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Chapter 134

To this day, I wish I had all the answers. Would that someday, a historian could make a record with all possible information at her fingertips. For example, what was it Ishu did to prepare himself for what he knew the Knights would attempt? It still baffles explanation, as do many Bondsmith arts.

—From Knights of Wind and Truth, page 201

S hallan stabbed at Formless.

Formless grunted with Shallan’s voice—and barely managed to catch the attack with one hand, right before the tip hit her eye.

Fortunately, Shallan was ready with Adolin’s training. She hooked Formless’s foot and sent her tumbling to the ground, then followed in a smooth motion—so practiced, she shocked herself with its grace—and landed on top of the other woman. There, Shallan used her momentum to push the knife down further, until it touched the face.

The anti-Stormlight started to burn away the Lightweaving, revealing Iyatil’s masked face, hidden by the illusion she’d been wearing this entire time. As before, the entire illusion didn’t fall, just the places where the tip of the knife touched.

I need to be quick, Shallan thought. Before Mraize reacts. With a surge of strength, her leverage giving her the extra bit she needed, Shallan plunged the dagger into Iyatil’s eye. A killing strike—which immediately required Stormlight to heal, lest she die.

Iyatil breathed it in by instinct.

Shallan felt a shock as the anti-Stormlight met Stormlight. A flaming flash followed, and Iyatil screamed …

… then fell limp.

Mraize bodychecked Shallan a moment later, throwing her off. She carried the bloodied dagger with her, and scrambled to her feet to protect herself. Mraize, however, knelt above Iyatil’s corpse—the Lightweaving falling away.

He pulled off the mask to administer aid … but found her dead, one eye punctured, a larger hole having burned out the inside of her head. Storms, it had worked. As Shallan had deduced, trying to heal yourself while anti-Light was in your system was … not a good idea.

It’s the first time I’ve seen her true face, Shallan thought, gazing at a woman with Shin features, middle-aged, far less … alien without the mask.

Mraize knelt back. “I’m free …” he whispered, then looked to her. “How did you know Iyatil was hiding in that shape?”

“It felt right,” Shallan said. “I just … I knew it, Mraize. I beat that side of me, I grew past it, but Formless just kept lingering … I realized that wasn’t me, so there was only one other person it could be. I don’t know how she …”

Shallan’s eyes opened wide. The seon—the little spren in the communications box. When infiltrating the Ghostblood hideout, Shallan had learned it worked for them.

That spren had been with her when she’d been creating Formless. It had been there when she’d explained everything to Adolin after the trip. She’d told Wit, through it, about how she feared she was killing all of her mentors.

The seon spren knew it all. If it knew, Mraize and Iyatil knew. That was how they’d played her this entire trip. Storms.

Mraize glanced at her, then his eyes narrowed. “You figured it out? How we knew?”

“Yes,” she said. “The spren box. Plus, why would Iyatil be watching Dalinar? Better for you to divide your work: You hunted the visions to see if you could find the prison. Iyatil watched me, to see if I led you here. My condition gave her the perfect cover.”

Mraize looked back at Iyatil. With one hand, he deliberately closed the eye Shallan hadn’t stabbed. With his other hand, covertly, he slipped something out of a sheath at Iyatil’s belt.

A second knife charged with anti-Stormlight. The one that Shallan carried was empty now, dull and useless. Oddly, Shallan saw a glow from the corpse, and worried the knife hadn’t done its job. But that was only Iyatil’s spren slinking out of her body, a corrupted inkspren from the look of it, which became full sized as it emerged.

It appeared wounded as it crawled away. Mraize stood up, trying to cover what he’d done in taking the knife by pointing at Shallan with his other hand. He slipped the knife into his belt, and Shallan didn’t look at it directly. That had been smooth on his part. He was now armed, while she was practically unarmed.

“Do we have to do this?” Shallan asked as the two faced off.

“You just killed my babsk, ” he said softly.

“And freed you.”

“As I warned you last time, I am bound by my honor. I disliked Iyatil, but it was my privilege to learn under her. Little knife, you’ve now taken a fateful step. Before, I was ready to overlook your infractions. No longer.”

Shallan backed away, hand out to ward off Pattern, who was trying to come and help. He came anyway, leaving Testament and sidling up next to Shallan. Storms, that knife could kill him. She couldn’t let him stay here.

Unfortunately, again, her heart trembled at the idea of hurting Mraize. He was brutal, he’d manipulated her, he’d imprisoned Lift and given her to the enemy. At the same time, he had taken Shallan in. Mentored her. And … she admired him. All her fears hadn’t really been about Jasnah, or Navani, or anyone else who had cared for her. They had been about him.

She worried she’d have to kill him.

“Mraize,” she said, “this is not the person you need to be.”

“And what would I be instead?” he asked, his voice soft, dangerous. “Prey?”

Shallan nodded to the side, where—Lightweaving by instinct, needing no sketch—she created a different version of Mraize. She began picturing him as a Radiant in Shardplate, gazing off toward the horizon. But no … that wasn’t Mraize. That wasn’t what he could be.

Instead she made a version of him in rugged clothing, walking somewhere bright. A world where the sun was a soft shade of yellow, and the ground was covered in soil, like Shinovar. In this vision, Mraize had abandoned the fine clothing for traveler’s gear. On his shoulder, a Lightweaver patch. In this place of twisting futures, she knew it was a genuine possibility—and hopefully so would he.

An offer, not a distraction. “You could be our agent to other worlds,” she whispered. “Like you want. You said you weren’t allowed to visit them yet.”

“I have traveled Shadesmar,” Mraize said, staring—with what she thought was genuine longing—at her Lightweaving. “I have met aethers and dragons. But no, I was never allowed onto another world.”

The illusory Mraize stopped, one foot up on a stone, surveying the landscape. They couldn’t see much of it, as the focus of the Lightweaving was on him. Still, she could see that version of him smile. A genuine, non-predatory smile.

“Don’t press this conflict,” Shallan said to him. “Iyatil was going to try to kill me. I fought back. It’s done. The Ghostbloods are finished.”

“No,” he said, his expression hardening. “Let me tell you what will happen. You will come with me, and we’ll see if Master Thaidakar will absolve your sins if you agree to join us. I will take over the Rosharan Ghostbloods, then I will travel.”

His eyes lingered on that illusion, then he ripped them away from it. Shallan’s heart broke in that moment.

He won’t let you join them, Veil whispered. It’s a lie. He’s too afraid of you now.

I know, Shallan said to her.

Is it time for me to take over? Radiant asked.

Shallan examined her emotions and thought back, No. I will do this, Radiant. But I might need Pattern’s help for a moment.

Yanagawn gripped his sword in sweaty hands.

The enemy troops had not charged yet, though he couldn’t help feeling that he was soon to die. He should have had a shield. In their few sessions with the sword, Adolin had said, “Only a storming fool goes into a fight without helm and shield.”

He did not have a shield.

He did not have a helm.

He was leading a force of ten, facing down hundreds.

Colot, the Alethi man with a bit of red in his hair, stood beside him. “Why haven’t they attacked?” Yanagawn asked, trying not to sound nervous. An emperor shouldn’t be nervous, not even when he was about to die.

“They’re waiting for something,” Colot said, his eyes narrowed. “That’s the look of soldiers on strict orders—ones they’re having trouble keeping—not to engage. See how the Regals have to keep reminding them to stand and not charge? See how they pull eagerly at the line?”

“They’re waiting,” Kushkam said in Alethi from behind, speaking with his deep, almost musical voice. “But why, Colot?”

Colot just shook his head, baffled.

Yanagawn thought of the four ways to win when you were facing a larger force. Superior defenses or terrain? No, his force here was surrounded. Superior soldiers or tactics? They all had agreed this was a foolish assault, most likely to fail. They were wounded or untrained, so they didn’t have superior soldiers either.

Could they hope for the third way to win? A random turning of the tides? That seemed … a forlorn hope. No highstorm hitting the supply lines could save his force in this moment. It would take an act of god or Kadasix to—

The double doors of the throne room exploded open, slamming to the sides with a clatter, as a body soared through them and crunched into the wall of the hallway, then thumped to the floor. The body bled orange blood. It groaned and stirred, as Adolin Kholin—in Shardplate painted blue, shining between the joints with a flaming orange glow—strode out of the throne room.

Yanagawn gasped as—with a deliberate, powerful stride—Adolin walked over. He rammed his left heel down into the body, crushing the gemheart—and, well, the entire rib cage—which released a puff of Voidlight. The creature’s eyes went out, and Adolin turned to regard Yanagawn through a resplendent gleaming helm.

“Your Majesty,” he said, resting the Blade of Memories on his shoulder, “I have reclaimed your Shardblade for you.”

“ I. Am. THE LAW! ”

Kaladin stumbled to a halt. He’d been running after Ishar to stop him from interfering in the fight. Now all grew still, Honorbearers collapsing to the ground, arms raised to shield their eyes against the column of light exploding as if from Szeth’s chest.

The law. The final ideal of the Skybreakers? But Szeth hadn’t completed his quest.

“He skipped an oath?” Kaladin demanded, looking at Syl. “Can you do that?”

“How should I know what humans are capable of?” she said. “They never make sense! Barely any of you even float!”

Kaladin reached Ishar, who stood with a hand in front of his face. Suddenly a kind of … shield of Stormlight extended from his hand, becoming almost solid, and blocking his view.

“Ishar,” Kaladin said. “We need to talk while you see clearly.”

The Herald turned to him, then raised an eyebrow. “So. That imitation Bondsmith, Dalinar, told of my failing last time? Foolish child.” He lowered his hand, and the light hit him—but his eyes were glowing with his own Stormlight. So bright, Kaladin couldn’t make out his pupils. “I was fooled by Dalinar’s clever lies once. Not again. I am prepared with countermeasures. I always learn.”

He strode forward, completely unfazed by the speaking of the oath, and by the light it released.

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