Chapter 130

I will leave one to ponder upon the incredible irony of the Herald of Bonds deciding he needed to teach Szeth, of all people, how to be humble. As if years of slavery weren’t a capable instructor.

—From Knights of Wind and Truth, page 83

I shu-son-God took his hands off his Blade and clasped them behind himself, leaving it stuck in the ground. A nonthreatening posture to greet those who joined him in the shadow of the enormous rock formations. Those were tall, spindly, grasping toward the skies. Perhaps too fragile to have existed in the East without toppling.

Szeth stopped fifteen feet from Ishu. He glanced toward Kaladin, then Syl. “Either of you know what to do next?”

“No idea,” Syl said.

“Nale said he’d test you one final time,” Kaladin said. “To … teach you humility.”

Szeth took a deep breath, holding himself back from summoning his Blade. He was done with killing, unless he was given a very good reason. That was his balance. No more fighting unless he decided the cost was worth it.

“Ishu,” he called. “I’ve finished my pilgrimage.”

“Indeed,” the man said, his voice loud, commanding. “You are worthy of my presence, child. You may approach.”

Cautious, Szeth stepped closer, followed by Kaladin and Syl—and also by his own spren, who trailed along farther behind. Nin remained in the wagon.

“Good, good,” Ishu said, smiling. He had a mid-length white beard, trimmed straight across the bottom. He seemed more … human than Szeth had expected. His hair disheveled from the wind. “Let me look at you, child. Yes. I’m pleased with the lessons you learned in the East. You are hardened.”

“Is it true? Were you … always the Voice in my mind?”

You are my people, the Voice said, an echo from a long time ago. Szeth trembled and almost wept. A part of him had feared he had imagined it all along. I led you to become my warrior, Szeth, and sent you into the East to learn how to fight like a demigod. To become my champion.

“Now,” Ishu continued out loud, “you have returned to me. Refined, like the clay pot having been fired in the kiln.”

“Why?” Syl said. She pressed her hands together at her breast, obviously horrified. “Why have you done this to Shinovar? Where are the spren?”

“I prepare for the difficult times ahead,” Ishu said. “I have seen cataclysm, child. Roshar will need a God—a true God—to weather it.” He looked up at the spren’s light, which spun around this place high in the sky like a halo. “The spren rejected me, so I had to reject them.”

“Is that why,” Szeth asked, his voice cold, “for centuries Shinovar has had almost no spren? Why my people looked for them, worshipped them, and longed to listen to them … So that when a Voice came into their heads …”

“It is time,” Ishu said, waving him forward. “You will be the first of my new Heralds, and can train others to lead my Fused and spren armies. Together we will make way for the end of the world, so that we may forge a new one.”

“Ishar.” It was Nin, stumbling forward, eventually reaching them and accepting Kaladin’s arm for support. “You’re wrong. We don’t see straight, any of us. Listen. Listen to the tones of Roshar, to the Wind. Listen to—”

“You are weak, Nale,” Ishu said, glaring at him. “I will replace you next, once Szeth has taken Jezrien’s spot. Come, Szeth, you are nearly ready.”

“Nearly?” Szeth said, cold.

“Szeth,” Kaladin said, nudging him and pointing backward. A group of people had emerged from around the rock formations and were approaching the wagon.

Szeth recognized each of them. Moss. Pozen. Elid. The “dead” Honorbearers, turned into Fused by Ishu. There were six of them, and they helped themselves to the Honorblades in the bed of the wagon.

Szeth gritted his teeth and almost went to prevent the larceny, but Ishu spoke.

“They do not steal what you have earned, Szeth-son-Shinovar,” the Herald said. “Be patient.”

The six filed forward, passing Kaladin and Szeth. Nin returned to the wagon, walking more steadily this time, and strode back with the rest of the swords, including Nightblood and Kaladin’s pack. He dropped those a short distance away, then approached with two Blades.

“Nale?” Kaladin asked.

“Peace, Stormblessed,” Nin said, but did not meet the man’s gaze. “Something must be done. You will see.”

Szeth watched, wary, as each Honorbearer took their Blade and placed it into its slot in the stone ground. The rock formations and ground here were like ardents, with heads bowed in a ring, at worship—swords at the center.

Nin drove his Blade into position, then placed Sivi’s. Instead of continuing to sink all the way down to their hilts, the Blades remained where they were placed, half in, half out. As they’d proven while being carried all this way, they knew how to modulate the sharpness of their edges.

“Last time I was here,” Nin said, “there were nine.” He moved around the circle, right hand hovering above the Blades. He stopped beside Taln’s, the most simple, least ornate of those in the ring. “This one was missing then.”

Ishu reached forward and put one hand on his own Blade. “And today, we once more have nine. We are missing the Blade we sent with you, Szeth.”

“It is lost,” Szeth said, feeling cold.

“You will replace it with a new one,” Ishu explained. “It will form when you join the Heralds.” He nodded to the Honorbearers, who stepped back. And Szeth realized something—he’d expected six figures. That was the right number. Szeth himself represented the Windrunners, and there was no sword for them. With Ishu, Nin, and Sivi—who had refused—that made ten.

Except one of the figures was new. Instead of the female Edgedancer Szeth had faced in Shadesmar, there was a masculine figure in robes. The man looked up. Inside the hood, Szeth saw familiar features. Round, friendly. Solid.

“Father?” Szeth whispered.

“It is well that you succeeded, Szeth,” Ishu said, drawing Szeth’s attention back to him. “And returned to your God.”

“You are not a god, Ishar,” Kaladin said. “We’ve come to try to help you. But we don’t want to fight; we just want to talk.”

Ishu sniffed in disdain. “As if you could fight me. But now there is no time for talk. The final confrontation at Urithiru happens in mere moments, and Dalinar will fail. He is, and always has been, a fool and a pretender. He is to face Odium’s champion, yet he sends away his two finest soldiers?”

“Perhaps he knows,” Szeth said, “that not every battle is also a fight.”

Ishu shook his head. “Once Dalinar is dead, we will need an army to defeat both Odium and the greater storms coming.” He hesitated, then focused on Szeth, as if momentarily surprised to see him there. “Right. I remember. You must be humbled. One last test, Szeth. My Honorbearers will defeat you, together.”

“Together?” Kaladin demanded. “He can’t fight all of them.”

“No, he cannot,” Ishu said. “He will lose, for no Herald can be elevated if he thinks himself invincible. It is the sorry truth of our existence that we must all fail eventually.” The Herald pointed at Kaladin, then at Syl. “You two. Come and stand beside me. I will not have you interfering.”

“Ishar,” Kaladin said. “It isn’t—”

“No,” Szeth said. “No, I think I am ready for this.” He took Kaladin by the arm, waving Syl in, and huddled together with them. Then he spoke softly. “I can do this part. I must talk to my father. I must. ”

“I don’t know,” Kaladin said. “Szeth …”

“It is my choice,” Szeth said. “Ishu will let you talk with him while the fight happens. He will watch to be sure you don’t interfere. Kaladin, while I fight, you must convince him to release the people of this land. Do you understand?”

“If Ishar releases the people,” Syl said, nodding, “then Szeth’s quest is fulfilled.”

“Which means I will ascend to my next oath,” he said. “And if Dalinar is right, you will have the opportunity to speak with the real Ishu. Sane.”

“True,” Kaladin said. “But Szeth, how can I make him release Shinovar?”

“We’ll think of something,” Syl whispered.

“This will give me a chance to interact with my father and sister,” Szeth said. “If you distract Ishu, perhaps I can get through to them.”

“Wait,” Kaladin said. “He wants you to be humbled. Are you going to fight?”

“No,” Szeth said. “I am going to lose.” He nodded, then turned to face the Honorbearers—having regained their powers along with their swords, they fanned out around him.

They were led by that figure in robes. Neturo. Szeth’s father, who took Sivi’s Blade, then held it like a man who knew how to use it. “I’m ready,” Szeth said.

All six attacked him at once.

Dalinar carried The Way of Kings as he ascended the short flight of steps to the rooftop, alone.

He was half an hour early, by the watch on his arm, and couldn’t help remembering the day he’d stood alone in the hole in the wall of Thaylen City, believing his book, and its words, would shield him. That had ended with burning pages and a god demanding his obedience. Yet … the words on the page hadn’t mattered, had they? For those words had migrated to his heart.

Strange, how confident he now felt. He should have felt insignificant: perspective let him know the full extent of his inferiority. He’d lived the life of a god, and seen its vast power. Now he was but a speck. Why this confidence?

Because, he thought, this is where the journey has brought me. The oath wasn’t journey without destination. And today … today was about where he’d arrived, and how the journey had prepared him.

And so, as he reached the last steps, Dalinar found himself standing tall. He was deeply flawed, but if those flaws were obvious to him now … that was because he had grown to the point he could acknowledge them. He knew the most important words a man could say. He’d witnessed the failings of those who came before. Those failures were his heritage—as the history of all humankind was to be found in this moment.

He was here because he’d chosen this path. The long journey to Urithiru—in his case accomplished with stumbles, broken bones, and ash on his skin.

He would do better.

Dalinar stepped out of the open-topped stairwell onto the rooftop of the tower city, and found the sky dark, though no storm was forecast. The red lightning seemed muted as it flashed from deep within the clouds, an erratic heartbeat. The lack of thunder following it was unnerving, but more so was the figure made of dark mist coalescing on the rooftop.

Taravangian. Standing tall, without the slight crook to his back he’d always had when Dalinar had known him. He wore yellow robes, bordering on gold, and a simple golden crown, his hands clasped behind him.

“Dalinar,” he said, smiling in a way that Dalinar might once have seen as kindly. “Navani’s efforts to improve your punctuality have worked, my friend.”

“Do not name me friend.”

“Should I lie?”

“The friendship was the lie.”

“I wish that were so.” His eyes appeared genuinely sorrowful. “That would make what I’m forced to do to you oh so much easier. But I have done worse. Yes, I have done worse. Are you ready?”

“I am.”

“Then it is time for you to meet my champion.” Taravangian gestured to the side, where power coalesced into a portal—the sort that Dalinar now recognized as a small perpendicularity into the Spiritual Realm.

A figure stepped through, wearing a Kholin uniform, carrying a familiar Shardblade. Oathbringer, the Blade Dalinar had thought secure in his rooms. It was carried by a man who was shockingly, alarmingly familiar. Prominent nose. Lean build. Dark expression.

Elhokar.

Szeth ducked in close to his father first, emotions churning. The last time he’d been with Neturo, the man had turned his back and walked away—weeping because he could not go with his son.

Szeth had not felt worthy of Neturo’s name for so, so long. Then, to hear his father was dead … Szeth stepped up to Neturo and raised his hands, with no weapon in them. Completely expecting that, as in his reunion with his sister, a refusal to fight would prompt a change of heart.

Neturo punched him in the face.

A powerful attack that left Szeth stumbling, drawing in Stormlight to heal by instinct. He felt blood on his lip and gasped, wide-eyed as Neturo marched forward. Eyes wild, teeth gritted, hood falling back to reveal a hairless head—though judging by the fuzz of hair at the sides, his father was fully bald now, rather than just shaving.

Szeth tried to show him a smile again, his hands spread. “Father. Please, let’s—”

The next punch sent Szeth to the stone, and a kick followed. The other five gathered around and laid into him with fists and feet, not swinging their swords, as he curled up on the ground.

Adolin dodged to the side, rounding the large throne room, empty of people save for him and the Fused. Again he tried to summon his Blade, and again nothing. He couldn’t even sense Maya. What could he do?

Reach the throne, he thought, and trigger the unlocking mechanism? Then escape?

Abidi crashed through furniture, tossing it aside as he gave chase. If Adolin couldn’t escape, then he had to succeed at a near-impossible task. One only a single man in recent memory had ever accomplished: defeating a Shardbearer in single combat when you were without.

The room had a set of unadorned bronze pillars running down either side, near the walls. Adolin hurdled a golden table, knocking over beautiful candlesticks, then landed awkwardly on his peg. He tripped, caught himself on a large stand with bowls on top, and made for one of the pillars to give himself some better cover.

Abidi kicked away the table behind him, then stumbled as he overextended.

Too much force, Adolin thought as he reached the pillar and unsheathed his side sword. He’s not used to the Plate. Adolin had seen similar stumbles from Yanagawn recently.

Abidi wasn’t as awkward as the emperor had been. He stomped forward more cautiously, faceplate glowing red. He was a trained soldier, with thousands of years of experience. But he couldn’t fly, so he had to rely on Plate he hadn’t had time to train in yet.

That was something at least. Still, as Adolin turned and tried to stand, Abidi’s swordsmanship proved excellent. He flowed with incredible grace as he made his first expert strikes, and Adolin couldn’t parry, lest he lose his weapon. So he was forced back.

Storms. Adolin rounded the pillar, putting it between himself and Abidi, who had to stomp around it. Despite his swordsmanship, in that Plate he wasn’t as graceful with his footwork as he might otherwise have been. Adolin was able to keep ahead of his foe by weaving between the pillars, then he limp-dashed to the far wall and the dais with the throne.

He searched, but he couldn’t find the mechanism to lock and unlock the door. He had no idea where the hidden exit was from this side, plus it had been jammed somehow. Escaping seemed unlikely.

Abidi charged between the pillars, ignoring the low tables in the way—crashing through them with a terrible racket, scattering fine silvery cups and plates to the ground. He came in fast, but Adolin was able to leap to the side—and since Abidi had more momentum than he expected with the Plate, he struck the throne, knocking it over.

Adolin hit the carpet below the short dais and rolled, coming up on one foot—the good one. Then he heaved himself up and dashed—as best he could—toward the other set of pillars. He blessed the hours he’d spent practicing with the peg, since he could move somewhat quickly. At the same time, he felt frustrated. Without this hindrance, he might have had a chance. Maybe he could have stood against a full Shardbearer who was new to his Plate.

As it was … Adolin did have some training in fighting a Shardbearer without Shards of his own. It was a little like training in how to land if tossed off a cliff. They all knew it meant basically nothing. He would die here.

No. No more fatalistic thoughts. If he fell, Azir fell. He had to find a way to do the impossible. He had to stop this creature. Now.

Adolin reached the first pillar, then turned as Abidi leaped off the throne and crashed down near him. He didn’t stumble this time. The Fused wasn’t some bumbling fool—he was inexperienced with a new tool, but his posture was excellent as he attacked again.

Adolin attempted to find an opening to attack. Zahel had trained him to parry a Shardblade—it involved slapping the flat portion of the enemy’s weapon—but Adolin didn’t dare, because a single wrong move would be death. Instead he hopped back.

He tried as best he could, but Abidi had reach, strength, speed … and every other advantage. He easily kept Adolin at bay, forcing him back between the pillars. At the final one, Adolin planned another strike—and his instincts let him guess correctly the direction Abidi would come around the pillar to attack. Abidi ducked around from the left, and Adolin performed an expert lunge—but then the peg slipped. His sword clanged against the near-impervious Shardplate, and Adolin fell, his bad leg going out from underneath him.

Abidi laughed. “It feels incredible to wear this Plate! To be invincible and watch you struggle, the rat that you are, with panic in your eyes. Why have we never developed a version of this for ourselves?”

Adolin rolled, knowing that the Blade would fall any moment. Puffing, increasingly exhausted and aching—though in this room he drew no spren to betray his state—he crawled to his feet by using the rear wall to support him. As soon as he did though, Abidi lunged and swung. Adolin threw himself to the side, the only desperate move he could make in such a situation, and managed to avoid the Blade. But he slipped and hit the ground again, and was left with the haunting image of that sword passing less than an inch before his eyes.

He rolled over with a groan, propping himself up with his sword, somewhat dazed as he found his feet.

“They said you were good,” Abidi said, Blade pointed at Adolin. “Was I really reawakened to fight one so pathetic?”

“How did you survive Taln’s attack, Abidi?” Adolin snapped, falling into a stance, trying to shake off his fatigue. “He killed almost all the others. If you wanted a challenge, why didn’t you fight him ?”

The glow of burning eyes through the faceplate increased, illuminating the dimly lit room. That had struck a nerve.

“You ran, didn’t you?” Adolin asked, backing away, sword out, hand coated in sweat. “How regal of you.”

The Fused didn’t snarl or flinch at the barb, but he did kick an overturned table straight at Adolin. Adolin cursed, ducking, and got clipped on the shoulder. Sharp pain rushed down his arm as he stumbled into one of the pillars opposite the ones he’d been using. Perhaps taunting the immortal, Surge-powered murderer in Shardplate wasn’t the best idea.

Adolin committed himself to running and dodging, staying ahead—but only because he could maneuver around the furniture and pillars. For one who had just taunted his opponent for refusing a fight, Adolin was forced to do the same. Even with that, he should have died.

Except it didn’t seem the Fused wanted to end this quickly. He stalked through the room, but didn’t give much chase. With a sinking feeling, Adolin realized that Abidi had no reason to be hasty. He held this throne room—if the deadline arrived, Adolin had little doubt that by Azish law, the kingdom would go to Odium. Therefore, the Fused could bide his time, toying with Adolin, enjoying his prey’s rising panic.

Adolin had to win this fight quickly. Yet as he tried to set for Windstance, his stupid foot—or not-foot—slipped again, and he was forced to brace his left arm on a pillar to avoid tripping. In a duel, your footwork needed to be intricate. He expected to be able to spring off his toes. He needed heels to spin on. Needed the sides of his feet to stop himself.

He’d practiced walking and even half-running on this new foot, but he hadn’t practiced any footwork. There was no way he’d win against any capable enemy, let alone one in Plate.

Abidi cut off Adolin’s route to the other side of the room. “Do you miss the energy and power of this Plate, little human? Do you feel small?”

“I’ve felt small for years now,” Adolin whispered.

But as he said it, he found new perspective. He’d been complaining since the fall of Kholinar—maybe longer—about how the world had changed, outgrown people like him. However, last night, he’d been a common spearman. Adolin realized right then that the world hadn’t changed that much. The darkeyes had always felt small in this world of Shardbearers.

Adolin’s place had changed. He’d been complaining about suddenly being one of the small ones—a reality the vast majority of soldiers lived with every day.

Kaladin survived this, he reminded himself again. Years ago, Kaladin had killed a Shardbearer. It wasn’t impossible.

Abruptly, he was back at his training with Zahel.

Zahel had forced him to fight on a pile of shifting stones, because his footing wouldn’t always be sure. He’d forced Adolin to fight in the rain, or when standing on a narrow beam. Adolin had grumbled at each session, claiming he’d never need this kind of training in a practical situation.

Zahel had insisted.

Bless him.

Something clicked in Adolin, and when he next set his peg, he expected it to slip. He accounted for it, used it, and incorporated that slip into his stance. As he backed away this time, he changed his gait to account for the peg, and stopped stumbling or limping. The peg was still a disability, but he could deal with it. If he couldn’t—if he could only fight when circumstances were perfect—then what kind of swordsman was he?

Abidi seemed to notice as Adolin’s stance became more sure, his dodges more precise. The creature grunted. “Tell the emperor to surrender and deliver himself to me. I will let both of you live.”

“Why do you care?” Adolin asked, stepping around the fallen throne, knocked off its dais.

“I want him as my servant,” Abidi explained. “His people will serve me better if I control him.”

It was likely true. In exile, Yanagawn would claim to be the true monarch. Even with Dalinar’s deal, a rival dynasty set up by Yanagawn in Urithiru would be inconvenient for those ruling Azir.

“I thought you might bring him to me here in the palace,” the Fused said, swiping a few times with his Blade, evidently enjoying the sound of it cutting the air. “Still, we can deal. Deliver him, and you live, human. I will abandon the pleasure of bleeding you for this price. Where is he?”

For a moment, Adolin was confused. Had the Fused not seen Yanagawn peek in with the others at the start of the fight? But of course; without his robes and trappings, Yanagawn was just another youth. Abidi hadn’t recognized him. Why would he?

The very person Abidi wanted was right outside. It remained quiet in the hallway. The forces likely had orders not to attack until Abidi made his play to take the emperor prisoner. Suddenly, Adolin didn’t feel so proud of his ability to survive so long against a Shardbearer. Abidi hadn’t truly wanted him dead, not yet.

Adolin pretended to think about the offer to gain a little time. Because he was still in serious trouble. Even if he could fight as Zahel had trained him, even if he managed to account for the peg, he had next to no chance. He needed an edge. And one occurred to him as he eyed the first table he’d hurdled over after entering the room.

The one where he’d knocked over some finery set out to please the emperor. And Adolin was reminded of evening games with Yanagawn, and a conversation about a fallen star.

“If I give him up,” Adolin said, “what would you be willing to pay me?”

“Well,” Abidi replied. “That could—”

But the question was a feint to get the creature thinking. As Abidi replied, Adolin stumbled over and scooped something up off the ground with his left hand.

Abidi cursed and came in with a direct, flowing strike of the Blade. Adolin lifted his left hand, and parried—

— clang —

—with an ornate aluminum candelabra.