Chapter 145

I can only guess what happened, therefore, to the Knight of Wind. That he is dead is demonstrable. That he succeeded, at least in part, is also demonstrable.

—From Knights of Wind and Truth, page 289

N avani felt the oddest sensation. Love.

An overwhelming sense of love … and then …

Farewell?

Navani!

The Sibling’s voice in her mind.

NAVANI!

“What?” she said, shocking those who stood with her in the top room. They’d heard storms, a tempest shaking the tower.

He is dead, Navani, the Sibling said. I’m sorry.

Dead.

No. But … but that wasn’t. …

She’d felt him just then. Impossibly, somehow, sending her a sense of love. Followed by … that regret …

Followed by nothing. His soul vanishing.

“He serves the enemy?” Navani asked.

No, he shattered it all. The contract, Honor—all done. All dead. It’s … it’s brilliant. And terrible. The enemy holds both Shards and becomes Retribution. Cultivation flees. We …

Navani, we are in serious danger. This could destro y me.

Grieve later.

Storms. Could she … could she …

Grieve later.

“What do we do?” Navani said.

We have to keep Retribution out of Urithiru, the Sibling said. He’s going to destroy the spren, but not us here, if we can create defenses. It will be your will and mine against his. I don’t know if … Oh, Shards, Navani. He’s coming!

“Do it!” Navani said.

“What do you mean you can’t?” Shallan whispered, kneeling on the Oathgate platform. “Transfer me! Please!”

The Oathgate spren were shrinking. “With what Stormlight?” one asked, booming voice becoming more ordinary. “The enemy has drawn it all back to him, pulling Light from holes in people and gems. It is gone.”

“With …” Shallan fished in her pocket. She’d had spheres when she entered the Spiritual Realm. She’d checked them when she’d returned here, but now they were dun.

“There is no more Stormfather,” the gateway spren said, stepping onto the platform. “There is no more Honor. There is no more Stormlight. Our era has ended.”

Shallan looked around the ten Oathgates, where each of those spren was shrinking down as well.

“No … more Stormlight?” Shallan asked. “For how long?”

“Forever.”

Taravangian, Retribution, reveled in his new strength.

He was more powerful than anything. Only one other came close, but those powers were misaligned, while Honor and Odium wanted nearly the same things. They would work together.

Though something … something about his predecessor … echoed to him from the past. Rayse had never wanted this. He’d killed several other gods, and refused their power.

Was he a fool? He must have been. Because this was glorious. Taravangian laughed as the Shards—crashing together—swirled in an incredible wind, melding as one storm. Any echoes of Tanavast, his only true rival, were gone.

No. There could be others. Ba-Ado-Mishram was free again. He would have to channel and control her, lest she supplant him. There were ways … though he found her difficult to find, even with his divine eyes. Where had she gone?

He had other work to do. The highstorm was consumed by the Everstorm at his will, creating a ripple through nature—one he reveled in, causing the passage of time to warp around this world. He had won. Only his Light would be available to Roshar. Only his storm would make them bow down.

A dark tempest that would blanket the land. All would wither unless they used his Light to grow and thrive. They would have to rely on him for everything.

Now to deal with the spren, pieces of the old Honor. Remnants, dangling threads, and a possible problem in years to come. If he could be undermined, it would be by them. He breathed in, reaching to draw all spren—of Odium, and of Honor—to him. Those only of Cultivation he’d have to find and—

Nothing happened. As he tried to draw the spren toward him, the power refused to absorb them.

They are protected, his powers said.

“By what?” Retribution demanded.

By an oath and a circle, the powers said. By Adonalsium’s strength. Ten stand against you, using the piece of us within them. Honor demands their oaths be followed.

That was frustrating. He was supposed to be unrivaled, but his power … He saw that he’d have to be careful. Not act against its will, or he’d suffer Tanavast’s fate.

There should be a way. He would be more cautious than his predecessors, he would …

Wait. What were those forces watching him?

The other Shards.

Cultivation, terrified, had ejected herself from Roshar. And all attention from the remaining gods was on him.

He immediately saw what Dalinar had done. Odium had expected to have centuries to plan. Suddenly he had lost all of that. The true battle for the cosmere started right now.

No! he thought. I’m not ready.

The death of the highstorm, and the birth of the true Everstorm, continued to warp the spiritual aspect of Roshar. It was distorting everything, fueled by Retribution’s rage. Dalinar … Dalinar had done this. As the storms finally stilled—control reasserted, his anger managed—Taravangian formed an avatar to confront Dalinar.

He found only the man’s corpse, huddled beside the stone railing. His clothing ripped, his body bloodied. The damage done by the winds and tempest had been too much for Dalinar—but beneath him, sheltered from the storm, Gavinor survived, unconscious but alive. Protected in one last act of self-sacrifice.

Taravangian bellowed. Oddly, the sweetness of it all faded if he couldn’t hear Dalinar confess the truth: that Taravangian had been right all along.

No. He couldn’t be dead. No!

Well, he would bring Retribution upon Dalinar for this. He considered destroying Gavinor out of spite, but … no. He revolted at such an act. Gavinor had acted with honor, keeping his promises—and Taravangian had been very careful, during their twenty years of preparation, about what he said.

Part of the power within him was … concerned. Had he acted with honor toward Gavinor?

I did everything I promised him, Taravangian thought. I brought him to get revenge, to claim his kingdom. I never said I wouldn’t interfere. All I did was perfectly in line with my oaths to Gavinor.

It was true. The power acknowledged it. That should be that. It calmed while Taravangian pondered. He would have to let Azir keep its land, as they had won, wouldn’t he? Dalinar had broken the contract, but Honor … Honor wanted desperately to follow it—and Taravangian had to be careful lest the power rebel against him. As he determined to do so, Honor swelled inside him, and more fully bonded into Retribution.

Good. Likewise, he would allow the Shattered Plains to have a kind of autonomy themselves. What of the rest? Roshar was entirely dominated. His agents in the Shin government had succeeded while the Heralds were distracted. The Reshi Isles … he had the land, all of it, though those who rode the beasts had largely rejected his offers. They weren’t worth the effort.

Everything else on Roshar—ninety percent of the planet—had accepted his deals or had been won by his forces. That would do. It was enough. In fact, it was glorious. Retribution would keep his promises. Oaths were important. And Retribution would destroy anyone who believed differently.

Strangely, the power of Honor displayed the slightest hint of … uncertainty. What was that? Why was it acting so oddly? Taravangian’s expanded knowledge found this impossible; was it because some of it had been siphoned off, locked away?

I will need to move quickly, he thought, seeing possible futures. Escape Roshar, before the other Shards move against me. They are timid still, but will be galvanized by time.

His next actions would have to be decisive. He began thinking of ways to draw the attention of his enemies toward a conflict on Scadrial … He would have to leave Roshar under a regent, as he needed to plan how to evade this trap that Dalinar had created for him. How? How had the man been so clever? How had Taravangian not seen this?

His anger at Dalinar surged again, a tempest of flame and ire. Dalinar. Dalinar had stolen centuries from him! No more planning, no more careful manipulations. Dalinar …

Dalinar did still exist.

Taravangian reached out and found something lingering on the other side: Dalinar’s soul. Infused with power, unable to pass on yet. The part of a person that remained, briefly, before entering the Beyond. Taravangian seized it, and it fell into his power.

For Dalinar Kholin was an oathbreaker.

You realize I can now do with you what I will , Taravangian said to him. I could torture you for eternity, Dalinar. You really think your sacrifice was worth the cost ?

Rippling through the soul of his rival, a question. What is my life worth?

N othing, anymore. Dalinar, you are NOTHING .

If so, then I trade it for everything . Taravangian … I call that a bargain.

Taravangian raged, furious that Dalinar refused to let him gloat. Yet he would not be goaded; he would control this power. Taravangian still had uses for Dalinar. His broken oaths put his soul in Taravangian’s hands, and he would make an Unmade from him. Make him …

Dalinar’s soul slipped away from him. Stretched. And vanished into the Beyond. Taravangian scrambled to hold it, but like water through fingers, he could not.

You cannot have him, the powers said, for he is claimed by another.

Defeat.

Why should Taravangian feel defeated when he’d won everything? He raged again, this time worst of all, ripples of it further warping the realms around Roshar. Dalinar had escaped? Dalinar was dead?

But no. There was something of him left. Taravangian found it in the Spiritual Realm. It had manifested in the vision where Dalinar had stubbornly thrown an oil barrel and performed acts of peace, as if he hadn’t already burned a city to the ground.

In that vision, the Blackthorn had formed. And the Blackthorn … it was a legend. It was spoken of, molded by the minds of people, taking shape. It had responded differently from every other part of the visions, for things people thought about came alive.

A great number of people thought about the Blackthorn. The stories of him outgrew Dalinar himself—who had made at least one mistake. He’d given this thing his memories, shown it the future, and now it came even more fully to life.

Retribution cradled it.

You are right, it said to him, making his ego soothe and anger soften. He was weak. I am not weak. I will not do the things he showed me. I will not weep, drunken, when an assassin must be fought. I will not back down from the fight and the conquest. I am the Blackthorn.

Will you serve me? Retribution asked. When I take war to the stars.

It is what I do, said the Blackthorn .

Yes … a mistake. Dalinar had Connected to this nascent spren of himself, given it his memories, his skill—memories that, in it, came too soon. It was what Dalinar could have been, had Cultivation not protected him from his actions. Greater than Gavilar, greater than any man.

A true champion. With incredible battle acumen, brilliant understanding of tactics and strategy, and Dalinar’s stubborn force of will. But without the weak inhibitions of his old age, such as having been broken by his wife’s death.

Yes. Dalinar Kholin had died.

But the Blackthorn would live.

Now, to deal with one other oathbreaker. The Heralds, he saw, were safe from his touch. But one person was not, a person both powers warned him to deal with immediately.

Where was Wit?

Swords began vanishing from the circle.

Kaladin fell to his knees before Ishar, who touched him on the sides of his head.

“This is Vedel’s method,” Ishar said. “It relies on skills I have not used in a long time … powers of the Surges outside of Stormlight, Radiance, or the Honorblades. It requires an oath forged, and a bit of a god …”

Kaladin’s eyes went wide as something burned within him. He could feel the others. Taln, Ash, Vedel, Chana … they felt terrified, worried they were heading toward torture.

This is working, the Wind whispered. Kaladin, it’s working! The Oathpact preserves the spren!

“I hope we will be beyond him too,” Ishar said, seizing his Blade. He looked to Kaladin. “But … even so … I might lose myself again. Not all of the rot upon my soul was because of the power of Odium, Stormblessed. I … am weak. Of mind.”

“I will help,” Kaladin promised.

Nearby, Nale stiffened, then evaporated, vanishing into nothingness. His sword disappeared from the ring.

“We use bodies of power when we Return, child,” Ishar said. “No one dies to create us. Honor found such an idea as the Fused abhorrent. Once.”

Kaladin nodded, steeling himself as his soul began to vibrate. A light enveloped him, and as it did, Syl found his hand. And he could feel her grip it.

“You still have your original body,” Ishar said as he vanished. “Your soul will be pulled with us, leaving the body behind. I’m sorry. It might hurt.”

Kaladin squeezed Syl’s hand tightly, then gasped, a terrible fire ripping through him. A flaring in his skull, agonizing. He felt his eyes burn away, as if he’d been struck by a Shardblade.

Followed by …

Nothing.