Chapter 35

Obviously, the passing of the Dawnshard was the first indication that this event was near. However, we find many other signs.

E mbarrassingly, Szeth had trouble finding his family’s homestead.

After rising early and breaking camp, Szeth had taken the lead, flying them to the familiar prairie near the ocean where he’d grown up. The smells were right: loam and pollen, with a hint of salty ocean brine. The sights were right: worn paths in the grass, with a few dirt roads; buildings of wood or soil—strangely empty, but still standing tall.

He found it obvious—in retrospect—that many of his people had become pacifists. It wasn’t too hard to make a mallet out of wood and rope for building homes, but try making a sword without stone or steel. True, there were ancient stone-age weapons he’d seen while training in the monasteries—axelike, with sharpened spikes made from the teeth and shells of dead sea creatures. Those could kill, but taking them into battle against armored knights with steel blades would be like showing up to a horse race with a three-legged goat.

So his people had divided. Soldiers killed, worked metal, cut timber, and walked stone. The farmers and herdsmen … they lived normal lives. Even the people of the cities, who were lazier with their observances, didn’t take up weapons. Warfare wasn’t for those with morals. You didn’t kill a man, then refuse to walk on stones. The trick was to find the killers among you, those who subtract, and keep them properly contained and channeled.

He told himself this was logical. He needed it to be. Otherwise he might backslide as he had when a youth—and start questioning. He had tried to forget those days. Except now he wondered again. If he’d never been Truthless, what did that mean … for the things he’d done?

And … and where was the homestead? He stopped at an intersection, irrationally distraught. He selected what he thought was the proper path, increasing his Lashing and leading Kaladin above the grass, their passing making it ripple.

Had he been gone so long he had forgotten his own home?

Why not? the shadows whispered at him. You forgot everything else about who you were.

“Spren,” he said, “do you know the way I am to take?”

“I do, Szeth,” his spren said. “But you must find it yourself. These are the rules for your quest.”

It seemed they might be speaking of different things. “Can you tell me anything of what my quest entails?”

“Only that you must do as you vowed, and cleanse this land. The definition of that is up to you.” The spren paused, staying invisible. “You will be required to fight, Szeth. To show how skilled you’ve become.”

“If it is a difficult fight,” Szeth said, “might I use my second Surge? Nin-son-God promised to train me, but I have skill already, from my youth.” The power of Division could set the sky itself aflame. His spren had commanded that he use it solely when instructed.

The Skybreakers feared Division. It was related to the fate of the human homeworld, which had been burned.

“We shall see,” his spren said. “I have been directed to test you.”

“And how do I pass this test?”

“When I decide you have. For now, you should conserve your Stormlight.”

To obey, he landed at another crossroads. Here he finally picked out the landmarks and let out an annoyed sigh. Of course. “This way,” he said, leading Kaladin on foot. “I couldn’t find it because I’m not used to seeing all this from the air.”

“I find it easier from the air,” Kaladin said. “You can see so much more.”

“Best to conserve Stormlight anyway,” Szeth said.

“True,” Kaladin said, landing. “But we also can’t afford to walk everywhere—this is a big country.” He gave Szeth an upbeat grin, trying too hard to be friendly, which Szeth found nauseating.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said last night,” Kaladin said. “About your punishment. That you think your … mental state … is something you deserve.”

“It is a feature of my exile: I am required to kill unjustly, though I know my actions to be wrong. I take upon me the sin of murder. That is the state of the Truthless.”

“Which you aren’t,” Kaladin said. “You told me you never were Truthless.”

“So the sin of killing is still mine, as I should have stopped it?” Szeth said, feeling even worse. Walking this path was bad, so close to home. It made him think of a life he could have had. A life where he’d never picked up a weapon.

“No,” Kaladin said. “I mean … Szeth, it’s all a mess. What your people did to you was wrong. Absolutely wrong. You shouldn’t have killed, but we need to focus on the now. Getting you to a healthy place. Then we can worry about the past.”

“He is correct,” the spren said in Szeth’s ear, invisible. “But it is more complicated than he pretends. You should not carry this pain, Szeth. Emotion is of Odium, while Honor is the path of calm understanding and of logical decisions. Promises kept and words followed with exactness.”

Szeth found something wrong in that, but did not speak it. “My spren agrees with you,” he noted, walking the dusty path.

“He does, does he?” Kaladin said. “Syl would like to hear that. She doesn’t think highspren ever agree to anything reasonable.” He looked to the sky, to where the honorspren—ever flighty and unreliable—was following currents of air as a ribbon of light, joined by a pack of windspren that were likely the substance of Kaladin’s armor.

“I should have performed those killings with a cold, passionless understanding,” Szeth said, attempting to navigate what his spren had said. “Perhaps that is why the whispers in the shadows follow me. When I killed these people I cared too much. I will try to do my duty with less personal investment.”

Kaladin closed his eyes, breathing out. “Szeth, you still act like you’re some object to be toted around and used as a bludgeon.”

“I am.”

“No. You’re a person. ”

Szeth remained silent, worried that if he responded, he would invite more lecturing. Unfortunately, Kaladin kept going.

“That’s probably the first thing we need to work on,” the Windrunner said. “Volition. You’re not a thing, Szeth. You have choices. You’re here because of those choices.”

“As I told you, we don’t need to work on anything other than my quest. My people have chosen cowardice over bravery. They declared that I was the one who was wrong, and in so doing have perverted the law. Retribution must be administered.”

“What if instead they’d made a new law allowing them to do what they did to you?”

“Well, that would be fine,” Szeth said. “Everything would be well.”

“You see no problem with that?” Kaladin asked.

Inwardly, yes. But that path led to anarchy. He knew for a fact he could not be trusted with decisions.

“I see no problem with it,” Szeth said.

“Good,” his spren said. “Men are incongruent, walking contradictions. Solely in latching on to something firm, something inflexible, can they be guided. There must be a law. To rely on human choice is to rely upon chaos itself.”

They kept walking, and the smell of dust … of a road blown by the wind … that was from another life. He’d forgotten that scent, much as he’d forgotten the sound of grass in the wind.

“All right,” Kaladin said. “Can you at least admit that you’ve made choices? From there, perhaps we can talk about why you’re worth being allowed to choose. You decided to follow the law. You didn’t just follow it because it’s the only way.”

“Those are the same thing.”

“They’re not,” Kaladin said, stepping in front of him, then halting. “Szeth, you’re breaking apart inside because of the murders you committed. Right?”

Szeth stared him in the eyes for a minute, then finally forced himself to nod. “There were some who deserved it,” Szeth whispered, “but many who did not. I saw their fear; I should rather have died than do what I did to them.”

“So, unless we figure out a way to help you, then you’re going to be in that situation again. You’re going to kill people who don’t deserve it. There’s a better path.”

“Have you found it?” Szeth asked, genuinely curious. “Have you killed those who did not deserve it?”

“I …” Kaladin faltered. He broke the gaze, looking toward the horizon, crowned by mountains. “I have. Parshendi—listeners. Soldiers before that. Singers.”

“If you don’t know the answer for yourself,” Szeth said, walking around him and continuing on the path, “how can you presume to lecture me?”

This shut him up at last. Kaladin lagged behind as they hiked into the wind, toward the southwest. Toward home.

Eventually another voice spoke. Soft, concerned. What about me? It was the sword.

“What do you mean, sword-nimi?” Szeth asked.

Did I … really kill that nice old man?

Kaladin jogged up and glanced at Szeth, frowning. “Which nice old man?”

The one who was Szeth’s friend, the sword said. Who liked talking to Dalinar. He had a kindly way to him.

“Taravangian,” Szeth said. “Yes. You killed him, sword-nimi. He drew you, and your power consumed him.”

I’m only supposed to kill those who are evil.

“He was very evil, sword-nimi,” Szeth said. “I promise it. Kaladin agrees, as does Dalinar.”

“He’s right,” Kaladin added.

But Szeth, the sword continued, you aren’t evil. And I nearly killed you, didn’t I?

Szeth glanced at his hand, where the flesh was slightly raised. White-on-white scars, in a pattern like vines, running up his hand and along his arm. The mark of having wielded the black sword without enough Stormlight to feed him.

“There are many,” Szeth said quietly, “who would call me evil.”

You’re not. I would know. I’ve seen you do good things. You can’t be both good and evil.

“I believe a man can be both,” Kaladin whispered.

“Agreed,” Szeth said. “That is the problem. Humans can’t judge this, so we need a higher standard.”

“Laws made by humans?” Kaladin said. “You truly can’t see the contradiction?”

“It is the best we have,” Szeth said. “When I chose Dalinar as my guide, Nin said he wished I’d chosen the law. Perhaps I am starting to see that he was right.”

If a human can’t judge good and evil though, Nightblood said, then how can a sword?

It was a valid question for which Szeth could not think of an appropriate answer.

I did kill that old man, the sword said. He’s not the only one. I … wake up and people are dead. It was actually me, wasn’t it? All those times …

“How long has this been going on?” Kaladin asked.

My whole life.

“Which is … how long?” Kaladin asked.

I … don’t really know. How long do humans live?

“Sixty to eighty years,” Kaladin said. “More if you’re lucky, less if you’re unlucky.”

Well, the sword said, Vasher helped make me, and he’s still alive. So I’m not very old, I guess.

“Vasher?” Kaladin asked.

“You call him Zahel,” Szeth said softly. “He once visited me to check on the sword, which he named Nightblood. I felt something from him. A weight of years.”

Zahel? That’s him. Vasher changes his name sometimes. He never calls himself Warbreaker anymore! I liked that name, but he hates it. Isn’t that strange?

“Sword,” Kaladin said, “I think Zahel might be far older than a normal human gets. You say he made you? Like a god made the Honorblades?”

Yup! He came to your lands, saw the Honorblades, and thought to himself, “My sword can’t talk. That’s dumb. I want a sword that can talk!” So he made me with Shashara. Yesteel was so upset! I haven’t seen Yesteel in a while. A few weeks at least. Vivenna wasn’t there. I didn’t even know her yet.

“Vivenna?”

Yes, she’s great. But she’s super, super grumpy. Do you know her?

“Afraid not,” Kaladin said.

Oh! You’d like her because you’re super grumpy too! You’d get along! Syl says you need a girlfriend because of various reasons. She won’t tell me the reasons, but I assume they’re good ones.

“You talk to Syl?” Kaladin asked.

“I,” she said, zipping in alongside them as a ribbon of blue-red light, evidently having been listening for a little while, “talk to everyone.”

“Most of the people don’t even realize you’re around!”

“I wasn’t referring to the humans, ” she said, making herself human size apparently just so she could roll her eyes at Kaladin. As Szeth walked beside them, she glanced at Kaladin to check whether he had seen the eye roll. As he hadn’t, she waited until he looked, then gave a very exaggerated one. It was so forced, however, that both of them ended up grinning.

Szeth told himself he was annoyed by this exchange, not jealous of the friendship they obviously shared. Would he have a similar bond with his spren, if he had become a Windrunner?

You should find Vivenna, Nightblood said. She promised she’d come looking for me if I was stolen! Anyway, I think maybe that ever since I was made, I’ve been … leaving dead people. I … have only recently started to think about it.

“That seems reasonable,” Szeth said.

“Um, no it does not, ” Kaladin said, turning back to him. “How could you not remember before, Nightblood?”

I’m not like a fleshy person. My brain, if I have one, is metal. I think that makes me … slow to change. The voice grew softer, with a faint tremble to it. I don’t want to kill, Szeth. It doesn’t feel like me.

“Sword-nimi,” Szeth said, “you are, um, a sword.”

Adolin says swords don’t have to kill. They can just be beautiful works of art.

“Wait,” Kaladin sputtered. “You talk to Adolin ?”

Yeah, all the time. He likes swords.

“Is there anyone or any thing you haven’t been having secret conferences with?” Kaladin asked. “The spren of the tower? The spren of my jacket, maybe?”

“Both of those are quite fun to talk to, Kal,” Syl said. “But none of us have met the spren who embodies your sense of humor. It hasn’t been seen in ages. ”

“Oh please,” he said.

She leaned in closer to him as they walked. “It is said that everything has a spren. But the spren of your sense of humor? Tiny. A speck. And I’m sure it’s grouchy somehow.”

See, like I said, Nightblood told them. He’d get along great with Vivenna!

“Sword-nimi,” Szeth said, trying very hard to keep the conversation going in one direction instead of seven, “you were created to destroy. It is your purpose. It is not shameful to fulfill your purpose.”

Maybe you’re right, Nightblood said. But shouldn’t I remember? I’m not supposed to destroy anything that isn’t evil. If I’m not paying attention, who knows what could happen?

Kaladin gave Szeth a pointed glance, as if the words of a confused sword had any relevance to their conversation. Fortunately, he was saved from further blathering as he spotted a white building alone on the prairie. “There,” he said. “We’ve arrived.”

Wooden boards complained under Kaladin’s feet as he stepped into the old farmhouse.

He felt an eerie sense of familiarity as he ran his fingers along a wooden countertop. Syl—full sized—walked with him, her soft blue glow more prominent in the dim light. Kaladin rubbed dust between his fingers. In the East, he’d have expected to find crem overgrowing everything. Not so here, but the musty smells were the same.

Syl stepped to the doorway, looking out at Szeth—who stood, silent, in the yard. “He needs help, Kaladin. Hearing him speak, I’m more worried.”

“I’m trying,” Kaladin said.

“I know,” she said, then turned and glanced vaguely into the air, toward the east.

“What?” Kaladin asked.

“Changes are coming,” she said, her eyes narrowed. “I can feel them, even if I don’t know what they mean. The soul of the world is … contorting. It’s why the Wind speaks again.”

Storms. Well, that was ominous. Kaladin crossed the room to open the shutters, spilling light across the floor. And he was surprised to see something in the corner of the room: a single tiny glowing green mote. A lifespren?

It was the first local spren he’d seen this far into Shinovar. Kaladin bent down to inspect it, and Syl joined him, watching as the mote flickered bright then dark, then trembled. Syl gasped.

“What?” Kaladin said.

“It’s … it’s afraid.” She held out her hand, palm up, and the little spren flitted over to her and hovered above her hand, still trembling. It was basically just a speck of green light—he hadn’t thought such a spren could feel fear.

“What’s it afraid of?” Kaladin asked.

“They aren’t intelligent enough to explain,” Syl said. “But I can feel its terror.”

The end, the Wind whispered, blowing in the window. It fears … what could be … the end of all spren …

Kaladin glanced at Syl, who nodded. She had heard it too.

“Can you explain?” Kaladin asked.

I … I wish I could …

“She can feel what I do,” Syl said. “That’s my guess. They all do. Something’s coming, Kaladin.”

The little lifespren bobbed off her hand, then floated down and hid once more in the corner.

“There are so few spren here in Shinovar,” Kaladin said. “Shouldn’t there be lifespren all over this place?”

“I met a couple of windspren who told me that few spren come here anymore. They didn’t know why—they don’t think all that logically. They prefer to stay away because it feels wrong.”

“Do they speak of the ancient spren?” Kaladin asked. “Like the one that just spoke to us.”

“Wind, Stone, and Night,” Syl said. “From before humans arrived on Roshar. Few spren remember them, but there are old things here in Shinovar. Older than the gods themselves …”

Also ominous. Kaladin looked back through the one-room building. It had a firepit instead of a proper hearth—probably because they needed to use soil instead of rocks. Storms, how did an entire people exist without using stone ?

At least they let the soldiers work wood for them, as Szeth had explained. That was how they could have buildings constructed from planks, like this one, held together without a single nail. The place had been cleaned out thoroughly. Either Szeth’s family had been given time to pack before leaving, or scavengers had claimed it all over the years.

Syl lingered by the doorway, again staring out at Szeth. Kaladin joined her. “Hey,” he said to Syl. “I’ll figure out how to help him.”

She nodded, her eyes distant.

“You all right?”

“Trying to be.”

“Is it what you said earlier?” he asked. “About old things being in Shinovar?”

“Maybe,” she said. “Maybe not.”

He chewed on that. “You never did explain to me why you were acting so odd during those weeks in the tower. When it was occupied.”

Her eyes grew distant again. “We seem different from one another, don’t we? You and I?”

“Yeah,” he said. “You’re literally a piece of a god.”

“As are you,” she said. “I meant our personalities though. You’re … well, you know.”

“Gloomy?”

“Intense. Where I’m … not?”

“You’re intense,” Kaladin said. “Just, you get excited about things, instead of …”

“Grouchy?”

“Don’t tell Szeth I agreed with him. Regardless, your enthusiasm is infectious. Invigorating. Sometimes you’ll get focused on a topic and won’t let it go—which leaves me wondering what I’ve missed. It’s interesting.”

She smiled. “I doubt most people would see it that way.”

“Most people don’t know you like I do,” Kaladin said. “What is it, Syl? What’s bothering you?”

“I imagined these last days differently. Is it bad of me to admit that? I wanted to fight, to save the world. The soul of Roshar groaned, and we abandoned the battle.” She looked to him, suddenly alarmed. “I didn’t mean to say we shouldn’t have. I—”

“I understand,” he said softly. “It can be both right and difficult at once.”

“Yeah,” she said.

“We could …” His stomach twisted. “We could find you another knight, Syl. One worthy of you.”

“Kaladin Stormblessed, ” she said, glaring, lifting in the air to be at eye level with him. In her full-sized form, she was still smaller than he was, but somehow her ability to intimidate was not related to her size. “Don’t you dare say things like that.”

“Syl,” he said, “you started all this. You broke with your kind, came to my world, and sought out someone to refound the Windrunners. You stood against the will of the Stormfather, subjecting yourself to a near loss of identity, because you knew war was coming—and you wanted us to be prepared for it. It isn’t fair you have to sit out the ending.”

“Fair?” she said, folding her arms. “Your own life hasn’t been fair. Besides, something is happening here in Shinovar. We’re the ones sent to figure it out.” She eyed Szeth. “Szeth, and this place, are our duties now. We have to adapt. Both of us, together.”

“And that’s why you’ve been so different lately?” Kaladin asked.

“Part of it.” She leaned on the doorframe, hair loose and blowing, skirt rippling in a phantom wind he could almost feel. She cocked her head, glancing upward. She bore a hint of mischievousness in her smile, but her eyes had such depth he found himself wondering what profound and interesting things she was pondering.

“People who think that we’re different,” Syl said, “don’t know you either. They look at you and see a perfect soldier.”

“What do you see?”

“Flaws,” she said. “Wonderful ones. I’ve never known perfection, Kaladin, but I should think it boring if I did.”

“I think you might be close.”

“To being boring ?” she said.

“That’s … not what I meant.”

She grinned at him, but then leaned closer. “I’m not perfect, Kaladin. I think our flaws are what make us the most similar. We’ve both spent far too much of our lives living for other people.”

“Me for the bridgemen. And you … for me, right?”

She nodded.

“That’s what happened in the tower,” he guessed. “You came to realize that?”

“I was trying too hard,” she said, “and learned some interesting lessons about myself as a consequence.”

Huh. Hearing that twisted his emotions into knots, but he knew it was true. Wit had demanded Kaladin explain who he was, now that he wasn’t leading Bridge Four anymore. What did Kaladin want that was for him ?

The same challenge could be given to Syl.

“I suppose,” he said, “if you weren’t spending so much of your time bound to the demands of a finicky human, you might have a ton more time to sneak rats into people’s sock drawers.”

“Please,” she said. “My pranks are so much more sophisticated. I’ve found out how to trick skyeels into hiding in drawers.”

“Storms, that’s horrifying.”

She smiled. “I want to stay with you, Kaladin, and learn a different way of helping. I want to be a scribe, but I need to do that without living for you, if that makes sense. I’m trying to figure out the difference.”

“I want to protect people,” Kaladin said, “but … I can’t exist only to slavishly chase that one duty. Letting go of Tien’s death finally taught me that truth. So how do I protect, but not live to protect?”

“Exactly.”

“I guess we’ll figure it out. Somehow? Assuming the world doesn’t end on us in seven days.”

They nodded to one another, and as they left the house, Kaladin at last realized what it reminded him of.

Home.

Which was strange, since it was so different, but it felt the same. Different shapes. Similar souls.

Together, he and Syl approached Szeth, who had dug something out of the dirt near a tree. He held it up, an oblong stone over a handspan long.

“They put it back,” he said softly. “I thought they might.”

“Is that the rock?” Kaladin asked. “From your story?”

“Yes. Just a rock.” Szeth dropped it to the ground with a dull thump. “Another meaningless stone that somehow dominated my life. I am ready to continue to the monastery. I thought coming here would lay some spirits to rest, but they plague me still.”

“Memories are like wine, Szeth,” Kaladin said. “They ferment. If you never let them out, the pressure will simply keep building.”

Szeth eyed him.

“I grew up in a home much like that one,” Kaladin said, nodding to the side. “You had one sibling? A sister?”

“Yes,” Szeth said.

“Sometimes, on the battlefield,” Kaladin said, “I’d think how strange it was that I’d ended up there. I was supposed to have become a surgeon. And you a shepherd, right?”

“Yes,” Szeth whispered.

“Do you ever look back and feel intimidated by the flow of time? Bemused how its current snatched you up and carried you away?”

Szeth eyed Kaladin. “You’re trying to imply that we’re the same. You and me.”

“I think we are, Szeth.”

“No. I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

Perhaps Szeth knew he was being baited, because he hesitated. But Kaladin had tried cajoling and offering help. This was another method of getting someone to talk: to assert something they found incorrect, and wait for them to explain why.

“Because,” Szeth said, turning to hike away from the homestead, boots kicking up the strange earthen dust of this place, “you chose this life. It was forced upon me. I would have been happy as a dancer if not for stonewalkers like yourself. Raiders who sailed the ocean nearby.”

“They attacked here?” Kaladin asked.

“Yes,” Szeth said, “but that’s not what I resent most about them. Instead it is … what their raids did to us. To me.”

Kaladin frowned, keeping up. Syl walked along on the other side, choosing to remain human size.

Then, finally, Szeth continued. “That night, after I found the stone, the raiders came, but it’s not what you’re thinking. I didn’t meet one of them. I met something else. Something worse …”