Chapter 73

SIXTEEN YEARS AGO

S zeth lunged, his practice sword scraping along the back edge of his foe’s. Sliding inside the man’s defenses, Szeth shoved him away, then slammed his weapon into the side of his foe’s neck. The padded leather prevented injury, but both men halted, Szeth’s blade resting there.

“Third point,” a quiet voice said from the darker edges of the chamber. “Match to Szeth-son-Neturo.”

Silence.

His opponent reached up and pulled off the practice mask—Soulcast mesh stiff across the face, and with sides of some strange reflective white material that was light, yet strong enough to withstand a sword’s blow. Gonda-son-Darias wiped streaming sweat from his face, then nodded to Szeth before turning and walking to rack his equipment.

Further silence. Though twenty acolytes watched, and three full shamans, no one spoke. Gonda was the monastery swordmaster, favored to someday hold the Honorblade.

He had not landed a touch on Szeth in all five of their bouts today.

Szeth slowly removed his mask, bathing his sweaty face in cool air. Gonda did not seem angry at Szeth; those of this monastery were indeed of a different breed than the petty soldiers of the camp Szeth had left. Less open resentment. Less brutality. But more strange politics behind the scenes.

Gonda’s practice sword fell from the rack as he placed it. He left it lying and pushed out of the training hall, footsteps loud in the silence. Like raindrops on a rooftop.

Szeth carefully racked his own equipment, feeling the eyes of the other acolytes on him. Two years here had been good for him; in the camp, he’d rarely been challenged. When he’d arrived here, it had taken him weeks to land a single point on any of his companions.

A strong current made for stronger fish. Szeth quietly pulled off his gambeson and handed it to the older acolyte in charge of cleaning equipment today. In Pozen’s monastery, the more hits you took during training, the more chores you did. It had been over a year since Szeth had been assigned such duties. It had been longer than that since he’d cried himself to sleep, missing his mother.

All was right again. Here, he didn’t need to think—he could merely train. He liked how simple his life was at last. Even the behind-the-scenes politics didn’t matter, not so long as you were good with a sword.

As he’d just proven, he was very good.

Pozen himself emerged from behind one of the pillars. Like the others in the room, Szeth bowed. He hadn’t realized the Honorbearer was watching.

“And so, Szeth,” the older man said, “you take the rank of swordmaster for yourself.”

Szeth did not reply. It was true.

“I am impressed with everything about you,” Pozen said, “save your weakness with Elsecalling. It is a troubling shortcoming, Szeth.”

Also true. He’d practiced with the Blade, as for the defense of Truth—for the preparation their people must make in the event of the Voidbringers’ return—each monastery needed multiple trained Surgebinders in case the Honorbearer fell in battle.

“I have prepared a hunt for you,” Pozen said. “The first clue is to be found atop the seventh spire. Go.”

Szeth had worried he would need to retire to his rooms now that he’d won his title. That would have meant thinking, musing over his accomplishment. Another task handed to him so quickly was a relief.

He started on it immediately.

The “seventh spire” was a riddle. Fortunately, he knew a tavern outside the monastery, in Mokdown—the small city that filled the island here between rivers. The tavern was called First Spire. He assumed that the seventh would be the seventh building on the street.

Unfortunately, he found nothing atop that building. He stood on the roof, arms folded, the confused homeowner holding the ladder below. He did another search of the rooftop for anything crystalline—Pozen liked to Soulcast things into crystal. Nothing.

Finally, Szeth climbed down the ladder. It was wood, of course, as were the logs that made up the boardwalk. There were clay bricks here and there, imitating stone, but not holy. It was ingenious how the people of this region learned to lock wooden pieces together into joints without using nails. It made the wattle-and-daub structures or sod houses of his own home region look decidedly primitive by comparison.

Which was what made it all the more odd when these people used metal hinges on their doors.

Szeth thanked the homeowner, a portly man with a deferential way of speaking. He wore a splash, but over here they did that by sewing patches onto their clothing. In this case, red on the knees. How was it they didn’t know the proper way of things? Pozen had ordered him to stop talking about it, but if Szeth were the one who was in the wrong, he would want someone to tell him.

After being dismissed, the man opened the door to his home—despite the steel hinges. If the door broke, he’d need to call an acolyte or a retired soldier—many lived in this town—to fix it. In fact, there were a great number of carpenters, smiths, and other tradesfolk, who were men or women that had once been soldiers or acolytes and had retired after only a year or two. It felt like … like they had chosen that life just to quit, so they could be employed in such professions.

Soulcast metal was reserved for tools that needed to be handled. The hinges came from mines, and everyone used them. So maybe these people didn’t care about wearing their splashes wrong. Two years here, and Szeth still tied his mind in knots pondering these things—when in reality he needed to focus on the riddle.

“Goodman,” Szeth called.

The man peeked back out his door.

“What do you think of when I say ‘the seventh spire’?”

“The Seven’s spire?” the man asked. “Well—”

“No,” Szeth began, then stopped.

The Seven’s spire? The Seven was a street. Could he have misheard? It wouldn’t be the first time, as Pozen spoke with a slight Northern accent.

Of course. The Seven.

“Acolyte?” the homeowner asked.

“Never mind,” Szeth said, turning on his heel. “Thank you for your aid.”

He started off, wooden paving logs firm underfoot. It really was remarkable, this wood of the makam tree. Light, strong. It made for an interesting city—which Szeth tried not to hate. Indeed, his father had made great improvements here after being elected mayor last year, moving from city finance minister, an appointed position. Under Neturo’s direction, old paving logs had been replaced with new ones, the bridges repaired. Social reforms had been instituted encouraging the loggers to be less rowdy. Better working hours, more frequent rotations for leave.

Neturo didn’t seem bothered by what it had cost to get here, so Szeth tried not to be. Instead he enjoyed the whitewashed buildings, the way people nodded in respect to an acolyte, the colors in patches on the clothing. It didn’t smell too bad. Not like the towns back home, where horse dung had covered the streets and sewage had been dumped in the river.

Mokdown was, if not fresh, at least bearable. Plus, he was the best of the acolytes, and had satisfying workouts each day. Surely the pain that Mother wasn’t here with them—and that he went weeks, sometimes months without seeing Elid, who liked to travel—would fade further. His old life was supposed to have been burned away. The embers would die soon.

The Seven’s tallest building was a church to Ishu, the Herald. It had once been dedicated to Batlah—but sometime in the past, that had changed. The people of Shinovar revered the Heralds almost as much as the sun, moons, and mountains, who were the greatest of spren. But Ishu was extra special for having brought them to this land by listening for the songs of a new world.

Atop this building, Szeth found a crystal patch of shingles. Riddle solved. Underneath it was a small slip of paper that held the next clue. The Eastern Wind. Szeth climbed back down the side of the church. “Sorry,” he said to the Stone Shaman peeking out the window near the statue Szeth was using for handholds.

“It’s fine, acolyte,” she replied. “I do wish he’d warn us when he sends people on these hunts. We were holding services …”

Szeth bowed to her, then started along the street.

“Acolyte?” the shaman said. When he glanced at her, she nodded to the side. He followed the gesture to where someone lounged near the front of the building. A tall woman in colorful shaman robes, older than Szeth by a decade, with that short haircut he still found flagrant. Sivi visited the city so often, one could mistakenly assume she was the local Honorbearer. Were the Willshaper acolytes that disciplined, so as to pay no heed when their leader left? He’d heard the opposite. They said the Willshaper acolytes drank, and went out riding, and barely trained at all.

He found that kind of frivolity implausible in Sivi. After all, he liked her.

“Szeth,” she said, strolling over.

“Honorbearer,” he said, bowing. “I’m sorry I cannot stop to speak with you long. I have been set an urgent task by—”

Sivi held out a handful of small pieces of paper, identical to the one Szeth already had. “Pozen always uses the same places. I swear, I remember my predecessor mentioning the crystal shingles when she was an acolyte.”

Szeth gaped at the proffered handful of clues. “I … I can’t take those. I need to find my own way to—”

“I believe your instructions were to return with the papers,” she said. “There was no prohibition against someone handing them to you.”

It was true. So, Szeth accepted the papers.

“Come and speak with me, Szeth,” she said, heading toward a nearby tavern. “I’d like to hear of your training.”

He sighed, but could not refuse an Honorbearer. Besides, Sivi did often have a … perspective to share. He tried not to assume he was the reason for her frequent visits—but he couldn’t put out of his mind things he’d overheard. About Pozen’s plans for him.

At a quiet booth in the tavern—it was only three in the afternoon—he got tea while she sipped something he pretended was barley water. Both free, as this was a monastery town.

“I heard,” she said, “that you made swordmaster today.”

“That news spread already?” he asked, waiting out of respect to sip his tea until she drank first.

“Gonda is good,” she said. “No one expected someone better to come along.” She eyed him.

He looked down into his tea.

“You know, don’t you?” she asked.

“I’ve … overheard things I should not have.”

“Pozen’s not shy about his aspirations for you, Szeth,” Sivi replied. “He’s been cultivating you for this role for years—since even before you were an acolyte.”

“I recognize the need,” Szeth said, forcing the words out, “for the best soldiers to hold the Honorblades. That is Truth. To prepare for the coming of the enemy.”

“Then why do you seem ashamed?”

He looked down, and did not reply.

Sivi sighed, then tapped the tabletop with one finger. “Szeth. Do you know why Pozen sends you on these silly little hunts?”

“I do not ask, and he offers no explanation.”

“It’s because he wants to test your obedience. Pozen wants acolytes who are quick to obey, slow to question.”

“That sounds like an admirable quality in a religious acolyte.”

“And in a colleague?”

There it was. She said it openly.

“You’re so quick to do as you’re told, Szeth,” Sivi said. “Why?”

“It’s not what you think,” he said, blushing.

“And what do I think?”

“That I’m stupid,” Szeth said. “I obey for the opposite reason. If I don’t move quickly … I start wondering. I start asking. I have an … unruly mind, honor-nimi.”

“Tell me,” she said, leaning forward, “the questions you ask, Szeth.”

Dared he say it? Was this a test to see if he obeyed her, or if he was self-contradictory? They played so many games. Perhaps that was why he secretly hated this city, because here—at last—he’d learned that even Honorbearers saw things differently from one another.

“Pozen is not the best swordsman,” Szeth said, watching the dark shifting colors swirl in the tea, leaking from the pouch. “Not anymore; he’s almost sixty. Yet no one challenges him.”

“He is wise,” she said. “Being the best soldier is not always about being quickest with a weapon. Experience is valuable, even after the body starts to slow.”

“He could still offer wisdom while someone else bore the Blade.”

“If a genuine threat came,” she replied, “he’d let one of his acolytes bear the Honor when going into battle. Why do you think we train you all so well with the weapon?”

“This is reasonable,” Szeth said. “But if an aging Honorbearer isn’t that dire a problem, why is everyone—including you and Pozen—this eager for me to begin a pilgrimage?”

She smiled, then finally tipped her head back and took a long drink. When she set the cup back down, she met his eyes. “The Windrunner is a problem.”

“Honorbearer …” Szeth searched for the name. “Tuko-son-Tuko?”

“Correct. You paid attention in lessons.”

“Of course I did,” Szeth said, frowning. “Why would there be lessons if one is not to pay attention?”

“Oh, Szeth.”

He started into his drink, savoring the bitter taste.

“Are you going to ask what the problem with Tuko is?”

“Is it my place to ask?”

“Well, I did leave that door wide open …”

“Is he a problem to Truth?” Szeth asked. “And for the defense of our lands?”

“Yes.”

“Then that is enough.” He met her eyes. “I haven’t heard the Voice in a while.”

“He’s been busy.”

“And if I’m an Honorbearer,” Szeth said, “will I get to know what he is? What is actually going on?”

“If you want to know.”

Did he? Szeth settled back on the hard bench of their booth, looking out the window at the passing people. Pozen had said Mokdown wasn’t large by most standards. Szeth found it hard to imagine more people mov ing through the streets without carriages and wagons crushing people or causing chaos.

None of the people outside knew about the Voice. None of them cared that they didn’t know. He could be like them.

But …

“After I destroyed the invaders,” Szeth said, “Pozen was ready to completely abandon me—all of you were. Then, the moment you knew I’d heard the Voice, you welcomed me.”

“The context changed,” she said. “One moment you were a rogue agent acting against the interests of his Farmer. The next, you were a servant of a greater power.”

“Actions should be right or they should be wrong. That’s what I was taught.”

“When you were a child,” she said, “you were taught what a child can understand. Why does nuance terrify you, Szeth?”

“Because,” he whispered, “I can’t predict it.”

“It’s been ten years,” she said, “since a boy found a rock in the soil and couldn’t understand why anyone would see the situation differently from him. Don’t you think you should have grown a little since then?”

He looked up from his tea. Wait. She—

“Your father and I talk,” she said. She looked wistful as she said it, a hint of a smile on her lips.

For once, he caught the nuance.

“You don’t keep visiting the city because of me,” he said, horrified. “Not only for me.”

She shrugged.

“My father is a heretic! You’re a holy woman!”

She snorted in amusement, nearly spitting out her beer. “He’s hardly a heretic, and I’m merely halfway holy, Szeth. Your father is a man of strong faith, just not in things that don’t matter. You should ask him sometime.”

Those kinds of conversations never went as Szeth wanted.

“Will you do it?” she asked. “Will you go on pilgrimage, in preparation to challenge the Windrunner for his Blade?”

Pilgrimage. He would need to visit each monastery and train in all the Surges. Then he would have to defeat the Windrunner in a duel without powers. That wouldn’t have to be deadly; it depended on whether Tuko would surrender the Blade willingly or not. But … the Windrunner did not seem the type, from what Szeth had heard, to give up the Blade willingly. He was young to be an Honorbearer. And reportedly very skilled.

After winning the Blade—if he succeeded in that—Szeth would have to go on a pilgrimage to the monasteries again and present himself to the Honorbearers, proving to their satisfaction that he was worthy. Lest they as a group renounce and condemn what he’d done—returning the Blade to the previous Honorbearer if he lived, or finding a replacement if he didn’t.

It could take years. A decade. Longer.

“Szeth?” she asked. “Will you do what we ask?”

“How can I trust that it’s right to listen to you!” Szeth said, throwing his hands in the air. “If nuance changes what is right and wrong for you on a whim!” He sat back in his seat, puffing. Then he groaned softly. “That did sound childish, didn’t it?”

When he said that, Sivi relaxed visibly and took a long pull on her drink.

“It’s that satisfying to you,” Szeth said, “to see me frustrated?”

She held up a finger, still drinking. She downed the entire thing. Storms. “It’s satisfying,” she said, wiping her lip, “to know I was correct: there is something in you that is willing to self-reflect. Why do you find it so hard, Szeth?”

“I just want things to be easy,” he said. “Like they were when I was young.”

“That’s laziness.” She pointed at him, leaning forward across the table. She did that a lot. Such passion. Had he ever felt that passionate about anything?

Yes, he thought. About finding answers.

“Listen,” Sivi said. “Life was never easy when you were young, Szeth. You were merely allowed to pretend that it was. Other people were always out there making these kinds of choices.”

“But—”

“Just because your life gave you the luxury of simplicity doesn’t mean the world was magically less complex,” she said. “Tell me. Aren’t you glad you got to escape your childish notions, and see the world as it really is?”

“I …” Glad? For all of this?

That was … uncomfortably close to what he’d been thinking earlier, that he’d want to be informed if he were wearing splashes wrong. Huh. He considered that as Sivi ordered another drink from the barmaid, who hovered barely far enough away to be discreet.

If he was wrong about religion, wouldn’t he want to know? Yes. Yes, he would. And wouldn’t he be glad to have been corrected? In a moment of deep reflection, he realized his errors. It wasn’t their fault for using nuance; it was his for not wanting to see it.

“I’ll do it,” he said. “I’ll go on the pilgrimage. If you took me in first to train with your Blade, I’d like that. Let me fulfill my final requirements as an acolyte here, so that I might be elevated to warrior elite.” He would of course choose that path rather than becoming a ministering shaman, the other option for an acolyte.

“Excellent,” she said.

“What would you have done,” he said, “if I hadn’t been willing to accept your advice?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” she said with a sigh. Then, to his questioning gaze, she continued, “Three of the other current Honorbearers trained with Pozen—he has a sixth sense for finding talented warriors. But he has also proven himself quite skilled at finding people who will jump when he commands. It almost makes one think he wants servants more than colleagues.” She nodded to him, standing and taking her beer from the tray as it arrived. “I’ve got someone else to visit. See you at my monastery in a few months.”

Szeth tried not to think about who she was seeing. Before she left though, she stepped back and leaned down by him. “Pozen is using you. Remember that.”

“And you?” Szeth asked. “Are you using me?”

She winked at him.

“I’m not doing this because you want me to,” he said, “or because he does. I’m doing it for answers. I will know what the Voice is.”

“We’re all counting on it, Szeth,” she said, then left—taking her cup with her.

Szeth made sure to pay for it before he left. Free drinks were one thing, but they shouldn’t be exploiting the tavern by taking their cups.