Chapter 16

They had left behind family and hereditary home, something many would find unconscionable.

—From The Way of Kings , fourth parable

S hallan lay on her back on the floor underneath the shower, letting the water wash over her. She’d turned it down to a sprinkle, like the riddens of a storm, to rain on her bare skin and tap on the stones around her. The air was humid from the steam, so she breathed it in thick.

She could have lain there forever, enjoying a satisfaction and a fullness she could never have captured in a painting. This fragment of time was about the sensation more than the description. The knowledge that she’d opened herself to Adolin, and he had accepted her: flaws, issues, and dreams alike.

Water, stone, and steam …

… the contentment of knowing that all was—briefly—right …

… lazy joyspren, swirling around her like blue leaves …

This was her reward. She let it linger, as Adolin closed a trunk outside and called his goodbye.

With a sigh, Shallan rolled onto her stomach, water beating against her back, and was greeted by a collection of soap bars, cleansing stones, and other bathing paraphernalia. A dozen of them all in a cluster, glowing faintly silver, bouncing up and down.

“Shallan! Shallan! Shallan!”

“You guys were … watching?” she asked the creationspren.

“Shallan! Shallan! Shallan!”

Well, nice to have a cheering section, she supposed. She looked up and found Pattern dimpling the stone of the wall.

“Don’t say it,” she told him, climbing to her feet.

“What?” he said. “It’s absolutely allowed, even encouraged now.”

She smiled and finished rinsing, then turned off the water, whispering a little thank-you to the tower as she toweled off. She then searched the wall by Pattern for any sign of Testament.

Nothing. They might still be bonded, but it wasn’t enough to pull Testament through. Shallan’s good mood faded as she imagined her poor spren sitting alone on the other side. I’ll fix it, she thought. I’ll find a way.

First she had work to do. She put on one of Veil’s outfits and crossed the main sitting room. She and Adolin had a prime location with a large balcony adorned with planters, which she stepped out onto, Pattern having taken his customary place on her long white coat.

“Well?” she asked.

One of the planters stood up, Stormlight steaming off as the Lightweaving vanished, revealing a short, bearded man. Gaz no longer wore an eye patch—he’d healed from that wound. But he often rubbed at his eye.

“Got a crook in my neck,” Gaz grumbled, stretching. “But I didn’t spot anything odd. Red, what about you?”

Another planter stood up, a lanky man in bright red suspenders emerging. “Nothing. If they’re going to strike, they’re smart enough not to be obvious.”

Shallan leaned back against the wall and folded her arms. She nodded to Red, who took out a spanreed and clicked it on and off. They didn’t bother writing things out, instead using the flashing ruby—intended for indicating one was done writing—as the actual communication. Windrunners had started developing a code for that.

The door to her rooms opened, and two more of her team entered from the hallway outside, where they’d been hidden. Stargyle—a tall, handsome man with a ready grin—shook his head. Darcira followed, one of the newer members of the Unseen Court. No one had so much as scouted Shallan’s rooms, best any of them could tell. The five of them gathered around her front room table.

“Wit sends word,” Gaz said, pulling over a chair. She could see his Cryptic riding on his shoulder. All of her agents were full Lightweavers, having spoken the First Ideal and at least one truth. None of those here were Shardbearers yet, but Gaz and Red were close. “Your brothers are safe, but Wit wouldn’t even tell me where he took them.”

“We can trust Wit,” Shallan said.

“He won’t join us,” Stargyle said, laying out sketches, “despite being a Lightweaver now. He did give us these.”

“No Lightweaver has to join us,” Red said. “In fact, we’re basically full, ain’t we, Veil?”

Shallan nodded, not wanting to explain the nuance regarding Veil at the moment. Regardless, Red was right. There would be other Lightweavers, but they could form their own family. This group—the Unseen Court—was hers, and she wasn’t going to let it grow unwieldy. Kaladin barely knew the names of half the Windrunners these days.

There were twelve pictures, sketches of the Ghostbloods that Wit had identified. Most of these faces were familiar, but a few were new. Shallan examined two in particular, a woman and a man who wore hoods and masks. Shorter people, with a foreign look to their clothing. Iyatil, master of this cell of Ghostbloods, was an offworlder who always wore a strange wooden mask. Neither of these depictions were of her.

A note at the bottom said, Looks like Iyatil has called in offworlder reinforcements. Watch them. They’re dangerous.

“I scouted the tower earlier, as you said,” Stargyle told her. “I spotted these two in the atrium, but they also caught me watching them. Neither of us moved against one another, and I sensed tension in the way they retreated. It’s like … we’re all waiting for the spark that will light the fire.”

Her eyes lingered on the picture of Mraize, wearing a refined suit, his face ripped by old scars. He had been her teacher. A brutal, manipulative one—but he had seen things in her she hadn’t recognized in herself. He’d pushed her, yes, but also encouraged her. Now they were at last truly enemies. She’d known it was coming, and she hated some of what he represented, like locking Lift in a cage, as she’d heard from Red.

Shallan had chosen her side, but it troubled her that—as seemed inevitable—she was again opposed to her mentor. Her mother, her father, Testament, Tyn, now Mraize. How many people who had cared for her would she have to kill? She let Radiant take over, removing her hat and bleeding her hair to yellow so the others would recognize the transformation.

“So far as we know,” Radiant said, “I have the secret they needed from Kelek—while they do not. They’ll try to extract that information from me. This exposes us to danger, but exposes them as well—because we know their next move.”

“Attacking us,” Gaz said. “Or your family.”

“You are my family, Gaz,” Radiant said. She narrowed her eyes at the sheets. “Fortunately, Shallan has a plan. We’re going to form a strike team.”

“A strike team to do what?” Gaz asked. “Radiant, I’m not afraid to fight, but they have resources from another storming planet and they’re led by some kind of immortal ghost. I don’t know how we fight them.”

Shallan bled back in for a moment and met Gaz’s stare. “Like I said, Gaz, we have the advantage. They need Mishram’s prison for some reason, but we know where it can be found. If we reach it before they do, we can use it as a bargaining chip to secure our safety.”

“There’s more,” Red said. “We’re Radiants. We have something they never will: we’ve spoken truth to ourselves.”

Gaz rubbed his chin, then nodded. “You mentioned armor earlier. Is it true? You have the next Ideal?”

“Yes,” she said, and made armor form around her, lifting her half an inch into the air as the boots encased her feet.

“Neat,” Red said. “You have armor, so now we all have armor.”

“That’s not how it works, Red,” Darcira said, wagging a sketch pencil at him. “We don’t get her powers. Storms, you’re not even her squire anymore—you have your own spren!”

“Yeah, but you heard what Stormblessed did,” Red said, standing up and holding out his arms. “He can share his armor! Make it swoop in and protect people! I’ve always wanted Plate. Can I borrow it, Shallan?”

She hesitated. She’d … only just earned it.

Darcira tapped her sketchpad. “It would be good to know if that works, Brightness.”

A reasonable point. Storming former ardent and her scientific mind. “Fine,” Shallan said. “How do I do it?”

“It seems like it just kind of worked for Kaladin,” Red said.

“Everyone’s talking about it,” Darcira said. “Kaladin flew around. You know, like they do. And his armor—made of windspren—swept here and there, enveloping other soldiers when needed.”

“Storming lordship bridgeman,” Gaz muttered, “and his storming heroism.”

They glanced at him.

“He does it just to make me feel bad,” Gaz said.

“He acts like a hero,” Red said, amused, “because it annoys you. Really.”

“Yup,” Gaz said. “Everyone should be grateful to me. If I hadn’t shown those bridgemen tough love, they would never have grown up to be such nauseating paragons of self-righteousness.”

“Weren’t you crying the other month,” Red said, “because of what you did to them?”

“I was drunk,” Gaz said. “You can’t trust a man when he’s drunk. He’ll accidentally say things he ain’t ready to say yet. Anyway, weren’t we going to try out that armor?”

Shallan considered, and pictured the scene. Kaladin with Light streaming off him, sending his armor out to protect.

Sad to miss the invasion, Veil noted.

By all accounts it was awful, Shallan replied.

Yeah, but how nifty would it have been to skulk around the tower while it was under enemy rule?

Hearing her voice, even only in the back of Shallan’s mind, was comforting. It had seemed, right when she’d reintegrated, that Veil would be gone completely, but what good would healing be if it meant losing part of herself—a part she loved—forever? More and more, she was feeling that reintegration wasn’t about rejecting Veil or Radiant, but embracing them and acknowledging in a healthy way that different parts of her had different needs, different goals, different ideas.

For her, this was what healing felt like. Not losing control to her personalities, but also making their strengths part of her. But, back to the matter at hand. She waved her hands at Red and commanded the armor. Go to him.

Shallan! the armor predictably replied.

Him. Go protect him. That guy.

She felt only confusion in response. So, she took Red by the arm and imagined the armor forming around him.

Do that.

Shallan!

The armor emerged around Red, and she didn’t miss that it appeared as she pictured it: with swirls of color like ribbons of wet paint, poured together, all in shades of metallic red. The shape was also slightly different—sleeker, like it could be worn underneath a coat, rather than hulking like Adolin’s Shardplate.

Red laughed in excitement, puffing with an explosive awespren, his voice echoing in the helm. Shallan stepped back. And Red stood there. Motionless. Arms out.

“Um …” Red’s voice said. “I can’t move …”

“You can’t?” Gaz said.

Move, Shallan commanded the armor. It burst apart and vanished.

They tried again. Again, once she stepped away, Red was left motionless. He couldn’t so much as bend his finger.

“Shardplate needs power to move,” Darcira said. “So … maybe it’s not powered?”

“So why does it work for the Windrunners?” Red said, his voice muffled. “This really isn’t fair.”

“I think it’s brilliant,” Gaz said. “Shallan, if we tip him over, do you think he’ll just lie there until we get back from breakfast?”

Shallan dismissed the armor, smiling. Shallan? the voices asked. They … were embarrassed.

It’s fine, she projected to them. You’re new to this.

Maybe she could get them some kind of tutoring from … um … other bits of armor?

“Well, I guess no free armor for me,” Red said. “I’ll have to go back to whimpering at night about my dark secrets until I can find a way past them.”

“Is your dark secret that your sense of humor is awful?” Gaz said.

“Nah, that’s out in the open,” Red said, settling at the table. “So … are we actually going to take on the Ghostbloods? Directly?”

Shallan checked the others. They nodded. Even Gaz.

“How do we begin?” Darcira asked.

“Mraize always thinks he has the upper hand,” Radiant said. “He thrives on keeping people off-balance by dangling information like bait. The best way to nullify his advantage is to uncover his secrets. There’s so much we’re ignorant about. Why do they want Mishram’s prison? Why did they get involved so deeply in our politics? So we’re going to find the answers.” She glanced down at the table, at Mraize’s smirking scarred face. “We’re going to do something they don’t think is possible: we’re going to steal those secrets.”

“All right,” Gaz said. “But how?”

“First,” she said, “we need to find their base …”

“What are you doing here?” Dalinar demanded as he caught up to the woman … the god. Damnation, this was her. He’d last seen her in a darkened grove, but her face was exactly the same.

“I go where I please,” she said, sounding amused, a few lifespren drifting around her. “Should I not?”

As before, there was the faintest hint of the sound of crumbling stone to her voice. Her clothing looked as if she had grown the dress from delicate webs of something fine and earthy, and it in places merged back with her skin. Neither effect was as dramatic as it had been in the Valley, perhaps to not draw attention. But he was shaken nonetheless. A Fused trick? Could it …

No. Fused powers wouldn’t work in the tower. This was Cultivation. He stopped beside the metal railing, holding it for support.

“I remember you,” he said.

“I know. You wrote it in your book. I take great pains to remain secret, Dalinar, and you just vomited it all up on a page.” She shook her head.

“Are you here to help?” he said. “Can you tell me how to defeat Odium? Can I use my Bondsmith powers?”

“No, I cannot,” she said. People passed on the balcony, bowing to him or saluting, but ignoring her. She, who was the greater of the two.

“Why not?” he asked. “Why not explain?”

“Haven’t you learned yet? You must find the answers yourself to respect their meaning.”

“Pardon,” he said, “but that’s a load of crem. If you give me the answers, I absolutely promise to respect them.”

She smiled. “Have you wondered why you are a Bondsmith?”

“To unite them,” he said.

“Yes. And what does that mean?”

“Many things, depending on interpretation,” he replied. Then he sighed. “ Please just give me an answer?”

She idled beside the railing, tapping it, gazing down at the people of Urithiru below. “Have you ever known Odium to be frightened?”

Had he?

Yes. Once during a crash of transcendent power. A time when he’d sworn he’d heard Evi’s voice, and had become his own man, freed from the past. A time when he’d stared a god in the eyes, slammed his hands together, and merged three realms.

I am Unity.

“Once,” Dalinar said softly.

“I have once as well,” she said. “One time, other than when you faced him. It is deep in the past.” She idly held up her hand, lifespren swirling and playing around it. “You need to take a journey, Dalinar Kholin. A dangerous one, but the path to defeating Odium is not through your powers alone. It is through understanding. You need to see the history of this world, live it.”

“Visions?” he asked. “Like I’ve seen before?”

“Greater,” she said. “Where is Honor?”

“Dead.”

“Tanavast—the Vessel that once held Honor—is dead, but the power remains. Somewhere. It’s a conundrum that few scholars even know to ponder upon. None know what became of Honor’s power. Have you any guesses?”

“It’s the spren, maybe,” Dalinar said.

“Some say that Honor was Splintered by Odium when he killed Tanavast—as he did to others before—becoming the spren, as the power of a god left alone will begin to think.” She shook her head. “But they’re wrong. The spren existed before Tanavast’s death. They are of him, but are not the core of his power. It still exists.” She looked him in the eyes. “It is the power and substance of the visions you were shown, starting years ago. It seeks for men to see their heritage, as it searches for a new Vessel to hold it.”

“Wait,” Dalinar said, a cold shock starting at the base of his skull and washing through him, making him grip the banister. “Wait. What are you saying? That … someone could …?”

“Honor’s power needs a host,” she said. “Whether or not that is you, and whether or not that solves your problems, remain to be seen. However, I’m here to tell you that years ago, you started on a path—and touched the power of Honor each highstorm when you saw a vision. The path to defeating Odium is the same one you’re walking. You simply need to see better, farther, and deeper into the past.”

“Could you not fight him?”

“I have my own battles,” she said, turning to trail away. “I cannot fight yours, but you now know where the power hides. Seek the Spiritual Realm, where gods dwell. You have the ability to get there, perhaps even the ability to return. There you will receive the final truths of the Heralds, the Radiants, and Honor himself. Go and seek it, Dalinar Kholin, if you would finish this journey.”

She walked a short distance, until darkness swallowed her, and she vanished in a pop of lifespren. Dalinar walked back to the others, who were surrounded by shockspren. Without a word, he pointed upward. Sigzil Lashed him and he went soaring, two Windrunners joining him. Only when he was already in the air did he realize he’d left his bodyguard behind yet again. Well, Colot could take the lift.

The Spiritual Realm. The powers of gods.

Stormfather, he thought as he soared higher, did you sense that conversation?

He felt a rumbling in the back of his mind. Confusion.

Cultivation was here, Dalinar said. Just now.

What? the Stormfather said, suddenly present fully in Dalinar’s mind, making the air warp nearby. Incredible. She almost never leaves her hiding place.

You didn’t sense her?

She hides from Odium, he sent. Which means none of us can sense her either. She must have come to see what was happening with the Sibling. Cultivation was ever fond of them.

Cultivation told me, Dalinar said, that Honor’s power still exists in the Spiritual Realm—that it is the substance of the visions I’ve seen. She says I should seek answers there.

The Stormfather rumbled softly. A dangerous kind of thunder, distant, but warning of imminent violence.

Would you take that step, Dalinar? the spren asked. Do you seek to lose yourself in the past?

They reached the top floors of Urithiru. Dalinar—having done this dozens of times—knew to grab the railing and swing over into the staging room where the lifts arrived. He held to the railing until Sigzil canceled his Lashing, letting Dalinar settle to the ground.

I seek only to protect my people, Dalinar thought . He gripped the banister, looking down hundreds of feet. A vertigo-inspiring sight. He’d felt as though he’d been standing at a precipice for years now, a single step from demise. Once, if he’d trembled before a battle, it had been with excitement. Now it was because of the daunting realization that everything rested upon him. By his design.

If he lost this contest …

I can see that you are nervous, the Stormfather said. Good. Confidence in a mortal should only go so far. What else did Cultivation tell you?

Just that the Spiritual Realm has answers, Dalinar said. That I can get there with my powers. That I should seek the truths of history, and of Honor.

The Stormfather rumbled, sounding annoyed by this.

What? Dalinar asked.

I’ve shown you what you need, he replied. Too much more is dangerous.

Wait, Dalinar thought. There is more? Could I see how the Heralds were chosen? How people came to Roshar? Could I see what caused Honor to die?

The Stormfather rumbled softly, and sounded even angrier.

Cultivation indicated I should seek these answers, Dalinar said .

I did not think she would interfere except in her usual way, the Stormfather said. That of making tiny nudges that require decades to mature. I will have to think on it. Her suggestion is dangerous, Dalinar. Too dangerous. Take care.

With that, the Stormfather turned his attention elsewhere. The shimmering to the air vanished, and the spren’s presence retreated to a faint awareness in the very back of his mind.

Storms. He was tired of vague promises and hints. He was tired of gods moving among them unnoticed. He wanted answers. He trudged toward the meeting room, joined by the two Windrunners. Inside, he saw that Jasnah had indeed beaten him to the top—early for the meeting as he was. Wit sat on the floor at the rear, holding a scroll of paper in one hand and some kind of white bone in the other.

“What’s he doing?” Dalinar asked Jasnah.

“Something’s wrong,” she explained, arms folded as she watched him. “He had an encounter with Odium that he only just remembered—which means Odium altered his memories. That, for reasons he hasn’t explained, makes him think there are loopholes in the contract that Odium is exploiting.”

“There can’t be,” Dalinar said. “Odium promised me—confirmed true by Wit himself—that he wouldn’t use any loopholes. That the soul of the contract was more important.”

Jasnah shook her head. “We’ll get answers from Wit—if we’re lucky—on his timeline, not ours.” She seemed expressly annoyed with Wit.

“Well,” Dalinar said, getting out battle maps and waving in the generals waiting outside, “let’s get an accurate accounting of our troop placements so we can be ready to present to the monarchs. We have much to organize and plan …”