Chapter 96

NINE AND A HALF YEARS AGO

S zeth landed in a crash of Stormlight, expanding from him in a puff, frost crystallizing on his clothes. Sloppy. He was using too much. He’d … he’d been warned about that …

He scrambled up to his father’s cookfire. How long had it been? Hours? Hours since he’d entered that tunnel …

He barely remembered running. Fleeing. Not only from the Unmade, but from the past. He rushed up to his father—firelight throwing violent shadows—and grabbed him by the shoulders. This little waystop was off the roadway. It was where Neturo said he’d wait until …

“Son?” Neturo said, cowering before Szeth.

“It’s all a lie,” Szeth said, Stormlight streaming from his arms. Too much. He’d taken in too much. It burned through him, demanding he move, fight, take action, or run …

“What?” Neturo asked. “Son? What’s wrong ?”

I can’t bring him into this, Szeth thought. Not until I know what I’m doing.

“Stay here,” Szeth insisted, leaning in, making Neturo cringe. “Hide. Hide, Father.”

“Szeth,” Neturo said, reaching out and placing his right hand on Szeth’s cheek. “Son. Deep breaths, like when you were a child. Remember?”

Remember?

Deep breaths.

Szeth drew them in, remembering those peaceful, perfect days. Free from problems.

No, Szeth thought. Sivi was right. Problems festered even during my youth. I just couldn’t see them.

“Breathe,” his father encouraged, ever the stabilizing force. “Whatever it is, son, we can solve it.”

“This is big, Father. Bigger than a stone in the soil, or a conflict among family members. It’s … big as the world …”

“Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I can’t. I … Father, what if I’m wrong?”

“I can’t help you if you don’t tell me. But Szeth … I trust you.”

“How?” Szeth said, collapsing to his knees. “I’m so wrong so very often, Father. Then when I choose, I hate my choices. How can you trust me?”

“I’ve never met anyone who wants to do the right thing more than you, Szeth.”

“Wanting has never been enough, Father.”

Neturo merely embraced him, pulling Szeth—still kneeling—to his chest. “I know. But sometimes it’s all we have, Szeth. I’m sorry I don’t have better answers. I guess … I stayed with you, hoping I’d be able to find them for you. I never have, have I?”

“They might not exist.”

“Maybe not,” Neturo said. “I … I remember how I felt when I realized my father didn’t have answers …”

Szeth closed his eyes. “How old were you?”

“Fourteen. It was the week before he passed—after we got news that the Honorbearers couldn’t come.”

“There are … too many who need Regrowth,” Szeth said. “They can’t travel for most cases. They can only heal those who come to them …” That had been a difficult few months. Learning to heal each day, trying to treat as many of the petitioners as possible, discovering that he couldn’t help a shocking number of them—as the wounds were too old.

“My father, Vallano,” Neturo said, “broke down crying when he realized he was going to die. Until that moment, I’d assumed he’d live. Through force of will if nothing else. Maybe he believed it too. He held to me, weeping, when he realized he had no hope left. Six days later … he was gone.”

“So no one has the answers.”

Neturo pulled back. “The Heralds and spren, maybe. They left what clues they could. We have to figure out the rest.”

“There should be more than that. More than me. ”

Neturo didn’t say anything as they sat in that firelight, windblown smoke curling around them, mixing with Szeth’s Stormlight.

He was all they had. Him. Szeth. He had to do something.

“Stay here,” Szeth said. “Stay hidden. Please.”

With that, Szeth launched into the air again.