Chapter 70

Both have as much detail as I can remember. My life. My reign. My sorrow. My glory.

—From the epilogue to Oathbringer, by Dalinar Kholin

S zeth had no particular affinity for the Lightweavers. Though he’d trained with their arts by requirement, he hated the way they made comedy out of truth, practically worshipping lies.

As he walked the final path to the monastery, however, he found himself wondering. He’d imagined Lightweavers as strange beings who turned the truth into whatever they wanted it to be. But perhaps re-forming the truth into what you wanted it to be was not a trait merely of liars, but of all human beings.

This smaller path off the main road descended a gradual slope. He walked it alongside Nin—or Nale, as he referred to himself—with Kaladin and Sylphrena behind. Szeth felt lonely. His spren had stopped talking to him except to issue stiff commands. Nightblood spent his days chatting with the Honorblades. Kaladin and Nale argued. Did they care about Szeth, or merely about proving one another wrong? Dared he think such thoughts about a holy being such as Nin-son-God?

Szeth glanced over his shoulder at the two men. Blue uniform and black. The man who had left him to die, and the man who had saved him. The man who claimed to care for Szeth, and the one who only cared about the law. A piece of him was angry at them both for pulling him between them.

Maybe that as well was simply life. To be pulled between two partial truths. Sivi had tried so hard to get him to accept that, and he’d always resisted. For if life was about partial truths as much as it was about singular ones, then all other aspects of his existence became extremely messy.

He wished dearly for the sweet, clean truths of Nin’s path. Even if it required him to kill.

Szeth? Nightblood’s voice. Are you all right?

“Sword-nimi?” Szeth whispered, shifting the group of swords on his back. He carried half, and Kaladin had the other half strapped to his pack. They were heavy—lighter than they should be, but not inconsequential. “No need for concern.”

It’s just … I felt something from you.

“Felt it?” Szeth said. “How can you feel what I do?”

I don’t know. I feel close to you. You hurt.

“I always hurt.”

Shouldn’t that … go away? Human pains fade, don’t they?

“I should very much like it to be so, sword-nimi. But I do not think I deserve such peace.”

You said you weren’t going to kill anymore.

“I should like that as well,” Szeth said, turning right and starting down some steps that were hidden by the rolling brown landscape. Made of logs and stakes pounded into the earth, worn by time and footsteps, they led into a small ravine that opened up as two hills met, a stream cutting between them.

Szeth? the sword asked. Are you evil?

“Why do you ask?” he whispered. “Before, you said you were sure that I wasn’t.”

Well, I’ve been listening. More, I’ve been trying to remember, which is sometimes hard. You talk about the burdens you carry. The people you’ve killed. Innocents, you say. And … killing innocents is evil. Isn’t it?

“Yes.”

But when you saved Dalinar and the Radiants, that was good, wasn’t it?

“I hope so.”

I was created, and I was given a simple purpose. Destroy evil. I figured I would find the men who were evil and destroy them. That’s what Nale wants, isn’t it? To separate people into groups. Evil. Not evil.

“That is too simple, even for his philosophy,” Szeth whispered, reaching the bottom of the steps. “He points out that all people are sometimes good, sometimes evil. It’s impossible for us to separate the two—therefore, we need a guideline.”

Shouldn’t it be easy to tell what is good and evil?

“We all pretend that it is,” Szeth said. “But if it were, then we would not disagree so much.” He walked into the ravine, with water trickling in from the brook to his right. “We almost all agree on the basics. Killing an innocent is evil. But what if it’s to save three innocents? What if you are an instrument, following what you thought was a higher law? What if you take a good action, it goes poorly, and innocents die?”

Those seem like uncommon cases.

“If only, sword-nimi. If only.”

The ravine opened up to reveal the monastery. Cut into the rock, its stone face stained by the water dripping from above. Szeth had seen the chasms at the Shattered Plains, and this was different. For one, it was far more open to the sky. And while the stream here gave some fertility—letting small trees spring up—it wasn’t filled with such a determined swelling of plant life as the chasms.

This was a quiet, contemplative corner in a windswept land. He studied it, and worried. Not just about his earlier concerns, but about the Voice. He knew he’d eventually have to face it. He thought that loosening its grip on his land, by killing the Honorbearers, was a good way to proceed. But when those battles were over, then what?

Could he fight an Unmade? Dalinar hadn’t been able to. He’d had to defeat it through force of will, refusing the lure of the Thrill it offered—but also, as he’d described in his book, by acknowledging what they shared. Did something similar await Szeth?

He didn’t know. Thus he did what he could; and that meant cleansing this land. He strode toward the monastery, which had—instead of a city or even a garrison to support it—only a few homes for keepers and servants. All empty, Szeth quickly determined.

Exiting one of them, he passed Kaladin and Nin. “Szeth,” Kaladin said, trying to take him by the arm. “There must be another way.”

Szeth stopped, allowing Kaladin to seize him—making the man feel silly for doing so, because he let go immediately.

“I do not ask if there is another way,” Szeth said. “I do what is required.” He unslung the pack of swords and handed it to Kaladin, then summoned his Blade and stepped into the monastery. Kaladin walked up to the doorway to watch, but Nin took him by the shoulder.

“He must fulfill the pilgrimage without your help, Windrunner,” the Herald said. “Do not interfere.”

The inside of this monastery was darker than the others. Lit by a skylight far above, in the roof of the three-story grand hall. A column of sunlight streamed down upon a group of thirty women standing in rows, wearing the same face.

Szeth halted in place, Shardblade out. Waiting. “Moss-son-Farrier?” he called. “I … would not fight you, if I do not have to.”

“Then you should not have come in.” Moss’s voice echoed from farther in the chamber. “I had thought I’d never see you again, Szeth. I miss the old times between us.”

Szeth hesitantly took a step forward. Those rows of people were all wearing the same colorful gown. They looked like …

Like the Herald, he thought. Shush-daughter-God, the Lightweaver.

Yes. He’d met the Herald in real life, and this was an approximation of her. These weren’t thirty individual women, but thirty illusions of the monastery’s patron Herald.

Sticking to the darkened perimeter of the room, Szeth crept closer. Each of the illusions looked identical to the others. All the figures stood perfectly still, gazing at him.

“Show yourself, Moss,” Szeth said.

“I have,” Moss replied, his voice coming from the ranks of illusory women. Szeth was watching the faces of those closest, and they did not speak. But … a skilled Lightweaver could warp and bend the air to create sound. “I am hidden before you, in this light, as one of these versions of Shush.”

“Can’t we simply duel?” Szeth said.

“Duel?” Moss said with a laugh. “You think I’d have any kind of chance, Szeth?”

Szeth continued to walk around the circle of light.

“You know we don’t put much stock in fighting,” Moss continued.

It was true. Sometimes, a Lightweaver was even chosen through a contest of illusions—though if one was as stubborn as Moss’s predecessor had been, swordplay became needed. The Bondsmith Honorbearer also was chosen irregularly, by vote.

“So instead of a duel you make a game?” Szeth called. “One of your ridiculous puzzles?”

“My part ends when you pick one of me to kill,” Moss said. “Almost all of the illusions before you are imperfect in some way. One is me, hidden behind a face that is instead perfect. Twenty-nine of those standing here are innocuous; one of those standing here is deadly. You cannot touch the illusions, and they will not reply to your questions.

“To win this test, you must choose a version of me, strike with your Blade through the eye, and kill me. Then you must escape my monastery with my Blade. Pick the wrong illusion to strike, and you lose. Touch them in any way, and you lose. If you fail, your pilgrimage ends, and you are deemed unworthy of the lofty position you seek. If you can win my Blade, you are worthy. This is your true test, Szeth-son-Neturo. Now is the last I will speak to you. Choose carefully.”

Szeth sighed, dismissing his Shardblade for now. He trusted his mastery of the Blade against anyone other than a Herald, but his mind? He … did not trust that. No, not with those voices in the eaves.

He would have to do his best anyway. For it was what was required of him, and he did as he was required.

Venli led the way through the chasms of the Shattered Plains, guiding twenty of her people—and several chasmfiends, who followed farther behind—toward a hidden song she’d barely begun to be able to hear.

They’d entered the chasms from the east, a method she’d never used before. In the past, during her childhood, she’d always entered the chasms by jumping, or climbing from above, usually following Eshonai on some child’s quest. She remembered those days with a smile. Back before she’d grown jealous of her sister, before Venli had been trapped memorizing songs while her sister wasted time.

She attuned Peace. That wasn’t the right way to think of it, was it?

Venli paused at an intersection to look at her people trailing behind—a group that included several of her companions from Urithiru, who had left with her: Dul, Mazish, and Shumin. There was also a larger number of original listeners, and finally Leshwi and her Heavenly Ones. A calm stream flowed through the chasm, avoidable for the most part by walking next to the wall. The flow would probably grow more furious as they approached the storm, but she hoped it wouldn’t become so bad they were forced out of the chasms. The Everstorm didn’t dump nearly as much rain as the highstorm commonly did.

She spun and walked through a swarm of lifespren, passing a stone in the shape of a tree branch. A lonely stick had been ripped free in the wind and ended up here—where, over time, crem had coated it. Such shapes tended to be hollow—she could step on it and crack it straight through, because the original wood had rotted away, leaving this shell.

Thoughts could turn to stone the same way. In her memories, she’d been “forced” to sit and train—but how true was that? She’d practiced because she’d loved the songs, loved learning, and loved spending time with her mother. Her resentment was because she hadn’t felt appreciated, not because of the work itself.

And her sister? Her sister had been doing what their people needed, even if Venli hadn’t been able to recognize it. Continuing to nurture that nugget of resentment was like taking a stick and coating it in crem—if she wasn’t careful, the truth would rot away inside. She’d be left with hollow lies.

She instead brought to mind different memories: of beautiful evenings singing what she’d learned to Eshonai, both of them staring across the Shattered Plains and laughing together. Inwardly, she attuned Peace, and then Awe. She was in a wondrous location. She should enjoy this chasm and its vibrant ecosystem.

The thick, wet air reminded her of the first whiff of a cup of tea, fat with steam and the smell of herbs. Vines trailed down the sides of the chasm, and shalebark sprouted in a hundred vibrant varieties. The fan-shaped yellow ones to her right clung to the wall, each looking like a book that was being riffled open.

At her feet, cremlings scuttled among forests that had to be enormous to them, but that to Venli were each like a tiny diorama. The kind that Kunona used to make, each little piece of stone or tiny plant carefully arranged.

Kunona had … died during the birth of the Everstorm. Venli glanced up at the dark sky, visible through the slit top of the chasm high above. Red flashes reflected off clouds up there. By moving inward, they entered his domain.

She still heard that rhythm in the distance. The one she was following. The closer they drew, the better Venli could pick out the tone—somehow discordant, with a chaotic rhythm. To her right, a purple cremling sat atop a bulbous frond. It seemed to be watching her, and she hummed a happy rhythm to it.

Soon, Thude stepped up next to her, holding a gemstone for light, his foot crunching softly on a rotten log, the pieces getting caught in the current and floating back alongside the group. “Venli,” he said to Anxiety. “Are you sure about this course? The Everstorm is that way.”

“Likely parked and paused,” she said. “He’s done it before—moved the storm where he wants it to frighten and dominate the humans.” She hesitated. “A battle is taking place there, Thude. Humans and singers fight over Narak. I told you what Rlain sent me? The contract the human king has with Odium, and the strange terms that let them keep what they gain these ten days?”

“So much blood spilled,” Thude whispered to Mourning, “for a barren stretch of broken stone. The humans spent years murdering listeners there, and now others kill over it again.”

She hummed to the Lost, and … found it sad how solemn he’d become. That was partially her fault.

Mostly her fault.

“I’m sorry, Thude,” she whispered. “For everything.”

“I keep thinking maybe she survived somehow, Venli. That someday Eshonai will walk back into our camp. When you first returned … I thought … I thought it was her. For just a moment. Is that foolish of me?”

“Hope is not foolish,” she said, with a wince, “but Thude … I saw Eshonai’s corpse. I’m sorry. I should have mentioned it. But you know Timbre was her spren first.”

He glanced at her, humming to Appreciation. He wanted her to explain.

“I was sent with Demid,” Venli said, “to collect my sister’s Shards after she died. Thude, Odium didn’t care about her. Eshonai was disposable to him. I think that’s when I started to change. That day when we found her, and I realized all anyone cared about was her armor …”

Timbre thrummed inside her. Comforting. Then added something curious.

“Thude,” Venli said, “Timbre says Eshonai wasn’t his when she died. She’d broken free.”

“She was stormform,” Thude said. “Is that possible?”

“I was able to do it, but only with Timbre’s help. Timbre says … Eshonai did it too. She cast him out of her mind and was herself when she died. We can fight him.”

Behind the line of listeners, she could see one of the larger shadows prowling the chasm. They had insisted on coming. Five chasmfiends, including the one everyone called Thundercloud, their leader. Or he was the first who had decided not to fight any longer—and when the largest and most dangerous of them decided the little things on the Shattered Plains had defeated him, the others had followed.

“Perhaps we can do something,” Venli said, “about the conflict happening ahead of us, Thude. Perhaps we should join the fighting, as I suggested before.”

“ No. ”

She held up a gemstone to illuminate his face.

“Venli,” he said, “we will not fight. I’ve decided to trust you again, but you do not lead us. We number barely a thousand adults. The chasmfiends’ numbers are worse. Not much more than a hundred individuals? I get the sense that they are dwindling fast. They will have difficulty breeding if too many more die. We will stay out of this fight.”

“Our numbers are my fault. If I hadn’t—”

“Venli, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but … let go. It’s done. We all regret what happened. But … an evil god was bent on our destruction. I’m trying not to hate you. It will help us both if we can move on. ”

She sighed, but he was right—both about her, and about not fighting. She doubted they’d ever have gone with her on this trek if the spren hadn’t spoken and the chasmfiends hadn’t confirmed the existence of that strange tone.

“No fighting,” she said to Thude. “I’m glad you and the Five came. Any decision we make, of course, will be yours.”

He hummed to Determination. They’d left Jaxlim behind, as she and Venli—as keepers of the songs—couldn’t both be risked at the same time. But all of the Five had come, after appointing others to take their places if they didn’t return. Venli couldn’t help thinking that they’d done the same thing when they’d first gone to visit the humans. During that fateful trip, they’d killed Gavilar and started this mess.

She attuned Peace and struck out again, hoping she wasn’t running toward a similar cataclysm. It would still take a great while to reach the center, hiking through these twisting chasms in secret—but traveling the plateaus above would be suicide, with Heavenly Ones and Windrunners patrolling.

Only down here were they safe, within the darkness and the writhing plants. Creeping ever inward, like cremlings moving through the underbrush.