Chapter 128

I record here the notes of the song. The Wind knows it very well. I cannot hear her voice, but sometimes I hear the flute.

—From Knights of Wind and Truth, page 117

S zeth hummed softly to himself as he drove the wagon in the morning light. He realized, idly, it was the song that Kaladin had been playing. Nin-son-God had fallen quiet, and Szeth wondered if he’d dozed off—but that couldn’t be possible given how much the wagon bumped.

“Aboshi,” he said to Nin, “it would really help if you could tell me why Ishar came up with this plan. What did he think it might accomplish?”

“Agreed,” Kaladin said, watching the road ahead of them. “I’m ready for some answers.”

“It started,” Nin whispered after a short time, “when Ishar told me that he foresaw pain in the future. Taln had already lasted longer than any of us believed he could. Thousands of years.”

“Thousands of years?” Kaladin said. “Wait, none of you died during that time?”

“We are more resilient than mortals,” Nin said. “You noticed, surely.”

“Yeah, I suppose I did,” Kaladin admitted.

“Unfortunately,” Nin said, “several among us were growing … weaker. Accessing our natures, our blessings, was harder and harder. Kalak, Chana, Vedel … Ishar worried that one of the weaker ones would die by some accident or incident. Worse, Ishar walked the Spiritual Realm, and foresaw future threats. He needed time, he said, to prepare for them. So he sent me to stop the Return. We … we decided that the rise of any other Radiant orders would prompt the enemy to come. Only … only it didn’t. I killed so many … with no cause …”

He fell silent again, and Szeth waited, content to let him speak at his own speed. Kaladin did the same. Syl, however, showed no such patience.

“And?” she asked from where she knelt on the bench. “So? How does this relate to Shinovar?”

“My job was to stall,” Nin said, sounding dazed. “Ishar, in the meantime, searched for solutions. Ways to bolster our strength for future fights. He stepped into the Well of Control and took upon himself some of Odium’s power, then began working on new kinds of soldiers. But he was on a cliff edge too. And his eventual solutions were …”

“Were what ?” Syl asked, turning around to look back at him.

“Spren,” Nin said, “made physical so they could fight. Immortal, in possession of Surges, as is the natural state of many of your kind. I … It sounds outlandish to me now that I consider. But he also created something terrible …”

“Human Fused,” Szeth guessed. “Like my father and my sister. You made their souls able to be recalled to new bodies, so they can be reborn each time they are killed. That’s why I could slay these on my pilgrimage, and you don’t mind.”

“Yes,” Nin said. “We did it to each Honorbearer, save one. Sivi rejected him.”

“Has he made any others?” Syl asked.

“Just the Honorbearers so far. He was planning to make an army. It is far easier a process than new Heralds, who have other abilities. Is it … a good idea?”

“That depends,” Kaladin said. “What is the cost?”

“It … seemed small to me … once,” Nin said softly.

They reached a fork in the road, and Szeth took the path eastward, farther into the hills. This was a borderland between Shinovar and Iri, the air bearing a highland chill, the ground containing more stone than soil.

“A new body,” Nin said. “They need a new body each time. We do not. Our substance is rebuilt from the essence of Honor when we return. Ishar was not able to access that power, so each rebirth of the Honorbearers requires a body.”

“ Very like the Fused,” Kaladin said.

“Yes, though humans do not rebuild themselves in storms,” Nin said, his voice growing even softer. “I hear his process takes a few days, and is far more painful.” Nin fell silent. Only the sounds of the wagon disturbed the highlands. Creaking wheels. Jostling wood. Snorting horses.

“So,” Kaladin said, “the cost is not worth paying.”

“What if it protects us though?” Szeth asked. “What if it gives us warriors who can fight the Fused?”

“We can already fight the Fused,” Kaladin said. “We’ve done it time and again in the past.”

“This Return is worse though,” Nin whispered. “With the Everstorm, the Fused cannot be locked away. We need a new edge. Perhaps these human Fused …”

“Sometimes,” Szeth agreed, “a price must be paid for survival.”

“No,” Kaladin said. “Szeth. What you did destroyed you. Was that worth the cost?”

“I do not think so now,” Szeth said. “But what if someone has to make the difficult choices, and do terrible things, so that others may have peace?”

“What peace?” Kaladin demanded, waving his hands. “You think people can live in peace, knowing what it cost? Look, I don’t have all the answers. I’ve told you that. But this isn’t a question of a few people needing to make a terrible choice. That’s a lie—everyone, everywhere, faces these kinds of decisions. That’s life. What kind of world would it be if every time such a decision came up, we forced ourselves to sacrifice? Not giving up our lives or time, but our integrity, our happiness, our very identities?”

“Misery,” Nin whispered. “It would be a world of misery and darkness.”

“And what if by giving up our edge, we lose?” Szeth asked.

“Then we lose, Szeth,” Kaladin said. “Maybe we even die. But in doing so, we retain ourselves—because I tell you, there are worse fates.”

“Yes,” Nin said. “Yes. He is right. The Wind is right. The music … is right …”

“Can you tell me about the Skybreaker dissenters?” Szeth asked. “That you mentioned?”

“Occasionally,” Nin said, “a group of them refuses my leadership. Billid claimed … to have found old Skybreaker oaths. I thought it ridiculous at the time …”

Nin refused further prompts, so Szeth let the conversation lapse, thinking about his upcoming decision. Because it was important that he make decisions. Even if he was persuaded by one side to choose as he did, he needed to decide.

Kaladin is right, he concluded. And Ishar must be stopped.

Szeth was the last bearer of Truth in Shinovar. He was the final Honorbearer. He needed to find a way to stop what had happened here. For his family, for his people, and most importantly—this time—for himself.

“The lumberman’s son failed,” Wit continued softly. “He did not prove that a child born to working parents could grow up to be as learned as a king.”

“Then why are you telling me this?” Dalinar asked, frowning as they walked through Urithiru.

“Because the way he failed is relevant,” Wit said. “You see, they set up terms for this contest. At the end of eight years of lessons—trained alongside the baron’s son and other nobility—the lumberman’s son would be tested. Three tests, of which he needed to win at least one.

“First was the test of the sword. Could he compete with the others in martial prowess, using the weapons of the upper class? Second was the test of history. Could he recite the lineages of kings, the storied and notable events of their kingdom, the important provinces and their exports?”

“Those seem reasonable,” Dalinar said. “But there’s a flaw in such a test. Even if all people are equal in general, not all individuals are equal in capacity. One experiment with one boy can’t prove anything.”

“And so, you’re smarter than they were,” Wit said. “Good. I worry about you sometimes, Dalinar.”

“Worry? Why?”

“Everyone says you’re dense,” he explained. “I fear you will believe them.”

“Everyone?”

“Mostly me,” Wit admitted.

Strangely, Dalinar started to feel more confident as he walked toward what would certainly be the most important event in his life. “Is that why the lumberman’s son lost?” he asked as they reached the atrium. “Because they all ignored the reason for the contest? To prove that the lower class deserved better lives?”

“Would they deserve worse lives,” Wit said softly, “if they couldn’t win in a swordfight, memorize history, or complete the third task?”

“No,” Dalinar realized. “And so …”

“The entire contest was a sham,” Wit said. “There was no need for it. And really, there was no way to fail it.”

“But you said he did.”

“Yes,” Wit said. “Jerick was remarkable in that regard. You see, the king realized what you did: that this test relied too much on random chance, even if the child had been chosen deliberately for his acumen by a scholar sent to teach in his little lumbering village.

“Regardless, the king was wise, and set the odds in his favor. I said, victory in any one of the three categories would have let the youth win. And while you’re right, and the entire contest was a sham, it felt important to them. Perhaps under other circumstances it would have taught them something.”

They reached a lift, and Wit—unwilling to wait in line—dismissed Dalinar’s Lightweaving. They commandeered the next one, and were soon soaring up the atrium wall. The contest would take place on the roof.

“What was the third of the three tests?” Dalinar said.

“Poetry,” Wit said. “To win the test, he had to compose a piece of unique poetry.”

Dalinar blinked in surprise.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Wit said. “Familiarity with words is considered important to many noble courts.”

“Even for men?”

“Remarkably, it’s usually the men. I’ve known many a king who insisted that words with any substance were too difficult for women.”

“The cosmere is a strange place, isn’t it?”

“You have no idea.”

Dalinar leaned against the railing, watching the people in the atrium below. Feeling, despite the distance, his Connection to them. “Composing an original poem seems difficult.”

“Impossible,” Wit said. “Originality is impossible.”

Dalinar frowned, glancing at Wit, who leaned on the railing beside him.

“Trust me,” Wit said. “I’ve tried. Before us were the dragons. Before them, the gods. Everything has been done. Every story has been told. Every idea has been thought.”

“So the test …”

“Couldn’t possibly be failed,” Wit said.

“But you said—”

“Originality,” Wit whispered. “Novelty. Dalinar, I’m sorry for lying to you, because I’ve played at words at your expense. Originality is impossible but also unavoidable. Because not everything has been done before.” Wit glanced at him. “You haven’t existed before. None of us have.

“That’s the sole originality we need. A story might have been told before, but you haven’t told it. Every idea might have been thought, but each is new again when you think them. And that lumberman’s son? He couldn’t fail. Because I was to be the judge of his poem, and I deeply, sincerely believe that every person is unique. The contest wasn’t about whether his poem was good, merely if it was unique. He could have stood up, released an odoriferous belch, then sat down, and I’d have considered that acceptable. He was destined to win.”

“But he failed.”

“He ran,” Wit whispered.

“He … what?”

“He ran away,” Wit said. “Off to war. He was cajoled into it, convinced to run. The lumberman’s son found the only way to lose an unlosable contest. He didn’t show up.”

He ran …

“Tanavast ran,” Dalinar said. “Instead of facing Odium—and I think it would have destroyed the world if he’d chosen differently.”

“A valid point.”

“You wanted me to listen to this story. Why, Wit? I’m not going to run from this fight.”

Their lift thumped into place on the last level of the tower.

“Journey before destination,” Wit said. “Your journey has led to this destination. We’re here.” He turned and looked him in the eyes. “I can’t foresee what happens next.”

Dalinar frowned.

“I think it’s because of Renarin,” Wit said, “and your link to him. Maybe it’s something else; regardless, I can’t see how this will go. I suspect Odium can’t either. That frightens me because for the first time in all of this, I don’t know the right story to tell.

“But listen. The lumberman’s son? In running, he lost the contest—but it didn’t matter. Because the next day, the barons launched a coup and executed the king.” Wit smiled grimly. “As I said, all governments are technically a form of republic.”

“What became of the lumberman’s son in the end?”

“He went to war. Fought, bled, learned, loved. He returned with vengeance one day and killed the barons. A remarkable tale, in fact.” Wit held his eyes. “We never have all the answers, Dalinar. On one hand, that contest was unlosable because I’d have validated the poem no matter what.

“On the other, it was unwinnable, because the coup was well underway, and the contest was pointless—except at the same time not. The contest’s existence caused the coup. So while it mattered very much, the results didn’t.”

“Just as it didn’t matter,” Dalinar said, “if one boy could prove himself better than a lighteyes—the people deserved better lives anyway. ”

“Yes.”

“As do mine,” Dalinar said. “As do all of those of Roshar. It’s a distraction. The contest of champions, the contract … all of it. The words, the posturing. It’s pointless.”

“Yes.”

“But I am not pointless. My life. People’s lives. The meaning comes from us. Naturally, intrinsically. Like your boy and his poem. That’s what Nohadon meant in his book.”

“I don’t know what comes next, Dalinar,” Wit said. “But I’m glad you are the one who will walk up to meet Odium. Because while you might not know the secret to defeating him, you have learned something more important. We’re not sending a soldier up those steps. We’re sending a king. ”

The doctor gingerly removed the hogshide cup from Adolin’s stump, pulling free the peg’s support framework. Adolin clenched his teeth, and didn’t make a sound at the pain, although painspren betrayed him. He deliberately didn’t look at the mess of blood and broken blisters.

The doctor silently cleaned it off while Rahel gave Adolin a quick healing, sending a chill through him. It seemed a waste of Stormlight—the doctor himself had a wicked cut along one thigh. However, Adolin was part of the strike force, and needed to be able to walk.

As the others pulled on cloaks to obscure them, the doctor returned and refit the cup and peg. “Brightlord,” he said, “that healing won’t do enough. Problem is, while your wound is healed as if you’d had it for months, you don’t have the calluses to match. This will soon start hurting again, and could be distracting.”

“This is our last chance,” Adolin said. “I have to risk it. Honest truth is … most of me hurts, Jakkik. The leg is just one more thing.”

The man glanced at him, then sighed and took something from his pocket. A white powder, which he mixed into a flask of alcohol. “I normally only give this to the dying,” he said, “because it’s so addictive. Tincture of firemoss.”

He handed the cup to Adolin. “This will mute the pain, maybe even put a bit of a spring in your step. Until you crash tonight, Brightlord. When you do, it will be bad.”

“After the deadline?” Adolin asked.

The surgeon nodded.

Adolin downed the entire thing. A few minutes later, he stepped out into the morning sun with eleven others, including Notum. Together they slipped through Azimir, picking their way toward the palace. His father would confront the enemy in approximately an hour and a half, according to Noura’s clock.

Noura came along, despite her objections. They’d split the whole group into batches of ten or so, to not draw too much attention out in the city. They all wore cloaks—or in Adolin’s case an improvised cloak made up of a blanket. They carried minimal arms; helms and shields would have been too obvious. He had his side sword, and that was it.

Adolin’s group was the last of the three to leave, and they moved in a huddle through the city. Azimir was a mess. Moaning people, a dozen varieties of dismal spren. Harsh smoke from a fire that had been started in the distance. People moving in scattered, terrified clusters, flowing toward the city exits. Singers patrolling in blocks, heavily armed and hulking, each led by a glowing-eyed Regal.

Adolin’s group rounded the broken dome, now like the husk of some dead greatshell, abandoned and hollow. Ahead, down a roadway, a cloaked figure waved. The first group that had left the safehouse had gone that way, to find one of the rally points where human troops might be holed up. The second group was searching a different rally point. Those twenty were hoping to find some resistance and make a fuss to draw attention away from the palace, however briefly.

Sneaking a full thirty people into the palace had seemed like too much for Yanagawn anyway, so they settled on eleven, plus Notum. Storms. Would those singers notice that his group was going against the general flow of traffic? Adolin felt like a dent on an otherwise perfect suit of armor during inspection, right on the breastplate, blatant and visible.

He pulled his blanket closer, then gritted his teeth and let it flop again, as that would better obscure his sword. He also let Yanagawn lead the way, and was impressed by how unregal the youth looked, hunched over. Just an urchin in a cloak. The emperor’s former life was—

A door burst open near Adolin and he flinched, hand going to his sword. A group of singers stomped out of the building, carrying piles of silks and handfuls of glowing gemstones. One smashed a window, laughing, as they hurried on. They barely gave him a second glance, but storms …

“So much for them not looting,” Colot said softly, pulling up beside Adolin as they continued on. “There’s far more happening here than I’ve heard of in other conquered cities.”

“The severity of the general,” Adolin whispered, “influences the severity of the troops.”

Colot nodded. It wasn’t a direct correlation—disciplined generals sometimes had troops who got away from them. At the same time though, Sadeas’s armies had always behaved differently from Dalinar’s. Even back in the old days.

In the signs they passed—broken windows, singer troops harassing refugees, some civilian corpses—Adolin could read a lot about their leader. If he’d needed further reason to condemn Abidi, he found it here.

As for his father …

Adolin found himself at peace for the first time in what felt like forever. No longer inspired, as he had been earlier, but also no longer angry.

What changed? Maya asked.

I’ve decided to let him be a person, Adolin thought. I’m not sure I’ll ever fully forgive him for killing my mother, but I’m willing to love him anyway.

More importantly, he’d given up on the dream of his father as some perfect paragon. And if Adolin’s father didn’t have to be the greatest man alive, then Adolin Kholin didn’t have to try to match that kind of incredible reputation.

Strange what a relief it was to finally acknowledge that.

I don’t get it, Maya admitted.

I don’t think I do either, entirely, Adolin said. Humans don’t make sense.

Spren don’t either, she said. Trust me. We pretend otherwise, but we’re fully capable of being storming messes. By the way, I should be close enough now that you can summon me; we can trust these spren to make the rest of the way on their own.

Not sure we need them now, he said.

Unfortunately, that’s true, she thought. I feel … She took a deep breath. I feel like a fool. I should have stayed and helped.

I’d have fallen in the last fight anyway, Adolin thought. They’d have taken your Blade and used it against us. So maybe it’s a blessing, what happened.

They reached an intersection and Yanagawn had them pause. Adolin waved for the others to huddle up with him, and told them not to act so much like soldiers—not to stand in a line, scanning the area with careful eyes.

I think, Adolin said to Maya, that I really felt, deep down, that I had to step up and take my father’s place. I felt, for some reason, that since he had proven to be flawed, I had to take his place and be perfect instead. I’ve been running from that for a long time, because I knew I couldn’t be.

She sent him a grunt of appreciation, and a feeling—through their bond—that she understood how messed up that must have felt.

Yeah, he thought. My anger over my mother’s death wasn’t just … just about what he did. It was like I was furious at him for toppling my perfect impression of him. Like, he was supposed to be better than that.

He should have been, Maya said. But nobody ever really is.

Nobody, Adolin thought. Especially not me.

They started across the road in small groups, reaching the wall around the palace complex. Adolin waited until the last group had crossed, ready to scuttle forward himself. Right before he did, though, a group of singers came stomping along the road.

He and Zabra, who were the last to go, huddled against the wall of the building. This group of singers wasn’t looting, and they prowled with a more deliberate, martial step. Though Adolin wished they would just move on, one stopped at the corner, glancing at him.

Adolin’s blood froze, sweat prickling his brow. A warm wind blew in, rippling the blanket, pushing it back, exposing his peg leg. The singer glanced at that, then at Zabra, an obvious child. The singer immediately relaxed and continued on, leaving Adolin’s heart to slowly recover as he made a fist, having nearly summoned Maya.

They waited a minute or two, then hurried to join the others. As they did, he found Notum with them, standing on Kushkam’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Adolin,” the spren whispered. “I should have spotted that patrol. I was scouting around inside the complex.”

“It’s fine,” Adolin said.

“Last time,” Yanagawn said, looking at the wall into the palace complex, “my team climbed this wall to get in. This spot is hard to see from the inside, lacking major windows or guard posts. However, I think we should take another route: the smuggler’s port.”

“The what ?” Noura asked.

“Smuggler’s port,” Yanagawn said. “A hidden entrance to the palace complex you can bribe your way through.”

“There’s no such thing,” Noura said.

“Um … yes there is,” Yanagawn said. “Sorry. My uncle didn’t want to use it, as he figured the soldiers who ran it wouldn’t respond well to thieves. They only let people bribe their way in for small-scale crimes.”

“And you think this is our best path?” Adolin asked him.

“Yes,” Yanagawn said. “Climbing the wall was more difficult than we expected—and I don’t fancy our chances of doing so unseen with this many patrols out here and Heavenly Ones in the air. I think I can get the port open, even if no one is manning it.”

Adolin glanced at Kushkam, then both of them nodded, and Adolin gestured for Yanagawn to lead the way. He did, May on his heels and Notum zipping ahead, invisible to all but them.

You were wrong earlier, Maya said.

About what?

About yourself. You said you especially didn’t live up to what people expected. But you’re a storming good person, Adolin. Better than your father.

I think, today, he thought back, the important fact is that I don’t need to be better than him. He can just be a person. And I … I can just be one too.

Fair enough, Maya said. Does this mean you’ll stop trying to do everything all by yourself?

By himself? You have us mixed up, he said. My father is the one who insists on doing everything all alone, as if he’s the only one who matters.

Yeah? Maya said. When Kaladin needed help, you were there.

Sure, he’s my friend.

When Shallan had secrets, you didn’t pry.

Just trying to be a good husband, he said as they reached a section of the wall obscured by some planters and trees.

That’s always how you are, Maya said. I’ve been watching a long time now, Adolin. Watching you give everyone whatever they need. What about what you need?

He fell quiet as Yanagawn knocked.

Maybe I don’t need anything, he said.

Adolin, Maya said, if you’re going to lie, at least do it when I’m there physically so I can force you to buy a round in apology when you realize the truth.

He smiled despite himself. He increasingly enjoyed seeing her personality emerge.

Yanagawn began feeling around a hidden section of wall, behind vines that quivered at his touch. “There’s a lever back here somewhere …” he explained. But before Adolin could offer to help search, a slot in the wall opened.

“Who are you?” a muffled voice hissed. “Never mind. It’s dangerous out there. Hurry, get inside.”

Then a section of the ground slid open, revealing a small tunnel leading under the wall. A few small diamond chips, barely infused, revealed a confused soldier’s face looking up from the pit.

Together, they piled in—forcing the soldier backward as he watched them, waving away anxietyspren. There was space for them all down here, an entire hollowed-out room perhaps ten feet long and twenty wide. It was a little like the saferoom they’d been in before—with water traps along the walls for drainage.

Other refugees and injured people clogged the space as Adolin’s group crowded in. There were only two other soldiers, and one was severely wounded, his back to the wall, halberd on the ground next to him. Blood pooling at his side. Rahel gasped, and rushed to help him.

“You look like important folk,” the guard said, eyeing Kushkam. “I think I’ve seen you before …”

Yanagawn held his hand up to forestall Kushkam’s comment, then dropped his cloak to reveal himself.

The guard looked him up and down. “And … you are?”

“Oh, right,” Yanagawn said. “I’m without my regalia. I am Yanagawn, the emperor.”

“And I’m the storming king of …” the man began, then trailed off as Noura—wearing her thick, patterned vizier’s coat—dropped her cloak. The guard’s eyes bulged, then he glanced toward Rahel, who started glowing as she healed the wounded soldier.

“Excellency!” the guard said to Noura, then fell to his knees. “I didn’t realize … I shouldn’t have spoken to …”

“Ask him,” Yanagawn said, “how he ended up here.”

“What is your situation here?” Noura asked, Adolin watching the exchange with amusement.

“We fled here after the dome fell,” the guard said. “I kind of run the place, you see, and we needed somewhere to … Storms! Is it really him? Is it …” He barely dared look at Yanagawn.

“It is him,” Noura said, her voice displeased. “Majesty, why didn’t you tell me of this place?”

“Because you’d have shut it down,” Yanagawn replied.

“It should be shut down,” Noura said, staring with loathing at the two soldiers. “They’re thieves.”

“So was I,” Yanagawn said, with a smile. He glanced at the two soldiers. “Today, we’re lucky they exist. This place serves a necessary function—people are going to need to get in and out of the palace complex unknown by the officers. If it’s going to happen, well, wouldn’t you rather have loyal soldiers be in charge of it?”

“Loyal?” Noura said.

“Loyal to the empire,” the wounded guard whispered, blinking awake, nodding in thanks to Rahel. She knelt back, and storms, Adolin could see how exhausted she was. She barely had any Stormlight, and had stolen Light from the chips in the room to perform this minimal healing.

“Always loyal,” the wounded man continued, chuckling, blood on his lips. “Doesn’t mean we can’t perform a few … extra services here and there.”

“All the thieves knew,” Yanagawn said, “that this lot wouldn’t take kindly to anyone sneaking in with too bad an intent.” He looked to the unwounded soldier. “You are chosen today, and may speak directly to me. What is your name?”

The man fell to his knees, bowing his head. “Jaskkeem.”

“Jaskkeem,” Yanagawn said. “We’re going to take back the palace. Can you get us across the grounds unseen?”

The man looked up, tears in his eyes. “Take back the palace?”

“Yes,” Yanagawn said, confident. “We will save Azir if we can hold the throne room. Can you lead us there?”

“Absolutely, Majesty. There’s a tunnel here that leads right up next to the main palace building!”

“Then let us be quick,” Yanagawn said. “And may Yaezir guide us, for I fear we have less than an hour to accomplish our design.”