Interlude 4

T aravangian could save them. All of them.

He strode, unseen, through Kholinar, now capital of a growing singer civilization. He could see this whole land, and knew its new leaders were not perfect. In that, they were no worse or better than the humans; while many of their policies were more egalitarian, this was also a people who had been enslaved. He felt their complicated emotions, both wanting to be better than their slavers and being enraged at what had been done to them, sometimes lashing out.

That rage was his greatest resource. With it, he would bring order to the entire cosmere. He held his hands to the sides, feeling the rhythms of the crowds who passed him, unable to see their god. He was still the one divided: a mind that wanted to plan, a heart that fought against that calculating coldness. Right now, the heart wanted to simply accept peace. But it could not abandon Alethkar, not after all the work these singers had done to claim it and build a home.

It was theirs. They deserved it.

That was the logic speaking. People were in pain. He could retreat his singers to Jah Keved, and there be content.

Jah Keved had basically no armies. How would he bring order to the cosmere without armies?

Did he have to?

Yes. He did.

Back and forth, back and forth. He partially wondered if this was the reason Cultivation had positioned him to be elevated—in giving him his curse and boon for so long. To create a person who could legitimately Connect to the power of Odium and take it, but one who would then be made impotent by the two warring sides within.

He thought of her, and she appeared. Cultivation had not given up on him, and would not do so easily. Together they stood in the center of a major thoroughfare—palanquins lumbering past, laborers hurrying by in clumps, tradesmen shouting out wares. Human and singer living together in a delicate balance. Uncertain, like the one inside him.

“Would you like to see?” she said. “What I can show you?”

He calmed his rage at her. Wisdom dictated that if she wished to give him something, he should at least witness it. He nodded.

She led him to gaze upward, toward stars only they could number. He stood rooted on Roshar—he could not visit these places, but he could see them. With her help, he was given a new perspective on how she thought it should be, each Shard in their realm of influence, governing their own lands.

“It does not have to be one god,” she said. “One solution will never work for all. That was part of why we had to do what we did, ten thousand years ago. Let them be, Odium.”

He saw something different from what she wanted him to see. He saw that gods could indeed be afraid. Of him. The power of Odium, with his predecessor, had killed several of them. That version of him had been too brazen, and had left itself wounded in a clash. Taravangian could certainly do better.

“Taravangian,” she said, “do not learn the wrong lesson. See.”

He saw. Gods who turned away from him, content to let the danger stay trapped. Interestingly, they considered all three of the gods of Roshar to be a problem, and were happy to leave them to their conflict.

This was perfect.

Isolated as the others were, he could watch and prepare exactingly how to defeat each one. Only one of them held two Shards of power, but that one was unable to function properly. Odium’s predecessor had never taken a second Shard of power for that reason.

These can be defeated, he thought, seeing the permutations of possibility. They will regret ignoring me.

He kept his thoughts from Cultivation as she tried showing him peaceful nations on many planets. He instead was most curious about the fact that two of the Shards appeared to be missing, completely vanished from interacting with the others. Hidden. One he understood with some effort. But Valor—where had Valor gone, and how did she hide from even his eyes?

The tour over, he and Cultivation pulled their focuses back down to Roshar. The greater cosmere was a part of Taravangian’s ultimate plans, and had to be. But for now, this people here—this world—had to be his everything.

“You worry me, Taravangian,” Cultivation said as they stood unseen among the people of Kholinar. “If I can admit it, you always worried me. I knew what I had to do, but I wish it could have been any other.”

“If there were not something to fear about the person you chose,” he said, “then they could not have taken up Odium.”

“There is a chance, a solid one,” she said, “that you will do what is right. I would not have taken this step otherwise.”

“You are correct,” he agreed. “I will do what is right.”

“Do not be so smug,” she replied. “A part of you knows this path you’ve started on is a terrible one. Listen to that part of you. Give it a chance.”

And …

Despite himself, he did feel it. It was the part of Taravangian that loved his daughter and grandchildren. The part of him that had grieved when forced to manipulate Dalinar while trying to break up the coalition. It was the part of Taravangian that remembered being young, uncertain, dull—yearning to do more to help his people.

That was the Taravangian who had been given the chance to have anything he wanted, and had wished for the capacity to stop the coming calamity. In a moment, Taravangian felt as if … as if he were that same man he’d been long ago.

“Very well,” he said, turning from her. Not in shame—he would not accept that emotion now—but in … compromise. “I will try.”

He was a god divided. What if he let each side rule in turn?