Chapter 91

This is closer to the interactions of Light and anti-Light, yet I do not fully accept it as the proper parallel either.

—From Rhythm of War, first coda, Navani Kholin

D alinar jolted, his muscles coming alert, like the nervous shocks that happened when on the cusp of sleep. He found himself standing in front of a mirror.

Elhokar stared back at him.

Wait, Dalinar thought. Why do I see Elhokar? He raised his hands and checked. Yes, he was in his nephew’s body, but for some reason saw Elhokar’s features instead of his own. Why? Storms, it broke Dalinar’s heart anew to see Elhokar just as he remembered him. In uniform, with those distinctive features, vaguely reminiscent of his father. A boy Dalinar loved like his own son.

Had there been a way to save the lad? What had Dalinar been thinking, sending him to Kholinar with only a small group of guards? Should Dalinar himself have gone? He tried checking the clock on his arm, but it wasn’t there—perhaps since Elhokar wouldn’t have been wearing it. Where was Navani? He hadn’t been able to find her in … how long had it been? God Beyond send that she was safe.

Something moved in the corners of his vision, reflected in the mirror. He spun, but saw nothing. “Show yourselves!” he demanded of the seemingly empty room. “What is it you want?”

We seek … truth …

Dalinar jumped. That wasn’t the voice of Odium, or Honor. That sounded like … a Cryptic? Storms. Wit had said Elhokar had been on the path to Radiance. Dalinar had always underestimated this man, hadn’t he?

A knock on the door, and Elhokar’s armorers entered at his call. That would have been odd for most, but during this time Elhokar had been paranoid, often commanding the armorers to suit him up for everyday activities. Dalinar allowed them to do so now, looking around the room, remembering his nephew. They were in the Pinnacle, Elhokar’s seat at the warcamps. Dalinar had been here many times.

Shardplate donned, he dismissed the armorers. There were some maps on the table, a scattered mess. His nephew had been irritable and nervous during these days—but he could see now that perhaps the lad had been haunted by Cryptics. Deep inside, Dalinar felt … what Elhokar must have. His frustration at not being believed—and his worry that he was mad, seeing things like Dalinar had. So many uncertain thoughts, mixing with a desire to live up to his father’s name.

It was as if he could sense Elhokar’s growing understanding that he was a weak king—and that drove him to wish that he could be like the Blackthorn. The new Blackthorn. The man Dalinar had become. Elhokar respected him so much, but he didn’t know how to deal with the scheming highprinces, the expectations, the fear that he was losing his mind. It was all so overwhelming.

There were rumors about Dalinar and Elhokar’s mother. Dalinar sensed that Elhokar had wanted to broach the topic, to project strength. Yet he was also so uncertain. Would that make Dalinar angry, or proud of his nephew’s proactivity?

Storms. That impression of his nephew’s thoughts—something new to these visions, and only faintly noticeable—left Dalinar cold. The lad had needed someone who understood. Someone to listen.

Instead, the door opened and Dalinar Kholin entered the room, thunder in his expression. And the older Dalinar now recognized this day—from not even two years ago, yet he was so very different. This wasn’t the drunkard. This Dalinar had been starting on his path to Radiance, but he continued to solve things in only one way. One blunt, terrible way.

Older Dalinar realized … he was still that man. In the vision previous, how had he responded to his younger self? By slapping him silly.

“Do we have to do this?” Dalinar asked his younger self, looking him in the eyes.

“Yes,” younger Dalinar growled, before raising one leg and kicking Dalinar in the chest. His immediate response was fury. Once again he could feel—as a hint deep within—his nephew’s emotions. Elhokar’s confusion, panic, and pain.

On top of that was Dalinar’s own sense of indignation. This younger version of him was going to secure the kingdom, but in the process would drive Elhokar to further bouts of insecurity. Insecurity that would cause him to demand he lead the mission to Kholinar, where he’d be killed.

The sad truth was that despite his accomplishments, Dalinar had consolidated power by killing or removing the highprinces who didn’t agree with him. He’d taken a proud nation of warriors, eliminated all balances upon a monarch’s powers, completely broken the ruling class, and installed himself as a despot at the top. For the good of the world.

He could almost hear Taravangian, dead these few weeks, whispering to him. You see. The monarch must do what needs to be done. Regardless of the consequences. You’ve always known that, Dalinar …

He didn’t know that he could have taken any other action to protect the world, but that didn’t stop him—in the moment—from being furious with this younger version of himself. And so he fought back. After falling from that initial kick, he dodged younger Dalinar’s follow-up attack, moving faster than Elhokar had in the original clash. He grabbed the table, smashed it against young Dalinar, and then came in swinging, pounding gauntlets into young Dalinar’s chest.

It wasn’t the best strategy, gauntlet against breastplate, as it cracked both pieces equally. Dalinar didn’t care. This wasn’t real, but his anger was.

Younger Dalinar growled, knocking Dalinar’s arms away, then rushing him with a shoulder, slamming him backward. Old Dalinar broke through furniture, stumbling away, but then launched into a grapple as younger Dalinar drew closer. But that risked their heads—which were exposed, so he let younger Dalinar push him away.

“Are you surprised?” younger Dalinar said. “No, you expected this. Storms, Elhokar.”

Dalinar didn’t reply, arms raised in a boxing posture, Stormlight faintly leaking from cracks in his gauntlets. Younger Dalinar tested him, and Dalinar blocked his strikes with his forearms, then delivered two solid punches to the man’s chest, further cracking their armor.

“You’ve been practicing,” younger Dalinar said, rounding him. “When did you get so good at boxing?”

Dalinar didn’t respond. What did he care? The visions were playing with him; maybe he shouldn’t be rising to the bait. Still, his anger flared as younger Dalinar came in, and storms … Dalinar wasn’t as fit as he’d been even two years ago. Back then, he’d gone on regular plateau assaults.

After all this time being a king and a general—having given his Plate to Renarin—Dalinar could not keep up. Eventually, younger Dalinar forced him to stumble, then delivered an expert heel-first kick and cracked Dalinar’s breastplate. He could feel Elhokar’s emotions. And was surprised to sense … resignation.

This is for the best, Elhokar thought in the distant past. My death will serve Alethkar. He … he will be a stronger king.

“No, Elhokar,” Dalinar whispered. “The failure is mine. It will take your death to teach me that.”

Younger Dalinar came in, relentless. He’d thought, in that thick-skulled head of his, that the only way to prove he wasn’t a threat was to get into a position where he could easily kill Elhokar, then walk away. Because younger Dalinar was fully incapable of sitting down and sincerely trying to listen.

I can’t beat him alone, Dalinar thought. But perhaps I can outthink him. This younger him had let Sadeas play him, nearly getting his entire army killed.

Dalinar launched himself across the room, dodged an attack, then kicked the door down. “The Blackthorn has gone mad from his strange visions!” he shouted to the panicked guards outside. “He’s trying to kill me and take the throne!”

Younger Dalinar pulled him back into the room and threw him to the floor. Then, the younger him leaned down and smashed his fist into Dalinar’s breastplate—shattering it in an explosion of glowing bits of metal.

That did it. Without the breastplate, which held the majority of the gemstones, Plate had trouble drawing power. The other parts felt leaden around him, difficult to lift. Dalinar let his head rest back, lying face-up on the floor.

“You cut your own straps, didn’t you?” younger Dalinar said. “On the horse? You faked an assassination attempt.”

Dalinar didn’t respond, instead turning toward the guards.

“They’re my men,” younger Dalinar said. “They won’t help you, Elhokar. They’ve always been my men.”

Except one of them … one of them was truly horrified. From his expression Dalinar knew it was little Gav. Watching. Witnessing. Storms, he’d just seen Dalinar—younger Dalinar, but he wouldn’t know the difference—beat his father. Because if Dalinar saw Gav as a soldier, Gav—in turn—would see Elhokar on the floor here.

Storms … this vision was different by intent, wasn’t it? It was deliberately showing Gav what had happened. Odium wanted Gav to witness Dalinar nearly killing his father.

Gav reached toward him with tears in his eyes.

“I didn’t mean to hurt him, son,” Dalinar said. “I was just trying … my best …”

But before he could explain further, the vision ended. Leaving him with the sight of that guard, with Gavinor’s expression, looking at his father broken on the floor.

Taravangian.

Taravangian.

Jasnah formed two quick theories. Either Odium wanted to unnerve her by appearing as Taravangian, or …

Or Taravangian was the one who had become Odium.

Of course, a god would have power beyond a common Lightweaver, and could fool her eyes. He could also know practically anything, even if he didn’t know everything, so any question she might ask to determine the truth—relying on experiences only she and Taravangian had had together—would be suspect.

More information. Maybe more information would help. It sometimes did. Not as often as she wished, but she usually craved it anyway.

“How?” she asked through dry lips.

“Szeth came to kill me bearing the sword that bleeds darkness,” Taravangian said, standing at the opening into the small temple. “I had been interacting with the previous Odium, and the sword became available at exactly the right time. I availed myself of the opportunity, slew Rayse, and Ascended.” He spread his hands to the sides. “It was Cultivation’s fault and plan. I am, like Roshar itself, a dupe in a larger game.”

Storms, it really did seem like him. She couldn’t know for certain, but there was little you could know for certain. If it wasn’t actually Taravangian, then someone else was doing an excellent—divine—re-creation. In that case, what was the difference?

“Taravangian,” she whispered, “stop this. Call off the attacks. We could be allies. We were, once.”

He winced. “We … never truly were, Jasnah. Were we.”

“No. I suppose we were not.”

He walked into the room, using a golden scepter as a cane—though his body appeared firm and hale. Less bowed by age than when she’d last seen him. Wit had explained some things, like that power needed a person to hold it. Taravangian had Ascended not to actual Godhood, but to lowercase godhood, a word Wit employed for a being of immense power. She accepted that definition as a useful description.

She had no idea what to do. Despite sharing a bed with Wit—who was like one of these creatures—she was overwhelmed by the idea of dealing with them. Inside, she trembled.

“I come with an offer,” Taravangian said. “I am speaking to Fen now; the ability to be in more than one place at once is an advantage of my elevated status. She doesn’t believe that I am me, by the way. She’s much less logical than you are.”

“I don’t entirely believe you either.”

“You believe enough,” Taravangian said, stopping near her, looking up to meet her eyes. Even in this form, he was shorter than she was. “Because why would I lie? There is nothing to gain from it. You wouldn’t trust Taravangian any more than you would Rayse. A scholar knows; I reveal myself not for advantage, but as a courtesy. For our upcoming duel.”

“You cannot hurt me.”

“It will not be a duel of swords, Jasnah,” he said. “My predecessor … he worked so hard to recruit his opponents. Alas, he did so by pushing. ” Taravangian extended his hand to her. “I intend to do it with a gentle tug instead.”

She did not take the hand.

He smiled anyway. “Tomorrow I will argue to Queen Fen why she and her people should join me willingly and become part of the larger reborn Dawnsinger nation. I invite you to offer counterargument. It is your specialty, is it not?”

“I … You’re going to try to recruit Thaylenah?”

“A gentle tug,” he said, turning to go. He paused, and glanced back at her. “I do know how to shove too, but one should always try to lead people to the proper decisions first. Prepare your arguments well, Jasnah. I am curious to hear what you come up with to convince Fen to stay with you and your fallen kingdom, instead of joining the side already proven victorious. By the end, you’ll see. You’ll understand.”

He started evaporating into that mist again.

“See you soon,” his voice said as his body disintegrated. “I hope you don’t waste too much of your time wondering if this is a trick. Just don’t forget to prepare your arguments. Then meet me here in this room, exactly one day from now.”

With that, he was gone.

Venli had never seen a Fused like this before. Tall, with magnificent metal horns—and with his carapace somehow transformed to shimmering steel. It looked violent, but with an artistic touch, all smooth lines until the bits came to points here and there. What brand was this? She couldn’t tell; perhaps whatever was going on with the carapace obscured his true nature.

She and the others had hurriedly returned to the chasms, sealing up the way below. In a stroke of luck, leaving the Heavenly Ones behind had been precisely the right move—for while Leshwi and the chasmfiends had been discovered, they had distracted the enemy long enough for Venli and the others to escape the tunnel without it or them being seen.

Soon after, Venli’s group had been spotted as well—then herded together. She, still in envoyform—a form of power, a Regal—had been brought forward. Now, two Heavenly Ones—not of Leshwi’s force—deposited her on a plateau a short distance from the fighting. Shrouded in darkness by the omnipresent clouds, occasionally painted red with lightning, she inspected the strange Fused. Leshwi and the other rebel Heavenly Ones knelt before him. Humming to Agony. Trembling.

Venli found herself unafraid.

How curious. Timbre pulsed inside her, and she realized she’d faced Odium himself. This Fused might destroy her, but to the Rhythm of the Lost, a phrase repeated in her mind:

I am my own. Not his.

“And here,” the Fused said, completely without rhythm, “the ringleader herself. Once Odium’s own Voice. Venli, Last Listener. Welcome.”

She had not expected politeness. So, she hummed to him in greeting. The Heavenly Ones who had brought her backed away, leaving the group lit by a few gemstones on the ground, wet from previous rain—though that had slackened. In the Everstorm, it came in fits and starts.

“It is unusual,” this Fused said, walking around Leshwi and the others as they knelt, “to find those who rebel against Odium. Some think it impossible, but it does happen.” He looked to Venli. “Often it is a mark of our best.”

“I would not have expected you to say such a thing.”

“Who else would have the force of will, or the courage, to turn against a god?” asked the strange Fused. “Odium’s predecessor always stamped them out. What a waste. If we cull ourselves of our strongest wills, what is left?” He glanced to the side, where a Husked One sat back, staring at the sky. Motionless.

Venli had seen this happen in Kholinar. Fused who just … stopped moving. Stopped thinking. A price paid for thousands of years of life, much of it spent at war.

“What are you going to do with us?” Venli asked.

“I give you an offer,” the Fused replied. “I would appreciate your loyalty. You see, I am … of a different mindset than others. I finally have a god to follow who shares my tendencies. You will not be punished for rebellion. Instead you will be elevated.” He smiled. “You will be made Fused, Venli. These will be pardoned, and given the greatest rewards. For I need the edge you provide.”

Edge? She frowned.

“We need to defeat the humans,” the Fused said, pointing. “And you have brought me something extremely interesting. Captive greatshells who somehow follow you.”

Timbre pulsed to a worried rhythm. The guard had said the chasmfiends had fled, and the enemy warriors had focused only on capturing Leshwi and her Fused. But he knew?

Leshwi looked to her and bowed her head. She had revealed the truth of the chasmfiends, then.

“I must speak to the others,” Venli said. “You will give me time to make a decision.”

“You make demands?” he said.

“Is this not a negotiation?” Venli asked. “I have looked Odium in the eye. I know he could have you destroy me upon a whim. But if you seek us as allies, then I believe it my right to have time to consider.”

“How satisfying. Go. Do not interfere in this fight yet. You will be watched, but you will be given time.” He turned his gaze toward the sky. “I will have this land tomorrow, one way or another. And understand this is a threat: we know of your people at the edge of the plateaus. Odium plans to deal with them soon. My offer … is survival, Last Listener. Do not dismiss it lightly.”

He clapped his hands and released Leshwi and the others. They—bowing—hurried over and joined Venli. Leshwi herself took Venli by the arm and began flying her down into the chasms.

“I’m sorry,” Leshwi whispered. “But Venli … that’s El. ”

El? She hadn’t heard the name. “What title?”

“No title.”

“That’s odd, isn’t it?”

“He is the only one,” Leshwi whispered. “He is … not to be trifled with. But if he’s willing to pardon us … this could be our way out. Our way to protect the listeners.”

“The last time I put any of my people in Odium’s power,” Venli said as they landed, “it did not go well. I do not trust his offers.”

“El says there is a new Odium, remade,” Leshwi said. “An incredible event, one I cannot even begin to fathom. Yet El promises it can be different. He rarely lies.”

Venli attuned Skepticism, but once she had rejoined the others, they called the chasmfiends back to join them. The beasts were allowed to approach beneath the careful watch of Odium’s forces, who had made a space for them all in a large gap between plateaus. Here, with the others, she sat and told them the disturbing news. Odium knew about the listener refugees and was absolutely capable of annihilating them.

Accepting this offer might be the sole path to avoiding such a disaster. Venli hated it … but they at least had to discuss the possibility.