Chapter 126

The Wind was not there for the contest of champions, the final confrontation between Odium and the mortals who would oppose him. She felt ostracized from that world, where it was Storms—and not Wind—who drew attention.

—From Knights of Wind and Truth, page 18

D alinar held to the Stormfather as the visions faded—a dead god’s voice booming in his ears. Dalinar got the sense that was how Tanavast had lived and perceived the world, narrating it to himself in that deific tone.

After Tanavast’s betrayal of Mishram, and his loss of the Shard of Honor, the Stormfather showed Dalinar quick glimpses of the next two thousand years. Spent riding the storms, having trouble at times remembering the world of men, what was god and what was spren mingling. Dalinar still wasn’t certain of the distinction, but the Stormfather clearly knew and remembered far more than he’d ever been willing to tell Dalinar. He wasn’t Tanavast … but a piece of him had been Tanavast.

He’d lurked in the sky, and had quietly begun showing men visions, telling them he wanted a champion in order to test their worthiness. The goal was the same each time: find someone who could persuade Odium into a contest for the fate of Roshar. In each case, the Stormfather had rejected the candidate. Each choice grew too haughty, too eager for immortality or power. The Stormfather feared each would eventually go to war with Odium and destroy the world.

Last of all, he showed Gavilar. Dalinar watched with a sinking feeling. He’d tried so hard to pretend he didn’t hear the way Navani spoke of Gavilar, the way the Stormfather referenced him. The way the facts of Gavilar’s life hadn’t added up to the sum Dalinar had always imagined.

It was a final daunting revelation. More personal. Equally terrible. Gavilar Kholin had brought about his own demise.

“I can’t trust someone who wants the power, Dalinar,” the Stormfather said through tears, his frail, emaciated form held in Dalinar’s arms. “Whoever takes the power could attack Odium, which is what our enemy ultimately wants, as it would free his anger to destroy. I need someone who has held power and not become a tyrant.”

Forced to shake off the revelation of his brother’s true nature, Dalinar picked apart the unspoken part of the Stormfather’s words. The power of Honor, if given the choice, would circumvent the contest of champions—then destroy the planet.

“That’s why you’re wrong too,” the Stormfather mumbled. “The real Tanavast might have done better than I have in picking. I don’t think enough like a man. I clearly never should have chosen you, but the wounds you bore …”

“They mirror your own,” Dalinar whispered. “Those of a god who failed.” He felt the weight of his own failures. The corpses he had created. The people he had let down.

He’d always stubbornly insisted he was right. Momentum. His life had been about momentum. Problem was, it was all too easy to gather momentum in the wrong direction, and it became harder and harder to change course.

“I kept hope,” the Stormfather said, “that he could be defeated by a champion …”

“I don’t share that hope,” Dalinar said. “He was able to outmaneuver Tanavast, who knew him well. A simple man like me could never manage it. That’s why I decided I needed the power of a god.”

“It …” the Stormfather muttered, a rumble to his voice. “It almost worked, Dalinar. He agreed to the contest! But it favors him too much. It was our best chance! Only … only a part of me, which was Tanavast, worries you are right. A fool. Men have had a fool for a god for so very long …”

“No,” Dalinar said. “We’ve done the greater good here. Whatever happens at the contest, Odium remains locked away—and cannot go into the cosmere to destroy. That was Tanavast’s goal, and Wit’s goal.”

“It was … wasn’t it?” the Stormfather said, blinking. “I … I did manage that. I have not failed completely in my charge.”

Unfortunately, Roshar would continue to suffer. Thousands of years of war, engaged in proxy battles, as Odium trained armies on Roshar—hoping for some way to someday escape. How much sorrow had been perpetuated here, to protect people and worlds Dalinar had never seen?

Dalinar stood, within the current vision of a small, dark monastery chamber for the mentally troubled. The Stormfather sat up in the corner, and seemed more … himself, now that he’d shown Dalinar his burdens. His clothing cleaner, his features puffing out, his beard becoming more full. He had similar features to Tanavast, but was less lean, with stronger eyebrows, a more prominent nose. Brothers, not identical twins.

“So what do we do?” Dalinar said. “Yes, he’s trapped on this world—but that’s not an ultimate solution. Tanavast’s visions prove that throughout history, people—human, Herald, god—have avoided dealing with Odium. They kicked the problem to the next generation. Each Desolation, merely stalling. Other deities out in the sky somewhere, content to let him remain someone else’s duty. Even Tanavast’s final confrontation, where he fled and gave his memories to you, pushed the problem off to someone else.

“My contract threatens to do the same. Peace on Roshar, until he provokes a war by making us attack him. He used the same tactic again—a promise he would not attack , which left his opponent free to strike. Because it lets others break their oaths, and protects him from repercussions.”

“It will happen,” the Stormfather agreed, his rumbling voice becoming more familiar and stormlike. “Tanavast’s peace is a sham, Dalinar. When Odium wishes to conquer this land, he will find a way to provoke your coalition to attack him, giving justification for war.”

“He can’t be merely locked away or appeased,” Dalinar whispered. “Someone has to destroy him.”

“You cannot fight!” the Stormfather said, his voice rumbling louder now. “Dalinar, you—”

“I know,” he said. “Peace. I know.” Still …

Blood of my fathers, Dalinar thought, pacing in the small room. How do you defeat someone too powerful to fight, yet too crafty and dangerous to lock away?

“I have to win this contest,” Dalinar said. “Yet I feel that no matter what I do, he’ll play me for one of the ten fools.” He stopped pacing and looked at the Stormfather. “The power is here? This place? The visions?”

“Yes,” the Stormfather said. “Here and everywhere. It watches us, trying to understand us. Different from other similar powers, as it has been alone for thousands of years. It grows more self-aware, as I did in the storm, and it studies humankind. It’s also the very substance of these walls, this ground, this sky.”

Dalinar considered, then resumed his pacing.

“Dalinar,” the Stormfather said, “holding the power will not let you win. That cannot beat Odium.”

“Then what will ?” Dalinar said, frustrated. “You led me to this, when all the while you could have been giving me guidance!”

“I tried.”

“Lies.”

“Dalinar,” the Stormfather said. “Dalinar, please look at me.”

He reluctantly turned to face the being in the corner, who had stood up. So small, when Dalinar was used to him being as wide as the sky.

“You have changed me, over the time we spent together,” the Stormfather said. “For the better. I lived as that storm for so long, my soul shaped by the prayers of the humans beneath. I forgot what it was to be alive, and you reminded me, sometimes through force. Because of you, I remember and understand Tanavast’s mercy and pity. I recognize the need to change, and … I find myself not so bitter about what Tanavast did at the end. Ultimately, I am as you’ve known me. Not a friend perhaps, but a companion.”

Dalinar nodded. He then held his hands to the sides and tried to accept the power of Honor. He could feel it, watching.

It rejected him. No. Humans break o aths.

Dalinar sighed, opening his eyes. At least he had more information now. In his younger years all he’d wanted to do was march onto a battlefield and find an opponent, but he’d come to realize the essential military value of a little knowledge. Wars were won not by hotheads with swords, but by cool minds who could position those hotheads.

Dalinar had context for his clash with Odium. He’d seen the creature’s history, and knew how he thought. Except there was a wrinkle.

“Odium is not Rayse any longer,” Dalinar said. “Taravangian took his place.”

“I fear the power, Dalinar, more than Taravangian. I fear Honor as well. These powers were not meant to be held in isolation—each of them is warped or distorted without the others.” The Stormfather moved closer. “I find myself glad it is you going to this conflict, Dalinar.”

“Why?” Dalinar asked, his hands spread. “I am no better than Tanavast. I burned cities, I murdered.”

“Perhaps,” the Stormfather said. “But you took the next step, Dalinar, when I hid.” His eyes became distant. “I hid. I wept. I pretended I didn’t care, because that was the path that seemed the least painful …”

This creature. Dalinar took a deep breath and tried to contain his frustration. All this time, he’d been bonded to someone who could have explained the truth. But … storms. If Evi could forgive Dalinar …

“I forgive you,” Dalinar forced himself to say.

The Stormfather looked at him.

“You have always been clear with me on one point,” Dalinar said. “You are a storm, not a human, and even with a piece of Tanavast in you … it is unreasonable for me to expect you to act as a human being would. You tried. And that piece of you that is Tanavast? Well, many would have burned this planet down in order to prove themselves right. He ran, but I’ve known plenty of soldiers who lacked the bravery to run when they should have. So I forgive you, and I forgive Tanavast. I’m just one person, and I can’t absolve you of anything … but I can forgive you. Come, let’s find Navani and Gav, then get back.” He hesitated. “Unless …”

“There is time,” the Stormfather said. “Some little remains before your contest. But Dalinar … do you mean what you said? You forgive me?”

“I’m trying,” Dalinar said, as honestly as he could. “Can we leave, please? I’ve seen enough.”

“I shall send you out.”

“Navani first,” Dalinar said. “And Gav.”

“They are home already. Navani brought them by using her bond to the Sibling. But … your son is here, and the Lightweaver, along with one singer.”

“Adolin?”

“The other. The one who sees.”

“Renarin and Shallan,” he said with surprise. “Take me to them.”

“They hide from gods,” the Stormfather said. “Odium cannot find them, and so I have no hope of doing so. They came by choice, I think.”

Dalinar considered. “Send me back. Once I’ve done what I need to, I’ll find a way to get them out.”

A portal of light opened. Dalinar stepped through it, and walked at long last from memory into the present.

“The Shattered Plains have fallen to the enemy,” Kaminah the scribe said quietly, reading from her spanreed conversation. “And Thaylenah has signed a deal with Odium, as Emul and the others did.”

The small group of officers at one corner of the packed saferoom all grew silent. Adolin hung his head, sitting on the floor, his back to the wall. He felt like a leaf after the highstorm was finished with it, every muscle sore, head pounding, leg—the missing one—aching enough to draw a somewhat confused-looking painspren.

If the Shattered Plains—where they’d stationed most of their Radiants—was unable to stand … what chance had Azir ever had?

“Traitors,” Noura spat, sitting beside Adolin. “We bled and died on Emuli and Thaylen stone. And they just make a deal? Betraying us?”

“We dominated Emul for centuries,” Yanagawn said, so out of place in his ornate robes among all of them who were—save the few viziers and scions—bloodied, exhausted, beaten down. “We continuously claimed imperial authority over them, forced them to playact being part of our empire. You are surprised they now take the chance to be rid of us?”

“They serve the enemy!”

“They trade one tyrant for another,” Yanagawn said. He seemed swallowed in his finery, his eyes haunted—and he sounded as exhausted as Adolin felt. “Maybe Odium gave them better terms than we did. Who knows? I wish them the best. Resisting didn’t help us—and now we are dominated without having a deal in place to protect our people.”

The group fell still. Again. Silence had come in fits and waves, like moonlight on a cloudy night, since the city’s fall a few hours ago. Adolin needed sleep, yet his mind wouldn’t stop racing. For the second time he’d watched a city fall, with his greatest efforts proving useless.

Being the Blackthorn’s son hadn’t been enough. Being Adolin hadn’t been enough. What was left?

He clung to one shred of light. When as he’d been about to die, he’d realized he needed to make peace with his father, needed to believe such a reconciliation was possible.

He was so tired. So worn. So broken. Yet something within him felt … like a sword on an anvil.

If Dalinar Kholin of all people could find forgiveness and hope … can’t I do so as well?

“Windrunners will be here soon,” May said from where she sat, quietly writing on scraps of paper—drawing out towers pieces for the emperor, who had mentioned he wished they had a deck to pass the time. “The squire I’m writing to says they’ve landed outside the city. They’ll wait for things to die down, then sneak in and find us. Notum has already met up with them.”

“How many Windrunners?” Kushkam said.

“Two full ones, a handful of squires,” May said.

“Time?” Adolin said, his voice hoarse.

Noura checked her pocket fabrial watch. “Three hours until your father’s deadline.”

“What if we do something?” Yanagawn asked. They’d given him a pillow, the only “furniture” in the room. He perched atop it like a chicken on her nest in one of the picture books from Adolin’s youth.

“Do something?” Noura asked. “Like what, Majesty?”

He sighed and took off his massive headpiece to wipe his brow. He seemed so young, so small without it. “We have three hours, Noura. We could … I don’t know. Gather what we have left, try to fight?”

Adolin scanned the room, taking stock. Kushkam, who was missing three fingers on one hand now, and had a cut across his face that had barely scabbed over. Adolin, in the shape he was in. Gezamal had survived and was here. He’d reportedly been the one who got his father to safety. He looked relatively unscathed.

Add to them a handful of the emperor’s guards, Colot, May, and a few of Adolin’s men including Hmask. The other wounded—maybe thirty—who they’d moved here were in even worse shape than Adolin. None of them could stand, let alone mount a resistance.

Someone had to say it. Someone Yanagawn would listen to.

“There’s nothing we can do, Majesty,” Adolin said softly. “I’m sorry.”

Yanagawn looked down, huddling in his robes.

One of Colot’s guards stepped up—Sarqqin, the Azish blacksmith who had joined their ranks during Adolin’s first recruitment. “I’ve done a survey of our supplies,” he said. “There’s only enough food and water in here for a few days. The room wasn’t supposed to hold this many.”

“The rest of us will need to surrender,” Noura said softly, “once the emperor and Brightlord Adolin have been flown to safety.”

“They may execute you, Noura,” Yanagawn said. “The singers sometimes execute the leadership of a conquered town. Too many highborn have caused problems after being subjugated. You will be in danger, and so when I leave, you will leave with me.”

She sighed. “As you wish, Majesty.”

Adolin lay back again, in an attempt to get a little sleep. Wondering about his father, missing Shallan, and trying to banish that little sliver of light inside him that had started whispering.

Second chance, Adolin. You’ve been given a second chance. You know what your father did with his. What will you do with yours?

Szeth slowly helped Nin-son-God into the bed of the wagon. The old vehicle groaned beneath his weight as Nin lay down, his head toward the front seats. Kaladin slid the bundle of swords in next to him. Eight Honorblades and one pitch-black sword, locked in a silvery sheath.

Ooh! Nightblood said. A chariot! Is this a chariot? You got me a chariot?

Szeth smiled, then looked to the couple who stood in the barn nearby, holding candles for light. “Thank you.”

“Thank you, Honorbearer,” the wife said. “For the distinction of letting us aid one of Truth.”

They seemed good people, both wearing their splashes brightly, living on their own, away from city or town—reminding him of his own family. Perhaps that was why they hadn’t been touched by the evils.

Szeth walked over and handed them a couple of broams, now drained of Stormlight. “The gemstones in these were grown in the hearts of beasts, not cleaved from stone. They have great value.”

Plainly dubious, the man glanced at his wife—who nodded after a brief pause—and took the two ruby broams. They were familiar with money, even if this was different from the iridescent coins made from greatshell carapace by the mint.

Szeth took the two old horses the couple had offered and hitched them to the front of the wagon in the early-morning darkness. It had been years since he’d done this, but the process returned to him easily.

Kaladin and Syl stood watching him with some measure of awe or confusion.

“What?” Szeth asked.

Kaladin cleared his throat. “Are those horses all right? They, um, look …”

“They’re so small!” Syl said. “Are these kid horses?”

“They’re not child horses,” Szeth said, smiling. He patted one of them. “This one is a senior, actually. See the grey on the muzzle, the bowed back? Eighteen years at least. You’re accustomed to the larger breeds we sell to the Easterners. In Shinovar, we have more breeds of horses than you can imagine.”

He climbed up into the front of the wagon, where Kaladin and Syl joined him, and he waved to his spren, haunting the shadows with the whispers. The creature hesitantly moved into the wagon bed in human shape. He sat by Nin.

With a shake of the reins, they were off. Pulling slowly out of the barn and across a land soaked by ordinary rain. They had a chest full of infused gemstones in the wagon, recovered from Nin’s stash, and were maybe two hours’ ride from the Bondsmith monastery.

They’d talked about flying straight there. But both wanted to preserve Stormlight, and maybe prepare themselves. “And so,” Szeth said, “we begin our final charge toward destiny. Riding in an old wagon. Seems appropriate.”

“Appropriate how?” Kaladin asked.

“When this began for you,” Szeth said as they rolled through a puddle with a bounce and a splash, “was it in a throne room? On a battlefield? Did you begin your journey soaring in the sky?”

“No,” Kaladin said. “It started in a little town, far from anywhere important.”

“My journey started among the sheep.”

“Yes,” Kaladin said, nodding.

“Yeah,” Syl added. Then after a pause, “ My journey did start in a throne room, admittedly.”

“What?” Kaladin asked, glancing at her sitting on—well, hovering about an inch above—the wooden seat next to him, full sized and wearing her uniform.

“Yup!” she said. “I poofed into existence, fully formed by the Stormfather, right in the middle of the Godforge—which is basically his throne room.” She eyed Szeth and Kaladin. “It was far more elegant than the way you humans are born.”

Szeth leaned back, enjoying how oddly relaxing it was to be sitting here, moving toward his final confrontation but not worrying about it. “Do I want to know,” Szeth said, his eyes on the road, “how she found out about the creation of new humans?”

“I’m very inquisitive,” Syl said.

“She’s nosy,” Kaladin said.

“I ask questions.”

“She interrogates people.”

“I did not interrogate Monosha,” Syl said, folding her arms. “We’re friends. ”

“A midwife,” Kaladin explained at Szeth’s questioning look. “Once showed her puppies being born.”

“Wouldn’t take me to the birth of a human,” Syl said. “Had to sneak into that one.”

“You are …” a voice said from behind them, “not what I imagined.”

Szeth peered over his shoulder to where Nin lay, wrapped in his blanket, gazing at the sky. “Can you tell me what to expect?” Szeth asked. “From this next part?”

“Ishar will want to see you humbled,” Nin said softly. “You have defeated each Honorbearer, but he says that while a Herald must be accomplished, he cannot be arrogant. I … do not know the last trial he plans. Only that you are expected to fail it.”

“And if Szeth gains Ishar’s approval,” Kaladin said, “he’ll be made a Herald?”

“Yes,” Nin whispered, his voice frail, even sickly. “I … now that I see better, I question this plan. Much of what Ishar has done these last centuries—these last years in particular—is … unsettling to me. Trying to build an army of physical spren and Fused, preparing for far-distant conflicts. I fear what drinking of Odium’s power did to him. That troubles me deeply now. I do not know why it didn’t before.”

“Like I’ve been saying,” Syl said, “we don’t need Heralds anymore. Even if you lock the enemy away on Braize, they can get here via the Everstorm. The whole system is broken.”

“Maybe …” Nin said, “that was our mistake.”

Szeth glanced back at him. “Mistake?”

“We were so much more than locks upon Fused souls. We were leaders once. Teachers. What if we’d stayed on Roshar … and taught? Not to betray Taln, but to build up science, society? What if …” He shook his head. “I think the world could very well still use Heralds, Ancient Daughter. Just … not the ones it has …”

He trailed off. And together they rode in silence beneath that highway of spren light in the sky—pointed toward destiny.