Chapter 69

You now know of my sins in full. You now also know of my revelations, if they may be called that, in full. Each of my visions is here. Each experience of my past that shaped me.

—From the epilogue to Oathbringer, by Dalinar Kholin

O n Nale’s arrival, Szeth became a different person. As they got ready for the day, Kaladin tried to engage Szeth in conversation, but all he received was simple answers spoken in a monotone. They then flew for much of the morning, but landed to walk the rest of the way to the Lightweaver monastery—which marked the halfway point in their journey. Szeth continued to think approaching on foot would be less conspicuous.

So Kaladin trudged along in the dirt, pack heavy on his back. The land had grown dustier and dirtier as they’d moved northward, the air less humid, with even the nights uncomfortably warm.

The plants here were of a … weedier nature. The small earthen road they’d been following had become a much larger thoroughfare. Dusty, despite the rainfall a day before. He couldn’t imagine what this would be like when full of people and carts.

Determined, Kaladin fell into step beside Szeth—the two of them trailing behind Nale, who strode along, imperious and tall. He somehow collected less dust on his legs than Kaladin did, and apparently needed no water or rest, for he called no breaks and expected them to drink from canteens while walking. He looked like a lighteyes with two sorry soldiers trotting along behind, carrying all his things.

He’s trying to rile you, Kaladin told himself. He probably wants to annoy you to the point that you abandon Szeth to him.

Kaladin refused to get upset. “So,” he said, “how much farther is it?”

“Not far,” Szeth said.

“How often have you been to this monastery?”

“A handful of times,” Szeth said. “Lightweaver was not my preferred pair of abilities.”

“What was it like?” Kaladin asked. “Training with each of the Blades? Must have been interesting.”

Szeth shrugged, his eyes on Nale. Storms. It felt like their progress had been washed completely away in the highstorm rain. That was agonizing to Kaladin, because now—seeing how much Szeth needed help, how much like Tien he was—Kaladin’s passion for helping him had grown and grown. Maybe too far. It was physically painful to be unable to do anything to help.

“Szeth,” he tried again, “can we talk about—”

“ We can talk,” Nale said from ahead. “Please. I hear you’ve been offering my disciple radical philosophy, Windrunner. I should like to hear it for myself.”

Kaladin gritted his teeth. So far, Nale had barely said a word to him. He wished he’d been better able to organize his own thoughts, because as he stepped up beside Nale—a man who was, unusually, about Kaladin’s height—he felt woefully unprepared.

“Go ahead,” Nale said, striding with hands clasped behind him. “Speak to me of your ideas, mortal.”

Kaladin glanced around to see if Syl had returned from scouting, but she hadn’t. “I think,” he said, “this ‘follow the law’ thing you people have going on is ridiculous.”

“You are an anarchist?” Nale asked, his voice perfectly calm. “Tearing down law and society, and making ash of them both?”

“No,” Kaladin said. “But I don’t think you should worship it either. Every rule needs to be broken now and then.”

“Does it now?” Nale asked. “How do we decide? More importantly, who decides?”

“It depends,” Kaladin said.

“Upon what?” Nale said. “Cannot every murderer say, ‘Mine is the instance where the rule should be broken’? Every person has wanted to break the law—but if it is right for one to uphold it, then it is likewise right for all. The great moralist Nohadon himself pointed out the need for such rules in society. Would you contradict him?”

“I’m not arguing with him,” Kaladin said. “I don’t even want to argue with you. I simply think that Szeth should think for himself a little more.”

“I believe he is thinking for himself,” Nale said. “He has simply chosen answers you do not like. Why is it that all proponents of ‘free thinking’ only accept the answers they want? Anyone who agrees with them is a free thinker. Anyone who doesn’t? Why, they must be blinded by the oppressive norms of society, or are dancing on strings to the evil delight of those in control.”

The passionless way he spoke, in a monotone aside from a stressed word here and there, was unnerving.

“Look,” Kaladin said, “can we please just talk about Szeth?”

“We are talking about Szeth. And you are dodging questions. Do you think people should follow the law?”

“In general, sure. But the law isn’t perfect—it was made by a bunch of people like us.”

“That is all we have though. The law is the current best guideline to morality for our society.”

“Yeah, but that’s not how you present it to Szeth, is it?” Kaladin said, glancing back at the other man, who followed behind—silent, but obviously listening intently. “Not some ‘guideline to morality’ but as an ideal to absolutely devote yourself to. It’s one of his oaths!”

“The oath,” Nale said, “is to find a moral compass. He selected a person. I find his choice questionable, but his decision is allowed and respected.”

“Still. Sounds like you really do worship the law.”

“Why shouldn’t we?” Nale said. “In nothing does mankind so closely approach the divine as in the creation of codes to better itself.”

“I … don’t believe that. The law was worse than flawed for me, Nale. It let a terrible man steal my brother and send him to war, to die. And while my own slavery was probably illegal by Alethi law, what Sadeas did to my friends—forming us into bridge crews and sending us to die on the Shattered Plains—was perfectly legal and absolutely reprehensible. The law can be, and often is, very broken.”

Nale shook his head. “And what replaces it?”

“Human decency, maybe?”

“Which is applied irregularly. The law doesn’t fix all ills, but it tries to—and you may have suffered, but you would have suffered more without the law. For humans cannot be trusted to be decent, Stormblessed. You should know this more than most. Even my own viewpoint, I’ve come to learn, can be flawed. The law, though, has been crafted over eons, handed down from generation to generation, refined and perfected.”

“Except for those laws created at the whims of some idiot king. Which is most of them.”

“Why do you assume that you are smarter than the one who made the laws?” Nale said. “From what the spren tells me, you don’t have any answers—you don’t offer a better path. You simply tear down the one offered.”

“But—”

“Again, what would you have him do?” Nale said. “Other than ‘think for himself’? Do you have a replacement for his idealization?”

“I think he shouldn’t have one!”

“So you want to replace something grand with nothing. The true goal of every revolutionary. To tear down, rip apart, and destroy. You have no philosophy to cherish, therefore you seek to ruin others’, jealous that they have answers.

“Well, I have answers,” Nale said. “The answer is to trust in the law, because at least then you have a moral compass. The ideas of men are weak things, as are their hearts. Thus we pick something greater.”

“But the law is the ideas of men!”

“No,” Nale said. “There you are wrong. These laws are better than the mere ideas of men.”

“But you just agreed that they are the thoughts of men!”

“I did not. Tell me, do you know where the law of this land came from?”

This man … there were so many holes in his arguments, and he simply ignored them. Nale said he was flawed, then proclaimed he had answers. Still, Szeth was listening—if Nale didn’t see the problems, perhaps Szeth would.

“Windrunner?” Nale asked. “Where did the law of this land originate? Do you know?”

“It … was the spren, maybe?” Kaladin guessed.

“Ha,” Nale said. “So you do argue from ignorance. Let me explain.”

Kaladin felt himself being drawn into a trap, sure as he could sense a feint coming in combat. He was no philosopher, unfortunately, and struggled to find a way to avoid whatever Nale was planning. So he remained quiet.

Nale raised his hands to the sides in a sweeping gesture, taking in the long brown-green grasses growing thigh-high, punctuated by stalks of giant flowers as tall as a man—with rigid stems almost like shells, and bright yellow petals surrounding a brown center, like an eye.

“This land,” Nale continued, “was our first home upon this world. The cradle of humankind, where our first laws were forged. Not by spren or by men, but by the hand of God himself and the monarch he had chosen: Jezrien. King of Heralds, and Herald of Kings. My enemy, then my dear friend. That divine origin is the foundation of law in Shinovar, Kaladin Stormblessed. This is what you seek to undermine.”

“But … wait,” Kaladin said. “Then why do the Shin worship the spren?”

“Spren?” Nale said. “You mean literal fragments of divinity?”

“Yeah, Syl says that, but … I mean …” He frowned. “Wait. This really doesn’t add up. How did you Heralds find this world in the first place?”

“We followed the sacred tones of Roshar,” Nale said. “We reached out through the power of Elsecalling—Ishar was once a master of that art. I had some talent as well.” His expression grew wistful. “I heard it … the songs of a new world, fresh and alive. An inviting rhythm …”

“Okay,” Kaladin said. “But were the spren involved? This place speaks to me sometimes. The Wind itself.”

“Ignore that. Echoes of a god long dead and gone.”

“But—”

“We are off track,” Nale said. “Tell me: would you overthrow the entire Shin system of government?”

“What? Of course not.”

“How would you react to another order of Radiants coming in, implying that your oaths to protect are foolish?”

“Look,” Kaladin said, tossing up his hands, getting frustrated. “It’s not working for him. What you’re doing is hurting Szeth. I don’t argue like a scholar, Nale. But it’s not working. It’s broken. He needs help, compassion, and you’re not offering it.”

“He is broken more than most,” Nale said, stopping on the road, meeting Kaladin’s eyes. “You had a hand in that. Do you know who picked him up off the ground the day you left him to die in the storm, Kaladin Stormblessed? Where was your compassion then?”

Wind gusted dust across the two of them as they stared eye to eye. “He was actively trying to kill Dalinar,” Kaladin said.

“So now you hide behind the law and the orders you were given?” Nale turned toward Szeth. “Are you ready?”

“Yes,” Szeth said.

“Wait,” Kaladin said. “Ready for what?”

“The Lightweaver monastery,” Nale said. “Where he will raise his Blade and defeat the Honorbearer.”

Kaladin frowned, regarding the landscape of dusty ground and too-tall flowers. They’d been forced to double back, after visiting a second empty monastery the night before. Now he thought they were somewhere in the middle western portion of Shinovar. Near some mountains that bordered the western ocean. The … what had Szeth called it? The “big ocean”? No, that sounded silly. It was something like that though.

These western mountains here were lower than the ones on the east of Shinovar, without frosted points, and had more mesas than peaks. The hot weather made Kaladin sticky with sweat as he put his hand to his eyes and searched.

“I don’t see it,” he said.

“It’s ahead, hidden by the natural shape of the landscape,” Nale said. “You think the Lightweaver monastery would be easy to spot?”

Kaladin blushed, and glancing at Szeth, knew his arguments had failed. Szeth turned off the road and headed along a much smaller path to the side. He wouldn’t meet Kaladin’s gaze.

It was unfair that convincing someone depended not on the strength of ideas, but the strength of the arguer. Kaladin had always hated that, but again, he didn’t have the eloquence to explain why. Instead he simmered as Szeth took up his weapon once more and—despite what he’d confessed he wanted—renewed his mission to kill.

Jasnah left the Thaylen strategy meeting with a gnawing anxiety, though the root cause eluded her. At least her outfit was serving its purpose. The uniform had nods to her gender, with a fitted bodice and a high-buttoning coat that was long in front and back, so it flowed a little like skirts, with trousers and boots underneath. With the accompanying gloves, she could fight in this without trouble.

She’d become a model for many women Radiants, and had to be aware—at all times—that she was being watched. Granted, that had always been true—but at least now some who watched took her as a positive example.

“The preparations,” Ivory’s voice said in her ear, “they are good, Jasnah. The defense is. ” He rode, as he often did, on her earring—she wore large seashell ones for him.

Behind her, other generals and admirals left the conference room, chattering together. After an entire day planning for the defense of Thaylen City, spirits were high. The Stonewards thought they could hide spikes of stone in the bay, to rip open hulls and sink ships. In addition, the artifabrians had developed counters to the Deepest Ones—fabrials that could identify any Fused who came too close. Those would give early warning if the enemy was attempting a surprise assault through the stone.

The Oathgate had been completely locked down, and Lightweavers waited in Shadesmar, hidden with their powers, watching for enemies there. Windrunners patrolled the air, and giant arbalests were pointed skyward to bring down Heavenly Ones. Indeed, this very morning, a special package had arrived: several gemstones of precious anti-Voidlight, capable of ending a Fused forever.

Thaylenah was as prepared as it possibly could be: the merchant city had essentially become a single giant fortress. With high cliffs to the sides—and no beachhead to allow access to the high ground behind—taking this port would be a nightmare.

As the enemy knew.

They came anyway.

Jasnah reached an open window looking out over the city from a vantage on the highest tier. Once, she might have found it restful here, with that blue shimmering ocean and the crisp, chill southern air. Today she was daunted. Because she knew, deep down, they were missing something vitally important.

“Jasnah?” Ivory said from her right ear. “What is ?”

“I wish I knew,” she whispered. “There is a mystery here, one that the generals and admirals cannot see.”

Ivory considered her explanation, which was part of why they made an excellent pair. As an inkspren, he tended to fixate on the present—the situation as it was. It was a propensity, not an absolute, but he had found that assessing the situation as it actually stood was the best way to solve a problem.

Jasnah, on the other hand, tended to be focused on anything but the present. Understanding the past, and how it informed the future, was her mandate as a Veristitalian—the one group of scholars who had embraced her as a young woman, when all others had found her heresy too polarizing to touch. Past and future were wed, but sometimes focusing on that left her too removed from the now.

“Jasnah,” Ivory said, “you are concerned that what we perceive is not the truth. That another reality is. ”

“Yes,” she said. “I am no expert in tactics, but I concur with what the generals, Radiants, and admirals are saying. The city is impregnable. So …”

“So you worry we are wrong.” Ivory thought for a moment. “Perhaps what they need is not another general, Jasnah. Perhaps this time they need a scholar.”

She immediately felt like a fool. If she was going to prove her value to this group, it wouldn’t be through tactical acumen. She was better with military strategy than the average person, but the minds in that room were among the best in the world. She would have to spend years studying before she could be their equal.

But if she was right, this was a logic problem, not a military one. How did Odium break an unbreakable city?

She needed paper and a quiet space to think.

Immediately.