Chapter 147

This account will not be without flaws. But it is the best I have been able to create from available information—and from the witness of my husband, Szeth, and the witness of the black sword he bears. For I myself helped him bury the Knight of Wind’s body, the day after Stormfall.

The day that everything changed.

—From Knights of Wind and Truth, an account of the cleansing of Shinovar by Masha-daughter-Shaliv, six years following Stormfall, page 292

W it woke in a bed somewhere far from Roshar. A place with soil, budding skyscrapers, and firearms.

It had worked. He would continue to exist.

He sat up and stretched, feeling remarkably hale for someone who had been completely vaporized by a deity. But, well, they didn’t make deities like they once had. He had been part of the group who had seen to that.

He stood, found he was naked, and rifled through the drawers in the dresser by the far wall. Everything was still here, placed as he’d left it years ago, regularly laundered per his instructions.

Excellent. He dressed. It was … it was all going to …

Well, he couldn’t tell himself that lie, could he? It wasn’t all going to work out. Damnable Dalinar Kholin had made the absolute wrong choice. Wit slumped down into his bed and closed his eyes. He could feel his Lightweaver powers, but the distance between him and Design—who had been left on Roshar—was so vast, he doubted he’d be able to do much with them for now. The protections he had instituted for her would hopefully function—but he wouldn’t be able to summon her as a Blade for now.

“Great art,” Wit whispered, running his hand through his hair, which was white in this body. “Is about …” About what? “… about novelty. Yes. It comes back to novelty once again, you see.”

The door creaked open and Ulaam stepped in. As usual, the creature wore its skin an ashen grey. “Ah, Hoid. Our little experiment worked, hmmmm? I found you on the floor of my laboratory earlier this morning!”

“Thank you,” Wit … no, Hoid … said, “for keeping that cell culture alive.” His body regenerated from the largest piece of flesh he had remaining. He’d always known this, but had never found opportunity to, well, weaponize it.

“This can be of great use, don’t you think?” Ulaam asked. He hesitated, straightening the cuffs of his black suit. “Was it painful, vaporizing yourself?”

“Odium did it for me.”

“Oh? Hmm …” Ulaam grew more solemn. “I see. Then the rumors about Roshar are true?”

“I need a seon right away,” Hoid said, standing again. “I need to find out what’s happening.”

“We’re already trying!” Ulaam said. “But time appears to be passing far slower on Roshar than it is here, which is making communication unreliable. Quite the slowness bubble around the planet, yes indeed, hmmmm? Why, I bet it will be months before we have the full story! Months for us. Hours for them.”

Months? When Shards died, combined, or otherwise distorted, strange events could follow. Harmony’s creation had involved the remaking of a world, while Ambition’s death had destroyed several. The formation of Retribution … caused time dilation?

That could be an enormous hassle. “I need to get back immediately.”

“Hoid,” Ulaam said, “if you go, you’ll be trapped in that bubble. We’ll lose you for who knows how long, and events are transpiring. Autonomy is moving. I have a message I’m certain is from Taldain, though the planet should be unreachable. Think carefully before you return to Roshar, hmmmm?”

Hoid sat back on his bed. Ulaam left some broadsheets for him, as well as a short report on everything they knew about Roshar so far, then retreated. When Hoid read it, the depth of his own failures at last sank into him.

“Novelty,” Hoid whispered, running his hand through his hair again. “Yes, novelty. The unexpected. It … I …”

Somewhere dear to him, a new storm was blowing. A storm that would strangle all plant life, and kill everyone unless Retribution intervened. Somewhere dear to him, a continent was trembling and breaking as a god was absorbed. Spren would be slaughtered unless a miracle happened.

Somewhere dear to him, Design was alone, and his former apprentice carried a vitally powerful artifact, unaware of the damage it would do to his soul. Friends had been cast adrift, without guidance. A woman he’d loved. Youths he’d mentored. He’d told himself he would sacrifice Roshar for the good of the cosmere, but at the end he hadn’t been so certain. And now it seemed it was going to be sacrificed anyway, just not for the good of anyone or anything.

It would take months for him to get back. And if he did … the greater cosmere would suffer. For Odium had not only been unleashed, he had become something that would rival even Harmony in power.

“Novelty?” Hoid whispered. “Who am I to speak of novelty? I’m far, far too late for that. Betrayal isn’t anything new, you see, not for me. Would that it were.”

He could not return. The people of Roshar, including those he loved, were on their own. He had to protect Scadrial first, because they absolutely could not afford to lose this planet too. What had Dalinar been thinking? Why had he …

Wait.

Hoid’s eyes opened.

Could it be …

He closed his eyes, took a small bone from his pocket, and reached out to the meditative realm of the dragons—where he’d always be an interloper. There, he sought the wisdom of the ancient dead who could see far more clearly, if you knew how to get them to talk to you.

From them, he discovered something he had never suspected: Dalinar Kholin had been an absolute storming genius.

Adolin sat down at the conference table in Azimir—a room with dark green decor and uncomfortable seats. The same room, apparently, where the Prime was traditionally chosen.

It had been about a month and a half since the confrontation between Odium and Dalinar. Outside, rain beat against the metal rooftop with a clatter. That sound—for the first few days—had nearly driven him insane. Now it was just background noise.

Noura settled at the table, as did most of the nine Unoathed—the ten including Adolin—who had taken up Shards to save Azimir. They had Blades and Plate for others to join them, thirty-seven in total. So far they’d been cautious about progressing, until they decided their next steps.

The long conference table flickered with weevilwax candles—a stock that the city was working furiously to replenish. Compared to the steady, familiar light of spheres, the candles were harsh and terrible. Like shouts when he was accustomed to kind words.

Adolin looked to Yanagawn, again dressed in his regalia—though the young man could summon his Plate and Blade like a Radiant at any moment. Somehow, their armor and swords worked without Stormlight. In contrast to those of ordinary Shardbearers—whose Blades could not be bonded and Plate could not be repaired—the armaments of the Unoathed still functioned. Maya said something had been done at the end by the Heralds to shield and protect the spren—and this was a side effect.

Radiants could still summon Blades and Plate too, but Adolin’s Unoathed could do it without Surges or oaths. They were something new.

“All right, Adolin,” Noura said. “Are you going to tell us why you brought us here? You finally have news?” Thankfully he could still understand when people spoke Azish, though the Connection that Dalinar had made for him was starting to slip. It now took Adolin a few minutes every morning before the words started making sense.

“Maya has returned,” he explained, “from her trip to Urithiru.” As the Oathgates and the spanreeds no longer functioned, sending her seemed the best way. Normal Radiant spren were unable to travel to the other side. But Maya … with whatever strange bond she had with Adolin … could.

“And?” Yanagawn asked.

Adolin took a deep breath. “My father is dead.”

He braced himself as he said it. The pain was still raw, and anguishspren congregated at his feet. But he forced himself onward, recounting what Maya had learned from the spren who gathered at Urithiru, in Shadesmar. Odium had won, and the world was now his—everything but Azir. Well, and Urithiru—but it was now inside a strange glass bubble, and people in the Physical Realm couldn’t get in or out. Renarin had freed Ba-Ado-Mishram, and didn’t know what that meant for the world.

“Radiants still have powers in Urithiru itself,” he explained, “which is how we were able to get this information. Jasnah can look into Shadesmar and speak to the spren there, but no one can leave Urithiru in the Physical Realm, and Radiants across the world are unable to use their powers.”

“But we can summon our Blades and Plate,” Notum said, standing on the table, small sized. “Indeed, our spren seem to be recovering.”

“Xorm continues to improve,” the emperor agreed—naming the spren of his sword. “Whatever your brother did, Adolin, it has helped the deadeyes.”

I concur, Maya said. Every deadeye I met—even those not part of our group—is healing. Adolin, I saw my reflection, and I have eyes again. The scratches remain like faded scars, but I have eyes.

“Yet we have no Stormlight,” Noura said. “And that storm … it doesn’t stop. It rains and it blows. For over a month straight. ”

The words chilled Adolin. The Everstorm blanketed the entire land—not as violent as it had been at times, true, but pervasive. It seemed that in expanding it to the entire continent, Odium had been forced to let it weaken. It was wind and rain, mostly, with little lightning. At least the quaking of the ground had stilled for the most part, though the news they gathered of changes to the landscape terrified him.

Azimir had been spared that. They’d felt only rumbles in the distance as the world trembled at the coming of a new god. Worse, that storm would strangle the world. No spanreeds for communication. No Oathgates. No …

No healing. He looked at the missing portion of his leg, where he wore the single piece of Plate that grew a metal kind of leg and foot, with three large toe-like portions. He was getting quite proficient with it, but still had been hoping to have his actual foot back. Now …

Well, storms. He’d gotten off easy. His father …

His father had failed to protect them, but only so much could be expected of one man. Others would curse Dalinar in coming days, but Adolin would not be one of them. For a part of him had known what had happened since that day—when he’d felt a surreal sense of love and apology from his father.

Adolin had survived that terrible night by telling himself he needed to see his father again, to make amends. He felt that last parting gift from Dalinar, but was still sad. He’d never have the chance to look Dalinar in the eyes again.

Damnation, that hurt.

“Well,” Kushkam said. “We ten are not beaten. We are Shardbearers, and can grow our ranks for as long as the others who came with Maya are willing.”

“We also have all those Radiants at Urithiru,” May added. “They have powers, even if they can’t leave for now.”

Adolin nodded, but he felt troubled. Shallan reportedly lived, for which he was incredibly relieved. Former Oathgate spren had confirmed it to Maya. She had lingered at Urithiru for a few days, the spren there said, but had left on a ship. He worried for her, and was terrified he might not be able to see her again if the Oathgates didn’t work.

Roshar was now a world without Stormlight. Could Shallan ever return to the Physical Realm?

Almighty help them. What were they going to do?

“Everyone!” The door slammed open, revealing Zabra, her hair in braids and wearing an outfit with hokra—those were the patterns delineating station—proclaiming her a Shardbearer. “Everyone, come outside!”

They looked to each other. Noura drew her lips to a line—she did not like how familiar Zabra was with the emperor, but could say nothing. Yanagawn considered each of the Unoathed to be of a rank permitted to speak with him—and in fact gloried in the opportunity. He and Gezamal must have played dozens of games of towers over the last weeks.

The emperor finally had friends. Noura would learn to deal with it.

“Zabra?” Yanagawn asked. “What is it?”

“The rain,” she said. “It’s ending. ”

They piled out of the room. Adolin was last, and on the side table, he found the book he’d placed there. One from which he was, haltingly, learning to read. Because if he couldn’t ever see his father again, he could try to understand the man.

By reading his own words.

Adolin tucked Oathbringer under his arm, and followed the others out of the palace. Miraculously, the clouds were indeed breaking. He stepped into sunlight, blinking at the familiar glow. It was like a rank of diligent soldiers shoving back the enemy forces at long last. Brilliant and shining down, a column of light like his father used to make.

There, Adolin felt a warmth he could not explain. Perhaps just from the sunlight, but it seemed something more. Book snug under his arm, he felt like somewhere his father was smiling at him. Adolin quietly raised his fist over his head, saluting the triumphant sun.

They found in coming weeks that the sunlight extended exactly to the edge of Azir. The rest of the land, Shinovar included, would remain cloaked in eternal night. The barriers of the Purelake had broken, and flooding had claimed many nearby lowlands, further isolating Azir.

However, the enemy could not touch this land. Small though it might seem, a light would remain in Roshar.

Shallan, swathed in a long cloak, kept her head down as she worked her way through the crowd of spren. There were some few humans here, so she wasn’t too obvious. And she was glad for the cloak, as Shadesmar had felt strangely cold ever since that day, months ago now, when Retribution had been born.

She managed to push to the front of the crowd, which waited beside a crater in the obsidian ground. It was empty.

She breathed out. Yes, she’d heard. But she’d wanted to see it for herself. This had been Cultivation’s Perpendicularity, the pool at the top of the Horneater Peaks, the place where most people entered or left the Physical Realm. They’d been able to do so here for millennia.

It had vanished when Cultivation had fled Roshar. Shallan stared at the hole for a long time, feeling unsettled—like many of the people who camped at its rim, waiting. She knew that … that she’d probably stay as well, for a time. Because there was a community here, and hope—frail hope.

She was … she was trapped in Shadesmar.

Months of travel and hoping desperately. Now it finally sank in. She might never escape this realm.

She might never see Adolin again.

Her hands went to her stomach, cradling it. Oh … oh storms.

It took an embarrassingly long time for her to recover. Fortunately, the part of her that was Radiant was able to assess the situation. There was food and water here, transported from offworld—and regular shipping lanes were planned to Urithiru, where Towerlight would also allow manifesting and the creation of food and water for humans.

She could survive. She had to. Not just for herself.

Plus, there had to be ways back into the Physical Realm. Retribution would have a perpendicularity somewhere, even if Odium’s had never been located. Radiant powers at Urithiru still functioned, which meant there was a chance an Elsecaller—well, only Jasnah for now—would finally figure out how to transfer other people between realms.

Hope. Shallan would find a way.

She trudged back among the tents and shanties, crossing wooden ground that floated here—Haka’alaku, a city built around the perpendicularity, covered seven distinct islands with floating wooden platforms between. It was of impressive size, ruled by the peakspren. Their egalitarian ways meant that even humans were in their senate, as anyone who lived here long enough was granted citizenship.

Of course, the Fused actually ruled. But they allowed the local government to do its thing. Shallan pulled her cloak tighter and quieted her armor spren—who rode in the pouches at her belt, and had begun to whisper her name again, as she hadn’t paid attention to them in a while.

She wound back to where she’d left Pattern and Testament, watching a specific camp among the hundreds on the outskirts of the city. Tents set up on the floating boards, space rented at a very cheap price in the local currency—bits of metal, of all things. She’d been able to sell some clothing, which was of value here because it wasn’t manifested.

She nodded to her spren, not looking as several Fused flew overhead. Their powers still worked.

The Fused offer another opportunity, Shallan thought. If their Light functions, they might be able to make a perpendicularity somehow. I will find my way back to him.

Until then …

With Pattern and Testament, she approached a small collection of tents. Here, a familiar figure stood up. Felt, a foreigner with drooping mustaches, had once been one of Dalinar’s good friends. He’d then been one of Adolin’s soldiers, and their guide on the way to Lasting Integrity.

Lastly, he’d turned out to be a traitor. A Ghostblood.

When she took down her hood, his face went so white, he looked like he was about to pass out.

“I just want to talk to him,” Shallan said.

“Him?” Felt asked.

“Your leader. The Lord of Scars. Is it possible? Do the seons still work?”

“Yes,” Felt admitted. “Kind of.”

“I need to use yours,” Shallan said. “It’s the least you can do for me, Felt. Besides, I have news that you might find relevant.”

Sigzil walked, cloak pulled tight, tongue dry in his mouth from thirst.

He was often thirsty here, but the power had begun to sustain him. The thing Wit called a “Dawnshard.” It … it kept him alive. And changed him. He could … sense things he had never been able to before. He saw the world in new ways.

He’d spent months crossing the bead oceans by begging passage, dodging Fused and keeping his head down, and was now accustomed to the dark sky. The one that reminded him of the Shattered Plains as he’d last seen them, before …

Before …

He kept walking. Across the black obsidian, for some reason not sleepy, though he felt tired. He’d been unable to sleep since that day when Wit had given him this burden.

A burden Sigzil would protect. He’d prove himself. Redeem himself. He …

He just kept walking.

On. And on. Until at last he saw something on the otherwise featureless obsidian expanse. Lights. As he approached, those soon resolved into a long line of people, most of them with golden hair and carrying torches that gave off light but not heat.

Sigzil let out a sigh of relief. He’d found the Iriali caravan that was traveling offworld, as spoken of by some of the spren he’d encountered in his journey. He’d sought out Vienta first, of course. He hadn’t found her, but she’d sent him a message. She didn’t want to speak to him, but she lived. Healed by whatever had happened at the End of All Things.

He didn’t blame her for rejecting him. He’d consigned her—both had believed—to a painful half existence. He had done it to save her, and the note she’d sent acknowledged that, but she still didn’t want to see him.

The caravan was much bigger than he’d anticipated, stretching far into the distance. The guards at the perimeter questioned him, then sent him to a specific section near the end. The Iriali allowed foreign travelers to join them, so long as they behaved themselves and worked for their keep. They also thought it best if you stayed with your own kind.

In this case, “own kind” meant anyone who wasn’t Iriali. So it was that eventually Sigzil found himself in the rear of a chull-pulled wagon. Taken in by a family who, after one glance, had told him to hop in the back and rest.

He didn’t want to know how he looked to elicit that kind of response. But he’d been walking for so long he … he didn’t much care. He sat there, numb, until someone else climbed into the wagon.

A highspren?

Yes, a highspren, who split the air and was filled with stars. An outline of a person. “You are a Windrunner, yes?” he said.

“No,” Sigzil whispered.

“No need to lie,” the spren said. “I’ve seen you, with the others. With Kaladin.”

Sigzil perked up. “You … know Kaladin?”

“Briefly, I knew him. I can tell you of his time in Shinovar, though I do not know the end of his quest there. I was rejected by my Radiant first.”

Sigzil considered, rocking in place, numb. “Spren can’t leave Roshar. Why are you here on this caravan?”

“Ah, well, you see,” the highspren said—having far more familiar a tone than Sigzil had expected—“I can leave now! Any of us can. There are some in the caravan, even some windspren and other smaller ones. Cultivation fled, and it was her bond with Honor, and their agreement with Odium, that locked us here.” The spren hesitated, then leaned forward. “Can I tell you a secret, Windrunner?”

“Sure,” Sigzil said. “Why not?”

“I’m a failure,” the spren confessed. “I think maybe most of us highspren are. I don’t want to be a bother, but these Iriali mostly ignore me, and I really, really need someone to talk to. Please? I will tell you of Kaladin.”

Sigzil shrugged. “Go ahead. I’ll listen.”

“Well, thank you,” the spren replied. “It started when Dalinar sent us to—”

“Wait,” Sigzil said, frowning. “You’re Szeth’s spren?”

“I was,” the spren said, then hung his head. “He rejected me.”

Sigzil grunted. “You have a name?”

“I used to have one. I don’t want it anymore.”

“I’m sure we’ll think of something,” Sigzil said, leaning back. And he listened to the spren’s story, sitting in a daze and trying not to be frightened of the way his very body seemed to be changing to adapt to the power he held.

Wit had promised to find him soon though. Until then, Sigzil could do this one task. He’d hold the secret.

Talking to Thaidakar, the Lord of Scars, was odd for Shallan. The seon—Ala—could indeed contact the Ghostblood leader. No Stormlight needed.

The Ghostblood leader, in turn, was willing to talk to Shallan. And fortunately, old Thaidakar didn’t seem too angry at hearing Iyatil and Mraize were dead. Shallan kept a close eye on Felt anyway; storms, she was so exposed and vulnerable without any way to heal herself.

Yes, it all worked as she sat in Felt’s tent, communicating through the seon spren. There was only one problem.

“You’re in some kind of planet-wide slowness bubble,” old Thaidakar explained, his face a hovering globe of light, imitated by Ala. It had a spike through one eye. “The clash of two Shards, including the near destruction of your world, followed by the combining of those two Shards into one? It’s done something to the Spiritual Realm near your planet, changing the way time flows for you.

“You think we’re communicating directly, but the better part of an hour passes here between each of your replies to me. You think it has been a few months, but it has been years for us. Ala has to slow down and repeat this as a recording—for if I spoke in real time, you’d hear only a quick blip.”

Shallan took that in. “So if I leave to get help from other planets …”

The face shook, then re-formed. “Yes, if you left and traveled to another world, decades might pass for you. I don’t recommend it, unless there is nobody you care about—because when you return, you will be much older than they are.”

She pulled her cloak closer, feeling cold. “How long will this effect last? Can you guess?”

The face froze, then shook, then spoke again, and it looked like his hair had been brushed. “We’ve been calculating. Seems like the time dilation is slowing around Roshar, and the worst was at the start, but it’s going to be a while yet. Maybe … seventy or eighty years from now, you’ll realign with cosmere standard? That will seem like a decade or so for you.”

She nodded. Waiting for more, but of course he was getting this—apparently—as messages spread across a few hours. He wouldn’t be watching for a head nod.

“Have you thought about my proposal?” she asked Thaidakar.

He fuzzed again. Then responded. “I have. I don’t know if I can make peace with you, Kholin. Killing Iyatil went too far. I accept that she must bear the consequences of her brutality, but she was my colleague—and her brother will need to be told what happened. He doesn’t know yet. We’ve had our own crisis here recently.

“However, without Stormlight—and with Mishram freed—our interests on Roshar are minimized. I doubt Iyatil’s brother will insist on coming to seek vengeance against you immediately. He’s more likely going to try to break away from me—so I might have a little civil war on my hands. If his agents do arrive on Roshar, they’ll be your enemies.

“So for now, let us consider it a truce between us, but not one between Ghostblood and Lightweaver. The truth is, you’re just too small to worry about right now, Kholin. Odium is not only free, he’s picked up a second Shard. The worst that could happen, has happened. From here it will be war. I’d focus on that if I were you. Dark days are coming.”

“Then I demand one thing,” Shallan said. “A payment for what yours did to me and mine. For the murders Iyatil and Mraize committed in your name.”

A pause. A fuzzing. Two words. “What price?”

“This seon spren obeys you, works for you,” Shallan said. “I want it to join me instead, and work under my direction until I can sort through a few things.”

This response took longer. Probably hours for him.

“Ala is not a slave,” he finally said, “but I’ve asked her. She … agrees that we owe you something. She will enter your employ, so long as you’re willing to let her report back to me of events on Roshar as she sees them.”

“Fine.”

“A deal, then,” he said. “We are settled. A clever bargain on your part—you can hire out her services to others at a steep price, which will give you income in Shadesmar. Farewell for now, Shallan Kholin.”

The face vanished, again becoming a ball of light, which bobbed for Shallan. “So …” the ball said. “I guess … I might have to earn back your trust …”

“You never will, but that won’t prevent us from working together.” Shallan looked to Felt. “What about you?”

“I’m used to this kind of thing,” he said, with a shrug. “One mess after another, doing my job. With Lord Dalinar and Lord Mraize dead … well, guess Malli and I will have to find someone else to serve. If our old bodies can manage it.”

Shallan stood up and pushed out of the tent, and waved for the ball to follow her. She was well aware she was inviting a spy for Thaidakar into her midst again, but she had a distinct purpose this time.

She joined Pattern and Testament, who was increasingly verbal these days, her scratches almost completely faded, her pattern more vibrant. Shallan explained what she’d discovered to them, then looked at the seon.

“Spren,” she said to it. “Wit had one of you in the tower, and he used it to communicate. Are there others in this land you know of?”

“Yes,” she admitted. “A small number.” She paused. “I can contact Olo, who worked for your Wit. We’ve been chatting. Olo fled the tower at his master’s suggestion months ago, and is weaving toward the Shattered Plains.”

“Contact him,” Shallan said. “And tell him I have a job for him, if he’s willing. But I need him to go to Azimir.”

“Azimir? Olo tends to like to be helpful, so I suspect he’ll go, but why Azimir?”

Shallan just bade her ask, feeling a grim determination. She had no idea how she’d get back to the Physical Realm, but for now … if this worked, she’d at least be able to talk to Adolin. As she waited for Ala to contact the other seon spren, she looked up at the sky. There were no more clouds in Shadesmar. Only darkness and a distant, frail sun, too small to offer warmth.

Dark days were coming, Thaidakar said.

He was wrong in that.

They had most certainly already arrived.

It was months, by mortal time on Roshar—years outside it—before Retribution could spare a thought for Roshar itself. He quickly checked that the land was progressing as he wanted. There was turmoil, and the geography had been broken in ways he hadn’t anticipated.

Dalinar. Foolish, stubborn Dalinar.

Dalinar Kholin, the man who had known.

Taravangian emerged into the Spiritual Realm in his avatar form, joining a vision he himself had created and kept going indefinitely. It was populated by tens of thousands of people.

His daughter. His grandchildren. Adrotagia.

Each of whom was real, and not a fake made of this realm.

Kharbranth was dead, but in the moment that Cultivation had looked away, Taravangian had summoned his power and taken the people. The city had indeed been destroyed, but he’d saved the occupants. In utter secret.

In the Spiritual Realm, he’d created for them a clone of Kharbranth. He walked its streets, knowing them to be fake, while no one living here did. He’d taken from them any memory of Cultivation’s killers, whom he’d left to die in the city, and had instead implanted in their minds an impression that those who were missing had died of a strange disease. That had started with the city guards.

He walked to the palace and into his throne room, where Adrotagia—real, not a construct of visions—was meeting with some former members of the Diagram. “Vargo,” she said. So far as she now remembered, he had not died.

So far as any of them knew, everything had turned out well. Peace had been made, though they were required to stay in their city. He embraced her, then walked to his throne. He settled down there, and called for his grandchildren to be brought to visit. He held them as they crawled into his lap.

The entire city would persist in here, isolated and protected from whatever he did in the cosmere. One perfect place of peace and love.

His secret. His dangerous, shameful secret. Because in the end, although no one could ever know it, there were things even Taravangian—in a moment of pain and passion—had refused to sacrifice.

He embraced his grandchildren, weeping, and the power simmered. Hating Dalinar Kholin.

For having been right.