Chapter 131

I often reflect upon how the world changed that day. And how I spent it, completely unaware, working in the family orchard. Picking fruit while the End of All Things itself came upon us.

—From Knights of Wind and Truth, page 92

D o you need me? Radiant asked Shallan as she stepped up to confront Mraize.

He was in his own body for once, wearing the finery she’d come to associate with him, with softness, ruffles, and embroidery. It contrasted starkly with the scars on his face, the lean cut of his features, the dangerous expression.

He waited for her outside the corridor, and as Shallan left, the way into Mishram’s prison didn’t vanish. A room with an open hallway at one side that had appeared here in this otherwise featureless grey plane with a black sky. The expanse of white-grey stone extended in all directions, into infinity.

Shallan stood between him and the way in. Then Radiant stepped up, made of unsolidified Stormlight—faintly transparent, wisps of it trailing off her uniformed figure. Pattern and Testament hovered just inside the doorway to the prison—and Pattern held Testament to keep her back.

Formless, unfortunately, was there as well. Lurking to Shallan’s left, her face a swirl, her hair matching Shallan’s.

“Do you want me,” Radiant repeated, “to handle this?”

Usually Shallan simply adopted one persona or another. Lately though, Radiant came only when called for, and only in the most extreme situations.

“I … don’t need you right now,” Shallan said.

“You’re certain?”

Shallan regarded Mraize, with that half-cocked smile and weaponized arrogance. Could she handle this? She felt in her pocket, and found the dagger she’d stolen from him in their earlier clash. They both knew exactly what was coming. One had to inflict the other with a fatal wound using anti-Light, forcing them to either heal and die, or die from the wound.

I’m certain I can do this myself, Shallan thought. I’m not sure I could kill a spren, but this … this I can do.

Radiant evaporated, retreating to the back of Shallan’s mind. Formless, however, drew nearer. That frightened Shallan, because while she knew she’d never be fully “better,” she’d thought she’d handled this. She’d thought …

“You should let me pass into that chamber, little knife,” Mraize said, striding forward. “I need to recover the gemstone inside.”

He’s too confident, even for him. What am I missing?

“I basically beat you last time we exchanged knives,” Shallan said.

“A well-fought clash,” Mraize said, stopping five feet in front of her. “But you had help. Do you truly think you can fight me one-on-one?”

She wasn’t certain, no. She could fight, and she knew some small measure of sleight of hand. But Mraize was an expert. Trained by Iyatil, who …

“Where is Iyatil?” Shallan asked. “I haven’t seen her since we entered.”

“She’s watching Dalinar,” he said. “I have done my job, as you know, which was to keep you distracted.”

It was reasonable. It was what she’d guessed. Except why would Iyatil watch Dalinar? Dalinar wasn’t looking for Mishram. He had never been looking for Mishram. They’d used him to get into this realm, but once here …

Shallan moved on pure instinct as the pieces clicked into place. She whipped out the anti-Stormlight knife, then spun.

And plunged it directly toward the face of Formless.

Kaladin winced, turning away from the farce of a fight where the Honorbearers attacked Szeth—who refused to fight back. At least they used only fists and feet. Kaladin and Syl, as instructed, stood with Ishar.

Szeth, fortunately, managed to scramble free from the pile-on. Full of Stormlight, he flew backward onto the more open portion of stone near the abandoned wagon. His assailants followed, using Surges. Sliding across the ground, making stones melt.

Difficult though it was, Kaladin tore his eyes away from the fight and focused on Ishar. How in the world did Kaladin help a being like this, who thought himself God?

Start by talking, he decided. Or getting him talking.

“You were there?” Kaladin asked. “From the very beginning? Is it true that we … came from another world?”

Ishar turned, ponderous as a shifting mountain, and regarded Kaladin. “Yes. We called our world Alaswha. There was a time when I loved it very much. We are literally the last pieces of our lost homeland here.” He paused. “I am not so eager to lose another world, bridgeman. I will fight.”

“We welcome your help,” Kaladin said, then gestured to Szeth. “But does it have to be like this? Is this necessary?”

“A god must be willing to accept the pain of his people. Without pain, there is no joy.”

Nale did not participate in the beating. He stood quietly, watching, his black uniform wrinkled from his time in the bed of the wagon. He looked far more … human because of that. Syl—on Kaladin’s other side—gave a soft gasp each time Szeth took a blow, but Stormlight would keep Szeth alive. Kaladin needed to use this chance to try to convince Ishar to release Shinovar from his touch. So, he defaulted back to what had worked with Nale. He sent a mental request to Syl, and she obliged, becoming a silvery flute for him. He put it to his lips and blew a few hesitant notes.

Nale nodded eagerly.

Ishar heaved a sigh. “What is this?”

“Um …” Kaladin said, lowering the flute. “The story of the Wandersail is about Derethil and—”

“Yes, I wrote it,” Ishar said.

“You … what?” Kaladin asked.

“I wrote it down,” Ishar said absently. “Three thousand years ago, I suppose it was. When Derethil—then so old he could not walk without the help of his grandson—told me his tale. Much of it was embellishments, I expect. I’ve searched for the islands he mentioned, and although my methods are not exhaustive, I could not find them. This lends credence to the entire thing being a fancy of an old man whose fishing boat got lost in a storm.”

He looked at Kaladin. On the field of stone, Szeth cried out in pain. He pulled into the air with a Lashing, holding one arm, which was broken and twisted the wrong way.

“The top room,” Kaladin said.

“Was empty save for a corpse,” Ishar said. “Yes. I’m trying to fill it, young man.”

“But—”

“I’m wise to Midius’s tricks, child,” Ishar said. “He was there when we destroyed our previous world. Did your Wit tell you that ? That he was involved, perhaps even responsible? He told us about the Shards, and it was his talk that led us to first contact Odium.”

A cold shock ran through Kaladin.

“He prefers to leave that part out,” Ishar said. “Strange, how he always manages to worm his way into each and every relevant decision. Like a fly that you can’t swat.”

“He …” What could Kaladin say after that? He looked at his flute. “There’s another story …”

“Which one?” Ishar asked. “Gasha and the ten assassins? The story of the wandering island? Tepra, the dragon child?”

“Fleet,” Kaladin said. “He—”

“Fleet never actually made it to Shinovar,” Ishar said. “Although the story is much better when it claims that he did. He died somewhere in Marat, of dysentery. Made it quite a good distance though, for someone who was trying to re-create Nohadon’s trip.”

“Nohadon’s trip?” Kaladin said. “He ran ahead of the storm to … race the wind itself …”

“He liked to jog, but it took him months and months,” Ishar said. “Regardless, please keep your children’s rhymes and songs to yourself. The adults are trying to save the world.”

Renarin hesitantly prodded the dead Bondsmith, Melishi. Withered, the skin like parchment, the eyes just gaping holes.

“No wound that I can see,” Rlain said, carefully inspecting the corpse. “It could be any number of things.”

“What happened to his skin?”

Rlain hummed to the Rhythm of Curiosity. “That’s right. You burn your dead. This is what bodies look like when they’re left out in a dry region. I’ve seen it with some of our dead, when left in a cavern rather than placed out for a sky burial.”

He died … a voice said in their heads. A terrible, wasting death, as he deserved. As all deserve to die! As the world must be broken and all life scourged!

Within Renarin, Glys trembled, and began to pulse with a frightened rhythm. They looked to the gemstone lying on the floor, cracked. Renarin could see Mishram inside as a black tempest, straining against her confines. Violent flashes of red. A miniature Everstorm.

“He wandered, didn’t he?” Renarin asked. “Trapped in the Spiritual Realm, with no way out, as his powers had faded away.”

He betrayed his spren as he betrayed me!

“No,” Renarin said. “What he did to you was terrible, but he did what he could to protect the Sibling. No need to magnify his sins—they are great enough without exaggeration.” He stood up, worried for Shallan, and glanced out of the room toward where she fought Mraize.

“Whatever we’re going to do, Renarin,” Rlain said, “we should do it soon. In case she fails.”

“Should we help her?”

“She really didn’t sound like she wanted help,” Rlain said. He’d stood and was probing the walls. “This isn’t Urithiru or Narak. The stone is wrong. Can you read these glyphs?”

Renarin shook his head, but Glys said haltingly, Bless … this child …

“Ah,” Renarin said. “They were painted for a child, blessing him in sickness. Usually glyphs are burned for prayers, but perhaps back then it was more common to leave them visible. This was his childhood room, sparse though it is. I suspect it was shared with many siblings.”

Rlain suddenly hummed to Appreciation. Then together, the two of them looked at the gemstone.

They had a decision to make.

Elhokar?

How … how could the champion be Elhokar ?

Emotions assaulted Dalinar, unexpected, shaking his resolve and earlier confidence. In this young man’s eyes, he saw his own failures magnified. Elhokar … poor Elhokar.

“Grandfather,” the man said, his expression dark. “I’ve waited a great long time for this.”

Wait.

Grandfather?

In that moment, Dalinar saw the differences. The shape of the jaw, the set of the brow. This man looked a great deal like Elhokar … because he was Elhokar’s son. This was Gavinor. But … Gavinor was just a child.

Taravangian stepped up beside him, speaking conversationally. “Twenty years in the Spiritual Realm, Dalinar, passed as an hour in this realm. That’s where Gavinor lived after you abandoned him.”

No. It couldn’t be. It …

“Gav is downstairs,” Dalinar whispered. “Sleeping.”

“Yes,” Taravangian said. “I couldn’t create something that would live and act like him. My powers in that area—creation—are limited. I could manage a lump of flesh that looked like him, and seemed to sleep, and that is what appeared in Navani’s arms as she left the perpendicularity.”

“No,” Dalinar said. “I don’t believe it. I can’t. This is an illusion. A Fused wearing his face.”

“Believe that lie if you wish,” Taravangian replied. “Maybe it will make you feel better when you kill him.”

“You cannot reject me, Grandfather,” Gavinor said, raising Oathbringer. “You took the throne from my father. You sent him to die. All along, the only thing you wanted was power.”

“Gav,” Dalinar said, still not certain what to believe. “I loved your father.”

“I watched you beat him senseless!” Gav shouted. “I watched you kill your wife, I watched you burn that city! For twenty years, I remembered. ” His voice softened. “I remembered my father in your hands, terrified …” He raised Oathbringer again. “I will take this kingdom for myself. In the name of my father. In the name of … of Alethkar.”

Hearing that struck Dalinar like a punch to the gut. It … it couldn’t be true, could it? Except … it was possible. He himself had often noted how slowly time outside passed while he was in visions, the reverse of what happened when he floated in the Spiritual Realm.

Taravangian could have very easily placed Gav in a vision meant just for him, and caused decades to pass there.

“What have you done ?” Dalinar whispered, horrified.

“Made a champion,” Taravangian said. “Worthy of you.”

“If that is really Gavinor,” Dalinar shouted, turning toward Taravangian, “then what you’ve done is horrific. I will not fight my grandson. Choose someone else.”

“Or what?” Taravangian said, meeting his eyes. “With what do you back up this threatening posture and voice, Blackthorn? You cannot punch me into submission, as you did Elhokar. This is my champion, chosen in accordance with our agreement.”

Dalinar hissed out a frustrated breath between clenched teeth, then spun toward Gavinor.

Dalinar, the Stormfather said. I think … I think that is actually him. I see the threads of Connection, and the events of the past. Odium was right there, when Navani escaped, and saw exactly what she was doing. He swapped the child as she left, then took him. It actually has been decades for the boy, spent being trained to hate you. Take care.

Dalinar’s heart broke at the words. He stepped up to the man, who warded him off with the Blade. There were still some minutes until the contest began officially, and he wouldn’t strike before then.

“Gav,” Dalinar said, anguished. This poor, poor child. “He’s tricked you. Listen, you’ve been misled.”

“He told me you’d say that,” Gavinor replied. “That you’d treat me like a child, incapable of making choices. But I am a king, Dalinar. Born to be a king, raised through fire and smoke to make this land mine. If I kill you, then Alethkar is mine by his promise. I will free our people. Not you. ”

He leveled the Blade, and Dalinar—worried—stepped back.

“Do you recognize it?” Taravangian asked.

“Of course I do,” Dalinar snapped.

“It took some work, while you were gone, to have it brought here,” Taravangian added. “Terribly inconvenient that my best tools cannot enter the tower.”

Dalinar backed up, still eyeing that Shardblade. Perhaps to keep from looking Gav in the eyes, and to avoid thinking about what a terror the boy’s life must have been. Twenty years? He’d missed Gav’s entire childhood? Stolen from him, from the boy, from Navani?

It grew more awful the more he considered it.

“Why, Taravangian?” Dalinar whispered. “Why this? Why not let me face a Fused, or an Unmade, or Moash.”

“I’d rather it be Elhokar himself,” Taravangian said. “But he is beyond even my touch. Regardless, this is appropriate.” He gestured to Gavinor. “I haven’t lied to him, Dalinar. And he is fully willing, per the terms of our agreement.”

“But—”

“If you wish to denounce me, tell him you didn’t take the throne from his father in all but name. Tell him you didn’t burn down a city with your own wife inside.”

“Gav,” Dalinar said, holding out his hands to the man, “I have made mistakes. Terrible ones that I deeply regret. But don’t do this. ”

“Grandfather?” Gavinor said. In that moment … his voice held echoes of the child he’d once been. “Would you die for Alethkar? If I kill you, the kingdom is mine beneath Odium. We will join his coalition, and make Roshar the greatest power in the cosmere. Isn’t that worth your life?”

Storms, the coldness in that tone. The hardness in those eyes.

“It’s nearly time, Dalinar,” Taravangian whispered.

“I’m not going to fight Gavinor. He has done nothing wrong.”

“No,” Taravangian said. “It won’t actually be a fight, but you are going to kill him, Dalinar. That is how this ends. You will save Alethkar—and protect the cosmere from my influence—with one simple act: the murder of an innocent.”