Chapter 50

Indeed, I find Skybreaker disagreements remarkable; I have preference for each account, seeing as the arguments of the great arguers are of the most engaging variety, as to leave a woman disposed to both one side or the other, at a variety of times, vacillating back and forth, first the first, then second the second, to accede victory to whichever last has spoken.

—From Words of Radiance, chapter 40, page 2

N avani’s father had been kindly to her, but he’d also been a terrible brightlord. He’d spent half his time out hunting, and the other half picking fights. He’d died in a duel when she was seventeen, and his last words to her had been to ask if, in her biography of him, she could include a particularly vile insult about the man who had stabbed him.

She’d never written that biography. That neglected task was one of hundreds that haunted her, and for some reason this place—this jaunt into the Spiritual Realm—reminded her of him. Why?

The question chased her as she trudged through the mud past refugees and toward the open portal. There, she realized part of what was itching at her. She still felt Connected to something, someone, out there. It was the same sensation she’d felt when searching for Dalinar earlier.

Someone was watching from the Spiritual Realm. Someone she knew well. Was it … her father? No. But whatever that Connection was, she couldn’t identify it—and she also couldn’t contact the Sibling, though not for lack of trying.

She stood in the mud, hands on her hips, dissatisfied with the way people flowed around her, frightened. She hadn’t missed that the king and his spearmen kept their attention directly on her. Indeed, there was a disturbance happening—several refugees squabbling—but she couldn’t get a good view of them because of the soldiers barricading her way.

She folded her arms. She was here to learn. What, then, would teach her the most? Nearby, the stream of tired people had slowed to a trickle. But it wasn’t long before another group came through, different from the others. Their clothing less refined: more furs tied closed, less cloth. They clustered together and gave distrusting glares to others.

Shin, Navani realized, catching sight of a few of the faces hidden deep in their hoods. I’m witnessing the arrival of the Shin.

The portal itself interested her too. It had swelled even further, perhaps to eighty feet wide, level with the ground on the bottom. After a moment’s thought, Navani settled on an idea. She walked straight to the portal, keeping space between her and the refugees. The soldiers, not wanting to be touched by her, moved away—then trailed after her.

Jasnah felt creating things like this—portals that could transport people around Roshar—should be possible with Elsecaller abilities, but they had no clues how to accomplish it, and Jasnah’s experiments hadn’t borne fruit. So what could Navani learn about this portal? One powerful enough to bring these people from an entirely different world? Well, observation number one: this portal required continued effort to maintain. Ishi’Elin remained standing on the other side, his arms stretched out, palms flat, as if he were physically pushing the portal open. The edges rippled and fluctuated, shrinking if he lost concentration or strength.

At this point, Navani thought, he might not be a Bondsmith, since this looks like an Elsecalling. So, some of the Heralds were practiced in different Surges from the ones they would one day take up as Heralds.

Within the portal, there was maybe six inches of “tunnel” between the worlds. It was a shimmering silvery color. As she watched people cross from the other side, their forms seemed to fuzz briefly, then fuzz again as they stepped out on this side.

It’s like they fall in on the other side, she thought, then fall out on this side—like they slide through space and emerge. It’s less like a doorway you step through, and more like something you step into—which then carries you a distance.

She doubted she had enough understanding of these kinds of physics to draw conclusions. Best to memorize her observations, then present them to her team when she returned. Regardless, it was good to make some order from the chaos. As always, a few key observations—a few thoughts about the mechanics of her situation—gave her some small measure of control. Or at least it made her feel that way.

Flocks of chickens burst through the top of the portal some twenty-five feet up. She considered, then reached out a finger to touch the portal. Behind her, someone cried out. She looked to find the king still watching her—a teenaged Shalash peeking out from behind him. He stepped forward, pointing and speaking in an authoritarian way.

“He’s saying,” a voice said from beside her, “that you shouldn’t go through—that the other side is dangerous.”

She glanced over and found Wit sitting in the mud to her left—his face having melted away, leaving a pale nothing in its place. He somehow talked without it. Distant thunder sounded, but she kept her attention on him.

“Um, thank you,” she said. “Are you … feeling all right?”

“Me?” the faceless Wit said. “Oh, I’m fine. Just a big mess of existential crisis! Me, who is not me, knowing that I’ll puff away back to nothing the moment this vision ends. It’s fun! Like realizing you’ve swallowed poison by accident!”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“It’s fine,” he said. “I’m not real, so my emotions don’t matter! My pain is an illusion, and I’m a puppet for raw Investiture, propped up and speaking like the sock on a child’s hand.” He cocked his head. “Damn. Is this how the Iriali feel all the time? No wonder they’re so storming odd.”

“What happens if I step through?” she asked.

“Nothing,” fake-Wit replied. “Because you can’t. This vision is tied to Roshar. You can see what it saw—the light passing through the Elsegate—but if you try to step through, nothing will happen.”

“The Spiritual Realm is all places,” Navani said. “That’s what you—um, what real-world-Wit—told us.”

“Yup, true,” he said. “But you’re not a god, Navani. This vision is the Spiritual Realm trying very hard to provide something your mind can understand. Push it too far, and that will unravel. So, fair warning.”

“Warning taken,” she replied. She nodded toward Jezrien and his daughter. “Could you tell them I’m not dangerous?”

“You want me to lie?” Wit asked.

“I’m not dangerous.”

“Did you or did you not melt a man’s eyes straight out of his head some five days ago?”

She hesitated. “I’m not dangerous to them. ”

“Of course you aren’t,” he said. “They’re not alive.”

Storms above and Light Almighty … this fake Wit was even more aggravating than the real one. She stood, hands on her hips, looking at him—and he flopped back in the mud, blank face toward the sky, mumbling to himself about things like “infinite recursion” and “synthetic consciousness.”

Navani sighed and turned again toward Jezrien and his daughter, still protected by guards. She smiled at the king, then tried bowing. He nodded to her. So she approached him slowly, hands to the sides to show she meant no harm.

She didn’t dare get too close, so she stopped maybe five feet away and hoped he’d also move forward to meet her. He didn’t—he studied her, thoughtful. But his daughter—who had a darker skin tone than his—slipped out from behind him. She stepped forward, ignoring her father’s warning, and put out her hand to touch Navani’s.

Navani squatted down closer to Shalash’s eye level, and laced their fingers together. Jezrien stepped up, but didn’t separate them. Sometime in the future, these two—with eight others—would found the Oathpact. One of the most important events in history.

Dalinar had apparently finished his conversation, as she could see him approaching through the mud. Had that thunder earlier been because of him?

“The vision will end soon,” fake-Wit said. “You came here to see the crossing, and you did. You’ll be cast out into the ever-mixing churn of possibilities and memories.”

“And we’ll be left without a guide,” she said. “We need a way to return to the Physical Realm.”

“Good luck with that,” fake-Wit said. “Your husband just rejected the Stormfather’s offer to send you back! Haha!”

Navani held to Shalash’s hand, eye to eye. A wind blew across them, and she thought she heard a song carried with it. Faintly familiar.

“Can you help?” she asked the Wind.

I … do not know … it whispered. Your husband decided to stay. He is … both wise and foolish … He has realized that the only path forward is through time. You must find the day that Honor died …

That day was at least five thousand years into the future. How would they ever find it?

Maybe I don’t have to, Navani thought, looking at Shalash. Not yet. Cultivation told us to see history—and that’s why we came. What if I first find a way to jump us forward in time a little—then from there I can search out the next step.

“The Oathpact,” Navani whispered. “Its founding. These two will be there. I need a guide, an anchor, to that moment.”

Ah … the Wind whispered. Her ribbon. Take her ribbon …

Navani smiled at the young Shalash. Both she and her father seemed more friendly than they had been earlier, perhaps having realized Navani wasn’t dangerous. Unfortunately, the distant hills were warping, turning to Stormlight, evaporating. As Wit had warned, this vision was ending.

Navani mimed at her own hair, then at Ash’s. The girl felt at her head, then—questioning—took off her ribbon and placed it in Navani’s hand.

A moment later the vision burst, and all the people unraveled into Stormlight. But the ribbon remained clutched in Navani’s fingers.

Adolin felt a lot better after a few hours of sleep. Bolstered, he made use of the well-equipped, overly bronze bathing facility his officers had been assigned. He shaved and put on a fresh uniform, then got an update from one of Kaminah’s assistants. Two assaults in four hours. No progress made on either side, which was a win for the defenders—though that singer fortress at the center held, repelling dropped stones.

Colot had gone to bed right before Adolin had woken up, and for once the dome was quiet. The enemy might have more troops, but they still had to worry about depleting them. Perhaps they had decided to hunker down, reinforce their fortress, and discuss strategy. It was what he’d have done after over a full day of losing large numbers to the offensive with no discernible progress.

He left his blackout tent and found it was already getting dark. As he did, his timid scribe whispered to him some bad news: His worst fears were proving true. The Azish reserve forces had been delayed. An enemy force of some sort had raided them, a mystery troop that baffled their generals. The delay was, they hoped, a short one—and they were already moving again. The current estimate had their reinforcements at least two days out.

Adolin wasn’t too surprised, though a mystery force worried him. What was going on there? Regardless, the enemy was going to try anything they could to delay those troops to keep Azimir isolated as long as possible. He took the news, then shook his head and scanned the darkened plaza. Adolin’s armor standby had just put on his Plate for a shift, giving Adolin a little time. So he did something that was always near the top of a commander’s list, but never quite as urgent as it should be: he went to visit the injured.

The Azish field hospital was one of the nicest he had ever seen. As May had suggested, the surgeons were set up in a building right near the dome. He entered a world of sterile scents, recently mopped floors, white walls, and whiter linens. The Azish took to heart the old teachings of the Heralds, that dirt and disorder attracted rotspren, that washing hands and boiling instruments prevented infection.

Adolin had met armies who ignored such rules, and inevitably infection set in—visible by the spren they attracted. It didn’t take much experimenting to see which way was better, and he was pleased to see this hospital so well equipped. He got a quick, secret briefing on how to open the saferoom hidden underneath the structure, then went out to visit the soldiers.

The Truthwatcher could be spared to help solely those whose wounds were life-threatening. Otherwise, the work would overwhelm and exhaust her. So there were plenty of painspren creeping on the floor, and a good number of men whose wounds would keep them out of the battle. Adolin stopped by bed after bed, his scribe quietly ensuring he remembered names, or providing them for those he had never met.

He chatted with each soldier in turn, laughing and joking with them, encouraging them and commending their service. Most only wanted to know that their squad was doing fine. He gave needed reassurances—that a wound was a price sometimes paid for protecting one’s fellows. He reassured each that they weren’t letting anyone down by being out of action, and promised that if Rahel had extra strength, he’d allow her to do further healings to get men back on their feet.

As he went, anxietyspren began to fade from the room one by one. Near the end of his circuit, he met with a man who was missing an arm. That was something Adolin saw less and less these days—the best of their Radiant healers could now Regrow limbs. Sometimes. It depended on many nebulous factors, like how old the wound was and how the person perceived it.

Rahel couldn’t manage such advanced Regrowth. So, Adolin encouraged the wounded man to see the lost arm as a temporary inconvenience—and promised that as soon as this was over, he would get the man to a more experienced healer.

“Well, if nothing else,” the wounded man said, “maybe I have a future on a bridge crew!”

Adolin laughed, though he wondered if the members of Bridge Four—and to a lesser extent, Bridge Thirteen—knew quite how famous they were. Each member, including many who had died before joining Dalinar’s army, had taken on near-mythological status in the Alethi military.

Adolin gave the soldier a firm squeeze on the shoulder and a nod of appreciation—for Adolin, that always seemed to work better than salutes. Then he stood up and checked the time. He could probably visit a few of the Azish wounded. Would they like that from a foreign officer? He looked down the long hallway, which was occupied by …

He trailed off as he recognized someone sitting beside a bed: a thin woman, with Azish skin coloring and Shin eyes, although she showed some hints of her Alethi parentage as well. If those were even the right terms, for a woman who had been born before Azir, Shinovar, or Alethkar had existed.

Her name was Shalash, but people called her Ash. Herald of the Almighty. Adolin hesitated, his guards and scribe for the day huddling behind him as they saw what he had. She sat beside a bed that held a mountain of a human being: Talenel, the Bearer of Agonies. The one they had left behind, and who—in finally breaking—had ushered in the return of the enemy.

“What are you staring at, princeling?” Ash called to him.

“I didn’t realize you were here,” he said.

“We are an afterthought,” Ash said, shrugging. “Your father brought us to Azir on his campaign; it seems he wants to keep us near, hoping our wisdom will rub off on him. That makes him the greater fool, since we have no wisdom left. Only madness and grief.”

Adolin stopped beside the bed and gazed at Taln, who lay on his back, eyes closed—muttering to himself.

“Is he all right?” Adolin asked.

Ash’s glare could have melted iron. “What do you think?”

Adolin leaned down and heard the ancient man whispering the same things as always. A mantra about how he was going to help the people to resist the coming evils.

“Are you worth it?” Ash asked.

“Pardon?” Adolin asked.

“Are you worth it?” She rested her hands on Taln’s arm. “Do you know the price that was paid on a distant world for your peace, by a man who never wanted this? A man who would have been content with his horses? Are you worth it ?”

“I don’t know,” Adolin said, honest.

“Time will tell.”

Unnerved, Adolin left the two Heralds. Rahel had joined his cluster of attendants: a young woman maybe seventeen with long ombre hair, going from dark brown to light brown. Her mistspren shone on the wall, appearing like scattered light; it was the uncorrupted variety. Rare, for one of those to let themself be seen by others. Perhaps it was for the Heralds’ benefit.

“I’m sorry, Brightlord,” the young Radiant said. “She refuses to let me try to heal him.”

“Your touch couldn’t do anything for that man,” Adolin assured her.

“Just like I can’t heal the lost limbs …” she said, accompanied by shamespren.

“You’re doing wonderfully,” Adolin assured her. “Half those men would be dead if not for you. Think of yourself as a field medic: your job isn’t to fix them up perfectly; your job is to make sure they survive until they can be fixed up.”

She nodded, then moved back to her station, where she had a stack of novels to keep her occupied between healings. Poor kid. Before yesterday, she’d probably never seen what battle could do—and now she would have a reminder every few hours. During these next days, she’d likely get even less sleep than he did.

He moved outside and found that a runner had arrived with a message. His scribe of the hour read it to him. “‘Enemy made a quick attack, but then almost immediately retreated,’” she said. “‘We’re licking our wounds. Low casualties this time, as neither group pushed too hard. My gut says they will try a Castle Down. Thoughts?’” The scribe lowered the paper. “Castle Down?”

“Move from towers,” Adolin said. “He thinks the enemy has been too regular with their assaults—on purpose, to make us expect a rhythm. The next attack will come later than expected, he thinks, as that will give us just enough time to start resting.” Adolin considered. Yes, this might be a better explanation than he’d come up with for the enemy behavior. “Write back and say I agree—and that I think we should be ready for an attack between an hour and a half and two hours from now.”

He checked the sky, where the sun had vanished below the horizon. That timing felt right—just long enough for the humans to start winding down and settle into bed. His scribe made the report via spanreed to the central message room, who would get it to Kushkam. This scribe wasn’t Kaminah, but a younger girl, maybe fourteen. With frizzy hair that refused to stay in its braids. She’d told him her name, but … with embarrassment, he realized it had slipped away from him. Bad form, that. Too much to keep his mind on, and too little sleep.

He asked her name again—Makana—and memorized it this time. He needed to take better care of himself, and do something relaxing for now to let his mind rest. And so, to that end, he gave a few quiet orders, then strode off into the night toward the most prominent set of tents.

He had an imperial friend to visit, and a promise to keep.