Chapter 119

It is often said that the best teacher is failure. This is true. But it is also the best killer. May you be lucky enough in failure to live, and unlucky enough in success to struggle.

— Proverbs for Towers and War, Zenaz, date unknown

I ’m impressed, Brightlord,” the surgeon said, watching Adolin limp past for him. “Walking unaided already?”

“I still slip on it now and then,” Adolin said. “Which I feel shouldn’t happen, since it’s got that rubber on the end.”

“Maybe walk with a crutch for a little while. When you fall, you could break something else.”

“I don’t fall,” Adolin promised. “I catch myself while slipping and recover.”

The surgeon eyed him, then shook his head. “Duelists,” he muttered, waving for Adolin to sit down so he could check the stump. “Suppose you trained fighting one-legged or some such?”

“I did, in fact,” Adolin said with a chuckle. “Never know when you’ll take a wound to the thigh. Zahel insisted.”

The surgeon undid the peg and checked Adolin’s stump—which admittedly was pretty sore. He’d spent hours walking back and forth across the courtyard today, receiving reports, listening to the fighting. Wincing at each and every shout. He had a sense he’d be called up, wounded or not, before the night ended, and wanted to be as steady as he could.

The surgeon put some ointment on the stump to dull the pain, and didn’t order bed rest. He kept glancing at the dome in the waning evening light. Another runner came with a message for Adolin, Kushkam asking for some advice about tactics—but there wasn’t much Adolin could say. The time for grand strategy had passed—the defense of the dome was down to the field commanders with simple instructions: hold the line.

“I want you to rest this,” the surgeon said. “We might all have to take a turn tonight, and I know you’ll insist on going. Give it an hour or two first. Please.”

Adolin drew in a deep breath, then nodded. So it was that a few minutes later, he found himself in another game of towers with Yanagawn. Using the familiarity of the game to try, for a short time at least, to get his mind off his worries. The emperor won their first bout. He had all the signs of becoming an excellent field general—just the right willingness to seize opportunities. Not timid, but also not brash. He learned from mistakes, and rarely had to be taught the same principle twice.

Adolin settled back, rubbing his stump—as he’d removed the peg for the moment. He was coming to understand how lucky the Azish were. Out of the hundreds of boys who could have been plucked from the street, how had they—or really, Lift—found the one who would actually make a great leader?

Unless … how many people who lived in the gutters would have excelled if put in this seat? After his conversation with Colot the night before, Adolin found himself questioning things he never had previously. Like what it meant to be the Blackthorn’s son. He’d always assumed that the Almighty had put him in that role deliberately. But if the Almighty was dead …

They reset the pieces. Tense, as another report came in. This was the last stand. All defenders on the lines, all reserves called up and fighting, no one being allowed to rest for more than fifteen-minute bursts. The next few hours would determine the fate of Azir for centuries to come. But here, two of the most powerful men in the world could do nothing but sit and wait.

So they played. Adolin’s sole attendants today were May Aladar and her scribes; he’d sent the rest of his guard to the battle lines. There wasn’t much use for an archer at the moment. The fighting was all close quarters, so May had taken up bodyguard duty. A position that a woman never should have had to do, but these were unusual times.

Yanagawn was guarded by some of the finest in the Azish military. These six soldiers probably wouldn’t have made much of a difference on the battlefield, and Adolin didn’t suggest they be sent away, although in Yanagawn’s position he would have done so immediately.

“I feel like you legitimately tried that time,” Yanagawn said, “and I still won!”

“You did,” Adolin said. “Expertly done.”

“You only pulled disadvantage cards though,” Yanagawn said. “That’s more luck than anything, but still, this is the first match on an even field that I won !”

“You’re getting better and better,” Adolin said, thoughtful. Perhaps it was time. “May, want to join us for a game?”

She looked up from her spanreed conversations. She was wearing her uniform just in case—a long mail shirt draped over the seat next to her, and a set of leather greaves beside it. She eyed the game board in her analytical way. Then she nodded. He knew she played with her father—indeed, they’d had a few games together during their days not-courting. She wasn’t bad. Not the best, but capable.

“Sure,” she said. “Assuming you ask His Royal Majesty if it pleases him.”

“Tell her,” Yanagawn said, “I look forward to the opportunity. My first three-way game! I’m ready.”

She settled down, and Adolin began setting up the cards and game pieces. They played, and Yanagawn—eager to continue proving himself—seized the initiative, making bold and powerful plays at the start. The game board soon grew complex.

“I have more news from Urithiru,” May said. “The Shattered Plains are officially lost. All our forces have retreated.”

Adolin groaned softly.

“Can we be reinforced?” Yanagawn asked, suddenly excited. “Can those forces come here?” He placed a card, then replaced it with the appropriate piece from his game set, now that its characteristics were fully known. “I know they can’t use the Oathgate, but there were a lot of Windrunners at the Shattered Plains, right? Could they fly here overnight?”

May placed her own pieces, careful not to respond to the emperor. What a strange dance everyone performed around him.

“It’s a good question,” Adolin said. “May?”

“I’ve asked the Windrunners,” she said, “to send whoever can be spared. They’re worn out, as you can imagine, but it looks like some will be dispatched.” She hesitated. “Adolin, your aunt has returned, but not your father. Brightness Navani can’t infuse spheres with Stormlight, and her Towerlight escapes too quickly from both people and gemstones. There’s only enough to send a few Windrunners—and it will take hours for them to get here on a single Lashing.”

Adolin tried to let himself hope they would arrive in time, but he found it difficult to summon the optimism. He’d spent too long hoping for the Azish reinforcements. He glanced up as he heard distant horns, but it wasn’t a call for the wounded yet. Only a warning that no shift change was coming. No one would sleep tonight. Unfortunately, exhausted soldiers were better than no soldiers.

Yanagawn placed his next piece, and in so doing took a dominant position on the game board. He sat back, pleased—and rightly so. He was doing better than either Adolin or May. Therefore it was satisfying to watch Yanagawn’s complete disbelief as, over the next half hour, he was systematically destroyed.

Yanagawn scrambled to recover. He tried to employ the tactics Adolin had taught him. He made a few mistakes, a great number of ordinary moves, and even a few legitimately brilliant ones. He lost anyway, crushed as May and Adolin allied against him. Adolin quickly mopped up May, who was forced to retreat—though she finished with more points than Yanagawn. Which had likely been one of her best outcomes. He could tell she was proud of doing as well as she had; towers was rarely taught to women. Indeed, he’d heard that women had trouble finding capable opponents willing to play them.

“How?” Yanagawn said, looking at the dismal results. “How did I lose? You two talked it through ahead of time and decided to defeat me together?”

“No,” May said. “We simply played by best principles.”

Adolin leaned forward. “This is a lesson that doesn’t come up very often in real life, but it’s vital to learn, because when it does come up it can lead to disaster. You remember my key lesson? The most powerful force wins?”

“Unless,” Yanagawn said, “terrain, incompetence, or random chance interfere.”

“Yes,” Adolin said.

“But I was the most powerful force!”

“No,” Adolin said, and gestured at the board. “May and I together were. This is the lesson, Yanagawn. In a contest of one-on-one, you should present power and dominate every chance you get. However, in a contest between three or more parties, that’s not the case.”

“Two weaker forces,” May said, “will always align against the strongest one. By presenting strength, you become a target, galvanizing your enemies to put aside their differences.” She began cleaning up the pieces, admiring the detailed silvery figurines. “My father talked about this a great deal during the days of the squabbling highprinces. It can get messy when there are ten participants all choosing sides …”

“It’s sometimes called the Sunmaker’s Gambit,” Adolin added. “Drawing in a third party to a battle, knowing that you cannot win without them.”

Yanagawn stared at the board. “So … what should I have done?”

“Play more carefully,” Adolin said. “Feign weakness. Or make alliances early.” He paused, then shrugged. “Or build up enough power that you alone are stronger than all of your opponents at once. That’s hard, but valid too.”

“That sounds complicated,” Yanagawn said.

“Welcome to politics,” Adolin said. “Two parties on a battlefield is merely warfare: they fight until one leaves. Three parties on a battlefield is a negotiation; it transforms into an entirely different game.” He shook his head. “I dislike that dynamic, honestly. Towers is so much simpler with two players, just like a duel. Then it can be about actual skill.”

“Skill in politics is a skill,” May said.

“One I’m bad at. Sword on sword is so much cleaner.” Adolin looked up at Yanagawn. “But listen, this game tries to replicate the real battlefield—and in this case it does. Multiple players makes things messy. Learn the lesson.”

“One on one,” Yanagawn said, “hit hard. One on one on one … defend. Is this the fourth way to lose a battle where you’re the strongest party? The one you promised to tell me?”

“It’s not,” Adolin said, “but it might as well be. Pretend it is.”

Yanagawn gave him a frown, but Adolin finished tidying the pieces. He’d always hated the fourth rule. It seemed to favor people like his father. It—

The horns sounded once more.

That was it. A desperate signal, the type Kushkam had sent warnings he might need. All able-bodied men were called, regardless of experience. The city was appallingly short on men at this point; too many had been recruited for the battles to the south, and too many others had fled the city or been sent to farming operations to feed the armies.

Anyone left was called to come—including the crippled, the elderly, and any women willing to fight. That would include Adolin, who started strapping on his peg. He wouldn’t wear the Plate, but he could hold a shield and mostly keep his balance. He quested out to Maya, to check if maybe he could get a Blade.

Close … she sent. Getting close …

How close?

Hours. Some hours. Difficult to judge in the beads.

Maya … can you actually win this war for us? With those spren you bring?

Maybe. Maybe, Adolin.

Well … that was something. He had to resist summoning her, just in case. But if he didn’t … Storms. He might not last the night.

May was already reaching for her mail and helmet.

“It’s bad, isn’t it?” Yanagawn whispered. “I don’t know all the trumpet sequences, but … if you two are getting ready?”

“Be prepared,” Adolin said, looking to the emperor’s guards, “to get him to the saferoom. We’ll pass on the location to the Windrunners, who should be able to sneak in and pull him out if they arrive too late.”

The guards saluted him.

“I should fight,” Yanagawn said, rising. “I should—”

Adolin reached across the game board and rested a hand on Yanagawn’s shoulder. One of the scribes in the back gasped, but everyone else was used to this by now.

“If you die,” Adolin said softly, “this kingdom has nothing left to hope for.”

“You’ve been training me to fight,” Yanagawn said. “You were excited when I went to battle earlier!”

“We had a chance of winning then,” Adolin said, “and you brought with you a large force of reserve troops. This is different. You only have six. And Yanagawn … you’re not a soldier, not yet. There is no need for you to die here.”

The younger man’s eyes began to tear up. “It’s that bad?”

Adolin nodded, grim. They had held well these seven days, and had killed far more than they’d lost. But there were still ten thousand enemy troops in the dome. More importantly, Notum had seen more Fused arriving.

“Take him there,” Adolin said to the guards. “Right now.”

The horns sounded again. More desperate. Adolin turned, his stupid peg slipping. He needed May’s support to keep him from tripping. Damnation. Yet she handed him his sword, then together they made for the reserve tent for instructions.

Shallan Lightwove herself into the appearance of a common villager, hoping to hide from Mraize … but then felt foolish. This vision seemed like the ones that Tumi and Glys made when they were all waiting for Dalinar and Navani. In them, no people ever showed up.

Mraize would know it was her if he saw her, so she tried to hide in the shadow of a large rock, then carefully looked up toward him. As the sun set, and the waves rolled, he just sat there idly, one leg swinging, staring out over the oceans. She could not see his spren—likely it was hiding inside him.

She crept around to stay behind him, sticking to shadows, and the pungency of the corpse soon had her breathing through her mouth. That fishy, rotting smell was genuinely one of the most awful things she’d ever encountered. She forced herself to get closer, though …

For what purpose? She did have her knife that bent the air. All she had to do was wound him badly enough that he had to draw in Stormlight or die, then watch the nice explosion. But still … she hesitated. She told herself it was because he was out of reach, but he seemed distracted. She’d ascended a slope behind the corpse. She could drop down onto the thing’s crablike head, then strike …

Was that what she wanted? She remembered frightened days, first at the Shattered Plains, where she’d felt so alone. And she remembered the purpose he’d given her, like a warm, soothing bath. She was in large part the Lightweaver she was now because of his challenges and demands.

For some reason, she stood, her boots scraping rock. Mraize turned, and hesitated. Then he deliberately looked back toward the ocean.

“I was a child,” he said, “when I first climbed this corpse. I liked to pretend I was a famous hunter of greatshelled beasts—that I had felled it. Truth was, everyone in the village had heard of it crawling up here, and I only managed to visit a week after it died.”

“Mraize,” she said, standing taller. “We need to end this. You and I.”

“I know,” he said softly. He nodded toward the waves. “Do you think there’s anything out there? Across the ocean? Like the fanciful tales claim?”

“Honestly, no,” Shallan admitted, keeping her distance. “If you look at the strength the highstorm builds over water … well, it’s difficult even for settlements on Roshar’s eastern shore to survive. The Shattered Plains are hundreds of miles inland, and they struggle. I find it difficult to imagine little inhabited islands like in the stories …”

“Though?” he asked, and seemed to understand that with her, there would be a though.

“… though,” she confessed, “I wish for them to exist. They sound so interesting, so mysterious.”

“They do exist,” he said, turning his head upward toward the darkening sky. Toward the stars. “Up there. Islands in the sky, far distant. Worlds with wonders we can only imagine.”

“She never took you, did she?” Shallan asked, despite having already guessed the answer.

“No,” he admitted. “I was promised I could go if I successfully recruited us a Radiant.” He stood up on the shell right below her, turning. “Now I am to be punished for choosing poorly. Ten more years, with no chances to travel offworld. I might never see those places, little knife.”

“You want me to feel sad for you?” Shallan asked.

“You will, whether I want it or not. It is your nature.”

Ten years. A harsh punishment, considering—as she was coming to realize—how much he wanted to travel to collect trophies of his own. But something about it didn’t sit right with Shallan. Harsh punishments were certainly part of the Ghostblood way, but only if they served as motivation. Everything they did was about giving incentives, manipulating a situation.

She sensed a hollowness to his eyes. And she knew, ten years … would be lessened if he killed Shallan and erased his mistake. That was how the Ghostbloods worked.

I was invited into this vision by something, she thought. Likely his spren. Mraize knew I was here all along. He was waiting for me to get close.

“Mraize,” she said softly, “can we not find another way?”

“I … have been asking that too.”

That part sounded honest.

“Where is Iyatil?” Shallan said. “Your spren invited me into this vision … your job is, in part, to distract me, isn’t it? While she does the actual work of finding the prison?”

He didn’t reply. From him, a good sign that she’d guessed correctly—though that too could be manipulation. That was the problem with their relationship. She never knew exactly where she stood with Mraize. Even with other spies, like her Lightweavers, she knew where she stood—but for all his claims about the Ghostbloods being open, she didn’t know him.

She was beginning to feel like she never would.

They took a long moment, watching each other from a distance, him atop a dead beast and her wearing a false face.

“Did you know,” he whispered, “there is a world out there with an ocean in the sky? Another where people fly upon kites, as if every man were a Windrunner. Yet another where the gods can make any object stand up and walk? I will see them each someday, little knife. And claim a trophy to remember them by.”

“Walk away from Iyatil,” she said. “Go, on your own.”

“It’s difficult to reach some of them,” he said. “A few, even she has never visited. Some are said to be myths. I’d love to sort through lies and legends, but I have made oaths, Shallan. I will be bound by them. If I am not, what kind of man am I?”

He left an implication in it. That she had walked away from hers. And from him.

“When next we meet,” he said, turning and sitting back down, “be ready to fight. Try to hold me back from that which I’ve chased for my entire life. The dreams of a little boy, who once climbed atop a dead carcass to pretend.”

The vision burst, and she was pulled into the Spiritual Realm again. She felt powerless, frustrated. And ashamed at those emotions, when she should have tried right then to end him.

I need to stop being distracted by Mraize though, she thought. I need to find Iyatil. Or better, the prison.

But how?

Well, it did seem that Mishram had been influencing their visions. Renarin agreed. So … maybe she needed to stop hiding. Let Odium show her what he wished. And hope that somewhere in those visions was the clue she needed to beat Iyatil to the prison.

Kaladin worked on dinner in the broken monastery chamber, the sun having barely kissed the horizon. Close by, Nale sat against the wall. He bore a haunted expression, his eyes red from crying. Szeth stood nearby, uncertain, while Syl—full sized—had found a seat on a stone and was softly humming the Wandersail song.

“I feel it, Stormblessed,” Nale whispered. “The man I used to be. The man who heard the songs of Roshar long ago. I … am not him. I remember him.”

“I know,” Kaladin said as he stirred his stew by a small fire in the night. “I’ve felt the same.”

“I want to be better,” Nale said. “I want to be that man, the one who stood against the law to defend those who deserved mercy. That is the only path to true justice. How? How can I see clearly once more?”

“Kaladin will help,” Szeth promised.

Well, Szeth’s enthusiasm was what Kaladin deserved. While Kaladin still wasn’t certain he could help Heralds, he could try. It seemed to him nobody ever had.

Nale lifted his hand toward Szeth and summoned a Shardblade. Not the one he’d been fighting with earlier. That had been his Radiant Blade—this was his Honorblade, delicate, with twin slits along it and a large pommel.

“Take it, Szeth,” Nale whispered. “Hold it until … until I am sure I can carry it again. I … I am not … I am not a man, or a Herald, of justice right now …”

Szeth looked to Kaladin, who nodded, tasting his stew. The last sunlight vanished. It was the ninth and final night.

Szeth took the sword from Nale—who in the hours since the fight had become frail, halting, barely able to move. Szeth wrapped him in Kaladin’s blue Kholin cloak, as the Herald was shivering, then fetched him something to drink.

Syl folded her arms and stopped humming. “So …” she said. “Now what?”

“The last monastery,” Szeth said, joining them by the fire. “I have not yet cleansed my homeland. I must somehow deal with the Unmade who banished me all those years ago, after turning the Honorbearers against me, fooling even my father.”

“No,” Nale said softly.

They all turned from the fire toward him beside the wall, wrapped in the cloak. He was staring at his cup, which trembled in his fingers. “There is no Unmade.”

“What?” Szeth said. “The Voice in my head. Everything I saw. The corruption of my people!”

Nale closed his eyes.

“ Ishar, ” Syl said. “It’s Ishar, isn’t it?”

Nale nodded.

“All of it?” Szeth said. “That was him ?”

“Yes,” Nale whispered.

“How?” Syl demanded.

“There are wells of power,” Nale whispered, “associated with the gods. You have likely heard of one at the Horneater Peaks.”

“So,” Kaladin said, “Ishar found Honor’s well of power and used it somehow?”

“Honor’s power refuses the touch of men,” Nale said, “and his perpendicularity moves. Cultivation’s power at the Peaks is carefully monitored by her spren, and cannot be accessed by mortals. But Odium’s power … it dislikes him, thinks him weak. Mishram found its hiding place, and gained the ability to Connect to all of the singers. Ishar knew this, and …”

“Damnation,” Kaladin whispered, feeling cold. “The Bondsmith Herald took up the power of Odium ?”

“Only a fraction of it,” Nale said. “It let him Connect to this land and become a god to the people here … That is what the Honorbearers followed, Szeth. A true divinity, to their eyes, who could show them the future. Wars to come …”

“Voidbringers,” Syl whispered.

“No,” Nale said. “Something worse … We did not believe the Voidbringers would return.”

“All this time,” Szeth said, “it was one of the Heralds I heard?”

“He wanted to make a true soldier of you. He did not like me or my Skybreakers much at the time, as this was right after Billid and his dissenters broke off from me with their traitorous spren.”

“There are Skybreaker dissenters ?” Szeth asked.

“Yes. Often, through the centuries … I usually can bring them back … I should have seen. Regardless, Ishar was looking for new Heralds to replace us, but was constantly frustrated that his Honorbearers in Shinovar never rose to the occasion. He wanted them to fight, to become warriors. It is … what Odium does … and I think that infected Ishar …”

Nale opened his eyes again. “Even when you were wrong, you managed to see more clearly than the rest of us, Szeth. You are not Truthless. We denied the Return. We let it happen without fighting it, and at times actually joined the enemy. We are Truthless. Ishar, Herald of Wisdom, is Truthless. ”

“Storms,” 12124 whispered, appearing beside Szeth. He regarded them, his face a void of stars. “ Storms! ”

“Ishar waits at the final monastery?” Kaladin said, stirring the stew.

Nale nodded. “Where spren gather. Where Szeth will be initiated as a Herald, a real one, to lead us. Somehow I knew that we needed you, Szeth, although I was broken. Does that mean there’s hope for me, even now?”

Szeth looked to Kaladin for support.

“Absolutely,” Kaladin said.

“Then we go to the final monastery,” Szeth said.

“We will need Stormlight,” Kaladin said.

“There is a stash near our destination,” Nale mumbled, “at a hidden retreat of mine. We can reach it before dawn.”

“We travel through the night, then,” Szeth said. “And arrive in the morning. To confront Ishu-son-God.”

Kaladin nodded, and began ladling stew into bowls. As he did so, he glanced to Nale, huddled by the wall, cold and miserable. I was wrong earlier, wasn’t I? Kaladin thought. During our fight, I thought he was incomprehensible. But … behind it all … he’s just a man.

Nale’s failings weren’t unknowable at all. So Kaladin did the only thing he could think to do: he brought the man some stew. While he did, a few phantom notes echoed among the hills. The Wind returning songs to him, in encouragement.

Yet these notes were far too skilled to have been played by Kaladin. These, he thought, must have been brought by the Wind from the distant past. From a night on the Shattered Plains, when Kaladin had been the broken man.

That man had been reforged now by love, light, and song. Proof that it could be done.