Chapter 55

Dearest Cephandrius,

Your rebuttal is eloquent, as always, but did you think I would be moved?

V enli sat in the cave alone. She’d carved it by her own hand, using her abilities to shape the stone.

Outside, an enormous shadow passed by, accompanied by the distinctive scrapes and thumps of a chasmfiend. People walked with the beast, their rhythms optimistic. For the first time in so very long, things seemed to be improving for her kind.

Unless Venli had led ultimate destruction their way.

She closed her eyes, placed her hands on the stones, and sang to them.

Welcome, child of ancients, the stones replied. Welcome, stonesinger. Welcome, Radiant.

“I need guidance,” Venli whispered. “Please.”

About what? the stones asked.

“My people … by taking me in, by sheltering renegade Fused like Leshwi … will draw Odium’s ire. I have felt his anger. I worry that I’ve led destruction to the listeners. Again.”

We do not know the future, the stones said. We sing of the past. Of days long ago when we sang together, and you shaped us. When your kind knew the stone.

Like the rock at Urithiru, these stones were eager to speak with her—and their rhythms were those of Joy and Peace. They named themselves Ko, the stones of the hills, but sometimes spoke as if all stone—indeed, all Roshar—were one.

They eagerly showed her the past, and with her powers that meant shapes appeared from the stone floor. Tiny sculptures only inches tall, representing her people crossing to this land. Periodically looking up, as if noticing something. Or … listening?

The rock had no answers. It didn’t care about the “new” gods; it just wanted to sing, which would have been delightful, if she weren’t increasingly anxious over what she’d done. Taking the oaths of a Knight Radiant, at long last. Her words being accepted by … well, she supposed it must have been Cultivation.

Venli had brought the Reachers, the lightspren, to her kind. Starting with Jaxlim, Venli’s mother, a full two dozen listeners had bonded spren. A brilliant outpouring of power, far faster than any of the other orders had been refounded. The lightspren had been so eager.

And yet … this sort of thing drew attention. Lately she’d been hearing distant thunder, that of the Everstorm approaching, though no one else seemed to be able to hear it. That sound terrified her; she knew him all too well. With her hands on the ground of her small chamber, her flesh shivered—and her stomach twisted, her carapace feeling cold—as she remembered days serving him. Singing his songs, his rhythms. Watching as he destroyed the listeners—so he’d thought—in order to create false martyrs to pin on the humans.

A remnant had survived somehow, despite it all. And she’d come to them. She had to help.

Please, she said to the stones. Give me a way.

They merely continued to sing with her, joyous. We’re happy you’re here. We brought you to this place, where the songs were once the loudest, and now you sing with us again.

The stones didn’t think about tomorrow. Let the wind worry about that. The stones could enjoy the past.

Finally she let go, but she continued humming softly to Joy. Although she hadn’t gotten her answers, when speaking with the stones she couldn’t help but find a sense of place. She hadn’t realized, until a quiet day at Urithiru, how much the songs meant to her. How much her heritage meant to her. She’d squandered these wonders all her life, her own eyes on the future—and only the future.

Unfortunately, having been Odium’s mouthpiece, she knew him all too well. He would come for them once he’d dealt with the humans. She rose, and left her cave to gaze out at her people. Seventeen hundred listeners, including many children. The elderly, the infirm, the young, and a stalwart group of soldiers, Eshonai’s closest friends—who had refused the forms of power Venli had brought.

These were the true soul of the listeners. They had looked power in the eyes and had rejected it.

Being a listener means … the stones said to her … to listen to the stones … and your ancestors …

Inside her, Timbre attuned the Rhythm of Remembrance. Here in these completely unsheltered lands—the wide flatland southeast of the Shattered Plains—Venli’s people made homes from crem and chunks of greatshell carapace. This place had once been considered too dangerous to visit, as it was the home of chasmfiends.

Now those chasmfiends moved among her people. Or … well, mostly they slept among her people. Giant lumps of monstrous chitin, who were content to lounge around with people literally climbing all over them. They liked to be brushed or scratched like giant axehound pups. And her people had no lack of food, as evidenced by a chasmfiend returning from the hunt dragging a twenty-foot-tall dead zumble—a herbivore with a bulbous black carapace. The chasmfiend let the listeners slice off some chunks for cooking as it settled down to eat.

A gentle humming drew her attention. She glanced over as her mother, Jaxlim, stepped up—a listener with a round face, long hairstrands in a braid, and a complex skin pattern of very thin lines. Instantly Venli was a little girl again. Listening to the songs and diligently memorizing them at her mother’s feet. Usually those memories were accompanied by a frustration with her sister—Eshonai had never done what she should, yet had always been Mother’s favorite.

Today … Venli maintained Joy, and shifted to the Rhythm of the Lost for her sister. In the end, Eshonai had done more for their people than Venli ever had. Timbre had chosen both of them. It was not a rivalry.

Oddly, Jaxlim hummed to Anxiety. Venli returned Confusion.

“I feel that I am to blame,” Jaxlim explained. “If I had not taught you songs that made you thirst for forms of power, then maybe—”

“Mother,” Venli said. “ No. I’ve spent too many months trying to avoid taking responsibility. I won’t have anyone give me more excuses, not even you. I did what I did, and it was not your fault. The terrible choices were mine.”

Inside, Timbre responded with the Rhythm of Resolve.

“Still,” Jaxlim said, looking across the people with their carapace huts clustered in groups of four between resting chasmfiends. “To finally come to myself, and to find us broken … It was my duty to guide with song and story.”

Venli stepped up next to her mother, who had always been so strong … until she wasn’t. That, Venli realized, was the way of life. No carapace was so thick it couldn’t crack.

She took her mother’s hand and hummed to Resolve. “We weathered it,” Venli said. “Cracked, yes, but our people survived. Now we need to find a way to continue without being destroyed by Odium.”

“I don’t know if I can solve that problem entirely,” Jaxlim said, “but I’ve been thinking over the old songs, and I believe I might have something that will help.”

Venli hummed to Hope.

“Come,” Jaxlim said. “Let us speak to your friends—the ancient ones you call Fused.”

Dalinar moved through shifting realities. He told himself that he needed to stomach it—that he needed to see what had been.

He opened his eyes.

For the briefest moment, he stood on a burned hillside at night, in a land with a strange pale moon. A broken city smoldered before him, one with high walls that had been shattered, and within it a strange people. He raised what he knew was a weapon, though it was no sword or polearm, and unleashed lines of light while his armies surged around him.

He wore black Shardplate.

Storms. He squeezed his eyes shut. It’s merely a possibility. It won’t happen. I will make certain it doesn’t happen. Yet these were the terms he’d agreed to: if he failed the contest of champions, he would lead Odium’s armies in their conquest of other worlds. Could he do that?

He’d given his word. Storms.

Sounds assaulted him. War, screams, soldiers dying. He refused to open his eyes to it, and instead reached out. He was a Bondsmith. He could make bonds, find bonds, strengthen bonds. There was a strong bond for him here in this place …

Or several?

Three strong bonds. A few others nearly as strong. That was odd. What was he Connected to in here aside from Navani? The Stormfather? No … that bond was different. These others were bright, and … and close? Brilliant white lines spreading from him, one pointing to …

A young man … no, an old man … no, a child … Elhokar? Was that Elhokar ?

It was gone in a moment, leaving him with a haunting echo. He tried to follow, but found himself pulled toward another instead. A bond with someone whose love he didn’t deserve, yet sometimes still took for granted. Someone whose touch made him come alive, and whose smile made him a better man.

She was … there. He found Navani’s hand and opened his eyes to her, seeing her in a hundred different variations, one after another, everything from a young maiden to an aged queen. That smile—that knowing smile—remained the same.

“We need another vision!” Dalinar shouted against the tide of images that flowed around them like a current. “We need an anchor!”

“Fortunately,” Navani shouted, “I thought of that!”

“You did?”

She raised her hand, which was wrapped in a red ribbon. It stayed the same, even though everything else about her shifted. “I got it from Shalash!”

Storms, she was amazing. He touched the ribbon and felt it guiding them, just as the stone had. The realm seemed to calm.

“Navani,” Dalinar said, “the Stormfather offered to take us out and … I refused him.” He met her eyes. “He’s frightened of what we might discover. That alone is enough to encourage me to seek it. I’m sorry. I should have consulted you.”

She nodded, accepting that. “Time remaining?”

He glanced at his arm. “Five days. I am convinced the Stormfather is deliberately hiding the secret of how to absorb and use Honor’s power. To find it …”

“We must find our way to the day Honor died,” Navani agreed. “We must witness the fall of the Knights Radiant and the death of the Almighty.”

Dalinar nodded. “The Stormfather said that the power would never approve of me, because ‘it cannot stand another who would do what Honor did.’”

Navani lifted the ribbon as a vision began to coalesce around them. “With the right anchors,” she said, “we can jump forward through time and locate the right vision. We know the names of some of the Radiants involved in the Recreance—someone named Melishi was a Bondsmith then.”

“Thank you,” Dalinar said, holding her hands.

“I’m still not sure what I think of our goal here,” she said. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“I know,” he said. “At least I’m trying something new. Your way. Less war, more scholarship.”

“This is more history than it is engineering,” she said as the vision locked into place. “So: Jasnah’s way more than mine. But … it is good to be searching for answers rather than simply charging forward and hoping everything works out.”

The chaos had fully stabilized now. The two of them were in a dark room with a dirt floor. A fire burned in the center, giving a primal kind of light to the scene. Jezrien, looking older than the last time they’d seen him, sat on the ground by the fire with Ishar and a few others. Shalash, now appearing to be an older teen, wore that same ribbon in her hair. Ishar somehow seemed more weathered than the others, with haggard eyes and a white beard.

The woman Dalinar assumed was Chanaranach, with brilliant red hair and a Veden appearance, knelt beside him. She wore makeshift carapace armor. Her right hand rested on the hilt of a primitive sword—made from sharpened pieces of carapace embedded into wood. Again, her safehand—like those of the other women in the room—was exposed.

There was no door to the room, just a hanging cloth, and someone pulled it back, allowing sunlight to enter. “He’s here,” the person said, and Dalinar was glad to—this time—be able to understand the language.

Jezrien turned to Dalinar. “Well,” he said. “It is time to make a decision.”

“Then,” Dalinar said, “make a decision we shall.”

He was shocked how effortless it felt to fall into playing along with the vision. The first times he’d done this, he’d felt so awkward. Now it was almost second nature to start manipulating the conversation.

“You say it so easily,” Jezrien said.

“I’ve had a long time to think,” Dalinar said, careful not to be too specific or committal. He couldn’t afford to let this vision fall apart until he had another anchor to move forward in time once more. “But still, a solution eludes me. Outline the problem for me, as we know it, one final time?”

“A wise choice,” Ishar said, settling down with them, and then he held his hands before himself in an odd gesture, palms up. It evidently meant something to the others, but merely speaking their language didn’t provide Dalinar with the accompanying cultural context. “As always, Kalak, your calm sense of reason is encouraging. How is it no decision, no matter how painful, ever seems to upset you?”

“I’m simply good at hiding it,” Dalinar said.

“You’re too calm,” Chana said, sitting. She gave an odd sweeping gesture with her hand, her fingers wriggling. “You always have been shoshau . Makes me want to do something to upset you.” She smiled, and that word, shoshau … he half understood it. Some kind of idiom?

Next to Dalinar, Navani gave him a look, which—because he knew her—he thought he could read. She was impressed. Delicate conversation had never been his strongest talent. But … well, time and experience could make a diplomat even from an old whitespine like him, apparently.

“Our people,” Jezrien said from beside the fire, “continue to push against the confines set by the singers. Fifty years, and already war is starting. Inevitable.”

“I would not find our way to it again,” said the last person at the fire—an Alethi-looking woman, in green, with long black hair. “After what happened last time …” She closed her eyes, and a soft glow came from her. “Prayers. Prayers, heavens, and songs …”

Dalinar started. Navani’s eyes went wide. That wasn’t Stormlight, but it felt similar. That was control of the Surges, centuries before the Knights Radiant. The action seemed to attract a spren—a glowing figure forming behind her, in the darkness. Something was familiar about it, like … an echo of something Dalinar had seen earlier.

It vanished a second later.

“We won’t let it go that far, Vedel,” Jezrien promised, speaking to the woman as she stopped glowing.

“But high heavens and beasts below!” Chana said. “We have to do something, Your Majesty. Thirty people slaughtered?” Angerspren boiled around her—plainly by this time, humans had started attracting spren, unlike the last vision.

“Not our people,” Ishar said, making another odd gesture, two fingers up. “Makibak’s rebels.”

Shalash glared at him. “You’ll start another war with them. With Nale.”

“They’re not our people, ” Ishar said, repeating the gesture. “They never have been, child.”

“Bah!” Ash said, standing up. “I’m tired of being called that!” She tugged at the ribbon in her hair, then turned and stalked toward the door.

“My precious one,” Jezrien said, reaching toward her. But she was gone a second later.

Jezrien started to go after her. Vedel—the Herald Vedeledev—put a hand on Jezrien’s shoulder. She was the Herald of Healing, by their lore, a master of mind and soul who held the keys of immortality. “She might not be able to see that maturity comes more slowly for her, because of what Surgebinding did to us, but she is also correct. She isn’t a child any longer.”

He nodded, taking a deep breath.

“I’ll talk to her later,” Chana said, gesturing with both palms upward. “But we have important matters to discuss. Ishar is right. Makibak and his rebels are a different nation.”

“ All humans are our people, Ishar, Chana,” Jezrien said. “Regardless of ethnicity or background. But … you are right too. We can’t simply let this go.” He looked to Navani, then to Dalinar. “Kalak? Pralla? Thoughts?”

“So,” Dalinar said carefully. “Thirty humans were killed by singers, as our peoples clash. And they have … been treating us poorly.”

“Confining us to these lands,” Chana said, “where barely anything grows. If we move to the east, where they have their fine stone-sung buildings and food in abundance, they demand we serve them. That might have been enough for the first generation, Kalak—they knew only war and fire. But the younger generation who have grown up here? They can’t stand it.”

Dalinar nodded. He knew the context now, could place this vision. They all sat for a short time, and he didn’t prompt them to say anything else. They’d jumped forward barely fifty years—and he’d need to be able to take much greater leaps if he wanted to reach the Recreance. He covertly checked his clock just in case, but found mere seconds had passed. Again, when he was in a vision, time stretched the other way—with the world outside moving at a crawl.

“I think,” Navani said to the others, “I could use some fresh air before we make this decision.”

Smart, a way to delay and get more bearings. The others accepted that, climbing to their feet. As they stepped out, Dalinar found they’d been in some kind of man-made cave. A room dug into a hillside, but one formed entirely of mud. They were in a … well, a kind of town of mud homes and many tents. Those seemed to be hogshide—much thicker than cloth, and more permanent than the tents he’d seen. They had one high point in the center, then sweeping hogshide sides that were eventually spiked to the soft ground.

The humans here mostly resembled the Alethi or Vedens, some with darker tan skin, some with lighter pale skin. He didn’t see anyone with dark brown skin other than Shalash, nor did he see anyone other than her who looked Shin. Their eyes were a variety of shades, more darkeyed than not.

Jezrien, who was darkeyed himself, was gazing toward a group of singers a short distance away. “They’ll expect some kind of response, Kalak. Shoshau. This comes to a head. Our people cannot be confined.”

“There’s an answer other than war,” Navani said. “There has to be.”

“If scholars like you ruled the world, Pralla,” Jezrien said, “then maybe there would be. Take your breather, and drink the heavens’ fresh air. I will greet the singers. Kalak, join me, once you have made up your mind.”

He walked away. Dalinar turned, and noted what appeared to be fields of grain out in the mud, but they were clearly struggling. Meager stalks of something growing in rows—no grass anywhere to be seen, a few tiny lifespren. At least the mud was mostly dry this time, packed under his feet.

Jezrien stopped a short distance from the singer contingent, who looked far better equipped, with strange stone weapons that were too honed to have been formed by chipping. The axe held by one near the front was so smooth it could have been Soulcast. Their clothing, while still primitive, was better constructed than that of the humans. Cloth instead of furs, their leathers well cured, their dyes vibrant.

It was … surreal. After all he’d been through, a part of him still imagined the singers as the Parshendi or parshmen. As primitives, far less advanced than the Alethi. Here that was dramatically different. Humans were barely surviving, while the singers thrived.

This was their world.

“The ribbon brought us here,” Navani said. “It’s somehow relevant to this moment, this day. I don’t think we’ve seen why, but once we do, we will likely be near the end of the vision. So we need another anchor.”

“Maybe we can find something new to jump us all the way to the Recreance.”

“The Radiants don’t even exist yet, gemheart,” Navani said. “I think we’d be better off making a few smaller jumps forward to test our process.” She nodded toward Jezrien, who had been joined by Chana, Vedel, and Ishar. “Those all become Heralds in the future—we should seek for some way to reach that moment.”

“That … did seem to be something Cultivation wanted me to witness. She mentioned me seeing the truth of the Heralds. But how? What anchor could we find?”

“I felt something when I touched that ribbon,” Navani said. “I wonder if I could use that sense to identify other possibilities. Our powers Connect us, but can also sense Connections …”

Her saying it prompted Dalinar to reach for Stormlight, to see if he could again form a web of light and lines around him. Immediately he had that same strange impression as before, of a bond he didn’t recognize. This time he moved. He reached out with both hands as a shimmer of light appeared—which he seized. A part of him felt like he was reaching for Elhokar’s ghost. Instead he found a child.

Gavinor. His grandnephew.

“ Gav? ” Dalinar said, pulling the child to him.

The little boy—wide-eyed—gasped. He grabbed hold of Dalinar, gripping tightly. “Grampa. You found me.”

Dalinar held to him, baffled, and glanced at Navani. Was this some strange manifestation of the Spiritual Realm? She put her hand to the boy’s face, looking deeply into his eyes, and Dalinar saw lines of light extending from her—a strong one touching the boy.

“I think it’s really him,” Navani said. “Gavinor? What happened?”

Gav whimpered in Dalinar’s lap. How would others react to a child appearing with them?

“I’m sorry,” the boy whimpered. “I was watching. I didn’t want to be left. I snuck away from Mararin and I watched you in the basement. Then there was light, and … and …”

Dalinar groaned.

Little Gav cringed. “Don’t be angry, Grampa. Don’t be angry.”

“It’s not the child’s fault, Dalinar,” Navani said. “We opened the portal. We tried this insane plan.”

“He’s in serious danger though,” Dalinar said. “He snuck away from his minder, and now … Storms. We have to get him back to safety!”

“Yes, but anger won’t change anything.”

Damnation. She was right. He didn’t like this, but Gav couldn’t be made to feel he was a problem. Dalinar pulled Gav closer into an embrace. “Gav. I’m not angry, not at you. I’m angry at myself for letting this happen. I’m glad we found you.”

The boy buried his face in Dalinar’s chest. “I was with Mother again,” he whispered. “Over and over. I hate those red spren …”

“Is there any way we can send him to safety?” Navani asked Dalinar. “Maybe the Stormfather?”

Dalinar reached out to the bond, but gained no response. “I … don’t think he wants to interact with me right now.” He took a deep breath, calming himself. “We’ll try next time he approaches me. For now … maybe we should find an anchor, so at least we don’t get trapped in the Spiritual Realm.”

Navani took Gav, because she obviously wanted to comfort him. A soldier walked past, wearing furs and carrying a crude stone spear. “What an odd spren …” he said, eyeing Gav. Then he seemed embarrassed, noticing the two of them. “Sorry, Surgebinders. Sorry.” He made an awkward gesture with one hand out as he bowed, then hurried away.

“Spren?” Navani said.

“I yanked him into the vision abruptly,” Dalinar said. “The vision will try to adapt, and maybe the best way for it to account for someone appearing out of nowhere is to give them the appearance of a spren to the people of the vision.”

“Ah …” Navani said. “You must be right. And you claim not to be a scholar.”

“I keep good company,” Dalinar said.

“Grampa?” Gav said, squeezing his eyes shut. “A spren? I don’t like spren.”

“It’s all pretend, Gav,” Navani said. “This place? It’s just a story. We’re living in a story.” She paused, then continued. “You remember when Shallan made the story of the axehounds appear from light? And you got to play with them?”

Gav opened his eyes. “Yes. Yes, I liked that.”

“This is the same,” Navani said. “A story of long ago, made for fun. Exactly like the Lightweaving.”

Gav nodded, and seemed much less frightened as he let her hold him.

“You,” Dalinar said, “are a genius.”

“We’ll see,” Navani said. “There’s no telling when the vision will break apart. We should divide our time. I’ll poke around and see if I can find anything that might Connect us to this location, but in the near future.”

“I’ll talk to the other Heralds,” Dalinar said. “And try to find something Connecting us to the day they became Heralds.”

Dalinar jogged over to Jezrien and the others. A tall singer at the front of their group stepped forward as Dalinar arrived. He was a malen of black and red carapace, with a long face, gemstones in his beard. He was old, which you could tell not only by the wrinkles on his face, but also by the whitening of his carapace around the edges.

“My friend,” the singer said to Dalinar with a pronounced smile. Broader than singers usually gave, perhaps as an exaggeration for human eyes. “Kalak, you have barely aged. I had not thought the stories to be true, yet here you stand. Twenty years since last we parted, and you are still the same man I saw when you passed into this world fifty years ago.”

Jezrien looked to him, and Dalinar remembered he was supposed to be making a decision. He met the king’s eyes and nodded. He still didn’t know exactly what he was deciding, but he projected confidence.

Jezrien held out a hand upward, and seemed questioning. Dalinar, after a moment’s thought, mimicked the gesture. Jezrien took that with a grim expression, but nodded and turned back to the singer. “Are we finally going to talk about the problem, Elodi? Or are we going to reminisce?”

“I prefer to reminisce,” Elodi said, his gaze moving to study the town. “You are making this place yours, Jezrien. There is so much room to expand.”

“Wasteland,” Jezrien said. “Barely anything can grow.”

“Your people are welcome in the east.”

“As servants,” Dalinar said. “Practically slaves.”

“How else will you learn our ways? Wise children sit at the feet of their fathers.” Elodi stepped closer to Jezrien. Chana moved to block him, but Jezrien waved her off. Dalinar would not have expected a female bodyguard during this era, but her job was obvious.

Elodi spoke softly, to a sharp rhythm. “This is bad, my friends,” he said, regarding each of them. “Very bad.”

“Thirty of my kind are dead,” Jezrien said.

“In retribution for theft and the murder of a singer,” Elodi replied. “Your people encroach upon the hunting grounds to the east. Some among my kind are starting to refer to humans as pests. Like a cremling worm in our grain. I have not … heard such vitriol before. Ever.” He eyed the sky. “There is a darkness growing in this land. New gods, Jezrien. I do not like the words of the new gods. But the old ones are losing their voices …”

“Can you calm your people?” Jezrien asked.

“Can you contain yours?”

“We cannot, Elodi,” Jezrien said. “Most do not accept me as king. To be honest, many hate me. I cannot stop them.”

“They will start a war.”

Jezrien glanced at Dalinar, as if for backup. So, Dalinar took the opportunity—crude though he knew it was—to try something. “Maybe,” he said, “if Honor were to bless us in some way—show us how to contain our powers as Surgebinders—we could lead the people again, and regain their trust. Then perhaps we could prevent war.”

Nearby, Ishar gasped. Jezrien put his hand to a pouch tied to his belt. “How do you know about that?” he hissed, drawing shockspren.

“It is just something I’ve been thinking,” Dalinar said.

“This is not the time,” Ishar said. “We will talk later. Elodi, if there has to be war … then there has to be war.”

“Makibak and his rebels are proud,” Jezrien said, making a gesture with two fingers. “But they are good people, and I cannot blame them for their hatred of me. They seek better lands, where the wind sings to the plants and causes them to grow. My people are dying in this mud pit.”

“Better than burning on your old world.”

“This one will come to flames as well, soon. I can’t halt it, but I think you might be able to. The singers listen to you.”

Elodi looked to the sky again. “And I listen to the old gods. The Wind, the Stone. They whisper for me to go east, to leave this pile of tinder before the bonfire begins.”

“In leaving,” Jezrien said, “you take with you every hint of common sense left to the singer nation. There will be war.”

“There’s already war, my friend,” Elodi said. “Stay on your side of the mountains.”

“I don’t think we can do that, Elodi,” Jezrien said. “Not if humans are dying.”

“Then pray that I do leave for the east, so we do not meet again,” Elodi said. “My people are listening to your god these days. I hope to drown out his voice with the Rhythm of Peace, but …”

Elodi gave them one last glance, then gathered his people and left. Hiking away.

“ Gwythiadri! ” Jezrien snapped once he was gone. A … curse word? Dalinar thought it might be a name. Jezrien turned and stalked back toward the dugout. Ishar and Chana gave chase. Nearby, Dalinar spotted Shalash standing with her hands clasped, watching the singers retreat. Past her, Navani was speaking with some people near a cookfire. Gav sat next to her, and while some passed by and noticed him, nobody found him too odd.

The boy being here made Dalinar anxious. Gavinor had been through so much—being abandoned to evil spren by one parent, then losing the other moments later. Dalinar reached out again to the Stormfather, but got no response.

Well, Cultivation had sent him here. He had to trust in that, and in his instincts. It was not a burden he wanted, but he had never wanted any of this. Roshar needed a king, and so a king he would be. He strode up to the dugout, determined to find an anchor to continue their quest.