Chapter 118

Not every win is a victory. And not every loss is a defeat.

— Proverbs for Towers and War, Zenaz, date unknown

T he call came.

Finally, Venli and the others launched toward the human forces. With thunder and red lightning as their accompaniment, a terrible chorus of drums began. The pounding of greatshell feet on plateaus was the percussion, and the screams of terrified soldiers the applause.

Venli clung to the slick ropes, mist and rain pelting her as Thundercloud charged the human position. She felt a little of what humans must have during those old plateau runs. Arrows sliced the air around her. Even with the humans deliberately trying to miss her, even with a giant carapaced head in front to break arrows, it was unnerving.

They reached the chasm and leaped. She held her breath, her rhythms stilling.

Thude whooped as he stood upright, gripping the ropes, joyful like the old him. A heartbeat later, Thundercloud crashed through the human wall, breaking the cracked fortification and shoving through the crumbling stone. The humans had cleared off from this section, pretending that the cracks were too extensive for them to risk standing atop it. Thundercloud entered the plateau; it had taken considerable deliberate effort to explain to him that they weren’t going to kill the humans. She felt his confusion now.

We don’t eat humans anymore, she sent to him.

His reply was more confusion. He knew that they didn’t eat humans anymore. He’d accepted all of the small things as rivals, and not food. But you could eat things that weren’t usually food. And today, wasn’t he supposed to?

Well, all right, she thought to him, remembering the plan. We eat humans this once. Only the correct humans.

For now, it was time to make a bit of a mess. She clung to his back with the others, teeth gritted, attuned to Excitement to try to convince herself. Thundercloud really leaned into his part—that of completely destroying the human camp while the two other chasmfiends crashed in behind. One ripped down the gate between the two plateaus. They’d chosen Skyblue for that, as she seemed to understand that she wasn’t to break the humans’ bridge, which they’d use to flee onto the Oathgate platform.

Soldiers fled, screaming about the monsters. Thundercloud gleefully began stomping through the wooden rooftops. He swept his tail and knocked down walls, trumping. In seconds she heard human horns sounding the retreat. Soon after, the Oathgate began to flash, people escaping. Overhead, Leshwi and her three made a good show of fighting.

Thundercloud snapped at a few retreating humans, and Venli reined him in with a rhythm. One waved, and dropped the package for her. Thundercloud wanted to chase them, but she turned him the other direction.

You can’t eat those humans, she thought.

He sent back confusion again. His kind had made peace with the listeners, who were like little chulls. But they could eat the humans sometimes, who were like little horses. He thought he’d figured it all out.

She pointed him toward a line of corpses that had been left—after some complaints—per her instruction. It made her extremely uncomfortable, but it did seem necessary. In seconds, Thundercloud was munching away. He sent to her that he thought he finally understood. She didn’t want him to eat humans because they weren’t fatty enough to be truly delicious, and he should focus on better meals.

She didn’t watch as the last humans retreated.

Shallan ducked through waves of possibility, dodging the eyes of the vast shadow that she knew must be Odium. Colors streamed around her like individual rivers: versions of her rising from them like women bursting from a pool of water, then melting back down. Renarin and Rlain had mentioned being afraid of this place, but possibility didn’t frighten Shallan. She engaged with it each time she drew.

The shadow hunted her, but she sent Lightweavings—effortless here—to distract. Frightened versions of her in a dozen varieties—and it worked. In this place, even a god had difficulty distinguishing the real her. Admittedly, his attention seemed—most recently—diverted to something else. But she felt a thrill.

The daughter of a Herald. Storms. Kelek had said she had a strange attachment to the Spiritual Realm, and had blamed her twin bonds. Was there something more? She’d spoken to, held, her mother again. A relationship fraught with pain and anxiety, and with old wounds made fresh. But maybe … maybe they could heal this time without so much scarring.

Odium’s attention finally left her entirely, the vast shadow in the sky vanishing. Was she right to read annoyance in that departure? She settled down and let possibility wash over her, feeling … if not victorious, then satisfied. She was certain he’d have found her—as he had before—if he’d been able to focus, but she’d at least given him a little trouble.

Now what? She meditated on the colors, and acknowledged that too much time here—although it didn’t frighten her—would not be good for her mental health. Being battered by possibility and the demands of versions of her that could have been … Yeah, that could be a problem. But she couldn’t make a vision without Glys or Tumi, and had no idea how to find Renarin or Rlain. Even Pattern and Testament seemed distant.

However, as she was swimming there, she felt something odd. A … proposal?

A second later, she emerged into a vision. One of the off-color ones, where everything wasn’t quite right. She lay on a rocky beach at sunset. She picked herself up, brushing off, and turned, noting the placid ocean waves lapping toward her booted feet.

She spun slowly, inspecting mountainous terrain and a long beach. An island. Maybe Thaylenah, on a side without the large city. Indeed, she thought she saw a village farther along. And some ships coming in for the evening, bearing the day’s harvest.

Shallan started toward a large set of rocks farther up the beach, intending to climb them for a better vantage. But as she drew close, she froze. Those weren’t rocks, but an enormous shelled carcass, mistaken for landscape in the shadowed evening light.

Storms. It was enormous —twenty-five feet tall on its side, with many long legs like a crab, several broken. It was the largest greatshell she’d seen other than a chasmfiend, and it appeared distinctly proportioned for living in water, where buoyancy would allow such long legs. The natural historian in her wanted to imagine what its life was like, deep beneath the waves—and how it had eventually washed up here.

She wasn’t given the time for such scholarly diversions, however, as she noticed something more daunting. Sitting on the beast’s shell, high up, with one leg swinging over the side, was a single person.

Mraize.

Sigzil’s job was to make the retreat look like a rout.

He called for his soldiers to withdraw from Narak as the chasmfiends broke down walls. He shouted and screamed, then fought desperately against enemy Heavenly Ones as his men made their retreat. He found one moment to toss the pouch of rolled-up papers toward Venli, hoping the plan she and he had hashed out was the right one, but mostly spent his time organizing his people.

The enemy forces—sensing victory—harried them but did not get lured into a trap. Their leader was smart, that Fused with the silvery carapace. He stood on the wall as Sigzil mobilized the rearguard, including the Stormwall in his golden Shardplate.

“I don’t like this,” the Stormwall growled softly. “I think we could have held longer.”

“Dami,” Sigzil hissed, “we are out of Stormlight.”

“The Bondsmith said to stay,” Dami insisted from inside his helm. “The Alethi queen doesn’t override that. My loyalty isn’t to her, or her fallen kingdom.”

“Is it to me?”

The Stormwall looked to him. “Yes,” he finally said. “Storm it, yes. He put you in command.”

“Then trust me,” Sigzil said, waving a group of soldiers onward across the bridge. He turned and watched the darkness for Skybreakers—who again didn’t pursue too vigorously. They hung before the sky of red lightning, but did not swing down. If they were lured onto the next plateau over, it would be disastrous for them. The Oathgate could transfer them to Urithiru.

“Just tell me this,” the Stormwall said, saluting as a man in Shardplate clanked past, leading the surgeons in a hasty flight. No wounded; Sigzil had ordered them to go earlier. “Promise me, Sigzil, that this is because it’s what you think is best. Not because you’ve lost a friend, and are too worried to keep fighting, lest you lose another.”

Storms. That hit a bit close to home. But the Stormwall was known for his accuracy. “I believe I’m doing this for the right reasons. I believe I’m learning to lead, genuinely. But either way, it’s my call to make.”

The Stormwall grunted. “Appreciate the honesty.” He gazed back over Narak, which was now occupied by Venli’s chasmfiends. “This choice is going to bite us someday, Sigzil. Give my Stonewards fifteen minutes, then follow.”

Sigzil saluted, then the Stormwall tromped off. His group was the last of the ground soldiers, and would drop the bridge behind them, while the Windrunners made up the final rearguard. Capable as they were of swift motion and flight, it was the natural strategy.

But it left Sigzil and his friends as the last fighters—and while Odium’s forces weren’t allowing themselves to be pulled into a trap, they were still trying to do what damage they could. All but the listener Venli, and her chasmfiends—who put on a good show, then turned to eating corpses.

Sigzil whispered an apology to the souls of those whose bodies he’d allowed to be desecrated, then fought for fifteen minutes before signaling the ultimate retreat. His Windrunners went flying for the Oathgate, and he counted them off, then gave one last look at the Shattered Plains. He’d first arrived here covered in crem and dust. Now he soared above it. How he’d hated those chasms, yet now he found himself reluctant to leave them. This strange barren land that he’d bled for first as a slave, then as a bodyguard, then finally as a Radiant.

This place had never been home. But home had been here. He saluted it, then he turned to go.

And immediately dropped from the sky.

Shockspren burst around him, and Vienta screamed in a panic in his ear. He hit the plateau hard, with a crack of bones breaking, pain shooting through him.

How … What …?

A figure in black touched down next to him, boots scraping stone. Sigzil had landed on Narak Prime, off to one side near the wall. He blinked through tears up at a figure with glowing eyes, holding a fabrial in one hand.

“They only have a few of these,” Moash whispered. “They are difficult to make, requiring rare spren. I demanded they be given to me. The others did so under protest—not because they wanted to use them, but because the Fused fear this power.”

Sigzil’s fingers trembled from the pain of his fall—storms, that had been thirty feet or more. Healing didn’t come, and he couldn’t feel his body below the waist.

Though moving was agony, Sigzil reached for his knife.

Moash let him get it out, then stepped on his wrist, making him scream and drop it.

“Sig …” Vienta said, her voice distant.

“Go,” he whispered. “Get away.”

“I can’t. I can’t leave you …”

Moash, unable to hear her side of the conversation, knelt by Sigzil. “I have a new god, Sig. He won’t take my pain—instead he lets me bathe in it, teaches me to love it. I’m going to build something great with him. Unfortunately, you’re in the way.”

Sigzil gritted his teeth against the pain. “Get,” he said between them to Vienta, “ help. ”

His vision cleared, and he saw Moash smiling in the darkness, his crystalline eyes and crown glowing with their own light. Contrasting with the boiling red ocean of clouds above. Then Moash shot into the air and whipped a knife from his belt, slashing with it as something flew overhead.

Sigzil felt Vienta’s pain as his own, though the anti-Stormlight knife had barely nicked her. She became visible, dropping, a small figure in a puff of blue cloth who struck the ground near him, her arm completely destroyed and leaking Stormlight, her eyes wide as she trembled and gasped.

Moash landed again, fabrial in one hand, light-bending knife in the other. “This will hurt me,” he said. “It is the pain of building a new empire.”

He raised the knife, ready to plunge it down. Leyten’s final words rang in Sigzil’s ears: the prophecy that Vienta and Sigzil would fall by Moash’s hand.

But the future was never set.

And so, Sigzil did the only thing he could think of to save Vienta. “I renounce my oaths!” he shouted.

And he meant it.

Something ripped inside him, but he screamed it again, meaning every word as fervently as he could. “I renounce them!” Sigzil screamed against the terrible pain. “I am no Radiant !”

Vienta shrieked in agony, but vanished as the knife hit the stone. Sigzil’s soul suddenly echoed. For it was empty as a grand imperial hallway.

Moash frowned, then stood. “That,” he said softly, “was exceptionally stupid of you.”

He stepped up to Sigzil, then paused as a Shardblade clanged to the ground nearby. Vienta. Storms, Sigzil hoped Adolin’s Blade was right, and it was possible to heal deadeyes now. Sigzil rolled, grabbing the Blade, and swung it toward Moash—and narrowly missed the man’s legs as he hopped back, cursing.

Sigzil propped himself up with one arm as best he could, sword in the other—his legs refusing to work. Moash eyed him, planning his next attack, and was so distracted that he didn’t see the figure come flying in from the side. Lopen slammed into Moash, throwing them both to the ground. Lopen came up in a roll with the fabrial in one hand—then he shattered it against the ground.

Sigzil’s powers didn’t return. However, the sudden pain of the lost bond—renounced along with his oaths—struck him like a thunderclap. An acute, crippling grief, like a hole in his soul had been filled with fire.

Moash stood and leveled his sword at Lopen. “You realize,” Moash said, “I’m more than capable of killing you without a fabrial, Lopen. I always bested you while sparring.”

“Oh, I think you’ll have more trouble with me now,” Lopen said, summoning his Shardspear.

“What?” Moash asked. “Because you have two hands now?”

“You storming idiot,” Lopen said, his expression dark but his grin wide as he leveled his spear. “It’s not the number of hands that makes a man, but the number of cousins.”

A flood of glowing shapes came in over the wall, led by Huio. Bridge Four. Skar, Peet, Natam … all of them. Moash assessed them with a glance, then fled—soaring back toward the bulk of the enemy forces. Lopen took a step after him, then apparently thought better of it.

Skar landed by Sigzil and held out a sphere. “Here, sir. Take this.”

“I can’t,” Sigzil croaked. He squeezed his eyes shut, tears leaking from the corners.

“Sure you can,” Skar said. “Unless … storms … did he …?”

Gentle hands took Sigzil’s Blade, then passed it to a squire, who winced at touching it. Lopen lifted Sigzil next, taking him into the air. “I saw what you did, gancho. That was maybe the bravest thing I’ve ever seen a man do.”

“Not your gancho any longer,” Sigzil whispered. “Not a Windrunner any longer. It’s up to you and Skar to lead now.”

“Oh, storms,” Lopen whispered. “Almighty help us all …”

A flash of light sent them through the Oathgate, and as soon as they appeared on the other side, he heard the orders to lock the mechanism so no enemies could follow. That would work, but would isolate and cut off the Shattered Plains.

An Edgedancer came skating up to heal him. Though his body began working again, Sigzil lay in a heap on the ground, staring at the Shardblade they placed beside him.

Relief never came. Painspren crawled all over him. For no amount of Radiant healing could fix the pain that he felt deep within.

As Thundercloud munched corpses, Venli leaned against him, trembling, understanding from the wild ride how the top of a drum might feel after an extended solo. The other listeners seemed equally unnerved—all but Thude, who was still laughing.

Venli hummed to Resolve, then went on wobbling feet to retrieve the package Sigzil had tossed for her. Just some papers rolled in an oiled cloth, which she tucked away for tomorrow. Narak was eerily empty now, barely recognizable. Wet, crumpled buildings. Pools of rainwater, and little rainspren peeking up among the debris.

Fresh bodies left to make it appear like the assault had been more effective than it had actually been. She maintained Resolve, but secretly thought it looked obvious that the chasmfiends had attacked unpopulated sections. That the humans had evacuated willingly. That the retreat had been too quick.

She held her breath as El himself was carried onto the plateau by a Heavenly One. And Venli realized she still had no idea what brand of Fused he was. What were his powers? She’d heard that he did the replacement of his carapace himself, putting metal where there should be chitin, but any brand of Fused could heal from such wounds.

He strolled through the camp, and eventually paused beside Venli and her crew. Leshwi and the others landed nearby. The Oathgate flashed again. Seconds later a Voidspren—like a line of glowing red light—crossed the ground. “That is the last of them,” a familiar voice said. “I watched them go. Vyre had some fun at the end, but it is done now. The Shattered Plains have fallen to us at last.”

“Your group did well,” El said, looking to Venli. “Retreat with your people to the staging plateau. This might be a feint; the humans do like an unexpected rally. It is … something curious about them.”

Venli nodded, but quietly sent a request to Thundercloud. He ambled toward them, a human arm hanging from his mouth, and flopped down right there and closed his eyes. The other two joined him, maws bloodied.

“There’ll be no moving them now, Grand One,” Thude said. “They are burst predators—a lot of activity and feasting, followed by a good nap.”

“I suppose we can watch this plateau from here, Ancient One,” Venli said to the Fused.

“Very well,” El said, and moved on, speaking with his Fused commanders and posting the majority of his forces near the Oathgate—he had Vyre, the traitor, lock it down from their side, but seemed worried the humans might somehow reverse that.

He was watching for the wrong kind of trap. Venli and the others gathered in a huddle, and none dared hum the rhythms they were feeling. Except for Timbre, deep within her.

Optimistic Joy. Had it … actually worked?

They’d see on the morrow.