Chapter Forty-One

Rebeke was right. The Cinder King had brought all his forces to bear. He lined them up, dozens of ships and hundreds of Charred, hovering in the air just outside the cloud cover of the shadow. Waiting exactly in the place where, one day ago, the Beaconites had tried to locate the Refuge.

Judging by the look of those forces, the Cinder King thought he was ready for anything. That made it oh so very sweet to watch as Zellion's ships emerged from the rain and opened fire with large, ship-mounted guns.

Balls of light as thick as a man's leg cut the twilight sky, shot from the cannons, ripping apart the Cinder King's forces like they were twigs before a highstorm. Ships went blazing to the ground, and Charred howled as they were blasted free from exploding decks.

The initial barrage—and the shock it prompted—was the primary thing Zellion was counting on. He rode in the lead ship, Elegy's ship, which had a single cannon welded to the roof. Four of their other ships had guns, while the remaining four acted exclusively as transports, clogged with as many people as could be stuffed onto them.

The improvised gunship fire cut through the leading enemy ranks, punching a wide hole in the Cinder King's forces—which scattered. In that instant, Zellion's forces seemed invincible. He glanced to the side, to where Rebeke was piloting the Dawnchaser. In her eyes, he saw a feeling he'd once known. That feeling of terrible awe, of horror and nausea, when confronting your own capacity for destruction.

That was the moment it hit home—amid the roar and the silence of cannon fire. Watching people fall, torn apart by what you'd done. That moment changed a person.

Storms, he hoped the enemy responded with a similar stupor. One thing he'd learned in combat was this: never underestimate the sheer panic a coordinated strike can cause in an untrained line of troops. Many battles could be won in a single brilliant charge.

His ships flew right through the center of the enemy forces. Then kept going. Because he was certain the Refuge, if it existed, was not in this specific region.

"Shades!" Zeal's voice said from the radio. "That was a beautiful sight."

"I offer this warning," Solemnity Divine said. "Those shots drained our sunhearts something frightening. We don't have much left, after our flight here and what we gave Zellion. Be careful how much you fire them."

After Zellion had expended all of his Investiture to shield the final ship, the Greater Good had gladly offered him even more from each remaining sunheart. Enough to get him just over five percent Skip capacity, just barely above his minimum thresholds to maintain peak fighting capacity. Storms, he could barely remember what it was like to run around at fifty or sixty percent capacity, never needing to worry about running dry. How long had it been? Though he missed that, he found himself even more grateful for this five percent, in the face of Beacon's sacrifice.

"How certain are you," Confidence said, "in this plan of yours, Zellion? We could fly down low in the chaos and use our prospector to find the opening."

"It's not here," Zellion said, leaning down to the radio. "I promise you that, Confidence. We push forward. Projecting confidence—as you understand so well—at full speed."

They did so, ignoring the landscape they'd searched the day before. And despite the certainty he projected, his nerves betrayed him. This was a gamble.

Zellion was betting—with everyone's lives as the ante—that the actual location was close. That the Cinder King had managed to keep the true location a secret, but only by a little. Like how a magician might focus everyone's attention on one hand, while the other secretly stacked the deck.

They knew the Cinder King's city always traveled in a straight line, periodically stopping to farm. Somewhere along that path, he tried to open the door to the Refuge. But Zellion was banking on the idea that, to prevent anyone from finding it, he'd arranged for inaccuracies to be propagated about its true location.

More, he was gambling that the Cinder King would be worried. That he'd be watching to see what Zellion did. That he'd be frightened, deep down, that his secret was not safe. That—

It's happening. Look to your right, ninety degrees.

"There!" Zellion said, pointing as a squadron that had been off to the side—including the Cinder King's own ship—turned and blasted backward. Ten ships, presumably among the fastest in the enemy's fleet, went flying on ahead.

They would lead everyone right to the doorway.

It's uncanny, you realize, how you can pick out what people are going to do sometimes.

"How?" Rebeke asked. "How did you know?"

"Deep down," he said, leaning forward, "the Cinder King is insecure. He worries he isn't as strong as he acts. He worries that it will all be taken from him: his throne, his power, his secrets. We are playing on those fears.

"We're saying, ‘We know what we're doing. We know where the opening really is.' After all, why else would we commit everything to breaking through like this? Why else would we fly with such confidence right toward his secret location?"

"But we're not," she said. "We don't know where it is."

"He doesn't know that," Zellion said. "In his eyes, we've found him out. So now he needs to go protect it. He doesn't realize—he can't realize, because his insecurities are too overpowering and his intellect too underwhelming—that he's actually leading us right to his secret."

"Assuming we survive that long," Zeal said over the radio. "Some of those other ships are recovering. They're sweeping toward us."

Damnation. The enemy ships had indeed started to swarm back. They were probably realizing just how slow the Beaconite ships had to move to protect those overloaded transports. Or perhaps they had seen that the guns were just welded in place and didn't have proper turrets.

For all their startling flash and bang, Zellion's forces were extremely vulnerable. "Rebeke," he said, "you're going to have to do what I told you."

"I don't know how to aim this thing, though!"

"Don't focus on shooting it. Focus on getting me where I need to be." Zellion grabbed a steel spear—fashioned for him by the Chorus—then left the cab, striding into the back room. He stopped beside Elegy, still chained by one hand to the wall.

"You're needed," he said, reaching for her chained wrist.

"I'm not ready!" she said. "I can't control it."

"A lesson for you," he said. "You never get to be ready. You just have to move forward anyway. That's something Kaladin taught me." He undid her manacle.

She immediately leaped to her feet, pushing toward him aggressively. He locked eyes with her and waited for the punch. Which…through a battle conveyed by the twisting of expressions on her face…never came.

Something thumped from outside—a Charred jumping onto their deck. He had little hope they'd be scared away by a simple kata this time. The Cinder King was backed into a corner. His forces would fight.

Elegy turned toward the sound and growled softly.

"Stay close to me," Zellion said, "and don't lose control. Remember, we aren't here to kill. We're here to survive."

"I just want to fight."

"Fight with purpose," he said. "Never forget the why." He raised his empty hand, and a glittering spear appeared in it. He'd been draining away the patina on his soul using the little sunheart, but it was still satisfying how easily he managed to create the weapon.

"Take good care of him," Zellion told Elegy, handing the Shardspear to her.

"Why give it to me?" she said, taking the spear with reverence.

"Because you lack training," he said, "but I still need backup. You'll be far more effective with that than you will be empty-handed, and the fact that it can cut through anything will make up for your inability to thrust with it accurately. Just be careful—don't stab the ship, and do your best not to hit me. Cuts from weapons like that are storming tough to heal."

He nodded to Elegy, who nodded back, eyes alight with eagerness. Together, they burst onto the deck.