Chapter 49

I challenge that itself to be perfidious; having studied much of their natures, and having made a specific attempt to represent their minds accurately, I find myself confident in my delineation; it is of particular passion and perfection in me; as perhaps I would have known them myself, given opportunity.

—From Words of Radiance, chapter 40, page 2

S hallan emerged into what felt like the real world. She stumbled to a stop, surrounded by singers in old-style clothing—barely wearing anything, really—on a hillside with patches of soil. Genuine soil . She gasped, grinning, and knelt and stuck her hands into it. Storms. It was just like she’d read.

Several singers kept running, but two others lurched to a halt nearby. Shallan appeared to be wearing a singer body, even to her own eyes. That was odd, wasn’t it? Dalinar always saw himself as himself; she’d read the accounts several times.

“Shallan?” asked a tall singer with a mostly white skin pattern.

“Yup.”

“And Renarin?” The tall one peered at the third, a shorter singer with black and red in swirls.

“This is … eerie,” Shallan said, prodding the carapace on her face. “Glys and Tumi said we’d have a Lightweaving over us, but I feel like I’m in the actual body of this singer.”

“It’s complicated,” Rlain said. “Which is … a way of saying I don’t completely understand. We can’t afford to be recognized by anyone, not even Brightlord Dalinar. When we enter, the vision itself assigns us people to take over. Then, Glys and Tumi nudge us to actually take the shape. ”

“Where are our spren?” Renarin asked, and his voice sounded odd. No rhythm, she realized.

Rlain winced. He heard it too.

“I feel Tumi,” Rlain said. “Hovering outside the vision and watching, to not give us away.”

“Ah …” Renarin said. “Yes. That’s for the best. Um …” He held his hands out and inspected them. “Shallan, are you all right?”

“I like this carapace,” she said, standing up. “It feels neat. And the dirt too! I can’t wait to step on plants that don’t move. Won’t that be surreal ?”

“Doesn’t look like many plants have grown here yet.” Renarin pointed down the hillside to an enormous flat basin of dirt. Wet dirt, judging by how the people trudged through it.

“There,” Rlain said, singling out one figure below. “That’s your father, isn’t it?”

“And Navani with him,” Shallan said. “So we can see them as themselves. But the two Ghostblood assassins …”

“… will be hiding,” Renarin said quietly. “Like us. They could be anyone on that field.” He took a deep breath. “Still, we have the advantage. You heard the Ghostbloods say they’re going to watch my father and aunt, so we have intel on the enemy’s movements. That puts us at a tactical advantage.”

Rlain hummed softly.

“What?” Renarin asked.

“You sound like your father,” Rlain said. “In the best of ways.”

Renarin glanced at the ground, and she sensed a blush in his posture—which she found very curious, especially given how he looked back up toward Rlain in an admiring way. Could it be … these two? She couldn’t wait to ask Adolin. Maybe he knew something. For now she led the way down the slope.

“You two should try not to speak too much,” Rlain noted.

“We don’t have to fool other singers, fortunately,” Renarin said. “Just some humans.”

“I wonder if I could do it,” Shallan said, trying to mimic Rlain’s rhythm. “I might have to someday, in the real world.”

Rlain halted in place, his eyes wide, humming a tense rhythm. Shallan matched it.

“How are you doing that?” he demanded. “That’s a perfect rhythm.”

“It feels natural in this body,” she said, shrugging. “I’m mostly imitating you.”

“It’s uncanny,” he said, resuming his descent. “But be careful. If you only imitate, you’ll often hum one that isn’t appropriate for your conversation.”

Together, they reached the bottom of the slope and set up there to watch. “Why stop here?” Renarin asked. “Aren’t we going to go find the Ghostbloods?”

Storms. She was so used to working with the Unseen Court that she’d forgotten these two had practically no experience. “Our first objective,” she said, “is to be as unobtrusive as we can. Try not to draw their attention. Us returning might seem odd, since the others were running away. Therefore, we should act as if we were sent back to watch.”

“Right,” Renarin said. “So how do we learn anything?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Look for anyone sticking a little too close to Dalinar or Navani. And give me a minute.” She studied the area, noting the groups of human refugees making their way out of the wet dirt. Exhausted, burned, terrified.

The first arrival of humans on Roshar. What a thing to witness. However, Veil coached her quietly—helping her keep her mind on the job at hand, reminding her of the skills she’d been practicing since childhood. When you had an abusive father and an insane mother, you learned to act.

I think, Veil whispered, we’ve always been a little better at this than we admitted.

It was true. Shallan had always worried that Veil acted like an expert in espionage, but was actually a scared child. However, in some ways that scared child was the queen of putting on faces. She shouldn’t have had to go through such a terrible, painful childhood—but since she had, she might as well storming weaponize it.

“Continue pretending to be scouts,” she whispered. “Back up a little. Adopt nervous postures. I’m going in.”

“In?” Renarin said.

“I can do this better than Mraize can,” Shallan whispered. “It’s time to prove it.”

She moved out from behind the rocks in a low, nervous gait. She wasn’t seeing humans, but bizarre, frightening aliens. She got close, skittish, clutching her spear. The gathered people shouted, so she sought refuge behind another rock, closer to the mud.

Then she moved out, creating two illusions—leaving a fake version of the singer behind, while Shallan instead trudged forward wearing the face and the loose and ragged gown of one of the refugees she’d seen. Covered in both ash and that wet mud. A simple brown dress, long as her ankles. A little embroidery.

Storms, Shallan, Radiant thought.

What?

You didn’t need a drawing first. You just did it.

She … she was right. Shallan had been moving in this direction, but had she ever fully created a Lightweaving without any kind of drawing? It was … well, it was about time. She checked for weapons and found her anti-Stormlight dagger in a sheath at her belt—and added it to her costume.

First confirm he’s here, she thought at herself. Watching Dalinar and Navani. Try to figure out if he has tells that will let me spot him in the future. Then retreat and come up with a real plan for eliminating him.

That wasn’t her weakness showing, was it? She could kill Mraize. As she’d killed every other mentor in her life so far and—

Do you need me? Radiant asked.

No, Shallan said, stepping into the wet dirt, finding it exactly as slippery and messy as she’d hoped it would be. She started out past the refugees, attempting to project that she had forgotten something. Just another refugee human. It was a good thing she had lots of practice, because being Shallan wearing a singer’s body, wearing a Lightweaving of a different human, was a lot of layers to peel back.

She waved on the few people that spoke to her, though—with alarm—she realized she couldn’t understand them. She smiled in an exhausted way and pointed, deliberately saying something too soft for them to hear over the crowd.

They moved on as she continued walking. Dalinar and Navani were talking to … was that Wit ? Or a simulacrum of Wit? She forcibly kept from staring, and instead found her way to an animal that was mired in the mud. With a smile to the people there, she took the ropes at its neck and began helping pull it free, giving her a reason to linger near Dalinar and Navani.

So, where would Mraize be? she wondered. They started to get the strange horse free, but then one of the workers slid, tugging the animal farther into the mud. He’ll want to be somewhere he can overhear …

The refugees were mostly flowing past without stopping. With effort, she kept from looking through the portal into the other world. The horse-thing moved, barely. It seemed that …

That the other people working with her were barely trying. One grunted and waved her off, kneeling so he could peer at the animal’s legs, to check them for wounds, maybe?

Shallan had immediately found the easiest way to remain close to Dalinar without being spotted … because Mraize had set up this situation to do the same. Storms. That had to be either him or Iyatil kneeling in the mud in front of her. Her gut said it was Mraize. Not because he acted like himself— indeed, he didn’t. Instead of confident, he was kind of bumbling—and when he stood, hands on his hips, he gave a rueful smile. Except it was very similar to the act he’d put on when pretending to be a soldier in Urithiru.

Having one or two personas you default to, Shallan thought, is almost as much of a tell as acting like yourself. She’d likely made that same mistake in the past.

She gripped her knife, but didn’t draw it. Dalinar pushed past them in the wet soil, saying to Navani that he was going to speak to the Stormfather. Mraize traced Dalinar’s departure with his eyes. Shallan would never have a better chance than this.

But …

Radiant took over, pulling the knife and swinging as Mraize walked past her toward Dalinar. Mraize spotted her motion in the corner of his eye and cursed, catching her arm right before she connected. Radiant saw genuine panic in his expression as she forced him into the side of the muddy animal, causing other refugees to scream and back off.

He held to her forearm with both hands, grunting, then eyed her. “That’s a dangerous knife for you, little one,” he said, letting a smile creep to the corner of his mouth. “Have you gone and grown up on me?”

Unfortunately, he was stronger than she was. To get an edge, Radiant tried to summon her armor, which resulted in a bunch of tiny knives appearing in the sticky wet dirt, quivering and saying, “Other Shallan!”

So … no armor in this realm. Radiant pushed back from him, ripping out of his grip—a move that he should have been able to prevent, but he seemed wary, and eager to keep her at a distance.

“How long?” Shallan asked.

“How long what?” he asked, wiping his face, leaving a smear of dirt.

“How long,” Shallan said softly, “have you secretly been afraid of me?”

Oddly, he smiled. “Since I discovered that you had killed Tyn. Why would I recruit someone I wasn’t at least in part frightened of? Why hunt something that can’t fight back?”

That smile. So confident. Shallan wanted, on a gut level, to remove it. Thankfully, Radiant was more levelheaded. She knew, from Adolin’s lessons, the foolish danger in attacking a taller, stronger opponent with only a knife. His hand had gone down by his side, almost certainly for his own weapon. If she allowed herself to be drawn into a brawl, he’d have a severe advantage.

So she instead feinted an attack, then stepped back, hiding her knife. When he pulled out his weapon, she raised her arms and stumbled away, shrieking. The onlookers, who had been confused up until now, lurched into action, grabbing Mraize. Though she’d been the first aggressor, they probably hadn’t seen that, as it had been so unexpected. Several also moved to block Shallan from Mraize, holding out warding hands—but they obviously thought they knew who was the more dangerous, because they restrained Mraize, while merely keeping her away. All the while shouting in that language she couldn’t understand.

Mraize took it in stride, giving her a withering look. He knew enough not to escalate—he didn’t let them take his knife, but he did permit them to lead him away, while explaining in his calm, deliberate fashion. He somehow spoke their language.

Could she use the situation? Persuade the others he was dangerous? This was a tired, emotional lot.

“Kill him,” a soft voice said from beside her.

Shallan’s voice.

Shallan spun and saw a figure dressed identically to her—but with a head made all of curling grey smoke. Spiraling, shifting, mesmerizing.

“It’s what we are, Shallan,” the figure said. “It’s what we need to become. You cannot reject me forever. I am you.”

“F-Formless?” Shallan whispered. “I banished you.”

“I am you.”

“No,” Shallan said, backing up. “I banished you.”

“And yet,” it said, stepping forward, “you come to a realm of possibilities and futures. Tell me, are you better because of one good day? Will you ever be fully ‘better’?”

“I can be better,” she hissed. “I can. ”

“Can you?” Formless asked, and all else seemed to fade. “You are what you were made into, Shallan. You are what was done to you. That is me. I am your future.”

Shallan screamed and hunched down, her hands like claws, one open, one gripping her knife. The vision vanished. All became swirling mist, and she felt someone embrace her. Pattern.

“Calm, Shallan,” he said. “Calm …”

Panting, she let him hold her. She couldn’t see well in this place of shifting shapes and futures, like mixing paint, but she heard Rlain speak somewhere nearby.

“Well, that could have gone better,” he said, his voice thrumming with a rhythm.

“Let’s find somewhere to recover and regroup,” Renarin said. “Our spren are panicking. They’re certain that in another few moments we’d have been noticed by the gods. We need to do this without making so much of a scene.”

“Murdering someone makes a scene,” Shallan mumbled. “At least it has every time I’ve done it …” But she let herself be pulled away into the mists of the future.

The Stormfather appeared as a shimmer to Dalinar. Standing on the mountainside, looking down at the newly arrived humans.

Dalinar stopped in front of the spren, studying him. Today, he thought he could even catch some shape to the shimmering—one that matched the image he’d seen of the dead god, Honor, also named Tanavast.

The Stormfather was an echo of the Almighty. Like how one of Shallan’s charcoal sketches might rub off on another page, leaving a faint shadow of the original sketch. Today, as on most days, he could feel the Stormfather’s mood.

He was … sad. “The dogs will die,” he said softly.

“The … what?” Dalinar said, frowning.

“Those smaller beasts that come with the refugees?” the Stormfather said. “The friendly ones? They’re called dogs.” He fell silent a moment. “Tanavast always said he missed hounds. Too small a breeding population made it through. They will be gone in three hundred years.”

“Hounds?” Dalinar said. “Like axehounds?”

“Your ancestors bred axehounds as a replacement, as they fit the same ecological niche. They have some of the same mannerisms. It’s a … curiosity of genetics and parallel evolution. If you breed for certain traits—such as obedience—sometimes you get a few of the same companion traits.

“The pigs … they’ll thrive on Roshar; they’re willing to eat anything. Those minks will become wild and feral. The rats made it, remarkable considering how few snuck through, but I’ve learned never to be surprised at where you find rats. Look. The birds are about to arrive.”

Dalinar turned as people began to cry out, ducking as an enormous group of chickens came soaring in through the portal. Thousands of them.

“They flocked on the other side,” the Stormfather said, “corralled and cornered by rising temperatures and the burning sky. It is a miracle they found their way here, but they must have followed the sudden cool air. Or perhaps … perhaps the Wind sought them out. They will thrive. Parrots of two dozen varieties, who can eat the grains of Roshar until other options begin to grow in Shinovar.”

Dalinar didn’t reply, merely listening. Sometimes the Stormfather would just talk, and you never knew what you might learn.

“I don’t remember this,” the Stormfather continued, “yet I do. I wasn’t alive, wasn’t aware. ”

He didn’t go on, so after a while Dalinar prompted him. “Tanavast was alive though. You have some of his memories.”

“Echoes only,” the Stormfather said. “Little that is relevant. A fondness for dogs …”

“What happened on Ashyn, really?” Dalinar said.

“I do not know.”

“And … the Wind you mentioned earlier. It spoke to me.”

“A fallen god.”

“A fallen god,” Dalinar said. “There are gods other than Honor, Cultivation, and Odium? Here on Roshar?”

“There are pieces of the god who made the planet,” the Stormfather said. “No longer relevant, as humans—poorly adapted to this land—began to fear the storm above all else. And so it took on life … became an Adversary. A new demigod for Roshar.”

Dalinar nodded, thoughtful. The god who had made this world, perhaps the very God Beyond that Dalinar had begun to follow … they had left caretakers in the spren. But when that god vanished—dead and shattered, by Wit’s testimony—the spren had grown into something else. Something more tied to Honor, Cultivation, and Odium.

“You should not be seeing this,” the Stormfather said. “There is nothing useful for you here, Dalinar.”

“Could you get us home?” Dalinar asked.

“Perhaps. If I take you now, will you go?”

Dalinar considered, looking over the refugees below. He felt … invigorated, having seen this piece of history. The true origin for his people—and all humans—on this world. He checked his clock, and found that it was still the fourth day. He had time.

“The power of Honor is here,” Dalinar said. “Around us.”

“It will never accept you.”

“Why not?” Dalinar asked.

“Because it cannot stand another who would do what Honor did.”

There.

That seemed relevant.

“What Honor did?” Dalinar said. “Stormfather, what exactly did Honor do ?”

The shimmering hesitated a moment, as if realizing it had said too much.

“It is connected,” Dalinar said. “What happened to Honor, how he died—and the way I could take up the power. I need to know how the previous god died before I could hope to hold that same position. Is that true?”

The Stormfather distorted, growing larger, more threatening, changing from human shape into more of a small storm. He loomed over Dalinar. “ Enough of this ! I will try to send you back now, if you will go. But you must swear to never try this again.”

“No,” Dalinar said, recognizing this was what he had to do. The others would have to fight battles without him, for now. He had to remain here and find his way to these secrets.

“You doom yourself,” the Stormfather said. “And your wife. And others. You should not defy me !”

“Stormfather,” Dalinar said quietly, “do you remember when we talked a few days ago? Do you remember what you told me?”

Silence.

“You can change,” Dalinar said. “We do not have to be combatants, as we often have been.”

“All it takes is a willingness …” the Stormfather whispered. “It is too late for me, Dalinar. You … should not try so hard with me. I am but a spren.” His voice grew softer. “Please, just come back.”

Dalinar wavered a moment, then shook his head. “No. I’ve seen the visions as you wanted to present them, Stormfather. I will now see what actually occurred. I will find out what happened to Honor, and why his power has chosen no successor.”

“So like your brother,” the Stormfather whispered. “So arrogant.”

“Why do you have an opinion on Gavilar?” Dalinar asked, confused. “Did you interact with him?”

The Stormfather seemed to come more alert at this, as if he’d said something wrong. Revealed something. The moment of Connection between them—of understanding, as had happened occasionally during their time together—evaporated. “You will die in here!” the spren thundered. “You will wander for eons, then wither away!”

“Storm you, then help me! Don’t hide your secrets away!”

“No,” the Stormfather said. “You wish to see what this place can show you? Fine. This is your stew. You can simmer in it. I will return when you are tired of it, and we can speak when you are reasonable.”

The Stormfather began to fade.

“What are you afraid of?” Dalinar asked. “Stormfather? What lies have you been telling me!”

Only the ones, the Stormfather said in his mind, that you deserve.

Then he was gone. Dalinar sighed, angry at himself for losing his temper. Once in a while, it went so well between them, like when the Stormfather had told him about Eshonai’s death. Dalinar cherished those moments of honesty and connection—but too often it went like this instead.

Just to check, Dalinar tried again to make a perpendicularity. Unfortunately, it did nothing. Using the power to get out of here was like trying to make water run uphill. With a sigh, he started back down to see how Navani was doing.