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January 22 - February 2, 2020
The heir’s feasting companions were unimportant.
As always, thinking of her father made her feel ill, and the pain started to constrict her chest. She raised her freehand to her head, suddenly overwhelmed by the weight of House Davar’s situation, her part in it, and the secret she now carried, hidden ten heartbeats away.
“The world just changed, Gaz,” Kaladin said, leaning in close. “I died down at that chasm. Now you’ve got my vengeful spirit to deal with.”
“The day is right, friend,” Grump said. “But we were to meet at noon. Understand?” He generally did most of the talking.
A Windrunner, like the Radiants of old?
Dalinar charged toward the king, moving with a speed and grace no man—not even one wearing Shardplate—should be able to manage.
Dalinar held back the claw and matched its strength, a figure in dark, silvery metal that almost seemed to glow.
This Wit had a strange air about him that Dalinar couldn’t quite place.
Wit shrugged. “I point out truths when I see them, Brightlord Sadeas. Each man has his place. Mine is to make insults. Yours is to be in-sluts.” Sadeas froze, then grew red-faced. “You are a fool.”
He bellowed the name aloud—uncertain why—as a wall of arrows zipped toward him. Kaladin felt a jolt of energy, a surge of sudden strength, unanticipated and unexplained.
Gadol spit up blood, coughing. “They break the land itself!” he hissed, eyes wild. “They want it, but in their rage they will destroy it. Like the jealous man burns his rich things rather than let them be taken by his enemies! They come!”
Kaladin took a single step forward. He must have looked a dreadful sight, covered in blood. Gaz paled. Then he cursed, holding up the dark sphere. “And a dun sphere at that.” Kaladin frowned. He was sure it had still glowed before the bridge run. “That’s your fault. You gave it to me.”
“Spheres,” Syl said, still looking at Gaz. “That doesn’t seem like much to count on.”
“Sweet wisdom of Battar,”
“Three Gods, Heb,” the woman whispered.
You fought like a … like one of the Radiants themselves.
What was that word she’d used? Desolation. The book spoke of them. The Desolations had happened during the near-mythical shadowdays, before real history began.
The female Shardbearer stood; her armor glowed with an even amber light.
The female Shardbearer turned to Dalinar. She had her helm on now. When had she put it on?
Dalinar turned to find the male Shardbearer regarding him. Where had the man’s helm gone?
Dalinar recognized the symbol, the particular pattern of the stylized double eye, eight spheres connected with two at the center. It had been the symbol of the Lost Radiants, back when they’d been called the Knights Radiant.
“It is Eighth Epoch, three thirty-seven.” Eighth Epoch? Dalinar thought. What does that mean?
Fighting, even this fighting against the Ten Deaths, changes a person.
“Voidbringers? These? No, this was Midnight Essence, though who released it is still a mystery.”
“Yes,” the being said. “This is important. Do not let strife consume you. Be strong. Act with honor, and honor will aid you.”
A wide smile split Wit’s face. “Why, Dalinar! I’m impressed! Maybe I should make you Wit! Then I could be a highprince instead.” He stopped. “No, that would be bad. I’d go mad after a mere second of listening to them, then would likely slaughter the lot. Perhaps appoint cremlings in their places. The kingdom would undoubtedly fare better.”
Life before death.
Of all the recruits in his cohort, he had learned the quickest. How to hold the spear, how to stand to spar. He’d done it almost without instruction. That had shocked Tukks. But why should it have? You were not shocked when a child knew how to breathe. You were not shocked when a skyeel took flight for the first time. You should not be shocked when you hand Kaladin Stormblessed a spear and he knows how to use it.
“There is no greatness in killing,” Szeth said. “You speak like a kukori.
In that darkness, an enormous face appeared just in front of his. A face of blackness, yet faintly traced in the dark. It was wide, the breadth of a massive thunderhead, and extended far to either side, yet it was somehow still visible to Kaladin. Inhuman. Smiling.
He felt like one of the ten fools—specifically Cabine, who acted like a child though he was adult.
Teft watched Kaladin for a long while, trying to gather his thoughts, his emotions. “Why now?” he whispered. “Why here? After so many have watched and waited, you come here?”
Kaladin gasped suddenly, drawing in a short, quick, powerful breath.
Wisps of Light began to rise from Kaladin’s body. It was faint, but there was no mistaking that glowing white Stormlight streaming off his frame. It was as if Kaladin had been bathed in sudden heat, and his very skin steamed.
Shallan froze, realizing for the first time what she’d been drawing. Not another scene from the alleyway, but a lavish room with a thick, ornamented rug and swords on the walls. A long dining table, set with a half-eaten meal. And a dead man in fine clothing, lying face-first on the floor, blood pooling around him.
His commander had been shocked at how easily Kaladin dealt with seeing blood. Kaladin’s father would have been shocked at how easily Kaladin spilled it.
One of the men—Maps—stood, holding up his arms, quieting the others. It was the time between moons, and so he was lit mostly by the firelight; there was a spray of stars in the sky above. Several of those moved about, the tiny pinpricks of light chasing after one another, zipping around like distant, glowing insects. Starspren. They were rare.
“What you said earlier, on the plateau,” Sigzil continued, eyes forward, “it made me think of the Marabethians. You see, they have a curious way of treating condemned criminals. They dangle them over the seaside cliff near the city, down near the water at high tide, with a cut sliced in each cheek.
It was their motto. Part of it, at least. ‘Life before death. Strength before weakness. Journey before destination.’ ”
Except … Storms! she thought, frantic. I can’t use that. I promised myself. She began the process anyway. Ten heartbeats, to bring forth the fruit of her sin, the proceeds of her most horrific act. She was interrupted midway through by a voice, uncanny yet distinct: What are you?
CHILD OF TANAVAST. CHILD OF HONOR. CHILD OF ONE LONG SINCE DEPARTED.
MEN RIDE THE STORMS NO LONGER. The voice was thunder, crashing in the air. THE OATHPACT IS BROKEN, CHILD OF HONOR.
ODIUM COMES. MOST DANGEROUS OF ALL THE SIXTEEN. YOU WILL NOW GO.
“You are a lowlander, my good friend. Is not right for you to wear a humaka’aban. I would have to thump you soundly if you tried this thing.”
Turn a liability into an advantage whenever you can. Those words had been spoken by a man who cared only for his own skin.
There hadn’t been a breeze before. Now it seemed to envelop him.
Cenn stopped wheezing. He convulsed once, eyes still open. “He watches!” the boy hissed. “The black piper in the night. He holds us in his palm … playing a tune that no man can hear!”
Kaladin skidded to a stop, spinning, regarding the Shardbearer. This creature wasn’t a god. It was everything the most petty of lighteyes represented. The ability to kill people like Kaladin with impunity.
The creatures lurked in her sketches, staying at the distant edges of the room. Their presence made it difficult for her to sleep, but she was slowly growing accustomed to them.
