He had none of that ability now, but he needed none of it. The answer was here, in the notebook. He settled down on the stool in his bathroom—too tired to move the seat elsewhere—as he flipped through the pages.
Taravangian had a huge advantage over almost everyone else. Others, stupid or smart, tended to overestimate their abilities. Not Taravangian. He knew exactly how it felt to be both smart and stupid. He could use that.
He had to. He needed to use every advantage he had. He had to create a plan as daring as the Diagram—and do so without the gifts Cultivation had given him.
The plan of a man, not a god.
He racked his brain for anything in the Diagram relating to Nightblood, the sword. But there was nothing. They hadn’t anticipated the sword. Still, he had been given a report by agents he’d sent to research it by interviewing one of its former bearers. Taravangian pulled tidbits from that report from the recesses of his mind, then wrote them on a fresh page of his notebook.
The sword feeds on the essence that makes up all things, he wrote, scribbling by the light of a single ruby sphere. It will draw out Stormlight eagerly, feasting. But if there is no Stormlight, it will feed on one’s own soul. The agent had noted that Nightblood worked like a larkin, the beasts that could feed on Investiture.
What else did he know? What other clues could he give himself?
Odium has greatly expanded intelligence, he wrote. He can be in many places at once and can command the elements. But he feels the same way a man does. He can be tricked. And he seems to have a central … self, a core person.
Szeth had refused to listen to Taravangian. However, the man had come when Taravangian seeded the proper incentive out into the world. So maybe he didn’t need to make Szeth do anything other than arrive in the same place as Odium. The Shin assassin was reckless and unstable. Surely Szeth would strike out against Odium if he saw the god manifesting.
But how? How can I possibly make the timing work?
Taravangian sighed, his head thumping with pain. He looked across at the small hand mirror he’d set up on the counter. The ruby sphere he was using for light reflected in the mirror.
But his face did not reflect.
Instead he saw a shadowy figure, female, with long flowing black hair. The entire figure was a shadow, the eyes like white holes into nothingness. Taravangian blinked very slowly, then began to tremble with fear. Storms.
Storms.
He attempted to gather his wits and control his emotions. He probably would have run to hide if he had the strength. In this case, his weakening body served him, as it forced him to sit there until he could control himself.
“H … hello, Sja-anat,” he finally managed to say. “I had not realized any of the Un … Unmade were here.”
What is wrong with you? a voice said in his mind, warped and distorted, like a dozen voices overlapping. What has happened to you?
“This is how I am sometimes. It is … the Nightwatcher’s fault.”
No, the other one. The god. She touched three that I know. The child. The general. And you. The Old Magic … the Nightwatcher … I begin to wonder if it was all a cover, these many centuries. A way for her to secretly bring in people she wanted to touch. She has been playing a far more subtle game than Odium realized.
Why did you go to her? What did you ask?
“For the capacity to stop what was coming,” he said. He was too frightened to lie. Even the smart him hadn’t wanted to face one of these things.
She sows many seeds, Sja-anat said. Can you do it? Can you stop what is coming?
“I don’t know,” Taravangian whispered. “Can it be stopped? Can … he be stopped?”
I am uncertain. The power behind him is strong, but his mind is exposed. The mind and the power seek different goals. This leaves him … not weak, but vulnerable.
“I have wondered,” Taravangian said, glancing down at his notebook, “if he is merely playing with me. I assume he looks over my shoulder at everything I write.”
No. He is not everywhere. His power is, but he is not. There are limits, and his Voidspren eyes fear coming too close to a Bondsmith.
Something itched at Taravangian through the fear and confusion. Sja-anat … she spoke like she wanted Odium to fall. Wasn’t there something in the Diagram about this? He tried to remember.
Storms. Was she tricking him into confessing? Should he stay quiet and not say anything?
No. He had to try.
“I need a way to lure Odium to me,” Taravangian said. “At the right time.”
I will arrange for you to be given gemstones with two of my children inside, she said. Odium searches for them. He watches me, certain I will make a mistake and reveal my true intentions. We are Connected, so my children appearing will draw his attention.
Good luck, human, when he does come. You are not protected from him as many on this world are. You have made deals that exempt you from such safety.
She faded from the mirror, and Taravangian hunched over, trembling as he continued to write.
I look forward to ruling the humans.
—Musings of El, on the first of the Final Ten Days
To Dalinar, the scent of smoke was inexorably tied to that of blood. He would have trouble counting how many times he’d performed this same long hike across a fresh battlefield. It had become a habit to perform a kind of autopsy of the fighting as he surveyed its aftermath. One could read the movements of troops by the way the dead had fallen.
Swaths of singers there indicated a line had broken and chaos had ruled. Human corpses bunched up against the wide river showed the enemy had used the waters—sluggish, since it had been a few days since the last storm—to push an entire company onto poor footing. Bodies stuck with arrows in the front indicated the first beats of the battle—and arrows in the back indicated the last ones, as soldiers broke and fled. He passed many corpses stuck with arrows bearing white “goosefeathers,” a kind of fletching the Horneaters had delivered in batches to aid the war effort.
Blood flowed across the field, seeking little rifts in the stone, places where rainwater had left its mark. The blood here was more orange than red, but the two mixed to make an unwholesome shade, the off-red of a rotting methi fruit.
The smoke hung heavy in the air. On a battlefield this far afield, you burned the dead right here—sending only the officers home, already made into statues by the Soulcasters. Singer and human bodies smelled the same when they burned, a scent that would always bother him because of a specific battlefield. A specific city. A burned-out scar that was the mark of his greatest failure, and his greatest shame.
Charnel groups moved through the dead today, solemnly cutting patches from uniforms, as each was supposed to have the man’s name inked on the back by the quartermaster scribe. Sometimes that didn’t happen. Or sometimes the writing was ruined in the fighting. Those families would go without closure for the rest of their lives. Knowing, but wondering anyway.
Hoping.
Walking among the dead, he couldn’t help but hear Taravangian’s terrible—yet hauntingly logical—voice. There was a way to see the war ended. All Dalinar had to do was stop fighting. He wasn’t ready yet, but the time might come. Every general knew there was a time to turn your sword point down and deliver it to your enemy with head bowed. Surrender was a valid tactic when your goal was the preservation of your people—at some point, continuing to fight worked contrary to that goal.
He could trust that the Fused were not intent on extinction. Odium, however … he could not trust. Something told Dalinar the ancient god of humankind, long abandoned, would not view this battlefield with the same regret Dalinar did.
He finished his grim survey, Szeth at his side as always. Several Azish generals, each newly decorated for their valor in this battle, also accompanied him. Along with two Emuli leaders, who were archers. Remarkably, the highest calling among the Emuli army was seen as archery. Dalinar knew his way around a bow, though he’d never considered i
t a particularly regal weapon, but here it was revered.
Dalinar walked a careful line for the local generals. He did not want them to see how much he reviled the deaths. A commander could not afford to revile the work in which he engaged. It did not make them bad men to be proud of their victory, or to enjoy tactics and strategy. Dalinar’s forces would not get far employing pacifists as field generals.
But storms … ever since he’d conquered the Thrill and sent it to be sunk deep in the ocean, he’d found himself loathing these smells, these sights. That was becoming his deepest secret: the Blackthorn had finally become what men had been accusing him of for years. A soldier who had lost the will to kill.
He looped around, leaving the dead behind, instead passing victorious companies feasting in the very shadow of their butchery. He congratulated them, acted like the figurehead he’d made of himself. Of all those he saw, only the Mink seemed to notice the truth. That there was a reason Dalinar had worked so hard to find his replacement.
The short Herdazian man fell in behind Dalinar. “The war in Emul is done as of this battle,” the Mink said. “The rest is cleanup. Unless the enemy infuses his troops here with serious resources—which would be incredibly wasteful at this point—we’ll own Emul within the month.”
“The enemy threw it away,” Dalinar said.
“That’s a stronger term than I’d use,” the Mink said. “They fought. They wanted to hold. At the same time, they knew they couldn’t move resources away from Jah Keved right now. That would risk destabilizing there, and perhaps lead us to claim it in the coming months.
“It is well the enemy wants to occupy and rule, not just destroy. They could have thrown enough at us here to end us on this front—but that would have left the rest of their war efforts in ruin. As it is, they knew exactly how many troops to put in Emul to lure us in with a large enough force—but they also knew to cut their losses if the battle turned against them.”
“You’ve been extremely helpful,” Dalinar said.
“Just remember your promise. Alethkar next, then Herdaz.”
“Urithiru before both,” Dalinar said. “But you have my word. No operations against the Iriali, no attempt to seize Jah Keved, until your people are free.”
He likely didn’t need the promise—the Mink was a wily man, and had easily recognized that if Dalinar were ever to recover Alethkar, it would be the best thing that could happen for an eventual recovery of the Mink’s homeland. Once Jah Keved had gone to the enemy, Herdaz’s tactical importance had soared.
The Mink departed to go enjoy the post-battle celebration with his personal unit of Herdazian freedom fighters. Dalinar ended up in the small battlefield command tent beside a goblet full of rubies. Couldn’t they have been a different color?
Storms. It had been a long time since a battle had affected him like this.
It’s like I’m drifting in the ocean, he thought. We won today, but Navani is still trapped. If he couldn’t retake Urithiru, everything collapsed. Losing it was a huge setback in his true goal: pushing Odium to be frightened enough to make a deal.
So he sprang to his feet with relief when Sigzil the Windrunner entered, along with two of his team and Stargyle the Lightweaver—a handsome man with a soldier’s build and a ready smile. The name was a little much; Dalinar doubted he’d had that one since birth, but he had a reputation for friendliness, and the lighteyed women of the court certainly seemed to think highly of him.
Like the other Lightweavers, the man refused to wear a uniform. Something about not feeling right wearing it again. Indeed, he bowed to Dalinar instead of saluting.
“Tell me good news, Radiant Sigzil,” Dalinar said. “Please.”
“Stargyle?” Sigzil asked.
“Sure thing,” Stargyle said, breathing in Stormlight from a pouch at his belt. He began to paint with his fingers in the air. Each of them did it differently—Shallan had explained that they each needed some kind of focus to make their Surgebinding work. Hers was drawings. Stargyle appeared to have a different method, something more akin to painting.
The Lightweaving created a view from above, surveying a shoreline landscape. An army camped along the shore, though it didn’t have much discipline. Large groups of men around campfires, no real uniforms. A variety of weapons. Ishar’s troops seemed to have good numbers, however, and they were well-equipped. Their success on the battlefields in this region made Dalinar careful not to underestimate them. They might not have proper uniforms, but these were battle-hardened veterans.
“Here, Brightlord,” Stargyle said—and the image began moving, as if in real life. “I can keep it all in my head, so long as I focus on the colors.”
“The colors?” Dalinar said.
“I was a pigmenter’s son growing up, Brightlord. I’ve always seen the world by its colors. Squint your eyes a little, and everything is really just color and shapes.”
Dalinar inspected the moving illusion. It depicted the entire camp of people, and most interestingly a large pavilion at the center. It was colored in ringed patterns, like the bracelets he’d seen Tukari wear. He thought they had religious significance, though he didn’t know much about the region. The Tukari were renowned for their mercenaries, their perfumes, and he believed their jewelry.
The illusion rippled as Dalinar walked closer. A single person stood in front of the pavilion. He wasn’t wearing the same clothing as the soldiers, and wasn’t holding a weapon.
“We get down closer in a second, sir,” Sigzil said. “You should notice the person out front.”
“I see him,” Dalinar said, leaning forward.
Indeed, the image soon drew closer to the pavilion, and the figure became more distinct. An older man. Didn’t seem Tukari, or Alethi. Yes … he was probably Shin, which was what Wit had said Ishar would appear to be. An older Shin man with a white beard and pale skin. Tukar was named after Tuk, their word for the Herald Talenelat—but it wasn’t Taln who ruled them. Not now. It was a different Herald.
Ishar wore simple robes, deep blue. He spread his hands out to the sides, frost crystallizing on the stone around him, forming lines.
A glyph. The symbol for mystery, a question.
It seemed directed at Dalinar specifically. This was absolutely the right man. Dalinar didn’t need to consult the drawings that Wit had provided.
He heard a hiss from beside him, and glanced with surprise to see that Szeth had left his post by the entrance to the tent. He’d joined Dalinar, standing very close to the illusion.
“One of my…” Szeth stopped himself, likely remembering that he wore the image of an Alethi man. “Blood of my fathers,” he said instead, “that man is Shin?”
“Rather,” Dalinar said, “he is from the people who long ago settled Shinovar and became the Shin. The Heralds existed before our nationalities were formed.”
Szeth seemed transfixed, as if he’d never considered that one of the Heralds might be Shin. Dalinar understood; he’d seen many depictions of all ten Heralds, and they were usually all painted as Alethi. You had to search the masterworks of earlier ages to find depictions of the Heralds representing all the peoples of Roshar.
The illusion moved on from Ishar as the Windrunners finished their sweep of the area, bringing Stargyle higher, safely out of bowshot. The Lightweaving disintegrated.
“That’s all we saw, Brightlord,” Stargyle said. “I could show it again, if you want.”
“No need,” Dalinar said. “We’ve found him … and he’s waiting for me.”
“Waiting for you, sir?” Sigzil asked, glancing toward Lyn and Leyten.
“Yes,” Dalinar said. “Do another scouting mission, and report back on what you find. I want to consult with Jasnah first—but we’re going to go meet that man, Radiant Sigzil, and find out what he knows.”
I had my title and my rhythms stripped from me for daring insist they should not be killed, but should instead be reconditioned. Repurposed.
—Musings of El, on the first of
the Final Ten Days
Jasnah leaned back in her chair, lit by spherelight. The spanreed report had just arrived; today’s conflict with the enemy armies had ended. The coalition forces had won. Emul was, essentially, now theirs.
She still ached from her part in earlier battles, though she’d sat this one out—Dalinar had been there, and they didn’t want to put both of them on the same battlefield at once. Regardless, this particular offensive being finished checked one thing off her list, but there was so much to do, still, with Urithiru in enemy hands.
Her house here in their command camp was far nicer than the one Dalinar had picked for himself. She’d chosen it not for the luxury, or for the space, but because it had a second floor. Locked away in a central room on the second level—sharing no walls with the outside, alone save for Wit’s company—she could finally let herself relax. If a Shardbearer broke in, or if a Skybreaker came through one of the upper windows, her fabrial traps would go off—sounding the alarm and giving her time to fight or escape into Shadesmar before she could be killed.
She had a boat waiting on the other side, as close to analogous to this location as Shadesmar would allow. She kept stores of Stormlight in the pockets of her dressing gown, which she now wore. She would never again be caught unaware. She would never again be left struggling in Shadesmar without proper resources, forced to spend weeks hunting a perpendicularity. It was only with these preparations that Jasnah felt safe enough to let herself become frustrated.
In her lifetime studying history, Jasnah had been guided by two principles. First, that she must cut through the biases of the historians in order to understand the past. Second, that only in understanding the past could she properly prepare for the future. She’d dedicated so much to this study. But a life’s work could be shaken when history got up and started talking to you.
She leafed through papers more valuable than the purest emerald, filled with her interviews with the Heralds Ash and Taln. Living history. People who had seen the events she’d read about. In essence, years of her life had been wasted. What good were her theories now? They were halfway-reliable re-creations of what might have happened, pieced together from fragments of different manuscripts.
Rhythm of War (9781429952040) Page 130
