Chapter 40

The Heralds are essentially no more. They are rejected by their Blades.

T almut’s monastery sat atop a long ridge upon the mountainside, high enough to give a perspective over the rest of the Nirovah Valley. The first time Szeth had climbed this ridge—trudging up the switchbacks to the fortified encampment where the soldiers trained—it had taken over an hour.

Today, he and Kaladin landed there after a quick Lashing into the sky.

“Stone?” Kaladin said, noting the lack of soil.

Indeed, the outcropping here was reminiscent of places outside Shinovar. Firm rock, with only occasional patches of dusty soil, held a large military encampment familiar to Szeth even after all these years. The ridge was longer than it was wide, with a cliff at its back. There was space here for dozens of buildings—mostly barracks and training halls.

The monastery itself was farther to the left, following a narrow path. For now, Szeth inspected the military camp that had been his home.

“Szeth?” Kaladin said. “It looks abandoned.”

Although the buildings were in better repair than his homestead, no one was out along the paths. It was as if all the people in his entire homeland had just vanished.

“There should be thousands of soldiers here training,” Szeth said.

“Perhaps they moved north,” Kaladin said. “Where our Windrunners encountered resistance when trying to survey the land. Why does this place have so much rock—I thought none of you could walk on it?”

“This is the domain of soldiers,” Szeth explained. “Those who subtract are allowed to walk on stone, because their lives are blasphemy. They kill.” He hesitated. “The ones I spoke of, who killed the sheep at my homestead? They came from here.”

“How can your society function?” Kaladin asked, glancing to Syl standing beside him. “If you treat soldiers like that …”

“The greatest task in life is to create, to add,” Szeth said. “The greatest shame is to break what someone else created—or to ruin art of the gods: the spren, and their kings, the Heralds. The stone upholds the soil and creates foundations for Roshar. The spren created it.”

He glanced toward Syl, who seemed to find this amusing. “Yes,” she said, “we barf it out, you see. Rocks, pebbles, shale if we’re particularly nauseated.”

“Not all of our lore … matches what I have seen on the outside,” Szeth said. “But Roshar is a creation of the gods. Honor, Cultivation, and Odium.”

“Kind of,” Syl said. “Best we can figure out, Roshar is the work of the ancient god who became Cultivation and Honor. Odium too, though that’s embarrassing to admit. It means we’re relatives, you see.”

“Without the act of God,” Szeth said, “Roshar would weather away into dust and vanish into the ocean. To prevent this, the highstorms were created to rain crem.” He pointed. “The last crem of a dying highstorm is dumped onto these mountains, keeping them high, sheltering Shinovar. We thrive because of an act of God. So we revere the stone.”

“Unless you’re a soldier,” Kaladin said, surveying the empty encampment with his hands on his hips, apparently finding this entire idea unpleasant. Which was good, since it was.

“A soldier must still revere the stone,” Szeth said softly. “Many learn the wrong lesson. It is not that stone is mundane to one who kills, it is only that soldiers—living a life of destruction—are forced to defile it. Increasing their sin with each new weapon forged.”

“Storms, this place is so bizarre,” Kaladin whispered.

“We live lives of peace,” Szeth said, “compared to the near-constant warfare of your lands.”

“Because you shove all the unpleasant elements off on a few, whom you torment.”

“Is that not what the Radiants are?” Szeth said. “Watchers at the rim, as Dalinar says? A pleasant term for an unpleasant idea—people who must kill so ordinary men and women can live peaceful lives. Radiants must bathe in blood and tarnish their souls in order to forge peace.”

“That is,” Kaladin said, “a complete misinterpretation.”

Szeth dropped the point. Why argue with one who was accustomed to always being right? “Come. I think there are people here somewhere. The buildings are in much better shape than the ones we passed below.”

He turned and looked over the landscape. Homesteads like his dotted the greenery, and he could make out several small towns. They’d visited one on the way here—and it had been abandoned. Perhaps Kaladin was correct and they’d moved north, finding their way to one of the cities.

Kaladin and Syl didn’t object as Szeth led them to one of the barracks, a place he remembered, though not fondly. He stopped—then, without going in, he waved for Kaladin and Syl to follow him and he strolled past to the next building in line.

As he’d hoped, this prompted sounds from within the barracks—people rushing up to the windows to peek now that he was leaving. He spun and dashed back in a smooth motion, then kicked the door open, breaking the lock.

Dozens of people inside scattered into the shadows. Wide-eyed, dusty-faced, wearing ragged clothing. He saw hints of splashes. Faded scarves. Sashes that he could barely separate from trousers in the grime and dim light.

A piece of him let out a deep sigh. Seeing his kind again … made him feel that he had finally awakened from a nightmare to something familiar. Yet something was wrong. They kept away from him, and from the light spilling in through the now-open door.

“What’s wrong with them?” Syl asked, peeking around him.

“You,” Szeth said in his own language—it felt unfamiliar to him now, heavy on his tongue. “What is wrong with you? You are not soldiers, yet you walk on stone?”

“We must,” someone whispered from the shadows. “The soil will swallow us.”

“Swallow us,” several others whispered.

“Nonsense,” Szeth said. “How do you eat?”

“We work fields at night,” another voice said. “As commanded by the shaman. When the ground cannot see us.”

“See us …” others whispered.

“What are they saying?” Kaladin asked.

“They say the ground will swallow them, for some reason,” Syl explained. “So they work the fields at night, and apparently hide here during the day.”

“Soldiers,” Szeth said, with Syl translating for Kaladin. “Where are the soldiers?”

They retreated farther into the darkness, and several hissed when Szeth stepped forward. He summoned his Blade, which quieted them.

“Soldiers went north,” one of them said from the shadows. “Hearing a voice we could not …”

“A voice?” Kaladin said. “Was it the voice of the Wind?”

“No,” Szeth said, looking over his shoulder at Kaladin. “It must be the voice of one of the Unmade.”

“Szeth,” Syl whispered, “when we were in Kholinar, we ran into a strange cult worshipping an Unmade. There were strange events in the tower too, when we first arrived. The effect of another Unmade.”

“If there is one in Shinovar,” Kaladin said, “we need to find it and defeat it. Maybe that’s what Ishar is expecting of you, and why he said I needed to help you.”

“Perhaps,” Szeth replied. “Or perhaps this punishment is what my people deserve.” He turned from the building and stepped back out into the light. “They have invited in one of the Unmade, then refused to expel it when I warned them.”

“We’re here to change that,” Kaladin said, joining him. “Aren’t we? You’ve been sent to cleanse the place.”

“I haven’t decided what that cleansing will entail,” Szeth said. “Perhaps it is my people who must be destroyed.”

“You’re kidding, ” Syl said, walking hurriedly on his other side, still full sized.

“I have not decided,” Szeth repeated calmly. “My quest is about this decision.”

Good, his spren whispered. Good. You see, and you grow.

“Insanity,” Kaladin said. “The people in that building didn’t choose to reject you, Szeth. Maybe some of their leaders did, but the ordinary people don’t deserve this punishment.”

Szeth paused. There was wisdom in those words, wasn’t there? He … wavered.

He should not waver. The answer should be obvious. He needed to apply what he’d been taught by Nin-son-God, Herald and leader of the Skybreakers. Long ago, during his youth, Szeth had learned that his judgment was flawed. It had begun when he’d killed that soldier with the rock.

Fortunately, he had guides now. Nin, Dalinar. What would they do in this situation? How would they face this question? Without further comment, Szeth strode toward the monastery. Nin and Dalinar would find answers, then do what needed to be done. According to the law.

There had to be a standard. Without a standard, there was only chaos. If a shaman had given orders to these people, then perhaps the monastery would yield clues.

“Szeth,” Kaladin said, taking his arm as he passed. “I’d really appreciate some answers.”

“Then pay better attention,” Szeth said. He pulled free and started up the path.

The monastery itself was a tall fortress. The monasteries in the East, particularly Alethkar, always felt so … unimposing to Szeth. Here they were places of war. Or more accurately, of preparation for war.

Oddly, Szeth realized, there was no wind blowing on this ridge.

“That’s a monastery ?” Syl said, hovering alongside as they continued up the stone path across the steep mountain face.

“They are watchtowers, each of them,” Szeth explained—because she was a spren, and it would be impious to ignore her questions. “Set up by the Heralds, who conferred upon us Truth and charged us to be vigilant in case the enemy returned.”

“Why would they think the enemy would return?” Kaladin asked from just behind. “Everything I’ve been taught said the Heralds finished the war and the enemy was gone for good.”

“Yes, they did tell you that,” Szeth said. “Didn’t they.”

“Wait, wait,” Kaladin said, scrambling up beside him—then, finding the path too narrow, he moved out into the air with Syl, hanging over the cliff. “All this time the Shin knew that the enemy hadn’t been defeated? That the Heralds were among us?”

“Obviously,” Szeth said. “We were the guardians of their swords. We were entrusted with their Sacred Truth.”

“The way you say that has the air of something important,” Syl said.

“Utmost importance,” Szeth said. “The Sacred Truth of the Heralds is the knowledge that the enemy would someday return. If Talmut ever broke. On that day, we Shin would be needed to fight.” He reached the top of the climb, then nodded back down the way. “The men who trained at the encampment? That was a hard life, to be despised. Those who trained—as I eventually did—in the monasteries … they were to be something else entirely. True destroyers, most despicable and most glorious. Ready to face the enemy.”

“Then what happened?” Kaladin asked. “It’s been a year and a half since the return of the singers.”

“They did not believe. That is the entire reason we are here. Once again, please pay attention.” With a grinding of boots on stone, Szeth strode to the front gates of the monastery—and found them open. Was the place abandoned? The shamans should never have left those gates open; it was a blatant violation of Truth.

Szeth stepped into the vaulted great hall inside, an enclosed courtyard where troops could gather and repel an assault. Cages full of gemstones were built into the walls, with openings to the outside so they would automatically recharge with the passing highstorms. Warm orange-tan light speckled the great hall, illuminating the grand mural of Talmut on the floor. A depiction of him wrapped in chains, bound in Damnation, the Bearer of Agonies.

Only one person stood in the vast hall … and it was one of those who had condemned him as Truthless. A middle-aged Shin woman, wearing the stark grey robes of a shaman. No hint of color, not even a splash. Grey hair that might have once had some blond to it.

“Rit?” he asked. “Rit-daughter-Clutio?”

“Pilgrim,” she said, nodding to him, her voice echoing in the large empty hall.

Kaladin stepped up, likely to begin demanding answers. Szeth waved him off, and fortunately he went, with Syl whispering interpretations to him.

“I am no pilgrim,” Szeth said. “I am Szeth-son—”

“I know who you are,” she said, throwing aside her cloak. “I was there nine years ago. Do you remember?”

“Banishment is not something a man forgets,” he whispered.

“I was told you’d come sooner. It’s been months of waiting.”

Months? How did they know?

She raised her hands before her and summoned a Shardblade. Unornamented, shaped like a long wedge. A brutal weapon, lacking the grace of its fellows, but somehow also more honest. A weapon that he’d seen depicted in art many times.

Talmut’s Honorblade.

“You had no leave to reclaim that,” Szeth said, summoning his own Blade. “Talmut should have his weapon.”

You don’t need that! Nightblood said from his back. I’m better than a dumb Shardblade made from a dumb spren. Use me!

“Talmut broke, ” the woman said. “He brought the Desolation. His Blade is better held by the worthy.”

“Then why aren’t you fighting the enemy?” Szeth demanded. “What happened to the Sacred Truth?”

The woman smiled. “I envy you. Oh, how I envy you, pilgrim, for the opportunity you are granted. Prepare to prove yourself.”

“I’ve done so already,” he said. “I earned the right to bear an Honorblade.”

“And where is it?” she asked him.

Stolen. Lost. In the hands of Moash, the traitor, leaving Szeth with only the Blade he’d earned upon saying his Third Ideal. She obviously knew that, so he did not respond.

“You must cleanse that sin before being granted your glorious opportunity, pilgrim,” she said. “Nine years in the harsh lands of stone. Let us see what you’ve learned.”

She came for him slowly, stalking forward. Szeth backed up, then unstrapped Nightblood and thrust it toward Kaladin.

“Hold it,” Szeth said. “Do not draw it. Do not intervene.”

“What are you doing?” Kaladin asked. “What is this?”

“What I, apparently, must do.”

Azish crossbowmen started shooting straight into the control building through the doorways. But as Adolin watched from a distance with the spyglass, red lightning sprayed out in return. Stormforms. Their unleashed powers lit the control building like a suddenly infused sphere.

Adolin blinked, trying to track what happened next—but even expecting it, he missed the direforms charging out until they hit the line of Azish infantry.

Direforms. Hulking, wicked singers who were among their best troops—not on the level of a man in Plate, but at over seven feet tall, with strength and speed enhanced by their incredible form, they were more than a match for the waiting Azish spearmen. Particularly blinded spearmen, potentially stunned and burned from the blasts of lightning.

The line started to crumple immediately.

“It’s happening faster than I thought,” Adolin said to his scribe. “Warn my support team, have May be prepared for Heavenly Ones, and tell my soldiers to march in—but to not interfere with the Azish reserves.”

“Yes, sir!” Kaminah said as he tossed back the spyglass. “Sir? Where will you be waiting for them?”

“Waiting?” Adolin said, pulling on his helmet. Then he threw himself off the balcony.

A drop of thirty feet was hazardous in Shardplate, but he couldn’t help but feel a burst of excitement as he hit. His armor held up, and in seconds he was charging across the open stone toward the battle.

And … storms, it had been too long. He had forgotten the power of wearing Plate—indeed, he seemed faster than he remembered, each step launching him forward. Steel grinding rock. Barreling toward the conflict ahead. Where …

Where the Azish held.

Their lines buckled, and their soldiers screamed. But counter to his fears, their lines managed to hold against the onslaught of enemy troops. Barely. They’d break soon. Lightning, hulking direforms, followed by a flood of conventional warforms. The control building began flashing quickly, each flash depositing another platoon of soldiers who ran out, making room for others to enter behind.

Even he had underestimated how quickly they’d be able to deploy—and while the Azish performed better than he’d expected, the direforms made an effort to break through in one specific spot. They needed to puncture the ring of Azish defenders, then flood out and try a surrounding maneuver.

That puncture point was where Adolin was needed. He arrived at blinding speed, skidding across the stones and summoning Maya in a flash. An enterprising Azish officer at the rear shouted for his beleaguered men to make room. They folded their line, executing the orders perfectly, and Adolin hit the enemy like a rushing river of steel and Blade.

Adolin downed the first few direforms with flashes of Blade. The Azish gave him room, and the entire ring began to fall back as reserves from the perimeter joined them. Stormfather send that they’d see what his men were doing and align their tactics.

He didn’t have time to look, as more and more Regals began turning his direction. Shards were a luscious prize. He clashed with an enormous direform who bore a shield that blocked his Shardblade. A Veden half-shard. Those had started showing up on battlefields—plus shields lined in aluminum, which could stop a Blade too.

Adolin ducked a swing from the direform, who also wielded a massive axe—larger than any human could have held without Plate—then lunged expertly, skewering the direform and dropping her. Behind that, stormforms unleashed lightning—and in the flashes, he was again reminded of Sureblood’s death.

In honor of the fallen, he kept his cool. Adolin wasn’t his father, but today he’d have done the Blackthorn proud as he advanced, Maya whistling through the air as he engaged three direforms at once. His assault worked as a distraction, drawing attention away from the Azish lines to allow them to retreat and help their wounded.

And storms, for all he disliked the butchery of it, it was electric to fight with Plate and Blade once more. He dropped two more direforms, then the Plate absorbed the lightning the stormforms tried to send at him—dissipating it somehow, vibrating against his skin. They should have known better. Though their lightning wasn’t terribly accurate, and they often loosed it when surprised.

He continued to smash through their ranks, taking a hit here and there, dropping a few more—but mostly keeping them distracted while shouts behind him indicated his soldiers were forming up. He gave a quick glance, and was pleased to see the Azish following the lead of his troops: forming a larger, wider ring of pikes and shields some thirty yards back in all directions.

That gave the enemy more space to bring in troops, but it spread out their Regals. The enemy might consider this an initial victory, but it was all according to Adolin’s plan. He prepared to withdraw—until Maya noticed something.

There, she said. Look what you’ve flushed out. Three.

A glance showed him three figures rising into the air ahead of him, just above the control room. Heavenly Ones would be needed to deal with a full Shardbearer. Adolin took the chance to make a careful retreat, leaving a half dozen Regals on the ground with burning eyes. He was tempted to recover their half-shards, but that would have been foolhardy.

Have you seen my support squad? Adolin asked.

I can only see what you do, I’m afraid, Maya said. Or at least whatever’s in the direction you’re facing.

Well, he’d trust in them. He withdrew farther as the three Heavenly Ones swooped toward him, each with a shield that could block his Blade.

Arrows started to pelt them.

Adolin grinned. May’s team had been watching as requested. With the longer Alethi range, and with the Azish having fallen back, her team had plenty of space to harry the Heavenly Ones. In minutes, the three Fused realized they couldn’t engage Adolin while arrows were flying—and soared off to take care of the archers first.

Hopefully May and her team could deal with that. Adolin had his hands full as more enemy troops surged toward him—his distraction working perhaps a little too well as the enemy noticed he was basically standing alone, unsupported. Fortunately, as he fought—moving from Windstance into a defensive Stonestance—he heard familiar shouts approaching from behind.

In moments, Colot had arrived with Adolin’s support squad. They fanned out behind him, staying far enough away that he wouldn’t hit them with sweeps of the Blade, but at the same time watching his flanks and preventing him from being surrounded.

He kept fighting, ripping aside a direform’s shield by grabbing it in his free hand, then lunged with a one-handed strike, smoothly moving to Vinestance—which focused on flexibility. He shocked his opponents by advancing for a moment, confusing them, using his Blade in one hand and his powerful fist in the other to smash away protections.

A Shardbearer on the battlefield had once been the most dominant, terrifying, destructive force any man would ever see. A Shardbearer fully supported by trained troops who knew not to get in his way, but also how to keep him from being pulled down … well, it was still a force even Fused had to respect. Adolin swept through enemy attackers, their eyes burning as they fell dead. Each strike felt like a blow in the name of Kholinar, the city he’d lost, the soldiers he’d abandoned.

Soon, unnerved, the enemy began to pull away from him. And their retreat was hastened as three large screaming fireballs came flying through the air, dripping flaming drops of oil. This wasn’t from the firetrap that Kushkam had prepared, but from what Adolin’s forces called the Heavenly One protocols. The three who had attacked the archers had been doused with oil, then shot with flaming arrows.

The Fused would heal from the burns, but the fire and light would keep them disoriented. Adolin grinned, kicking a direform aside. The Heavenly Ones streaked overhead, their outrageously filmy outfits proving to be a liability, as they retreated to the control building.

To your left.

Adolin spun toward something he’d barely seen at the corner of his vision. He struck by instinct, and his Blade became longer by a few inches and speared straight through another flying Heavenly One—this one not on fire—her lance scraping across his armor and deflecting off.

Maya cut the gemheart inside the Fused, and that was enough. The creature’s eyes burned, same as any other singer, and she tumbled to the ground. She’d be reborn, but not until the next Everstorm. That attack had been stealthier than the others—and she had somehow gone undetected by his archers. Which put him on alert, something in him warning that it might have been an intentional distraction.

Nearby, singers who had been pulling back suddenly surged forward. Adolin grunted, swinging out with his Blade in a wide sweep and dropping several. Then he danced backward—a moment too late as one specific singer broke from the formation and moved with unexpected speed and fluidity, battering at Adolin with a pair of wicked maces.

Another Fused. But Adolin recognized this one.

Tall and imperious, a face mostly white, the pattern almost forming a glyph. It was the same Heavenly One that he and Shallan had fought in Shadesmar. The one Adolin had wounded.

The creature appeared to recognize him, and hummed to a violent-sounding rhythm. It had come, it seemed, for revenge.