Chapter 136

For the events surrounding the contest at Urithiru, I must refer you to another volume of this multi-author work. One that has, unfortunately, not yet been written.

—From Knights of Wind and Truth, page 238

T he moment arrived.

The contest began.

Gavinor attacked.

Dalinar was forced to leap away, his protests ignored, as the young man displayed incredible prowess with the Blade. A perfect implementation of Flamestance, bold strikes, seeking to end the contest quickly. Dalinar dodged again, the Stormfather rumbling in the back of his mind.

I thought you’d know what to do, the spren said . I thought you’d have an answer.

“Still working on it,” Dalinar said, a cold mountain wind blowing across the top of the tower. He kept his eyes on Gav. “Son, he’s using you.”

“I’ve seen your life, Grandfather,” Gav said. Storms, he sounded so much like Elhokar. “I’ve lived my father’s life a dozen times over. And always the same theme. No one ever gets to decide. You decide for them.” He swept out with the Blade in a wide attack, nearly clipping Dalinar. “Is it impossible for you to believe I’m not being used? That I’ve decided I want this?”

After twenty years seeing only what Taravangian wanted him to see? The lad might be deciding, but he obviously wasn’t seeing clearly. But if Gavinor had his father’s stubbornness, there would be little Dalinar could do to persuade him of that fact.

What, then? Just keep dodging?

“Dalinar,” Taravangian said, appearing beside him. “Did you really come to a battle for the fate of the world unarmed ?”

“It wasn’t to be a swordfight,” Dalinar said.

“Why not?” Taravangian said. “Isn’t this what you want? A battle you can win? But of course, I complicated it, didn’t I? By bringing someone you don’t want to kill. So inconvenient.”

Dalinar drew in Stormlight, the power infusing him, keeping him from getting winded. That helped him stay ahead of the young man, even though he was good. That was probably what you got by training for twenty years, alone, under the supervision of a god.

As Dalinar passed Taravangian again, the being extended a hand, and a Shardblade appeared in it—one Dalinar didn’t recognize. He held it out, point down. “Go ahead. Offered without trick or need for payment. So no one can accuse me of fixing the fight.”

Dalinar ignored him, dodging as Gav—focused, determined—came for him again. Storms, Dalinar was going to make a mistake soon—get backed up against the side, or lose his footing. In a fight against a Shardbearer, the end could come in the blink of a burning eye. As Gav got too close, Dalinar was forced—almost by instinct—to grab the offered Shardblade and use it to block.

He heard a dull whimper from the Blade he held. The distant spren, who at least wasn’t screaming outright. The next clashes were of Shardblades in the midday sunlight—surrounded by the advancing dark storm. Blades flashed, reflecting light.

The storm rumbled, and the sun vanished, the air growing colder and colder against the sweat on Dalinar’s brow. It felt like rain was near, with that crispness and sudden cloud cover.

Dalinar backed away, as Gav—sweating, puffing—rounded him. “You’re better,” he said softly, “than the versions of you I’ve fought in my home realm.”

“Gav …” Dalinar said, but the youth was coming in again. Dalinar met him, Blade against Blade, then shoved him backward—sending him tumbling, Blade slipping from his fingers. He scrambled to seize it again.

Taravangian clicked his tongue. “Careful, son,” he said to Gav. “Don’t let him surprise you.”

“Don’t call him son, ” Dalinar growled.

Taravangian laced his fingers before himself, watching as Gav reset his stance. “My predecessor worked so hard to find a champion. You failed him, then little Stormblessed rejected the call. His final plan had been to use the traitor, Moash. But what would that prove? There’s no poetry to it.”

“I hate you,” Dalinar whispered, emotions churning in him like wind before a storm. “I hate you, Taravangian.”

“Odium,” Taravangian said. “Yes. I provoke that. It is my duty, I suppose.” He snapped his fingers, and Gav suddenly froze in place, sword raised for another attack. His eyes quivered; he was aware, but unable to move.

“What have you done?” Dalinar demanded.

“Gavinor, by swearing to me, gave me power over him. So I can make him wait.” He looked to Dalinar. “Isn’t this what you want? A good fight to end this all?”

“You know it’s not,” Dalinar said. “Not against Gav.”

“Then who?” Taravangian said. “One of my most powerful Fused, perhaps? Someone you can kill without feeling guilty. Except, of course, for the body of the innocent singer they’re using. There’s always a cost, isn’t there.”

Dalinar backed out of Gav’s reach, in case he unfroze—then tossed the Shardblade to the ground with a clang.

“I could provide you with an innocent you don’t know,” Taravangian said. “A sack over their head, so you don’t have to look them in the eyes, placed on an altar as my champion. Would you pay that price for your kingdom’s freedom, Dalinar? Is that what you’d prefer?”

“Storm you!” Dalinar said, stepping toward him. “There are prices that aren’t worth paying to win.”

“I disagree. No price is too high for the greater good.”

“Just give me a true contest. A real fight.”

“Do you want the world to be won by strength of arm, then, Dalinar? Or would you rather it be a choice between morals?” He gestured toward Gav, still frozen in place, weapon raised. Tears were forming in his eyes.

“Here is my champion,” Taravangian said softly, “legally chosen and provided by the appointed time. I cannot fix the fight against you, but there is no prohibition against me fixing it for you. This ends when you decide: kill him while he watches, or forfeit and die by your own hand.”

Adolin held.

With the Unoathed, he held. Maya in hand and Plate on his back. The armor warned when someone was behind him and provided updates on which sections were cracked.

His friends fought with varying levels of capability—but when you were in Plate and holding a Blade, “varying levels” was still extremely dangerous. Adolin paired experienced Shardbearers with newcomers, and told those inexperienced to just let loose—not worrying, because their companions were all in Plate, and could take an accidental hit or two.

The result was a tempest of ten shimmering Blades. They killed so many enemies that black smoke from burning eyes began to collect at the ceiling. In that wide, lavish hallway, they stood together—ten full Shardbearers fighting at once, a feat Adolin had never even heard of.

It had an effect. The enemy songs wavered; warforms started to shy away. It was glorious. He soon sent Kushkam and his son in to check on Noura, and a good thing too, as they returned shortly with a dead Husked One who had slipped past. From the side, Adolin saw Noura and the other two in there—with the vizier herself standing on the toppled throne.

Warning, sir! the armor said to Adolin, but not in time to stop a Magnified One from slamming into him. Adolin’s armor strained, and warned him the back plate was weakening, until the Magnified One jolted—and a Shardblade split her straight between the eyes from behind.

The Fused dropped, eyes burning, and Adolin saw a Shardbearer in blue-glowing Plate behind her. “Brightlord Adolin?” a familiar masculine voice said. “Are you well?”

“ Notum? ” Adolin said, shaking himself.

“Indeed,” the Shardbearer said from within his helm. “I do not have much substance in this realm, but … well, ‘not much’ seems to be enough to control this Plate. The windspren have accepted me as their bearer.”

Notum, full sized but basically just air? They’d always said that the strength of the bearer of the Plate didn’t matter much once the armor was active, but he hadn’t realized quite how far that could go.

Together they turned—and found the enemy lines crumbling. Ordinary soldiers fell back, leaving irate Regals and Fused. Adolin didn’t blame the common soldiers—his Shardbearers had carved up the enemy lines like the prized hog at a Lightday feast.

“It’s working,” Yanagawn said within his armor, grabbing Adolin by the shoulder. “It’s working. Position, tactics, even luck … none of that could account for this. But we’re winning anyway.”

Adolin grinned, and leveled his Blade at one of the Fused, a lithe brand with an Edgedancer’s abilities. The Fused, in turn, looked upward—seeing or hearing something Adolin could not. Then he sighed.

And walked away.

The others did too. What? Were they that intimidated? Adolin had never known Fused to lose morale—they could often hold lines all on their own.

Behind them, Noura ran from the throne room, holding aloft her small clock. “It’s happened! The time arrived! The Blackthorn’s contest has begun!”

The enemy forces seemed to know it. They gathered their wounded—those who had been punched by Plated fists, or had their limbs broken—and laid down their weapons. By the rules that Odium himself had set, they could no longer fight in this land. Adolin looked to Yanagawn, who pulled off his helmet, grinning like he’d won his first duel. Which, Adolin supposed, he had.

What now?

Yanagawn spoke to the Fused with the decisive voice of an emperor. “Gather your people at the Oathgate, Fused. We will let them withdraw into Shadesmar. If you have wounded that need care, we will see to them once our own are cared for.”

The remaining Fused nodded, and began giving orders in their own language. Adolin waited, tense, expecting some sort of trick until at last the enemy was gone, and his team stepped out into the sunlight of the tenth day.

To a free Azir. And so far as he knew, the only kingdom in Roshar other than Urithiru that had stood successfully against the invasion.

Dalinar breathed deeply of the cold air as he rounded Gavinor, the poor lad frozen like a statue.

“Such a little thing to kill one man,” Taravangian said, “in the name of preserving a nation. We had many a conversation about this. Do you remember? Sitting before a hearth, or an imitation one …”

“I remember,” Dalinar whispered. “A time when I thought I could trust you.”

“You needed someone to talk to who understood the burden of rule. An impossible topic to discuss unless you’ve been there. Musty books full of scholars’ debates are all useless compared to the empathy of one man who has watched a city burn, knowing it was necessary.”

“It was never necessary,” Dalinar said, his breath puffing. “You don’t understand me, Taravangian. You might pretend to, but you don’t—and the way you tried to use visions to break me proves it. I don’t think you care to actually understand. You merely want someone to justify your horrible actions, to make it easy for you.”

Taravangian stepped in front of him, his eyes intense, glowing, burning. “You think this is easy for me, Dalinar? I can hear children—both singer and human—suffer all across Roshar. I cannot close my eyes to it, for I see with divine senses, inextinguishable. I feel their loss, their grief, their pain. All through the cosmere, good people cry out for relief. They will do so until someone brings peace.”

He held Dalinar’s gaze, and continued, his voice barely a whisper. “I was ready to let go and be done, then destiny wrenched me back. I will do what has been demanded of me. I will be the evil that all men need, but are afraid to embrace. There will be no stillness until I bring it by force, until the gods stand down or die. That is my decision. Now make yours. Spare your grandson and agree to stand with me—or kill him, and experience the tiniest bit of what I feel. I’ll leave Alethkar alone, and continue my task without you.”

Almost, Dalinar believed Taravangian did this out of a sense of altruism. The passion was there, the commitment. Unfortunately, Dalinar knew Taravangian too well. His old friend didn’t just want peace— he wanted to be the one to bring it, his way. In this they were alike, and always had been.

Dalinar looked back to Gav, frozen. All but his eyes, weeping, blinking. He seemed to strain against his bonds.

“He knows that you betrayed him,” Dalinar said. “Twenty years training, for you to not even give him the chance to defeat me?”

“A painful lesson,” Taravangian said. “We, at the top, can never have the peace we will bring others. We must taint our souls with the worst sludge of corrupt morality, to sacrifice our ideals at the feet of a stable government. Come. Choose. Your people expect you to do what needs to be done.”

“They expect me to be a good man,” Dalinar said.

“They expect you to pretend to be a good man, so they can sleep at night. What is this one death to you? Your government does worse every day. Your non-Radiant Soulcasters? Slowly consumed by their powers to provide food. The darkeyes—the slaves you didn’t want to free—toil, giving their best years to their betters. You let innocent men be hanged so that justice may be applied evenly. You let soldiers die, and children on the other side starve, so your people at home can greet each other with cheerful mornings.

“This is the actual nature of virtue and leadership. And if you aren’t willing to dirty your pristine, godly, oh-so-righteous hands with it … then I name you a coward. The worst kind of hypocrite.” Taravangian’s grey eyes continued to burn with a fire behind them, capturing Dalinar’s own, his voice like a held note. “Admit I’m right.”

“Never,” Dalinar hissed.

“So be it,” Taravangian said, walking over and taking Oathbringer from Gavinor’s frozen hand. He walked back, extending it. “Forfeit, and die. That will prove you a fool, but at least you’ll be consistent.” He stepped closer, Blade raised. “Then you’ll rise again as my general, head of my armies. Blood and terror shall be your surnames, as the Blackthorn will live again.” Taravangian thrust Oathbringer into the floor of the rooftop in front of Dalinar. “It’s the greater evil, but if it’s your choice, I will accept.”

“You win either way. Whatever I do, you win. ”

“Did you really think I would be here under any other circumstances?” Taravangian left the sword and backed away, the darkness behind manifesting as a billowing red storm. Tendrils of it reached to him, outlining him, rippling with red lightning.

“The power of Odium and I,” Taravangian said, “have found one another. Its ambitions. My convictions. One god, for all the cosmere. Putting right what was broken thousands of years ago by a group of fools. It begins here, Dalinar, with your decision.”