Chapter 60

I am well aware that if you were to know of my plans, you would be compelled to interfere. It is your way, is it not?

A dolin moved among the soldiers during their midday meal, visiting each smaller subcamp in turn. He’d never had a mind for numbers or words. He often felt stupid when women conversed—or even, strangely, when Shallan and Kaladin did. He followed what they said, but missed the implications.

But there was one thing he had a mind for, and that was names. People talked about being bad with names; he’d heard it a dozen times over. He’d been bad at them once. But in his experience, being bad with names was like being bad with swords. Most people could learn if they tried hard enough.

A name meant something. Adolin had learned that when he clasped hands with a spearman and remembered his name, and saw a certain brightness ignited in the man’s eyes. Dark or light. Learning names carried a price, because Adolin knew the faces of the fallen. It was a price he’d pay again and again, because if you were going to die for someone, you could at least do it for someone who knew who you were.

The men at his current stop drew laughterspren—like silver arrows that darted in circles—as he told a story of the time he’d arrived at a dance and found his trousers were on backward. He listened to their worries and complaints, and promised to do something about stubborn quartermasters and bland Soulcast food. He asked after families, loved ones, passions, and did his storming best to remember it all.

Because Adolin Kholin was bad at a whole terrible host of things. But he refused to let people be one of those.

He moved on, and heard the same story at each camp. It was barely their third day of the campaign, and already it was wearing everyone down. Most wars weren’t constant fighting, just occasional skirmishes or all-out clashes. This was different. This was a grueling, constant struggle—where you had to be alert as battle could come at any time. That took a toll.

It was relatively easy to get men riled up and energized if there was only one decisive battle to win. It was possible to keep them excited for a series of skirmishes, like on the Shattered Plains, where there was glory to be won and a good support structure at the warcamp. This extended—but aggressive—siege was different. Small numbers of defenders meant frequent rotations into the dome. It meant holding back an enemy, instead of conquering plateaus or taking ground. On the very best of days they were stagnant—and still returned to the camps a little less numerous.

So Adolin countered it in the best way he knew: With stories of flipped-around trousers and times when he was inspired by other soldiers. Reminders of victories they’d won. And by calling as many as he could remember by name. It wasn’t the way his father would have done it. Dalinar would speak of kingdom, king, and ideals—not play the charismatic commander. He’d tell the soldiers to fight for something, not some one. Because if the some one fell, Adolin’s way could lead to chaos, while a nation or ideal could outlast any one man’s death.

It was good, reasonable leadership advice. It ignored the fact that none of these soldiers really fought for their country or their ideals. Not in the moment. It might have been why they signed up; maybe it was why they said they fought. But in the sweat and blood and chaos and storm of the battle, they fought for none of that. They fought for one another.

When you stared down death, it was the people who mattered.

Adolin trudged away from the last subcamp, carrying with him the haunting sight of too many empty seats. How long had it been since he’d felt confident in this war? Not in Azimir specifically—this entire war against the singers. It was starting to get to him. He stopped in place and looked toward that bronze and stone dome. Inside, a crafty and relentless enemy continued to build larger and larger fortifications while Adolin’s people were buzzing with exhaustionspren.

And five days remained.

We’ll be reinforced, he told himself. Not long now. Just hold out until then. So far there was no intel on the phantom force harrying the main army, which was blessedly still making progress.

He checked the time using his aunt’s arm clock. There would be a highstorm later today, but for now there were a few things he could do to help the battle. One was to fill those seats with new bodies. Yes, his defense depended on having the best troops he could—as in tight confines he couldn’t field many soldiers. But a body in a spot was better than none. When the enemy surged, he needed to clog their way. So he met Colot at a large staging area on the cobbles in front of the dome, where several hundred people had gathered.

The Azish military had all kinds of recruitment rules. They had entrance exams of all things. The resulting military was tight, disciplined, and well-paid, and it made for an excellent career. But it was not equipped to deal with a draft, and it never let in outsiders.

While Adolin … well, the Alethi were a different kind of fighting force. His own honor guard was made up of men from all across the world, and his father had trained him in a tactic that had been an Alethi tradition for centuries: recruit like your life depended on it. He smiled, remembering Teleb talking about how he’d joined Dalinar’s army. Adolin’s father might speak of people fighting for cause or kingdom, but the man’s success was due in no small part to his own personal magnetism.

“What have we got, Colot?” Adolin asked, surveying the lines of potential recruits.

“You were right; there’s a lot to work with here. You have to be a specific kind of smart to make it in the Azish military, which leaves a lot of people out.” He paused. “Good thing we’re Alethi, or we’d be storming out of luck.”

Adolin smiled. “I talked to Kushkam. Apparently the entrance exams aren’t specifically to test intelligence—it’s an excuse to weed out bad actors. We’ll have many here who never tried out. But watch for those who did and failed. Some of those will be too violent, too undisciplined, and will have been failed for that—no matter the official reason.”

Colot grunted. “Strange way of doing it nonetheless.”

“You done any weeding yet?”

“They always take it better from you.”

Great. Adolin waved for Challa, his scribe of the day, to follow. She, like May’s other wards, was a younger girl; she was slightly cross-eyed, and always carried a piece of wood to fidget with. Desperate times meant people did desperate things, like show up for recruitment when they weren’t fit for battle. When active fighting was nearby, people felt a growing need to do something. To not merely hide at home and wait.

He respected them for that. And there was a strong argument to be made: if the fate of the nation was at stake, then wouldn’t he want every recruit he could get? The problem was, he had a limited number of people he could train and equip, and he had to make the best of that. More, he needed soldiers who could face a warform singer and not be shoved around.

So, he separated out those who were too small. He didn’t actively differentiate between underage boys, the women with slight builds, and the men who were too old or weak. But he still had to eliminate nine out of ten people in line. He left mostly craftsmen of one sort or another, including a handful of women with larger frames. As he pointed out each one, Challa made a note, and Colot pulled them from the line.

Adolin stopped by one taller woman, with good muscles on her, the strongest he’d seen so far. She stood with her eyes straight forward at attention.

“Name, soldier?” he asked her.

“Sarqqin, sir,” she said.

“Where’d you gain those muscles, Sarkuin?” he asked. Storms, he could not get that sound right.

“Blacksmithing, sir. I’ve apprenticed for seven years, and just been named master.”

“Impressive,” he said. “Like I’ve told the other women, if I let you in, you’ll have to live and work around men in what might be embarrassing situations.”

“I’m used to it, sir,” she said. “I have papers.”

Papers? He hesitated, then glanced at his scribe.

“One who has filled out the forms,” Challa the scribe whispered, “to live as a man.”

Ah. He’d heard of that. Well, the Azish did things their own way, didn’t they?

“Good to have you, Sarkuin,” Adolin said to the man, and moved on. Though he did make a note for Colot to assign him to a specific platoon where Adolin knew for a fact they’d been asking for a soldier with smithing experience.

By the end, most of the people he hadn’t pulled out of the lines accepted their fate. In his experience, many had known they’d probably be eliminated, but had forced themselves to sign up anyway. He had Colot gather them for other duties—surgeons needed help in the sick tent, and there were always messages to run. He could use all of them, but he wasn’t going to put someone who weighed only twenty brickweight on a front line pushing back warforms six and a half feet tall.

He gave his sergeants leave to begin some quick training—basically, he needed these recruits to know how to hold a stance and a shield, and some early instructions might help indicate if he’d picked anyone wrong. He turned to move on, and found himself face-to-face—well, chin-to-forehead—with an Azish girl who hadn’t been chosen.

She gave him a glare that could have punctured carapace. “Messenger?” she demanded. “You’re assigning me to be a messenger ?”

“We always need messengers.”

“I can fight!” she said. “I might look lanky for a boy, sir, but I’ll surprise you.”

“For a boy?” Adolin said, peering at her once more. “Um … do you … um … have papers?”

She glanced away. Then cursed under her breath. “No. Aqqil never needed them. What gave me away?”

Aqqil. That sound again. How did they do that? Adolin inspected the girl, taking in the baggy clothing, her hair recently cut short. She had the air of please-pretend-I-am-a-boy-so-I-can-kill-things. Like most militaries, the Azish did not recruit women, so this girl had likely assumed Adolin wouldn’t either.

“Acwill?” Adolin said. “I assume she’s a girl from a story, who dressed up as a boy and went to war?”

She nodded. “She went to save her brother.”

“It’s a famous story,” Challa whispered to him from the side. “I’ve read the most modern rendition. Quite exciting!”

“I had one of those I liked when I was young,” Adolin said. “My mother used to read it to me. About a girl who signed up because her brother was too sickly to serve. So, you and I share something …”

“Zabra,” the young woman said.

“… Zabra. But I’m sorry. I can use your help, but it will have to be running messages.”

“Because I’m a girl?”

“Because you can’t do the other jobs I need done.” He sighed, then waved for her to follow him. She did, still glaring. “Have you ever seen a warform up close, Zabra?”

“No,” she admitted, scuttling along with him. “But I know what you’re going to say. They’re big. They’re heavy. Well, that means they’re slow.”

“They’re not, actually,” he said. “That’s a mistake many people make. Some of the fastest soldiers I know are also the strongest.”

“They’ll still die from a spear in them,” she said. “Size isn’t everything.”

“No, it’s not,” he said, leading her to one of the armory tents. He sent Challa to fetch someone for him, then grabbed two large shields—meant for holding in front of a pike formation. He tossed one to Zabra. He took the other.

“Set your stance,” he said to her. “Hold me back.”

To her credit, she did her best. Might have had a little training, judging by the way she was able to position herself and set her feet.

Adolin took one step, slammed his shield against hers, and sent her tumbling.

“Try me again,” she said, stubborn, climbing to her feet.

He placed his shield, and sent her backward in a sprawling heap.

“You can’t expect me,” she said, boiling with angerspren, “to stand against a trained soldier, not yet!”

In response, his scribe returned with one of the other new recruits—a man in his twenties, of average height and build. Adolin gave him the shield, then pointed. “See if you can push her backward.”

It wasn’t even a contest. Despite Zabra setting her shield and her stance, this lout with no training—but unfair genetics—sent her sprawling.

Adolin squatted by Zabra as she lay on her back, shield fallen beside her. He did empathize with the frustration. Storms, he’d felt it, as he strode into this new world with Fused and Radiants. The world upending, and his dueling skill suddenly meaning so much less.

“I remember,” he said, “when my father refused to let me join him in battle. I remember that humiliation, that anger. But Zabra … if I put you in, people will die. My soldiers. Your friends. However … this is your origin, your chance. You can storm away now and tell yourself my stupidity has prevented your heroism.

“Or, you can make another choice. You can do as I’m asking, and you can run messages. Take the chance to learn your way around the military, see if there’s a spot for you. Probably not this battle, but maybe. Because every person I put on that field—messengers and medics alike—is a person in danger. A soldier. If those front lines break, the enemy is going to pour into this city. They’ll fight through the reserves next, and if the reserves fall …”

He slid his knife from his side sheath and offered it to her. “In that event,” he said, “all that’s left will be you. I hope to the Halls above it won’t come to that, but if it does, you’ll get your chance to bleed. But only if you accept the opportunity I’m offering.”

“Being a stupid messenger girl,” she said.

“Zabra, can you look me in the eyes and tell me you want to be the weak link in a shield wall?”

She hesitated, then reached up and took the proffered knife from him.

“Good,” he said. “First step to being a soldier: take responsibility for your part and what it can cost others if you don’t do a good job. Report to May Aladar. Say you’re a new messenger—and I will check to see you report correctly, Zabra. I’m dumb, but I’m not a fool.”

“Yes, sir,” she grumbled.

“Tell May I said that if you serve well, she’s allowed to give you some archery training.”

“… She?” Zabra said, sitting up.

He nodded. “Combat archery isn’t something you can be taught in a few days, but if you want to live the dream of running off to join a foreign military, that’s likely your best bet. We’ll see if you outlast the siege first. Dismissed, soldier.”

She scrambled away carrying his knife. A short time later, Colot strolled up with a replacement knife. “I told you they take it better from you.”

Adolin grunted, sheathing the knife.

“Warning,” Colot said. “You’re up for duty in the dome.”

Adolin was barely halfway to his armorers when the bells sounded—the enemy was making an assault. He started running.

Chasmfiends could sing.

Each of the beasts rose on an array of feet, turning a thick neck skyward and releasing a quartet of harmonizing notes, for they could call with multiple voices at once. Venli had been warned, but still she thought it remarkable, as she found something familiar in the notes. They vibrated within her, deep down to her gemheart. There were tones to the planet, separate from the rhythms her people heard. Perhaps these were the tones of the gods. But if that was the case, why four?

More oddly, the very ground vibrated along.

Watch, Venli, the stones whispered. See.

See the coming storm? No, the stones wanted her to watch them. So while all other eyes turned toward the chasmfiends or toward the east, Venli crouched and watched sand dance on stone, vibrating as if it was hot and each grain was a little person, trying to keep from being scalded. They separated, forming into groups … geometric divisions.

“Are the chasmfiends doing this?” she asked.

We enhance. You can enhance further.

With Timbre’s encouragement, Venli drew in Stormlight and placed her hands on the ground—letting the vibration fill her—then pushed Stormlight out. The stone began to shift, becoming as if liquid. Often when she’d done this, she’d commanded the stone to take certain shapes—molded in part by her will, in part by her fingers, as if she were making a bowl out of soft crem. Today, she let the tones do the shaping.

The resulting pattern was curious to her. She pulled her hands back, Stormlight evaporating, leaving a five-foot round section of rock distorted into a tiny mountain range.

Timbre thrummed with excitement. The Shattered Plains? Yes, Timbre said it looked exactly like the Shattered Plains.

Venli didn’t see it. The Plains had chasms, while this had ridges. However, Timbre had flown above the Plains, and thought the similarity was remarkable. It was true the shape of the place had always been unusual. She looked to Thude and her mother, but both had gone running to help prepare the camp.

Venli didn’t know how to help, so she stayed out of the way as the chasmfiends formed a ring against the storm, while their young gathered inside. The larger beasts would face inward and lift their chests off the ground, making space. Though the camp had some permanent structures, those weren’t fully trustworthy yet, so many listeners gathered here. It wasn’t quite like being indoors, but it was far better than being exposed.

Venli stood with one hand up and pressed against the carapace chest of a beast. She braced herself for the stormwall, and felt strangely peaceful as it crashed across the chasmfiends, who growled and trumped at it in defiance. She huddled down next to a small chasmfiend the size of an axehound. Though it had a wicked face and claws, it sidled up to her and rubbed the top of its head on her shoulder. She had always imagined they were solitary, but she supposed that was because she only saw them when they were hunting or searching for a place to pupate.

Lightning crashed outside, but the enormous chasmfiends protected them from the brunt of both wind and debris. At one point several chasmfiends roared, their trumpeting voices audible even over the howling wind. Venli approached the leg of the one sheltering her and gazed out at the passing Stormstriders, enormous spren with long imbs. The striders didn’t seem to care about the chasmfiends’ challenge, but she got the sense from the satisfied trumps that the chasmfiends believed they had run the odd spren off.

A few people slipped out from the shelter, off to seek new forms. She wasn’t certain she’d ever do that again—she liked the limber form of power she held, so long as she could remain free from Odium’s interference by virtue of Timbre. As the storm continued though, questions still bothered her. The storm was relevant for pupating chasmfiends, and they could use it for smaller growth cycles elsewhere. She’d always assumed the chasmfiends came to the Plains to better access the storms—but there were hills out here that were taller.

It wasn’t the elevation. It was something else.

She ducked back within the shelter, such as it was, relatively dry as water poured along the beast’s body outside, streaming down to the stones in the darkness. She didn’t experience a moment of clarity or stillness at the center of this storm, but she was well aware when the gemstones burst alight—tied in malen beards or gathered in baskets. She felt the strength thrum through her as she breathed in Light, then she knelt and placed her hands on the stones again.

Show me, she thought.

Come to the center.

The center of the camp here?

No. The center of the Plains. Your former home. But beware. A battle happens there now.

Narak. They meant Narak, the collection of plateaus at the heart of the Shattered Plains.

Show me what you can here, she asked, and poured more Stormlight into the stones. Nearby, her mother and Bila moved over, joining a small crowd that watched the stones liquefy and undulate before her.

They formed the Shattered Plains, as she’d seen before—with ridges instead of chasms. They came to make a city, like the others, the stones said. Humans. They brought with them power—power to make the stones vibrate. An incredible power.

She saw the thoughts of the stones. This land had been home to singers once, then to humans with a vaguely blue tint to their skin. They’d built a grand nation, and had wanted a capital city, as befitted the other great nations. A tenth Oathgate. Beautiful walls and patterns of stone.

They had built it. With power.

When was this? Venli asked.

Not long ago, the stones said. Although she wondered if stones could understand mortal timescales.

What happened around the same time?

They showed her, in another patch of stone. Urithiru being built. Soon after, the coming of a great king … and Timbre knew him. The one known as Nohadon. Timbre pulsed. She was certain there had been no Radiants at that time. They’d been founded during Nohadon’s reign, or soon after.

There weren’t any Radiants then, she thought to the stones. How?

Once, you sang with us, the stones said, needing no Radiant bond. The humans were the same.

Yes … she’d heard this before, from the rock at Urithiru. Singers had learned to use Surges long, long ago. However, the Radiant bond had organized and structured the powers. Something … something about using the powers without that structure had been dangerous …

Because of the new gods, the stones thought with sorrow . They didn’t understand. No one understood the alien stones at the place’s heart.

Alien stones?

The fourth moon. Now dead. Now fallen. With stone that is not quite stone. And when gods came here …

Stone went haywire, vibrating at insane speed. She saw people sink into it. She saw destruction. Terror. A landscape broken by the hand of Honor himself. Why had he destroyed this city? Had it been because they’d dared use Surges?

When the ground settled—continuing to glow with Light—the little map showed the Shattered Plains she knew. A broken landscape, fractured, but bearing a haunting sense of symmetry. A corpse. Why had Honor turned against them? And before that, where had they ever found the power for such an act? Sculpting an entire city? Even with a hundred Willshapers, she couldn’t imagine that possibility.

It’s still here, the stones whispered.

“What?” she asked. “The strange stone?”

And more. Come and see.

She let the stones harden, and—to the beating sound of the rain—ran her fingers across them. Streams of water trickled in from the edges of the chasmfiends’ shelter, filling the miniature chasms.

“When was this place broken?” Venli whispered, but immediately felt foolish.

Not long ago, the stones said.

Stones. They really had a bad sense of time.

What else happened at the same time as the breaking?

It showed her nine figures, in a ring, with swords. Aharietiam, when the Heralds had vanished.

Come and see, the stones whispered to her, their voices fading. Come to the center.

Venli looked to the others who had gathered. Budding Willshapers, with bonded spren. “Was that … the stone itself, Venli?” Thude asked. “I heard it in my head, like a chorus. I couldn’t make out the words, but … I felt warm.”

“Like a familiar voice,” Jaxlim said, “welcoming me home …”

“We need to make an expedition to Narak,” Venli said. “Leaving today, if we can. The stones say there is a secret there that we need to see. Those of you who want to know the truth should join me.” She paused. “There’s a war happening there, so we’ll need to travel through the chasms, and hope they are not too flooded.”