus' spine at the name. A sharp sound rang in his ears, a different note in each, jarring and inharmonious against one another; the two tones rubbed like the shrieking of metal on metal. He found himself clapping his hands over his ears, but the sound was already gone by the time he finished the motion. Beside him, Archive hissed sharply, and Syl winced visibly on Kaladin's shoulder.
"Yes. Him." Syl narrowed her eyes at Kaladin. "I told you not to speak his name if you didn't have to!"
Kaladin didn't look at her. He was instead staring curiously at Sarus. "I didn't expect you to react that way," he said as Sarus removed his hands from his ears. "Is that an Elsecaller thing?"
"I do not believe so," said Archive, watching Sarus as well. "I think it is a Sarus thing. Like the orange Light."
Sarus crossed his arms. "Who is he?" he asked, bringing the conversation back on topic. "This other god?"
"He's the entity behind the Desolations," said Syl. "He has spren too, I think. But I don't remember what any of them might be like."
"Then the Desolations were real?" Murk asked. "That's one of the parts of Vorin tradition that's based on real history?"
"The Desolations," murmured Archive, "are more than history. The Desolations are."
Syl grimaced. "I wondered about that."
"Then one is coming?" Kaladin asked the inkspren. "A new Desolation?"
"Yes," said Archive. "I do not remember how I know this, but I remember that this is."
Murk had gone pale. "Vorin tradition says the Heralds told us that Aharietiam was the end of the Desolations," he said. "How much of that was false?"
"My memory is not," said Archive. "The Heralds are. I remember this. But whether they said that the desolations ended four millennia ago, I do not know."
"Desolation or no Desolation," Kaladin said, "we can't do much about it now. Murk, you had an idea for how to measure Stormlight?"
"Right, yes." Murk reached into the pouch at his belt and drew out six chips containing different gemstones—two each of diamond, ruby, and amethyst. All of them were infused with Stormlight.
The light which softly emanated from them was the color of the gemstone inside, but there was also a hint of the pale blue color inherent to the Stormlight itself. It was most visible in the diamond chip, as the gemstone itself provided little to no color of its own. It was that trait which had made the orange tint that Sarus left behind in his spheres so obvious—bridgemen were paid entirely in diamond clearchips. Since being freed, Sarus had experimented with infusing non-diamond spheres. While the Light within them was still markedly different from Stormlight, it was far less obvious when masked behind a colored stone.
"You said you can use Stormlight to attach two things together," Murk said. "Like a rock to the wall?"
Kaladin nodded.
"And how long it stays attached depends on how much Stormlight you use?"
"As far as I can tell."
"Then the first thing I want to test," said Murk, "is whether different stones contain different amounts of Stormlight. Obviously, every individual stone is going to be more or less flawed, so we can't be too exact without having a lot more spheres, but this should be enough to start with."
Kaladin reached out and Murk handed him one of the spheres. He picked up a stone about twice the size of his fist, then sucked in the Stormlight. It streamed into him in a line of pale blue, bright in the half-light of the chasm. Kaladin reached up and pressed the stone against the crem-encrusted wall, and when he removed his hand it remained there.
"Adhesion," said Syl.
"Hm?" Kaladin asked, glancing at her.
"That's the Surge of Adhesion. Connecting one thing to another, binding them together."
Kaladin grunted. "You said I have two Surges. What's the other?"
"Gravitation," Syl said. "It lets you control the force that pulls things toward the ground."
"What, groundspren?" Murk asked.
"Groundspren, gravityspren, gravitationspren…" Syl shrugged. "All different names for the same thing."
"The spren is attracted to the force, not its source," said Archive. "The force is, independent of the spren."
"Huh. Really?" Murk asked
"If memory serves," Archive said. "I recall that evidence is, though I do not recall that evidence."
"Is that the case for all spren?" Kaladin asked.
Archive raised an eyebrow. "You should hope so."
Kaladin blinked at her. "What do you mean?"
She smiled thinly. "Before Syl, had you ever seen an honorspren?"
Kaladin's eyes narrowed. "No. But given my experiences, that's not exactly proof."
"Did Syl's arrival suddenly render you capable of honorable behavior? Before she came to you, were you inescapably selfish? No. Honor is not dead," said Archive, with a tone that suggested recitation, "so long as He lives in the hearts of men."
No sooner had Archive spoken these words than Syl was streaking towards her face as a ribbon of light. "How do you remember all this?" she demanded. "That's an honorspren saying. I don't even think it's one we use very often anymore! Why do you remember so much?"
"Connection is," said Archive, as if that was all the explanation anyone could need.
"What connection?"
"My Connection to the Physical Realm is. How long ago did you cross over?"
"About eight months ago," Syl said. "I think. Things were fuzzy at first. Fuzzier."
"I came here more than five years ago. Even if a Nahel bond is not, merely being here strengthens the Connection, albeit slowly. Very slowly." Archive looked past Syl at Kaladin. "Your prospective Radiant was. You saw him even from Shadesmar, I suspect. My plan… was not. Or at least, not as clear."
"Then why did you come, if not because you found Sarus?"
Archive smiled. It was not a happy expression. "I do not remember. My memory is of honorspren proverbs, Surgebinding mechanics, and other esoterica. But of myself, of what drove me to leave behind all I knew and brave the mindlessness of Roshar? My memory is not. Your envy should not be, Syl. At least you know why you are here."
Syl looked away. Then she darted back to Kaladin. "Let's keep testing," she said. "We've got more spheres to test, right?"
Sarus watched as Kaladin sucked in Stormlight and began lashing stones to the wall. He watched Murk timing how long they remained affixed. But he couldn't focus.
Archive didn't come to Roshar for me. But Syl came for Kaladin.
It wasn't really a surprise. That only made it hurt worse.
I am here for you, she had said. He doubted it had been a lie—there was nothing for that lie to give Archive, no purpose to the manipulation, unless she had thought it would push him towards the First Ideal. And maybe it had, but there had been so many other factors, and such a delay in time, that to tell that lie so early into their acquaintance wasn't sensible.
No, mostly likely she had believed it at the time. And now that he had sworn the First Ideal, she had remembered the truth. She hadn't come here for him. She might not remember what she had come for, but it wasn't for him.
Sarus leaned back against the wall of the chasm, closed his eyes, and simply let himself feel. Seethe.
Once they finished testing Kaladin's Surges, he would paint the stalwart companion over the loathsome creature he was when all the masks came down, like a coat of paint over rotting wood. But every once in a while, he needed to let himself bathe in that rot for a time.
After all, the only thing worse than a wretch who knew he was pathetic was one who didn't.
-x-x-x-
"Stormblessed!" The call came from one of the watchtowers overlooking the chasms just as Sarus was scrambling up onto the plateau behind Kaladin. Behind him, Murk was still clambering up the rope ladder. "Have you heard the news?"
"No," Kaladin called back. "What news?"
"A hero's come to the Shattered Plains! He's coming to meet with Brightlord Kholin now, perhaps support him! It's a good sign. Our fortunes might be improving!"
"Who?" Sarus asked, his deep voice carrying easily across the distance.
"Brightlord Meridas Amaram. He's a vassal of Sadeas, but he's apparently a much better man than his highprince."
Sarus saw Kaladin stiffen as the name reached his ears. His face paled, and his knuckles went white on his spear. Then he took off running, not even waiting for Murk to finish pulling himself up. Sarus blinked after him, then turned to help Murk up.
"What was that about?" Murk asked, looking after their captain.
"Don't know," said Sarus. But he could guess.
Sarus had never met Meridas Amaram. He'd heard good things about the man, of course, just like most of Alethkar. A true lighteyes, some said. An honorable man. A war hero, fighting tirelessly in contest against his neighboring citylords.
But he had also seen Torol Sadeas smile as those rumors were spoken in his presence. He had seen the twinkle in Ialai's eye as she joined in the gossip.
Sarus and Murk followed Kaladin into the warcamp. They arrived just in time to see a man in a green uniform following Dalinar into the highprince's palace. Kaladin stood surrounded by cheerful spectators returning to their work, gossiping to one another about the hero in their midst, the Shardbearer, the one honorable lord in all of the Sadeas highprincedom.
But Kaladin did not look cheerful. He did not look much of anything. He looked, if anything, just like he had that night when the crew had given him a smuggled scalpel. Lost. Grieving. Hopeless.
Sarus stepped up beside him. "He can't touch us," he said quietly.
"But Dalinar can." Kaladin's voice was hoarse.
For a moment, Sarus teetered on the edge of a terrible precipice. He could inflame this surging dread in Kaladin. He could push Kaladin to mistrust Dalinar, push him away from the man who had saved them, curtail his growing influence with the Kholin family, not by making them distrust him—that would only make them dangerous to all of the former bridgemen—but by doing exactly the reverse.
Sarus could already see the course charting itself before him. He could drive a wedge between Kaladin and Dalinar, then insert himself as an intermediary so that Kaladin didn't have to deal with the highprince himself. From there he would be poised nearly as well as he had been before any of this had happened, albeit now within the Kholin highprincedom instead of Sadeas. His ambition hungered for it. His envy demanded it.
But as Sarus looked at Kaladin's drawn face, at Syl staring at him in concern, he felt a hesitance. Yes, he envied Kaladin. Yes, he wanted for himself the influence that seemed determined to fall into Kaladin's lap.
…But it wasn't Kaladin's fault that he was simply better than Sarus. For all Sarus' spite, he couldn't blame Kaladin for any of this. He didn't want to hurt Kaladin. He didn't want Kaladin miserable.
These two impulses—to help Kaladin find his way, or to seize the compass for himself—balanced perfectly against one another. Sarus stood upon a narrow stretch of stone, a chasm on either side. He could choose which way to fall. He could choose which impulse to feed.
"It is the curse of good men," said Sarus, "that they often think the best of those around them. Look at what happened with Sadeas."
Kaladin turned and met his eyes. "Why would Dalinar believe me?" he asked. "It's my word against Amaram's—and anyone Amaram wants to pay off to be an eyewitness."
"True," agreed Sarus. "But you have something Amaram does not. You saved Dalinar's life. More importantly—you saved those of his men, and of his son."
"Amaram might have done those things, too," Kaladin argued, but something desperate was in his face. Sarus saw there the same indecision he had just felt—the desire to believe in Dalinar warring with the desire to indulge his hatred of Amaram. "I don't know much about either of their campaigns before the Plains."
"Ah," said Sarus. "But I do. And while they have fought together, many times, Amaram has never rescued Dalinar from certain death."
"How do you know?"
"Have I asked you to recount your history with Amaram?"
"No." Kaladin sighed. "I understand, Sarus. You're sure?"
His Connection to Roshar was as strong as ever, sealed as it was by the power of Honor. Even here, with only a thin thread of your power, still you haunt my steps, Tulkas.
That's interesting, the implication that Honour is some fragment of Tulkas.
If Morgoth is Odium and Tulkas is Honour, I wonder if one can draw parallels between the remaining Valar and Shards - though obviously the numbers don't match, since there are sixteen Shards and only fifteen (canonically named) Valar if you count Melkor/Morgoth.
That's interesting, the implication that Honour is some fragment of Tulkas.
If Morgoth is Odium and Tulkas is Honour, I wonder if one can draw parallels between the remaining Valar and Shards - though obviously the numbers don't match, since there are sixteen Shards and only fifteen (canonically named) Valar if you count Melkor/Morgoth.
Thanks to Elran and @BeaconHill for betareading, and to Phinnia for the commissioned icon.
-x-x-x-
32
Calling
-x-x-x-
I was born in the year 3128 of the Second Age of Arda. I was born under the name Krimfas. In those days, the dragons of the Withered Heath—where I was born—primarily communicated and gave their hatchlings names in the Black Speech as codified by Sauron, first lieutenant of our fell god.
-x-x-x-
Eleven Years Ago
Sarus sat on a bench along the edge of one of Sadaras' courtyards. In his lap was a tray of his mother's cooking—tender strips of chicken over a bed of ground lavis, sauced with a rich, peppery gravy. The heat blossomed on his tongue, opening his perceptions to the other subtleties of the flavor.
His mother no longer had time to cook for him every day as she had when he had been smaller. But he relished every day that she did. He leaned back against the wall, watching the gardeners tending the blooming vinebuds. None of them looked in his direction.
"Have you decided?"
"No," Sarus said quietly, carefully not looking over his shoulder at the window only a few feet from where he sat. Out of the corner of his eye, however, he saw tresses of dark hair dangling over the sill as Tailiah leaned on it from inside.
"Any ideas?" she asked.
"Several," he said. "But I don't much like any of them."
"Yeah. I understand that."
"Do you?" Sarus asked. "Do you really?"
"Yes," she said after a long pause. "You don't have a monopoly on not being able to make the choices you want to, Sarus. How was Renarin?"
Sarus immediately felt guilty. "Fine. He's improving. How was Adolin?"
"Cute," Tailiah said. "Like an axehound puppy. A puppy I'm going to be offered to like breeding stock."
"If you told your father you felt that way, he wouldn't force you," said Sarus. "He loves you."
"He does," Tailiah agreed. "He loves me so much that he wants what's best for me. Sure, I could convince him that Adolin wasn't the right match for me. But only if I could give a reason why Adolin specifically is a poor match. Which, unfortunately, he isn't."
"It's possible there's someone out there you'd like more," Sarus pointed out.
"Yeah. It is." Tailiah didn't elaborate further.
He sighed. "Welcome to the real world, I suppose," he said. "We're growing up. Time to put away childish fantasies that we can do what we want."
"I'm not giving up," Tailiah murmured. "Just because Alethkar isn't willing to give me what I want doesn't mean I'm going to give up on taking it."
"Pretty words," said Sarus dryly. "But what can we actually do?"
Tailiah didn't answer.
-x-x-x-
"Young Sarus," said Ardent Lobor. The old man had grown wise to Sarus' quirks in the past two years as his tutor, but he seemed more tolerant of them than most of the ardentia. He could be stern when he caught Sarus in a lie, but so long as the lie wasn't directed at him, he was sometimes almost indulgent. "On Jesahev you will have seen ten years on Roshar."
"Yes, sir," Sarus confirmed, not looking up from his carving. Today, as for the past several weeks, he was working on whittling a set of pieces for a game board as part of learning to emulate the virtues of Kelek'Elin the Builder.
"On that day," continued Lobor, "you know what will be expected of you?"
"I would not dream of denying you the opportunity to remind me, sir."
Lobor frowned. "There is no call for sarcasm, young one. It is unbecoming."
Sarus' knife slipped. With some effort, he kept himself from swearing as he nicked his fingertip. Blood came forth, staining the wood red. "Forgive me," he said, standing and crossing the room without shooting the ardent a single glance. He snatched a strip of cloth from the rack on the side of the carving shop and started walking back to his seat as he wrapped it around his finger.
Lobor let him begin his carving again. Sarus felt the old man's gaze on him as he worked. "As your teacher," the ardent finally said, "I suspect I know what weighs on your mind."
"I doubt it's all that difficult to guess, sir," said Sarus dryly. "I'm sure I'm not the first nine-year-old to doubt his ability to judge the course of his entire life in a few short months."
On his tenth birthday, Sarus would be expected to choose his Calling and Glory in the service of the Almighty. Every Vorin child with the benefit of a classical education, even such a one as was afforded to a darkeyes like Sarus, chose both on the day they concluded their tenth year.
A Calling was more than a job. It was more than a career. It was a vocation. There were people with the Callings of surgeons, of musicians, of storytellers, of warriors. There were people whose Calling was carpentry, and people whose Calling was mathematics, and people whose Calling was faith. Most of those last joined the ardentia, of course.
A Glory was different. A person's Glory was the aspect of the Almighty they tried to personally emulate and embody on Roshar. A person's Glory tied them to one of the devotaries within the ardentia, and from then on ardents of that devotary would be their primary point of contact in spiritual matters.
Lobor was of the Devotary of Sincerity. This did not make Sarus particularly more or less inclined to choose one of the associated Glories.
"The Almighty does understand that men change in the course of their lives, Sarus," said Lobor gently. "Choosing your Calling does not have to be a permanent thing. It is a decision you should consider carefully, of course, because it is through your Calling that you will draw closer to the Almighty. But if in the future you learn that you have chosen incorrectly, you can change your Calling. It renders your service in your previous Calling moot, but better that than to be trapped in an incorrect Calling for eternity when you go to join the Almighty and His Heralds."
"I know, sir," said Sarus. "I would just… like to get it right the first time."
That wasn't actually the problem. Sarus knew exactly what his Calling was, what it should be. That was the problem.
In Vorin tradition, the Almighty created each person with an innate talent for their Calling and an innate love of their Glory. In Alethi tradition, the Almighty placed each person at a rank that befit their moral worth. The ardents taught that these two facts together ensured that, if only a young man heeded the wisdom of the ardentia and the desires of his own heart, he would find himself serving joyfully in a suitable station.
Unfortunately, Sarus's Calling was politics, and he was a darkeyes. So either the Almighty had slipped and cut himself while molding Sarus out of the primordial clay, or the ardentia were simply wrong. Or, more likely, both.
"Sir," Sarus said slowly, an idea occurring to him. He couldn't ask Lobor openly whether there was any way for a darkeyed boy like him to pursue one of the most noble Callings on Roshar, something reserved only for lighteyes of fifth dahn and higher. All that would earn him was another lecture on the dangers of envy and learning to be content with his lot in life. But he didn't have to ask openly. "I have a question."
"Ask, young one."
"What would happen," he said, "if a man born to the, say, third dahn—a highprince's son—found that more than anything else, he enjoyed the satisfaction of baking bread?"
Lobor blinked at him. "I… beg your pardon?"
"What would happen," Sarus said, "if a man desired a Calling far below his station? Would he be able to pursue it?"
"Tradition would suggest that if a man were destined for the calling of baking, he would have been born at the suitable rank."
"But a man born at the third dahn may not remain there forever," Sarus pointed out. "If his elder brother dies, he may be promoted to second dahn. If his father is deposed, he may be demoted to fourth or below. Is his destined Calling, then, going to be at the station to which he was born, or the one at which he will eventually die?"
Lobor leaned back in his seat, looking thoughtful. "I suppose that would depend on whether his change in station was caused by servants of the Almighty, or of the Voidbringers."
"But mortal men can't know that. Such things are known only to the Almighty and His Heralds."
"Correct."
"So how would the ardentia react?" Sarus asked. "If a man's rank changes to one at which his old Calling is no longer acceptable, or he desires a Calling not acceptable at his current rank, how would a wise ardent advise him?"
"Hm." Lobor's lips twitched. "You ask deep questions, young Sarus. Perhaps you should consider the ardentia as your own Calling?"
"I will consider it," Sarus promised. He already had, as a matter of fact.
"Well, I suppose the only wise approach would be to assume that a man's current rank is the rank he is destined for, and that one of the Callings available to his current rank must be the one for which he is destined," said Lobor. "Men cannot look to the future, and to try to do so is profane. So we cannot know if a change of rank is in a man's future. Though our knowledge will always be imperfect, the only safe approach is to assume that a man's current rank is the one at which he will remain."
At that moment, the idea struck Sarus like a hammer to the temple. "Thank you," he said. "I think I have more clarity now."
-x-x-x-
"I know what I'm going to do," he said the moment Tailiah slipped inside his window two nights later. She couldn't visit him every day, but she tried to do so at least twice a week.
She raised an eyebrow as she shuttered the window behind her. "Oh?"
"I talked to Lobor. Not directly, don't look at me like that. You know how easy it is to get an answer without asking the actual question."
She grinned. "Sure. But you haven't told me the actual question or what the answer is."
"Hey, let me have my dramatic timing."
She rolled her eyes. "So long as your dramatic timing doesn't take all night."
"I am going to choose war as my Calling," Sarus said.
She blinked, her smile fading. "What? Why?"
"No, listen," Sarus said excitedly. "I can't just choose politics like you can. But I asked Lobor about changes in rank and how those affect peoples' Callings, and he said that the ardentia would assume that a person's current rank dictated what Callings were acceptable for them to have."
"So?"
"So, how does a darkeyed boy become a lighteyes?"
Her eyes widened. He'd expected that, it was the correct response to the elegance of his idea. He hadn't expected her face to go pale. "Sarus…"
"What?"
She was silent for a moment, looking him in the eye. There was a strained, complicated expression on her face. "You'll die," she said finally. "There's a reason everyone's willing to allow any darkeyes who kills a Shardbearer to become a lighteyes. It's because it never happens."
Her words were like a shock of cold water. Somehow, he'd been so enamored of the audacity of his idea that he hadn't fully registered that the reason it was so audacious was that it was incredibly dangerous.
…But then again…
"Every darkeyed spearman in every army in Alethkar has a chance of running into a Shardbearer on every battlefield he ever visits," Sarus said. "For most of them, that's a death sentence, so they spend their efforts trying to avoid that. But I'll be doing everything I can to be ready for it. I can do this, Tailiah. I have to do this."
Her green eyes held his for a long moment before she lowered them. "I wish you didn't," she whispered. "Sometimes I really hate Alethkar, Sarus. I hate that it makes us both be people we're not on the road to even trying to be who we are."
"Me too," he admitted. "But that's life, Tailiah. We can't change it. We can't choose another country to be born in, and most of them are just as bad or worse anyway. All we can do is be stronger than the forces trying to break us."
She took a deep breath. Then raised her eyes to meet his gaze again. "I don't want to marry Adolin," she said. "It's not because anything's wrong with Adolin. It's because… well, it's hard to explain. I don't know how to explain. But I think I would rather be married to you than to him."
That drew him up short. "Wait. What?"
She flushed. "No, I'm not telling you I'm in love with you. I'm not. That's not what this is. It's just that if I have to be married to someone I don't love, I'd rather it be someone who can at least understand me."
"What are you saying, then?"
"I'm saying," said Tailiah quietly, "that if you're going to try to become a lighteyes, I'll try to wait for you. I don't know how long I'll be able to make excuses, but I'll try. If you succeed, it might be a way for both of us to get out of the traps we were born into."
He stared at her for a long moment. "What… what do you want, Tailiah?"
Tailiah didn't meet his gaze for a long moment. "I'm only nine," she said. "Maybe everything will look different when I'm a few years older, like Mother always says it will. But I doubt it." She visibly steeled herself, then looked up and met his gaze. "I want to fall in love," she said. "I want to have someone who understands me, someone who cares for me the way my parents care for each other. More than that. More sincere. More pure. I want something without expectations, without tradition or politicking or status."
"And you can't have that with Adolin?"
"Maybe I could," said Tailiah. "If Adolin was a girl." And with those words she turned away from him and fled.
The next day, he managed to find her in private for just long enough to agree to her plan. If he became a Shardbearer, he would do what he could to help her.
