Chapter 62

As for Valor, our dealings are none of your business—for largely the same reasons. Can you not leave her alone?

D alinar didn’t spend long in the chaos this time. Using the little engraved stone, he pulled himself, Gav, and Navani through to the next vision almost immediately.

In moments, the three of them appeared on solid, familiar stone. Storms, it was good to feel rock beneath his feet. He turned and saw another camp full of old-fashioned tents, populated by humans of mixed heritage. Few Shin, except Ishar and maybe Ash. He picked out many individuals here who might have been Alethi, Veden, Reshi, Marati, Thaylen, and Azish. No Horneaters, Natan, Iriali, or their cousins the Rirans.

A few small horses carried packs nearby, but he still didn’t see any wagons, nor any permanent buildings. Glancing around, he spotted Jezrien, who wore a cloak and tunic of a rough blue cloth.

“We’re on the other side of the mountains this time, based on these trees,” Navani said. She touched a nearby branch and the leaves pulled in. “We’ve gone with them on their expedition to Azir, perhaps? So … maybe only a few weeks have passed between visions for these people?”

Shalash stood by a tent, and she now appeared like a mature woman in her twenties. She carried a spear.

“I think it’s been more than a few weeks,” Dalinar said. “Look at Shalash—and Ishar, see him over there, walking with Jezrien to that tent? Both look exactly as they do during our era. This is it. What I wanted. The day when …”

“When they became truly immortal,” Navani said, holding Gav’s hand.

“I found this stone disc,” Dalinar explained, “which connects Nale and Jezrien. I knew Nale had to be there when the Oathpact was formed.”

They did seem to be actively at war, judging by the people carefully chipping out new stone arrowheads. Because the chipped edges looked less refined than those of steel arrowheads, Dalinar had imagined the process was haphazard. Now—as he saw the knappers expertly crafting them with stone tools and leather to scrape against—his perspective changed. These were masters, creating weapons with as much skill and care as a modern swordsmith.

For the first time, he had a glimpse of how Jasnah understood history. He wished he had a few hours to go talk to those knappers, and the fletchers beside them, to see their work in detail and experience a world where this was cutting-edge technology.

“The disc worked,” he said to Navani, checking his clock. “And we didn’t even lose an hour between visions. I want to witness today’s events, but afterward we have thousands of years to cover before reaching the fall of Honor and the secrets of how to obtain his power. We’ll need to find a faster way.”

“Agreed,” Navani said. “For now, though, I’m just glad we managed to get here. To this day.”

Renarin appeared in a vision, wearing something between a robe and a very loose dress, blue, tied at the waist. He glanced around, trying not to look panicked.

He could do this. Support Shallan, find the Ghostbloods, attack them. Reaffirming the goal calmed him, let him assess his surroundings. He was in a hogshide tent, which was comforting. When he was outdoors there could be a lot to see—too much to keep track of. He stood on a rough-woven rug, dyed blue and made of coarser fibers than he was used to. He wished he could feel it with his toes, but he was wearing slippers.

People were talking outside, but in here he was alone. Alone. That sent a spike of alarm through him. He was supposed to stay close to Shallan, yet they appeared to have been split up as they were sent into the vision.

I’m sorry, Glys said. This is not the vision I intended. We missed one, one that started right after. But Renarin, your father is here. Outside.

Someone pushed into the tent, but it wasn’t his father. It was an older man, bald but with a white beard, squared off like an ardent’s. He crossed the room hurriedly, and was followed into the tent by a woman with flaming red hair and a kind of militaristic outfit of hogshide and fur.

“The time has arrived,” the older man said, stalking straight up to Renarin. “Are you ready? Can you do what I asked?”

Oh, storms, Renarin thought, shying away. Dared he hope one of these was Shallan or Rlain? Like before, they would be wearing the face of someone else in the vision. How could he signal to friends who he was without revealing himself?

“Well?” the man demanded.

“I’m ready,” Renarin forced out.

“Ishar,” the redheaded woman said, stepping closer to the man. “Are you certain about this plan?”

Ishar? A Herald? Or just named after a Herald? He did have the look of many of the paintings. Storms.

“I’ve spent decades planning,” Ishar said. He then gestured to Renarin. “And do you know anyone more capable than Vedel?”

Vedel. Another Herald.

“Yes,” said the redheaded woman, almost certainly Chanaranach. “You, Ishar. You’re more capable than all of us.”

“I will facilitate the bond,” he said. “But I need someone with skill in Regrowth to make certain our immortality, and to make of us deities.”

“Jezrien doesn’t want to be a deity,” Chana said. “We’re going along with this, but it worries me, Ishar, how you speak sometimes.”

“It is only because I feel it has to be done,” Ishar said. “Right, Vedel?”

These weren’t real people. This wasn’t a real situation. That didn’t make him any less nervous, but if he had faced the Fused, he could face these. “Immortality,” he said. “Is that so important to you?”

“Of course not,” Ishar said, perhaps too quickly. “I want to protect the world, as Jezrien has demanded. Immortality is a side effect.”

“Seems selfish,” Renarin said, and Chana nodded. He wasn’t certain he did see it as selfish, but … well, people argued when they had big emotions.

“Haven’t you felt it?” Ishar asked him, his tone changing from defensive to … concerned. “Doesn’t it unnerve you? Our bodies aging, albeit slowly? You may think I’m selfish, but I am frightened of old age, Vedel. I do not want to be senile for a thousand years. We brought the people to this cursed world, with its treasonous inhabitants. We burned the old one. So I’m going to fix things. I need the time to do so.”

Chana eyed him, but finally nodded. Hesitant, Renarin did likewise. It didn’t appear either of these was secretly one of the Ghostbloods.

“Be ready to take the bond,” Ishar said, “and accept the power of Honor. I need you for this, Vedel. I’ll be back soon.”

As Dalinar was studying the camp, someone walked past, saw Gav, and mumbled the same thing from the previous vision. “What an odd spren …” Apparently the visions still chose to present Gav as a spren to explain his presence. People would see him, then shake their heads and move on, ignoring him from there on out.

“I wonder,” Navani said, “if we could find an anchor that will guide us through multiple visions. Something relevant at a number of points in the future. That might help us jump more quickly between them.”

Dalinar nodded, considering that. But how to do it?

Navani knelt, putting Gav down. He was old enough that carrying him was difficult, even if he was small for his five years. “Gemheart?” she asked. “Are you all right?”

“I don’t like this,” Gav whispered. “I don’t like how things keep changing.”

“Don’t worry,” Navani said, giving him a hug. “We’ll go home soon. Remember, nothing in here can hurt you. It’s pretend.”

“You want something here?” he asked. “You’re looking for something you lost?”

“Looking,” Dalinar said, trying to find the words to explain it, “for a way to become a mighty warrior—capable of defeating the greatest enemy I’ve ever known.”

That was evidently the right thing, because Gav looked interested for the first time. “I want that, Grampa,” he whispered. “I want that too.”

They crossed the camp toward Jezrien, and Dalinar spotted more signs that this was a warcamp. Those men jogging back into the camp? Scouts. They wore no armor, not even leathers, just some strange animal skins. They had the build of runners, and carried bows but no spears.

There were virtually no women. He was accustomed to scribes and female quartermasters, and nowadays female Radiants. Here, he didn’t even see camp followers. Some men were washing clothing in a barrel, and he figured that they didn’t have Soulcasters for food or infrastructure. That hampered large military movements, so you had to have smaller teams, each trained to do more jobs, to stay mobile. He passed some men butchering the carcass of a large numul—a type of midsized shellbeast he’d seen occasionally in the West. An army here likely provisioned itself by following the herds while on campaign.

Dalinar halted near the butchers, spotting something.

“What?” Navani whispered.

“They have thrown the gemheart in with the scrap ligaments and the broken carapace chunks,” he whispered back. “They don’t seem to know what it is.”

In many beasts the gemheart wasn’t so glorious and brilliant as it was in a chasmfiend. This one’s cloudy, inch-long gemstone was covered in a web of sinew. But still … that had more value than the meat. The Azish ranched these beasts in great numbers, using their inferior gemhearts to make bronze with their Soulcasters.

So strange. They moved on, and Dalinar noticed other oddities. It smelled wrong. Even the sweat of the bodies was somehow different, more musky, more pungent. He could hear hogshide flaps being beaten for cleaning, but no familiar sounds like the sharpening of swords or the clang of buckets. This was almost an alien world. Yet they did appear to be preparing for an upcoming skirmish. He could pick that out in their quick motions, hurried as if they were trying to finish on a deadline. Or maybe …

Yes. His answer came as the sky began to darken. Highstorm. They were on the east side of the mountains. Exposed. Why was nobody running for cover? And … what kind of cover could all these loose tents offer anyway? He grabbed Gav in both arms, planning to run for a hillside, but the Wind’s voice spoke in his mind.

Hiding isn’t necessary, the Wind said. They prayed, and Honor listened to such prayers during this time. He will modulate the storm in this small region, preventing it from destroying his faithful.

He glanced at Navani, whose eyes were wide. She’d heard it too. They stood in the center of the ancient camp, Dalinar’s nerves taut as bowstrings, until rain started falling. Along with a gentle wind streaming among the soldiers, almost visible—a thick wind, turgid, lazy.

Men in the camp stood up and looked toward the sky. They didn’t try to get out of the warm rain, though they laughed and pointed at passing windspren.

Gavinor relaxed. “Oh …” the child said softly. “I feel warm …”

Blood of my fathers, Dalinar thought. It’s true. He did feel warm—from a blossom of heat within. He thought he recognized that warmth from somewhere, and it was accompanied by a faint but audible tone that vibrated against his soul with the smooth, satisfying touch of a polishing cloth on a sword.

Renarin stood there, hearing rain fall on the tent and feeling overwhelmed. Storms, it sounded like today was the founding of the Oathpact.

Still, he needed to find the others. We should have agreed on some sort of hand signal or something, he thought, searching a nearby tabletop for a weapon. He didn’t find any, though the buckle on a small leather strap gave him something to fidget with. A moment later someone else entered. A woman who looked Veden, wearing vibrant green clothing. Renarin drew farther back into the shadows of the tent, worried he’d have to navigate his way through another conversation. The woman glanced around, noticed him, then turned indifferently and started studying the ceiling. Then she hummed briefly.

Wait. That had been one of the rhythms.

“Rlain?” Renarin guessed, stepping into the light.

“It is you,” the woman said, looking relieved. “I thought it might be, from the fidgeting.” Rlain rushed over. “We can understand people this time, but I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“Did you locate Shallan?”

“Not yet,” he said. “I appeared, and started walking around awkwardly until a bald human passed by and told me to go in here, as it was ‘almost time.’”

“That was Ishar,” Renarin said. “Ishi’Elin … one of the Heralds. We’re about to see the Oathpact be sworn.”

“And the Ghostbloods want to interfere with that?”

“No, remember, this isn’t actually the past,” Renarin said. Rlain didn’t have experience with Dalinar’s visions. “The Ghostbloods think following Dalinar will guide them to Mishram’s prison.” Renarin frowned. “I don’t know why they’d think that, since Dalinar is hunting for what happened to Honor. Unless …”

“Unless,” Rlain finished, “the events are connected.”

Storms. “And the Ghostbloods know that somehow.”

“It’s all wrapped up in one knot,” Rlain said, nodding. “The fall of your god. The imprisonment of one of ours. The Radiants walking away from their vows, and the singers ending up in slaveform. Renarin … there are so many secrets here.”

“We’re only here to stop the Ghostbloods,” Renarin said.

“But what if we could do more?” Rlain said. “What if we found the prison, so we could discover what truly happened? Not merely to the listeners, but to all singers.” He hummed to an excited rhythm. “I think Shallan was right to bring us. We need to know these secrets. I need to know them.”

“Because you’re a singer,” Renarin realized. “If we do go as far as Shallan wants, and reach the prison ourselves … a singer should be involved, not just humans.”

“No offense,” Rlain said, his rhythm changing. He hummed a little extra to indicate an emotion—something Renarin had noticed his kind did unconsciously after speaking a short sentence. “Renarin, I respect you, Kal, Dalinar … all of you. But don’t you agree? Don’t you think that a singer ought to have some involvement?”

“You’re right, of course,” Renarin said, flipping the buckle open in his fingers. He could imagine how Rlain must feel, constantly surrounded by people who had enslaved his. And … storms, he found it so much easier to read what Rlain was thinking when he hummed those rhythms to indicate his emotional state. Why couldn’t humans do something like that?

When he talked to Rlain, the entire world opened up to Renarin—he was no longer the blind one in conversations, struggling to figure out what everyone else was feeling while they all picked up on it effortlessly. It was a skill he’d had to practice, and he was proud of the improvements he’d made.

With Rlain, he didn’t need that effort, and it made the entire conversation more relaxing. Right up until Rlain asked something that sent a spike of panic through Renarin.

“Can I touch you?”

“ What? ” Renarin said.

“Wearing these faces makes me nervous,” Rlain said, putting his hand to his head and running his fingers through the Veden woman’s hair. “I find the rhythms hard to hear, and this body isn’t just a Lightweaving. I don’t feel my carapace anymore. It unnerves me.”

Right. With someone else, Rlain would have simply reached out to grab their shoulder for support, but Renarin liked people to ask first. Right, right. That was what Rlain was asking.

He nodded, and then tried to hum his emotions, which made Rlain smile. Rlain took Renarin by the upper arm and held on, breathing deeply and humming to himself. Renarin felt, in return, an unanticipated fire from that touch. A warmth that spread through him, like the one that others had always expected him to feel—told him he would. But which he’d never experienced from the women his aunt and others presented for him.

Should he say something? Like what? “I know we were just talking about the enslavement of your people, but what’s your opinion on courting humans?” Storms, it would be so awkward. Renarin didn’t think he had it in him. Why ruin something nice? This was good enough, right?

“Very well,” Rlain said, humming to what Renarin thought was Resolve, “how do we find Shallan?”

“Others are still out there waiting?” Renarin asked, forcing himself to stay on task. It was the fate of the world they were trying to influence; he felt selfish for letting his attention wander from that.

“Yes,” Rlain said, letting go—unfortunately—and walking over to peek out the front of the tent. “Since it started raining, they’ve all been standing around.” He hummed to Peace, accompanying the patter of rain on the tent. “It’s the highstorm, Renarin, but … different. More soothing. I like this sensation. Anyway, I see a number of them who look important—though the old man is under a canopy.”

“Those are the Heralds,” Renarin said. “We have to assume Shallan is with them, and our enemies too. Finding her and not them is going to be difficult. Particularly for me, Rlain. I’m not good at subtext when it’s in my face, let alone when it’s on someone else’s face hiding behind yet a third face.”

“Yeah,” Rlain said to Irritation. “Humans … don’t always make a lot of sense.”

However … Renarin considered a moment. “There’s something I can do with my powers, Rlain. It … well, it’s hard to explain. Glys says that Lightweaving should be one of our Surges, but when I’ve tried it, I get something else.”

“What does it do?” Rlain asked.

“I think it shows me people’s souls,” Renarin whispered. “And their futures. I … like I said, I don’t really understand it. But I think maybe it would help here, because if we can see people’s souls …”

“We can see who’s who,” Rlain said, with a nod. “But if you do it, try not to be too obvious.”

This … Glys said to him, his voice distant, this will be useful. This will be good. Try.

Encouraged, Renarin drew in Stormlight. It permeated this place, and he’d already been holding a little unconsciously. Now, he knelt and motioned for Rlain to sit.

Renarin cupped his palms and … breathed out, capturing the Light in a sphere maybe six inches across, spinning, glowing, above his hand. Please, if you can, he thought, let me see—and let him see. The shadows that Light cast sometimes showed Renarin things, a little like the window visions. The ones he could make on purpose were less distinct, more vague, but at least he could control their timing.

Rlain stared into the sphere, and the light it cast from him made an image: a singer standing as if on a border, one foot in the world of men—represented by a city with human architecture—another foot in the world of singers, with each building in the more flowing designs of his people. He wore half a Bridge Four uniform, half a singer robe, accentuating his carapace. All split right down the middle.

It was a clearer vision than Renarin usually got. And it seemed Rlain saw the same thing when staring into the light in Renarin’s hand.

For a while, Dalinar just enjoyed the rain and the strange warmth. Nearby rockbuds opened up and flushed with sudden color, their shells going from brown to a vibrant orange-red, spouting lifespren. Vines extended, grass coming from its holes and stretching long blades toward the sky, like a man waking from a deep slumber. Basins caught the rain, and he saw crem dishware near one of the cookfires.

Be warned, the Wind said. The storm could be very cruel, and Honor modulated it only in specific cases. I … was frightened of it at times. The singers have armor for a reason.

“Why?” Gav asked, surprising Dalinar by interacting with the spren. “Why are you nice?”

We are what Adonalsium left … the Wind said. And even the storm, before Honor, could be pled with at times …

“The Stormfather never told me that,” Dalinar said. “The Stormfather says the storm simply is. That it has no choice but to destroy.”

This is Roshar. Nothing merely is. Everything thinks. Everything has a choice. Watch. As humans choose.

Gav walking hand in hand with Navani, the three crossed the ground to join Jezrien with a small group looking to the sky, arms spread. The king took a long, deep breath, uncaring that his fine clothing was getting wet. He nodded to them, then he turned to the scouts Dalinar had noticed earlier.

“All right,” Jezrien said. “Kalak has finally decided to join us. You may give your report.”

“It’s him,” a scout said. A dark-skinned man with a birthmark on his cheek. Storms, that was Nale. Dalinar had met him once. “Your friend, Jezrien. I’m sure of it.”

“El is dead,” Jezrien whispered. “I stabbed him myself.”

“And yet he lives,” Nale said. “Jezrien, if El has joined the Fused … not only are our enemies being reborn, but they are recruiting the strongest and most talented singers to immortality. We have to counter it, or we will lose this war.”

“Ishar was correct all along, Jezrien,” Chana said—by his side, as she’d been in each previous vision. “This is Passion’s doing. Our god has fully betrayed us.”

“I believe we betrayed him first,” Jezrien said softly. “The moment I acknowledged that Nale had been correct, things started changing. He was never Passion, Chana. Always Odium.”

“How long has it been since that day …?” Navani said. “I sometimes lose track of time.”

“Over forty years,” Jezrien said. “Forty-three long years of war …”

Dalinar winked at her, appreciating her clever manipulation of the conversation to get them information. “Are we planning campaigns? Perhaps battle maps I can see?” Maybe one of those would work for an anchor to the future.

“Later,” Jezrien said. “This isn’t the time. You know that.”

Well, a map probably wouldn’t get him far enough. He needed something persistent, something that would still be here in a thousand years … and still relevant …

His eyes opened wide as the answer occurred to him. He was about to witness the founding of the Oathpact—and as part of that, ten eternal weapons would be formed. A link to each and every Desolation. The Honorblades. And if he was still Kalak … one would form in his own hands. An anchor that could carry him thousands of years into the future.

That’s the answer, he thought, excited. That has to be possible. And it will come straight to me, if I play my role right and don’t disrupt what is happening.

Renarin held the Light for Rlain to see.

“That’s marvelous,” Rlain said. “How do you do it?”

“I just breathe out,” Renarin said, “and the Light gathers. I … um, I ask nicely too. That helps.”

“Ask nicely?”

“Yeah, the Light seems to respond more when I think a little request.”

“Tumi called me the Bridger of Minds,” Rlain said, staring into the sphere. “Important singers have titles. That’s my future, my fate.”

“Nothing is fated,” Renarin said. “I learned that painfully, Rlain. There is only possibility and chance, maybe with nudges from outside forces. What comes in the future is our choice.”

“Like your father,” Rlain said, “not joining Odium at the battle of Thaylen Field.”

“Yes,” Renarin said. “Unless …” Storms. Unless it was still to come. Not forced to follow Odium, but going willingly as part of their agreement.

Rlain held out his own hand, hesitantly trying to breathe out Stormlight—making a few attempts and not getting anything.

“Don’t force it,” Renarin said. “Try being relaxed.”

“Try being relaxed,” Rlain said, “while wearing a human woman’s body and seeking a pair of assassins who want to control the world, as I keep seeing faces of one of the Unmade in patterns of dust on the ground. Right. No problem.”

“Nice rhythm,” Renarin said, amused at how this particular one emphasized the sarcasm.

“Thanks,” Rlain said.

Renarin dismissed his sphere and left Rlain to it, instead checking out the front of the large tent. In the camp beyond, thick tarps dripped with water from the continuing rainfall. The air was cold, crisp, and wet. Jasnah would love this, Renarin thought, taking in the antiquated clothing, the weapons chipped from stone.

His father and Navani had arrived to speak with some people in clothes more colorful than most, though still relatively simple by modern terms. He could, as before, see Dalinar and Navani as themselves—they weren’t hidden by their spren, the way both the Ghostbloods and Renarin’s group were. And … Damnation. Was that Gavinor ? Why had Dalinar and Navani brought a child into the Spiritual Realm?

Who among that group with his father was secretly an enemy? Who was a friend?

Glys, he thought, I need to be able to use my powers without alerting everyone in the room. Is there a … stealthier way to shine my light on them?

Not that I know of, Glys said. But we will learn more as we grow. We will become more as we grow. Perhaps?

Not much help for now. But he held out his hand—absently realizing it was an unsleeved safehand, which was amusing—and tried forming a small Light. Unfortunately, it was too distant to reveal anything about the group outside. Renarin puzzled through options as behind him, Rlain hummed an excited rhythm.

“I got some!” he said. “A little bit, at least. It came out and is forming.”

“Excellent,” Renarin said, glancing at the desk, where a few gemstones had been set out. Raw, uncut gemstones, yes, but glowing nonetheless. What if he stood over there and made Light? Maybe no one would notice it came from him.

Or, well, he was imitating a Herald, wasn’t he? Maybe they could use their powers in the open. He was Vedeledev … an Edgedancer. That wouldn’t fit. But Rlain seemed to be Pailiah, who was a Truthwatcher, so it should be fine for him.

That could work, maybe, Glys said. Also, maybe if you use less Light, the effects might be less noticeable.

Lots of “maybe's in that statement. As he was thinking, Renarin saw the group, including his father and aunt, striding across the wet ground toward their tent.

Renarin pulled the flaps closed. “They’re coming back and—” He cut off as he found Rlain kneeling and holding a sphere of Light, wide-eyed. In the light cast by that sphere, Renarin saw himself and Rlain.

They were kissing.

Oh.

Storms, there wasn’t time for this.

“They’re coming,” Renarin said, rushing to him. “Dismiss the sphere!”

“How?” Rlain asked. “I don’t even know how I summoned it. I—”

The front flaps of the tent opened, and people began to pile in.

Before Dalinar could explain to Navani his plan to get an Honorblade—then use that as an anchor—Jezrien started walking, and Dalinar decided he should stick close. Together they joined Ishar. The elder Herald stood a slight distance apart from the others, hands clasped behind his back. He was with a woman who could have been Alethi, or maybe not—she had silvery hair. They were the only two who had chosen to stand under cover when the rains arrived.

“Battar,” Nale said to the woman with Ishar, making another of the odd gestures Dalinar didn’t understand, touching fingers to forehead. “I find myself oddly glad I never managed to kill you.”

“Nale,” she said. “Always the brilliant conversationalist. I’ve news you need to hear.”

“I don’t really care,” Nale said, his words stiff, clipped. “I’m heading back out on patrol.”

Jezrien sighed. He looked to Dalinar for help.

“Must we rehash old arguments?” Dalinar said, carefully. “Can we not let the past fade, and look to the future?”

“Agreed,” Navani said. “Human must stand with human in this world.”

Jezrien nodded to the rest of the camp, particularly some Makabaki soldiers nearby. “They listen to you, Nale. Even if you don’t rule. Please. Let us do this together.”

“Just because I’m older than them is no reason for me to rule,” Nale said. “We don’t work the same way you do, Althman. Thankfully.”

“Please,” Navani said, gentle. “If there’s information to share, we all need to hear it.” She was quickly learning how to manipulate the situation.

“Midius is right,” Jezrien said, nodding to Navani, which gave Dalinar a start. Midius … that was their name for Wit. Dalinar had assumed she was in Vedeledev’s body again, but evidently not. They’d appeared hand in hand, so maybe the vision had needed to place them into bodies of people standing near one another.

Jezrien moved toward a large nearby tent, and the others joined him. Chana, the bodyguard. Ishar, the elderly sage. Battar, counselor to the rest. Shalash, who was grown now, and Navani as Wit. Dalinar in the body of Kalak. Finally Nale, with a sigh.

Together, this group was seven of the ten Heralds, plus Wit. As Dalinar entered the tent, he recognized Pailiah instantly, wearing green cloth that stood out so much from the furs of the others. With tan skin and a Veden look, she was Lightweaving. She sat on the floor inside the tent, and a globe of Light hovered above her hand.

Behind them, Nale hissed, angerspren boiling at his feet. “You swore you wouldn’t use the powers any longer, Althman. This is forbidden. ”

“We need to know what is coming,” Jezrien said. “And Pralla sees the truth, as it might be. She always has.”

“That’s eight,” Navani whispered to Dalinar, still hand in hand with Gav, who glanced around, interested. At the moment he seemed more curious than afraid. The others ignored him, as one might a lingering emotion spren.

Of all those here, Dalinar was most interested in Nale, and his explicit hostility toward the others. He’d recently seen visions of this man. Perhaps visions of this very day. Nale had been an enemy to the others …

But where was Taln? The one they abandoned. As the group entered the tent—including some Vorin and Makabaki bodyguards—Dalinar searched among them. He’d met Taln in the modern day, and the hulking soldier would stand out in a crowd. He wasn’t here. There was one other person in the room though—one who had been hidden in a darkened corner, but was revealed as they lit lanterns. This had to be Vedeledev, a woman with long dark hair bearing a slight curl. She looked Alethi or Veden to him, though her skin was paler, like she was from near the Horneater Peaks.

Navani’s breath caught audibly.

“What?” Dalinar whispered to her.

“I was in her body before,” Navani whispered. “Now I get to see her. Vedeledev. Keeper of the keys.”

“I’ve always wondered what they were the keys to,” he said. Scholars tended to swear by her name.

“The keys of immortality,” Navani whispered, her eyes wide as Vedel turned to the gathered group. “It’s happening.”

“It is time,” Jezrien said to Vedel. “Is he ready?”

Vedel didn’t respond, looking strangely panicked.

“Vedel?” Jezrien asked. “It is time. Show us.”

As everyone entered the tent, Renarin sought the shadows by instinct. Rlain continued kneeling on the ground, and fortunately, none of them thought his Lightweaving was odd—at least not until a tall Makabaki man at the back snapped that they shouldn’t be using the powers.

Renarin stepped forward, hoping to draw attention away from Rlain—but as he did, his father looked straight at him, sparking an entire host of emotions. Happiness at seeing someone who could take charge—shame at not feeling like he should take charge himself. Embarrassment at not being able to say anything to indicate who he was. Even a bit of resentment. It was always there, part of their relationship. You couldn’t banish such things with a wave of the hand.

Those thoughts and worries all fled as a stately, Alethi-looking man—probably Jezrien—spoke to Renarin.

“It is time,” he said. “Is he ready?”

Storms!

“Vedel?” Jezrien asked. “It is time. Show us.”

And the whole room waited for Renarin to answer.