Chapter 99

If you played the “destructive” melody and the primary melody at the same time, they would reinforce one another instead of destroying. This is humans and singers. Not opposites.

The same song. Played at different times.

—From Rhythm of War, first coda, Navani Kholin

S hallan left Adolin standing beneath the ceremonial archway of new beginnings.

It was the kind of callous thing women did in stories, but that wasn’t the real him—and when she acknowledged that, the rest fell apart for her. It wasn’t the real Dalinar or Navani who cried out—nor was it the real Wit she passed, but a giggling mess of self-aware Investiture egging her on. She gave everyone the briefest explanation of needing an emergency stop at the washroom, then made for her mother while holding up the skirts of her enveloping blue dress.

Chana … her mother saw her coming. With eyes wide, the woman ducked out the rear door. But there weren’t many places to go, this high in Urithiru. Shallan soon cornered her mother in an empty room, lit by natural sunlight from outside. Chana faced the window with a panicked expression—hands pressed against the glass. Wishing, it seemed, to force her way through.

“Mother,” Shallan said from the doorway. “Please.”

Chana glanced over her shoulder. Storms. Shallan had seen her several times in the visions of the past, wearing furs, with the bearing of a soldier. It wasn’t that her mother was a Herald. That was overwhelming, yes, but not painful. Whereas seeing the woman again … that hurt. Made Shallan want to run back to the warm wedding room. Avoid the confrontation.

No, Radiant said. You said it’s time. Fight.

“Fight for me,” Shallan whispered.

Not this time, Shallan. Not this time.

“Mother,” Shallan said, steeling herself. “Why are you here?”

“I …” Chana whispered, tears in her eyes. “I heard that the Radiants had returned. That you were one. I came, and found a wedding. I didn’t want to interfere. I just … wanted to see you again …” The woman sank to the floor, then pulled herself over into the corner, away from the window and Shallan. She huddled there, rocking back and forth, hands up to her face, fingernails digging into her cheeks.

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” she said, “but Ishar said I would. I wanted a family. I wanted … Selfish. So selfish. I …” She moaned, the sound becoming a soft wail of agony as she clawed at her face, trembling and weeping.

Shallan stood rooted in place, aghast as it slowly sank in. She, Shallan, was the healthy one by comparison. She … she was the adult in the room.

Pain. Pain … Shallan could handle, with Veil and Radiant as strengths in her mind. Like pillars holding up the sunlight. Shallan wiped her eyes, then approached, aware that this woman—though unarmed—might have access to a Shardblade or even an Honorblade. It was only a vision, and probably safe, but she still kept one eye on her mother’s hands as she knelt.

“Mother,” she whispered. “It’s all right.”

Did she feel that? Or were they just words? Emotions were a firestorm inside Shallan—anger, frustration, fear. Heat, all of them. So very hot, as if to burn her away and leave nothing but cinders. But then Chana looked at her, lifted a trembling hand, and put her fingers against Shallan’s cheek.

“I wish I hadn’t hurt you,” Chana said. “Ishar and Nale told me it was a mistake to marry, but I thought I was well. I think … I think all of us make that mistake, even Ishar.”

“I know what happened,” Shallan whispered.

“We return,” Chana said. “I went to Braize … and I broke. I tried to hide, I tried to last! But oh, I broke. This is me, this is all me! Everything that is happening is my fault! A new Desolation …” She closed her eyes and pressed her face against the wall again, moaning.

And Shallan …

Shallan felt the heat radiating through her, and made a decision. “Mother,” she whispered, “you can’t blame yourself for what others do. You cannot take responsibility for their choices. If the enemy attacks, it is not your fault.”

“And what I did to you?” Chana hissed. “I thought … I thought you’d replace me. So selfish. Even if it had been true, it would have been selfish …”

Shallan leaned back, the words bringing emotion, like a jolt of cold ice amid the heat. Betrayal, a pain straight into her heart. Then … then slowly it melted away. When she spoke—tears in her eyes—Shallan found the words were not lies. Painful, yes, but not lies.

“Mother,” Shallan said, “I forgive you.”

Chana hesitated, then glanced toward Shallan. “I don’t deserve that.”

“I give it anyway,” Shallan whispered. “What you did was terrible. You will need to be watched, helped, and prevented from hurting others. But I am safe now, so I can forgive you.”

Chana lowered her hands. “How could I, and the horrible thing I’ve become, create something so wonderful in you? Hug your brothers for me, Shallan. Tell them I love them, even if I can never, ever see them again. Lest I hurt them too.”

The heat settled. Maybe her mother didn’t deserve forgiveness—there was no excuse for what she’d done, no matter her mental state. Still, it was important for Shallan to make some kind of reconciliation, if only in this playacting way.

Pattern stepped in, and then Testament. Chana’s eyes flicked toward them, and she smiled. “You are in good hands. I should … I should have liked to have been with you, these years.” She glanced to the side and jumped, seeing … nothing that Shallan could make out.

“They’ve found me,” Chana said.

“They?” Shallan asked, rising and stepping back, careful of what this erratic behavior might mean.

“The souls of the dead singers,” Chana said. “The Fused who have not Returned. I’m looking for Taln—I won’t break this time. I will find him.”

Souls of the dead …

“Mother?” Shallan said. “Where am I, right now?”

“Inside a vision,” Chana said, “in the Spiritual Realm. Reliving your wedding. I died again, a few months ago. I was on Braize, in the Cognitive Realm, but I felt you calling … pulling me to you …”

It was really her ?

Chana stood up, suddenly alert. “Thank you for stopping me.” She met Shallan’s eyes. “Do not trust any of us, except for Taln.”

“Mother, you—”

“I must go,” she whispered, then leapt forward and hugged Shallan. “I will try not to break so easily this time.” Then her mother evaporated into colorful shifting smoke.

Storms! Shallan gasped, in and out, arms wrapped around herself, the sensation of her mother’s hug lingering. “Was that … the real her?”

“Mmm …” Pattern said. “Rules are odd for Heralds, who are beings of all realms. I believe it was indeed her. A lie that became true.”

Shallan felt a hand on her shoulder. Testament, pointing with a trembling, elongated finger. A shadow fell on the room somehow, though the window still looked out on a sunny day.

“He is here,” Testament whispered. “Odium.”

The vision broke apart, sending her back into chaos.

Dalinar screamed into the swirling chaos of the Spiritual Realm. He tried to fight it. Tried to offer up the strength that he’d found in taking the next step.

The power itself, not just Odium’s touch, taunted him. Humans could not be trusted. Humans had broken Honor. None were worthy. It became a two-pronged attack, the power of Honor cooperating with Odium, who forced Dalinar to see failure after failure. Wearing down his resolve that he’d changed, that he was a better man, that he’d been forgiven.

Failing Gavilar on the night of his assassination.

Failing Elhokar, who had needed an uncle, not a rival.

Shifting shapes assaulted him, as if he were somewhere dark, full of thunder, wind battering him. People died, and rain pelted down in the flashing strobe of enraged lightning.

You think you’ve been forgiven? Odium’s words reverberated through him. You think you can simply stand up and walk away?

In a moment, reality knit together, motes of light coalescing into a small chamber. A hard stone floor, hewn level by Shardblade, the separate slices and cuts manifest as imperfections and grooves. A single door, metal and imposing, more plug than portal.

A row of four beds against the back wall. Dalinar lay on one at the far end, and three blanketed lumps indicated the others were also occupied. Lighting came courtesy of some spheres in a sconce on the wall, though a cloth had been thrown across it to provide shade.

Dalinar sat up, puffing, sweating. His heart thundered, and in his mind echoed the accusations of the dead. He checked his arm fabrial, but it had been shattered. It might already be too late. It probably was. He felt as if he’d been in here for decades.

He tried to distract himself by inspecting this vision. The place seemed familiar; it had the look of a prison, with those uniform beds, the lack of windows, and that imposing metal door. But what kind of prison had such nice sconces?

“Father?” The next figure in the row of beds sat up, revealing a young boy that Dalinar didn’t recognize. “Please, Father. Make it stop.”

“… Gav?” Dalinar said, and the boy looked at him, his eyes wide.

“Daddy?” Gav said.

Yes, that was Gav, though he wore a different face. Dalinar hated the way these new visions didn’t let them truly see one another. Odium, trying to isolate them? Dalinar drew in a deep, relieved breath. “It’s me, son,” Dalinar said. “I mean … me, Dalinar. Your grampa.”

Gav cringed, a motion that broke Dalinar’s heart.

“What is this place?” Gavinor said, clutching the blanket. “I want to go home. I want to go home !”

“It’s all right,” said a familiar, lightly accented voice. The figure in the third bed stirred, revealing a mess of blond hair and a pale face, tear streaks staining her makeup.

Evi.

Oh …

Oh, Damnation.

“Evi?” he whispered.

She sat up, cocking her head. “Yes? Your name was … Hakin? Hakon? I’m sorry, it’s been a long night.”

Dalinar felt strangely thin, his emotions distant, his thoughts flimsy—like he was a shadow cast by a man. So. This was how Odium intended to break him. He said he’d moved forward … but was he ready for this? For her. He could have sworn he’d heard her voice at Thaylen Field. But …

Oh no. Blood of my fathers …

Dalinar recognized the room. He’d been in here once before, when it had been a hideout for a family. This was where they’d put Evi on the night …

The night when …

Tanalan. Rathalas, the Rift.

“Grampa?” Gavinor said, his voice growing shrill. “What’s happening?”

“It’s all right,” Evi said. “As I told you, child, my husband will come for us.”

“Evi …” Dalinar said again, but his throat had grown swollen, his words like tar. “I’m sorry.”

“I might have ruined things,” Evi said, “but he’ll be here soon.”

The fourth figure stirred in his bed, a well-dressed man who Dalinar didn’t recognize. “The Blackthorn?” the man said, yawning. “He doesn’t care if we rot.”

“No,” Evi said. “My husband is a good man.”

Not this, Dalinar thought. Anything but this.

The door shook. Suddenly, he could hear it. The distant screams that had once been a constant accompaniment to his life. The sounds of a city burning.

Evi stood up, hesitant. He remembered that dress. He’d seen it on her burned corpse.

He thinks to break me with the truth, Dalinar thought. Whoever this new Odium was, they knew Dalinar well enough to recognize this was the single most painful event in his life. The Rift and Evi’s death would eventually send him to the Old Magic, to seek oblivion of thought and memory.

And yet, Odium didn’t know him. Dalinar. Who he had become deep down; Odium couldn’t see that man. For that man … he could not be broken by the truth. Truth was the weapon once used to bloody him, pulled from his own flesh afterward, and now held up as his finest blade.

Peace.

In that prison chamber, all became as if peaceful.

Unite them.

Who he had been.

Who he was.

Who he would become.

Air warped around Dalinar. The threads of the Spiritual Realm unraveling for a moment, then snapping back together. Dalinar breathed in, then out, and when the warping stopped, he was himself.

“Grampa?” Gav said. “I see you now!”

“My husband,” Evi said, meeting his eyes, “ is a good man.”

“Maybe,” Dalinar replied. “He’s trying, Evi.”

A Shardblade slammed through the space between door and wall, then slid down, cutting off hinges.

It was time.

Dalinar seized Gav in one hand, and with the other flipped the boy’s bed on its side to shelter from the heat. He handed Gav to Evi.

“Take him,” Dalinar said. “Protect and comfort him best you can for what comes next.”

“I will,” Evi promised, and beamed at him.

Dalinar touched his hand to the side of her face. “Thank you.”

She nodded, then crouched down with Gav behind the improvised shelter. Dalinar stepped past it to confront what came next: a barrel, burning from a hole in one end, leaking flaming oil.

Dalinar caught it.

Then, with a strength no man should have, he heaved it up and threw it back out the doorway with the force of a siege engine. It smashed into the next one coming in, and they exploded into shards of wood, coating the entrance in flaming oil. Through those flames, Dalinar could see one thing outside. Two eyes. The eyes of the Blackthorn, cutting through it all. Red like blood. The eyes of a man who, after years of restraint, had finally given in and become the thing everyone said he was. The thing his brother wanted him to be.

A destroyer.

But Dalinar was not afraid. He no longer feared the past, and Odium had made a mistake in bringing him here. Dalinar strode through the fire, and it could not touch him, for he was the thing shadows and flames feared. He was a man who did not care what they revealed.

He stepped from the fires and confronted the Blackthorn on a ledge near the top of Rathalas, the city known as the Rift—a place with buildings constructed down along the inside of a chasmlike valley. Many buildings burned; archers shot at the residents from above; those refugees who fled at the bottom of the Rift were to be slaughtered by Dalinar’s armies.

It was a funeral pyre for the innocent. And for Dalinar’s sense of common decency.

All because of this man before him, who in his rage had given in. Dalinar made a fist to deliver to this hated version of himself what it deserved. Then stopped.

No. Not this time.

Instead, Dalinar turned away from the Blackthorn to ignore him. He searched among the Alethi troops here, and found Kadash. An excellent officer who, because of this day, would walk away from the army and become an ardent.

“New orders!” Dalinar shouted. “Kadash, I want the archers on the rim to stand down. Tell the troops at the bottom of the Rift to step aside and let people pass freely. Gather all of our troops and set them to putting out fires and helping the Rifters escape the flames. This is no longer a retribution. It is a rescue.”

Kadash and the other troops paused, looking from Dalinar to the Blackthorn.

“Which of us,” Dalinar said softly, “do you want to be the real Dalinar, son?”

Kadash looked to him, stood up taller, and began passing the orders. But then he hesitated. “Sir … it’s too late, isn’t it? The city is aflame. The soldiers below have already started the massacre.”

“It’s never too late,” Dalinar said, “to try to be a better man. Do what you can.”

Kadash ran off, shouting to stop the killing, as did the others. Dalinar turned toward a burning building to try to rescue the citylord and his family, but the Blackthorn stepped in front of him.

“You cannot ignore me,” the Blackthorn said. “I am you.”

“Yes …” Dalinar replied. “And no.”

The Blackthorn raised Oathbringer to strike.

“See,” Dalinar said. “Know.”

The air warped again, and they were—for a second—truly one. The Blackthorn’s eyes came alight with understanding as he saw the future—saw himself breaking, saw Gavilar die. Dalinar poured into this effigy every pain, every ounce of understanding, and the truth of who he had become. The Blackthorn gasped, and fell to his knees.

“Now what you said is true,” Dalinar said.

“You realize,” Odium said, the sound vibrating through Dalinar, “this is meaningless. None of this is real. What you do is performative.”

“Then enjoy the show,” Dalinar said, dashing for the burning building. But before he reached it, a figure in Shardplate came running to intervene.

“Dalinar?” Sadeas demanded. “What in Damnation are you—”

Dalinar punched him across his helmeted face, an excellent right hook, carrying with it decades of frustration and strength. The fist blasted through the Plate helmet, shattering it, and cracked across Sadeas’s too-red, too-puffy, too-smug face.

Sadeas dropped like a lead bar, crashing to the floor in a heap of Plate.

That one … that one felt good.

Odium sighed. “You aren’t performing only for me, Dalinar. Honor’s power watches, and you just showed it something.”

“That even I can change?”

“That men don’t deserve Honor, for they disobey orders.”

“I’m saving lives!”

“Traitors. What does the power of oaths care for lives, Dalinar? You, in all your self-righteous posturing, just broke your oath of commission to do as the king orders. Your job was to quell the rebellion in this city. Burning this place down, to make a statement—that was the right choice. I wanted you to see that.”

In an instant, the vision shattered into fragments of light; he lost Gavinor again. His heart trembled for the boy, but he stood up tall before the tempest that followed.

“You feign strength,” Odium said, “but you still hurt from that day. And you always will. Because that part of you knows it was necessary. You took those pains deliberately.”

That voice. Was it …

The tempest whipped at Dalinar. Seeking to overwhelm and destroy him. That he could stand, but suddenly images of burned people began to form. His earlier strength seemed a lie as he stumbled, then huddled before those sights: image after image of the dead. Because it was true. For all his posturing, his changes in himself didn’t restore to life the burned corpses of the children he had killed.

That was his burden. And his shame.

Perhaps that was what was guiding these visions. Not only Odium, but his own conscience, beaten bloody by his past and now thirsting for vengeance.

For he found his resolve crumbling, and found himself weeping as he saw those corpses. Including Evi’s. He was a different man now, but could anything ever make up for such a terrible thing as he’d done? It was so horrific that seeing it now, he had to acknowledge that any punishment delivered to him would be just. He deserved it.

“You must find the most important words a man can say.”

A voice. Upon the currents of this place.

He … he knew that voice. Dalinar searched in the chaos. It wasn’t Gavilar, or Elhokar, or the Stormfather …

“Those words came to me from one who claimed to have seen the future. ‘How is this possible?’ I asked in return. ‘Have you been touched by the Void?’ The reply was laughter. ‘No, sweet king. The past is the future, and as each man has lived, so must you.’”

“Nohadon?” Dalinar whispered. “Is that you?”

“You will love,” the haunting voice continued. “You will hurt. You will dream. And you will die. Each man’s past is your future.”

“Then what’s the point?” Dalinar begged. “Why? Must everything I do have no meaning because of the terrible choices I once made?”

“Ah, Dalinar,” the voice said. “Listen. Remember. The question is not whether you will love, hurt, dream, and die. It is what you will love, why you will hurt, when you will dream, and how you will die. This is your choice. You cannot pick the destination, only the path.”

“The path,” Dalinar whispered, “is filled with pain.”

“Your pain.”

“Yes.”

“ Your pain,” the voice said. “All men have the same ultimate destination, Dalinar. But we are not creatures of destinations. It is the journey that shapes us. Our callused feet. Your callused feet. Our backs strong from carrying the weight of our travels. Your back strong from carrying the weight of your travels. Our eyes open. Your. Eyes. Open. You kept the pain, Dalinar. Remember that. For the substance of our existence is not in the achievement, but in the method …”

The voice drifted away. Dalinar heaved himself to his feet. “Please don’t leave me!”

A shadow emerged from the chaos. As tall as a mountain, as wide as the horizon. It fell on Dalinar, dominating him. A force. That spoke with … with Taravangian’s voice.

“Dalinar, my old friend,” the voice said. “Who are you calling for? The Stormfather? Navani?”

Dalinar collapsed to his knees before the shadow. And knew the truth. Taravangian …

Storms. Taravangian was the new Odium.

So many things suddenly made sense. It was a piece he’d been missing. And it terrified him. For he could think of no person worse—not even the man Dalinar had once been—to hold this power.

Storms.

“You could have been spared this torture,” Taravangian said, his voice vibrating with the force of a thousand drums. “My predecessor offered to take your pain, but you refused. So now you must suffer.” The shadow formed into the old man, standing before him, but with the … incomprehensible scope of a god.

Taravangian.

Odium.

They were doomed.

“You must suffer,” Taravangian said. “It brings me no joy to see you like this. Yet it must be.”

But I … Dalinar thought. I did not give him my pain.

He looked down at his chest and found a single glowing, golden light forming there. A line Connecting him to something. He touched it and felt agony. The pain of failure. The sharp, terrible agony of not just having lost people you loved, but having caused that death. Through inaction. Through misguided intention. And finally, worst of all, through deliberate choice.

And nothing one could do could ever make up for those awful decisions. It was a unique kind of misery. Dalinar knew it so, so well.

He seized that line of light, the agony vibrating through him. He used the very pain that Odium thought would crush him as a lifeline. Dalinar took hold of it in one hand and began pulling himself through the chaos on hand and knees.

“Dalinar,” Odium said. “Dalinar, I can end this.”

Dalinar found his feet, and started walking. Each touch on the line of light was anguish. He kept going.

“Do you know where that leads, Dalinar?” Odium said. “That path is only to more pain! You need to listen to me. I will show you. I will prove to you that I am right !”

Holding to that terrible pain, back bent, hands trembling, Dalinar pulled himself away from the shadow and stepped—with a surprised stumble—into a vision. A small stone chamber with a tiny window. Like … a monastery cell? Yes, the dark rooms where they kept the unhinged, away from light and stimulation.

A figure huddled against the wall in one corner, shaking and weeping softly. Dalinar’s line of light led straight to him. Dalinar approached and knelt beside the figure, who proved to be an older man, with a stern full figure, a full beard. Dalinar recognized the face, though it no longer spanned an entire sky.

The Stormfather. So small now, as if mortal.

“You liar,” Dalinar hissed.

The Stormfather continued to huddle by the wall, his eyes squeezed shut. And storms, Dalinar felt his anger evaporating. Again he was reminded how he confronted problems: punch them, break them, burn them down.

Journey before destination.

He needed to try something different. Still on his knees beside the Stormfather, he hesitantly put a hand on the spren’s shoulder. The pain flared. That all-too-familiar agony of failure and loss.

“You feel it too,” Dalinar said. “That’s what led me to you, isn’t it?”

The Stormfather shivered, the floor before him stained with tears. “I remember, Dalinar,” he said. “As you accused me, I remember what … Honor did. I know his whole life. I’m an echo of him. And his failings are mine.”

“Show me,” Dalinar said.

“You’ll hate me,” the Stormfather whispered, his voice raw, ragged. “I’ve failed you. I … I …”

“Show me,” Dalinar said softly. “So that I can understand.”

The Stormfather blinked open tear-reddened eyes and looked at him. “It hurts. ”

“Maybe that’s the point. Maybe emotions don’t make us weak. Maybe they teach us. Like the pain of touching a hot stove. They show us what we should do, and remind us what we should not.”

From the outside, Dalinar was a monster. How would Honor look from the inside ? Did Taravangian, or Odium, realize what he’d done in reminding Dalinar of his pain?

No. Taravangian saw only destinations.

“You’ll hate us—me, Honor—for what we did.”

“No,” Dalinar replied. “Understanding has never led to hatred. Show me. I cannot take your pain, but I can help you carry it.”

The Stormfather reached up to touch his hand to Dalinar’s.

A new vision began. And in this one, Dalinar saw the life of a god.

THE END OF

Day Eight