Chapter 46

Indeed, the presence of a Herald among them should have, to all reasonable understandings, and to the abridgment of expectation, led to stability of doctrine among this most specific of orders.

—From Words of Radiance, chapter 40, page 1

A portal from another world.

Shalash the Herald had mentioned this, as had Wit. Navani was gazing into the world humans had originally come from. The one they called Ashyn … a world that humankind had destroyed with the power of the Surges.

Navani had known what to expect. It was another thing entirely to witness it. The portal started small, a pinprick in the sky, then was spread wide by the efforts of a man who stood on the other side. At least she thought he was the source, because he stood with arms stretched wide, a look of concentration on his face as if forcibly pushing the portal open.

“Ishar,” Dalinar said. “Ishi, the Herald. It’s him. Younger—his hair was white by the time I met him—but that is him.”

This figure wore a simple blue robe tied at the waist, and had a beard that had barely started to grey. He strained to hold the way open as thousands of refugees flooded around him, clutching their meager possessions. Leading withered animals—many of which were unfamiliar to Navani.

In the background, their world burned. The very sky seemed to be on fire, and the people were covered in ash and soot. Navani felt a sudden need to go comfort them.

Dalinar gently held her back. “It’s just a vision, Navani,” he whispered. “There is nothing you can do for the actual people—they are long dead. Save ten. Or nine, I suppose, as Jezrien has been destroyed.”

Another figure approached the portal from the other side, stumbling, dressed in odd white robes—now stained black—hanging from one shoulder.

“Correction,” Navani said. “There are ten who were here who still live, Dalinar. That’s Wit.” He didn’t look a day younger than he did thousands of years later, though his hair was a stark white, and he appeared shorter for some reason.

The singers standing near Navani and Dalinar had abandoned their prayers, and were now muttering to themselves. One femalen mumbled, “Such strange skin patterns …”

Navani hesitated. That singer seemed familiar.

Dalinar, however, started forward. Navani rushed after him, and the other singers called after them both—then fled, leaving their chulls, obviously terrified by the strange events. As well they should have been. Today marked the first step toward what would become a millennia-long war.

“Dalinar,” Navani said as they walked across the muddy field, “we need to find answers.”

“Agreed,” he said. “We must either find a way home, or …”

“Or?”

“We came here to find why Honor’s power refuses to bond anyone,” he said. “Cultivation implied the secret lies in understanding the history of our people, the Heralds, and their relationship with God.” He hesitated. “That power should be a way out for us, if I do take it up.”

“We will … search for a way,” Navani said, daunted by the idea. “And while we’re here … there are other secrets we can uncover. Some things about the Heralds’ stories have always confused me.” She glanced at the portal—which had expanded to thirty feet in diameter. Ishar stood in the center, hands thrust to the sides, his face a mask of concentration as he let thousands escape the burning land. They wore a variety of clothing styles and were of many ethnicities. They must have gathered together at the end, seeking refuge from the fires.

“We know from previous research,” she continued, “that at this point, the Heralds aren’t Heralds yet. They won’t become Heralds until the war with the singers begins, and that is at least a generation or two later. Radiants are multiple millennia away from being founded. So how are they accessing these Surges? How did they cross this divide between worlds?”

“That’s … a good question,” Dalinar said, frowning. “The Stormfather told me that Honor worried about these powers—he feared the Radiants might destroy Roshar. I think … people must once have been able to access powers without bonds and oaths holding them back.”

“No checks against their power,” Navani said, staring through the tunnel at that horrifying place of smoke and red skies. “Come, let’s see what we can discover.”

She started forward again, but soon found crossing the muddy ground to be difficult—it was wet from the rain that was still sprinkling down. This proved a struggle for the refugees as well, who were laden with goods or carried them on the backs of sorry-looking horses or stranger beasts of burden.

No wagons, she thought. Or carts. She had trouble believing none had managed to get a vehicle to help. They must come from a time before such things were invented.

Storms, it was strange to think of a time that long ago. As she drew closer, she could see the people were as human as any she’d known. Their agony seemed real, as did their tears of exhaustion—and even joy—as they entered the rain and collapsed in the mud, unable to go any further. Strangely, they didn’t attract spren—perhaps those weren’t used to humans yet.

The rain let up, but her every footstep slid in the muck, and her skirt was quickly ruined. Dalinar fared better, stomping his way on booted feet. “Poor people,” he whispered. “Maybe we should get one of those chulls to help?”

“I thought the people weren’t real?” Navani said.

“They aren’t,” he admitted. “I … well, I’ve never been good at paying attention to that, reasonable though it is.”

She smiled, accepting his help forging forward until they reached the first refugees. The awful stench of smoke hung over them, and they shied away. She belatedly remembered that they would see her as a singer—a frightening creature with marbled skin and carapace.

One man in a blue tunic had been directing people toward the slopes. He strode over, sandaled feet sliding in the mud, using a spear with an obsidian head to balance himself. He had a short black beard and keen eyes, and could have been Alethi, by his features. Storms. She thought she recognized him. Could some of the depictions have been that accurate?

“Jezerezeh?” she said, then remembered the name Ash and Taln had used for him. His real name, before being mythologized and made symmetrical. “Jezrien?”

He pulled up short, his eyes widening, and barked something at them in a tongue she didn’t recognize.

Dalinar stared at the man, breathing in sharply.

“You recognize him too?” she asked.

“In more ways than one. I saw him in a vision, but now that he’s here in more common clothing, exhausted … Storms, Navani. That’s Ahu, a beggar. I … I used to drink with him sometimes, in the gardens at Kholinar …”

What? “You’re kidding.”

“No, that is Ahu,” Dalinar said. “I was fond of him. A kindly drunk who shared wine with me during some of the dark days … Is it possible? Truly?”

She turned her attention back to Jezrien. He made another demand of them, and a woman with brilliant red hair—with some undercurrents of gold in the locks beneath—stepped up beside him. She had the air of a warrior, though she carried a simple stone axe. That would be Chanaranach, sometimes referred to as Chana by Ash.

At Navani’s urging, Dalinar retreated with her a little way, so as to not antagonize Jezrien or Chana. “Three Heralds,” Dalinar whispered. “You said the Heralds don’t get their powers for several generations.”

“Raboniel was made immortal near the time that the Oathpact was founded, which she said was around two generations from the crossing. That matches what we know from the writings in the Dawnchant. They indicate that at first, men and singers got along—but over time, humans wanted to expand. Rebellion followed, then war …”

“That explains why Ishar looks younger than when I met him,” Dalinar said. “And Jezrien here, he could be in his late twenties maybe? And … there.” He pointed toward a young teenage girl, protected by a small group of spearmen. “Ash.”

“And the Ash we know seems frozen in age in her late twenties,” Navani said. “The Heralds must have aged slowly somehow, until they were made immortal some sixty or seventy years from now. I’d like to see that day.” She narrowed her eyes. “Where is Odium? He arrived with the humans. Though a god may not make himself visible …”

Navani glanced back. Distantly, singers had stopped upon the mountainside. They had wisely realized they should see what these invaders were doing.

Jezrien stepped closer, and made yet another demand.

“Always before,” Dalinar said, with a frown, “I was able to understand people’s languages in the visions.”

“Everyone’s language?” Navani said. “I think we imprinted as singers in this one, so we speak their language.”

“I’ll have to try my Connection trick,” Dalinar said. “Which requires touching him.” He raised a finger and wisps of Light began to stream off it.

Jezrien growled, and a powerful Light began to stream from him as well. Storms.

Yes, that’s what destroyed Ashyn, Navani thought, remembering the first piece of Dawnchant they’d translated. Dangerous powers, of spren and Surges. They destroyed their lands and have come to us begging. We took them in, as commanded by the gods …

The lines of people seemed to extend forever—and on the other side of the portal, she saw no sign of trees other than smoldering stumps.

The scholar in her—the scholar she’d acknowledged and embraced—hungered to find answers. But for the moment, her attention was best focused on her husband—because he had stepped forward again and was picking a fight with an ancient king. Dalinar was trying to explain—without words—that all he wanted to do was touch Jezrien.

Unfortunately, if they were familiar with Surgebinding, they knew the dangers a simple touch could offer. She didn’t blame Jezrien for backing away, pointing a spear toward Dalinar. He had been immune to danger in his previous visions, but now they were here in the flesh. The rules might be different. Regardless, she didn’t want Dalinar starting a storming fight in the mud. However, she saw a solution. She touched him on the arm and pointed to Wit, who had finally stepped through the portal.

He was staring at the sky while holding a small rock. The same one he’d given Dalinar—or would give Dalinar, thousands of years in the future. Wit spotted them, and Navani hoped he’d intervene. Instead he looked away, his shoulders slumped.

“Maybe the Wit of this time can explain what we need to Jezrien,” Navani said. “Or maybe he’ll let you touch him.”

Dalinar and Navani hiked that way. The mud wasn’t terribly deep, but it was still difficult to move in. Nearby, one poor animal—thicker than a horse and heavy as a chull—was getting mired in a deeper spot.

Dalinar grabbed Wit by the shoulder, then touched Navani, Connecting them to make their languages match his—a trick she hadn’t had time to learn yet. Wit appeared profoundly haunted. Eyes glazed over. Motions sluggish. Well, he’d just seen an entire world fall. She supposed she couldn’t fault him for lacking a chipper attitude.

When he spoke, though, it wasn’t what she had been expecting at all. “I’m not real, am I?” he said in a monotone.

“Wit?” Dalinar said. “Um … what is your other name?”

“I have many,” Wit said. “None of them are me. I’m … power … trying to imitate him … But he knows too much, so he would know he’s not real, and so I have to make myself know I’m not real … But then … I know …”

He put his hand to his head, his eyes bulging, and his face started to distort. Melting like paint on a wall. Navani jumped backward.

“Wit,” Dalinar said. “Whatever you are. Wit would help us.”

“He just watched Ashyn die,” the homunculus said. “It was one of his first great failures. Not his absolute first … but one of them. He spent the next weeks staring at the sky. Worrying that he was too old, at three thousand. That he was losing himself.” The thing stumbled away. “I must do that. I must do that …”

“I don’t think we’re going to get anything useful from him,” Navani said. “But we at least learned the language.”

“I don’t think we did,” Dalinar said. “I tried to Connect to him, but he Connected to me instead, learning our tongue.” He heaved a sigh, then pointed at a spot a ways up the hillside. “There might be another option. The air is shimmering over there, and I can feel the Stormfather watching. He might be able to get us out of here.”

“Will he talk more openly if you’re alone?”

“Likely,” Dalinar admitted.

“Then I,” she said, “will see what I can learn from these refugees, despite the language barrier.”

“Be safe,” he said.

“Dalinar, there’s so much Stormlight here, I’d heal before they even finished pulling the spear out.”

“Still,” he said, squeezing her hand. “For my sake, try to be safe.” Then he went to confront the Stormfather.