Chapter 83

NINE AND A HALF YEARS AGO

S zeth pulled to a stop in the monastery’s grand hall, sword out and bloodied.

The time had come, after years of training.

The time for him to take his place.

He glanced back, and saw blood trickling through the grooves between the floor’s mosaic tiles. From above, those formed a picture of Yesoran, king of the Heralds. This close to the floor, each tile was more like a little island—with grooves forming valleys between, the grout worn away over the years. Grooves not meant for blood, but a convenient path for it nonetheless—like the fuller down the center of a sword.

Tuko-son-Tuko, the Honorbearer of Wind, was the fount of said blood. Barely on his feet, one hand pressed to his bloodied side. Their clash had lasted less than five minutes.

Tuko dropped his sword, his face pained as he pressed his other hand to his wound. He tried to step toward Szeth, but slipped in his own blood and fell—his head hitting the tiles with a discomforting thunk.

Szeth sheathed his sword—uncaring that it was bloodied, despite his training—and hurried to the fallen man. He kept watch for a dagger, in case this was a feint, but saw none as he rolled the dazed, dying man into his own lap, holding him.

“Honor-nimi,” Szeth said, “you fought well.”

Tuko spat bloody spittle into Szeth’s face.

A fair reaction. Szeth calmly wiped it off, figuring that—in the agony of death—he might have acted the same way.

Well, no, he wouldn’t have.

But it was understandable someone might.

“I knew,” Tuko said. “The moment they sent you to train, I knew what they were planning. Another of his glassy-eyed sheep. Can’t have someone like me among the Honorbearers. That damnable stonebreaker.”

“Don’t speak so of a colleague,” Szeth whispered. “Even if you are dying, honor-nimi, Pozen deserves better. You will soon join the stones, and their glorious—”

“He’ll throw you away too,” Tuko said, drawing breath like hisses, in and out, hyperventilating against the pain. Warm blood streamed around his wound into Szeth’s lap. “We’re nothing to him.” He seized Szeth’s shoulder. “If you reject him, he will have no power over you. Walk away, and he can no longer see what you do. You don’t have to follow him. You …”

Tuko’s eyes went wide, and his hand squeezed Szeth’s shoulder, twisting the cloth in a tight-clenched grip.

“I climb!” Tuko shouted, ragged. “I climb the wall of grief toward the light, locked away above! I climb, the weight of my darkened twin on my back, and seek the captive! The light I love! I … Storms … the light I love !”

The strength went out of Tuko. A Blade clanged to the ground next to him. The Honorbearer should not have insisted on a duel to the death instead of just to defeat. Regrettable, but Szeth had won.

Seven years of pilgrimage. And he had finished, the first part at least. Now he had to present himself to the others and be accepted. But this fight would be the most painful step. He could lose fights with the others, and still be considered worthy.

With the corpse in his lap, he blinked dazed eyes to look around the monastery’s grand hall. Some of Tuko’s acolytes were openly weeping. Others stared at Szeth with outright hatred. As he searched for a friendly face, he eventually found the Honorbearers. Sivi wouldn’t meet his eyes, though Moss—a younger man like him—hurried forward.

“Wow,” Moss said, kneeling by Szeth. “Just … wow, Szeth.”

“I have killed,” Szeth whispered, “one of the most holy people in all the world.” A foolish statement. What had he expected? This was what he’d come to do.

Moss, however, seemed to understand. He’d ascended most recently before Szeth, some four years ago. “I … had to kill the one before me as well. She wouldn’t step aside once defeated. I tell myself that I’ll be wiser when it is my time to pass on the Blade. That I’ll step down when the other Honorbearers ask me to do so.”

“Perhaps I will be as well,” Szeth said. “Or perhaps someone will kill me in delayed retribution for what I’ve done.” That felt good. Knowing that all of these acolytes who glared at him with such vitriol might someday have their own chance to kill him.

“Come on,” Moss said, helping him to his feet. “We’ll go for a walk. Talk about nothing, like we used to.”

That would be … beautiful. Training with Moss had been the best part of the last years. Moss had treated him like a colleague from the start, even if he was prone to boasts and showing off. Lightweaving hadn’t been Szeth’s favorite of the Surges, but he would always cherish that year.

“Will you inform my father,” Szeth said, “that I have succeeded? He will be waiting outside.”

“Of course,” Moss said. Szeth regretted sending one of Moss’s station to do such a simple task, but there was no other.

Szeth reverently placed the corpse on the floor, atop the picture of Yesoran-son-God. He knelt and offered a prayer to the spren. Then he stood, slid the Honorblade out of Tuko’s blood, and walked to the other Honorbearers. Six had come to witness. Moss the Lightweaver. Pozen the Elsecaller. Sivi the Willshaper. Dulo-son-Tudla, the Edgedancer. Vambra-daughter-Skies, the Truthwatcher. Gearil, the Dustbringer.

There was no Stoneward, naturally. No Skybreaker, as that Herald had reclaimed his Blade. No Bondsmith, as she was busy with some kind of election in the city. Now Szeth was the Windrunner Honorbearer. He suddenly felt sick. This was what he’d trained for, but it felt horribly wrong.

Pozen nodded toward the Blade, which Szeth held reverently—his favorite of the Blades, not just for its powers. He liked its simple, elegant shape.

“Welcome,” Pozen said, “to your rightful place, Szeth.”

“Pardon, Honorbearer,” Szeth said, “but I am not of your position yet. First, I must complete the second pilgrimage, proving myself to each of you in combat.”

“Ha!” Dulo said, slapping Szeth on the back. “That’s merely a formality, Szeth! You think we’d let anyone unworthy get this far?”

“You’ll visit each monastery in turn, yes,” Pozen said. “But to celebrate, Szeth. You’ve already proven yourself.”

He glanced to Moss, who had just returned. He nodded. “It’s what they did for me.”

Moss was another of Pozen’s protégés. Trained deliberately to become the Lightweaver.

“Well,” Dulo said as the group of them started to walk out, “it’s done, finally. Disaster averted.”

“Did you ever doubt?” Pozen asked. “The boy is perfect. I knew it the moment I found him in that decaying so-called monastery …”

For all their talk of celebrating Szeth, they acted more self-satisfied than anything else. Even Moss ran to catch up with Pozen. The acolytes and shamans slipped away to mourn. Soon only Szeth, Sivi, and the corpse remained in the hall.

“Shouldn’t someone … do something with the body?” Szeth asked.

“He’ll be buried this evening,” Sivi said. “They’ll want to let him stay, for a short time, with the stones.”

“What was wrong with him, honor-nimi? Why was everyone so eager to be rid of him? I spent my year training with him looking for heresy. He was lax with the rules, and cold toward me, but I did not think he was deserving of death. Did he speak against Truth when I could not hear?”

“He did, Szeth,” she said softly, but still wouldn’t meet his eyes. It seemed like forever since the day he’d left Pozen’s monastery to train with her, now seven years past. Over five years since he’d last seen his sister. And at least a few months since that had finally stopped hurting.

“I …” Szeth looked back at the body. “I feel sick, honor-nimi.”

“Good.”

“You used me to kill him,” he said. “Like a hired blade sent in the night.”

“Sent by the spren.”

“Sent by all of you,” Szeth snapped, then felt ashamed. He’d followed Truth. They were not to blame. “I apologize, honor-nimi.”

“It’s fine, Szeth,” she said. “I don’t love it either. But he was talking of rebellion—civil war. I suspect he didn’t say as much to you because he feared that we’d sent you to him.”

“ What? ” Szeth said. “Why would he even consider such a thing?”

“We all have our reasons, Szeth,” she said, turning to go. “Most of us even think they’re the right ones. Come on—there are celebrations to be had.”

“When do I meet the Voice?”

“In time. Once—”

“ When? ” Szeth asked.

“After the second pilgrimage.”

“How quickly can I finish?”

She studied him.

You have all done well, the Voice said. Let him fly to me, then go on his second pilgrimage.

Szeth, come to me at Ayabiza and seek the holy grotto beyond it. There, you will know the full extent of Truth—and you will have your answers.