Chapter 4
[Purpose]
Rin Tohsaka knew she was going to die but she was still pissed. The doors to the grandhall were blown wide open revealing a strewn of bodies with a singular man standing above them. He wore white.
Their plan had failed despite him falling for the decoy. His tattered clothing were stained with blood but he stood unharmed. Her lord, king Hanavanar staged multiple fake banquets to lure the assassin to strike. It was obvious that he would be the next target after not so silently mudering high princes and government leaders in Jah Keved. He made sure to have his red guards lurking in the shadows of each feast, they laid unmoving now.
The assassin released a long breath. Rin observed glowing blue mist escaping from his mouth like he was some sort of apparition. Her mouth hung open once she realised what it was: stormlight.
'How did this freak crack the code?'
Almost all mages were limited by the mana they could produce. Her family was different. Their magic allowed them to infuse gemstones for storage and usage in fabrials. It was a useless form of magecraft as fabrials were usually powered by stormlight. However, it was proof to the Tohsakas that stormlight was indeed a form of magic and not some otherworldly energy.
Gemstones could capture stormlight for storage but it could never be utilised by a person, only a spren. Impossibly, this man glowed with that power. His hood was down exposing his bald head and pale skin. He walked across the woven rug of red and gold that led to the throne room. Herself, king Hanavanar and a dozen royal guards stood frozen, The man in white looked almost disappointed.
"You failed to kill me." His voice dripped with agony as his hand clutched his face in what looked to be disgust. The other hand held a noble phantasm. It was a scimitar with a curved black handle. It was short and insignificant compared to the noble phantasms her lord wielded.
The king of Jah Keved had both blade and plate. He wielded a massive great sword edged on both sides with a pattern of fire. Along with this, he possessed the bolstered strength of his plate which, similar to a fabrial, was powered by stormlight. It was perfect, no flaw was in the armour as it morphed to its bearer's stature. It was painted a royal red.
The short Shin man was outmatched and outnumbered but none could even utter a word. He didn't wait for a response as he walked down the rectangular hall towards them. This broke the king out of his silent stupor as he rallied his honour guards to him. They formed ranks as if facing an army. Tohsaka dashed to the far side of the room to get away from what was going to be a slaughter.
The Shin stopped under the massive chandelier that lit the room. Chips of garnet, topaz and heliodor were infused to mimic the lighting of flames. The shadows casted an ominous visage on this monster. He tilted his head up, as if surveying a weapon. Then, he flew upwards.
He flipped mid-air to orientate himself upside down on the tip of the chandelier. All stood with amazement as this man defied the laws of the world. He extended both arms to his side as light from the gemstones began to stream out from the chandelier. Escaping as tendrils of blue mist, the man breathed in the light. He glowed magnificently, like a blazing blue star.
The chandelier began to creak as the tip swayed to move directly in line with the formation of men that stood aghast. He jumped as the metal frame broke from its fixture and flew like an arrow, crashing into the ranks of soldiers. The sickening crunch of bone and metal rang throughout the hall.
The king in his plate managed to jump away from the carnage but all the guards were crushed. Hanavanar stood ready with his massive blade pointed towards the ceiling at the assasin.
"What are you!" The king demanded. This was no normal magecraft, Rin had never even read of an ability such as this.
The man in white didn't respond as he pulled himself towards the mess of bodies. He walked amidst wriggling violet blobs that were fear spren. They clung onto the feets of the guards that survived the impact. His blade found their necks slitting them with precision. Like other noble phantasms, it didn't cut flesh, it fazed through and severed the very soul. The men who laid panicked and immobile suddenly had the horror in their eyes burnt out.
From the corpses, the man bent and lifted a spear with his offhand. He stood poised for battle against the king.
"Why do you all resist." He bellowed with an almost animal ferocity. "You stain my soul with unnecessary deaths."
The spear in his hand began to shake violently, as if it wanted to escape his grip. The red armoured king didn't let the assassin make the first move. He dashed, closing the distance within an instance. The Shin didn't so much as flinch as he ducked underneath the swing. He released the spear. It flew with so much force that it splintered against the plate, the force causing the king to stumble back.
Hanavanar braced for the flurry of attacks. The assassin moved impossibly quick, each swing causing slight cracks that only grew in size as he focused his breastplate. Rin didn't bother trying to help. The only way of defeating someone with a noble phantasm was to use another noble phantasm. But, her lord was facing the most feared person in all Roshar.
Even in his plate, the king couldn't keep up with his movements. Like a white ribbon, he evaded each blow as he continued his assault on the armour. Hanavanar knew he was running out of time, the stormlight powering the plate already began leaking which the assassin seemed to siphon into himself like a parasite.
The king lifted his leg and stomped his sabaton causing flames to spiral around him. The darkened throne room now had a fiery light that contested the ominous blue. The intensity of the heat forced the Shin back, the flames licking at his white robes leaving the tips a charred black. He seized the momentary relief to channel the rest of his mana into the blade.
"Firestorm!" He chanted the name of his blade and it erupted in his hands. Similar to his magecraft, the sword ignited the air around it.
He thrusted, sending a torrent of flame towards the assassin. Surprise flashed across the Shin's face, Rin almost thought that her lord won until the torso of the man was yanked towards the wall. He reorientated himself to land feet first on the side of the building.
The king wasn't done, he struggled against the force emitted by the flames as he tracked the assassin. The stone walls of the room were scorched black as the stream of fire tried to follow the assassin. The tapestries was consumed but the assassin was too quick. He ran parallel and lightly touched the coat of arms he was under with his off-hand. It flew towards the king, wrapping around his plate.
He was blinded and the assassin went for the kill. He flew towards him like an icy meteor. Wielding his scimitar with both hands, he thrusted through the cracked plate. The flames from Hanavanar's noble phantasm suddenly stopped as he fell from the force of the collision. He was dead.
The man in white yanked the blade out of the cuirass, it remained clean with a perfect silver sheen. He made his way towards the window of the castle as if it was nothing. He didn't even claim the blade and plate. Rin knew he was above such a treasure, he possessed something even more valuable.
"How do you do it, absorbing stormlight like that?" From the corner of the room, Rin couldn't help but speak out to the man. He possessed the secrets her family had been searching for. "It's some sort of spren isn't it, a kind we haven't discovered?"
The Shin abruptly stopped and turned his slightly too large eyes towards her.
"No. They will not return... I am Truthless." With that, the man used his blade to cut a perfect circle into the glass. Pushing the piece down into the void, he leaped out into the night, carrying his secrets with him.
Shallan tossed around as she tried to let sleep take her. No matter how hard she tried though, Shallan couldn't shake the feeling of something watching her. Her eyes would peak through her lids to only be met by darkness but the feeling was still there. The premonition was too strong.
Jolting upright she grabbed her pouch of spheres on the bedside and pulled out an emerald chip. It glowed with a soft green light illuminating the guest room. There was no one here.
'It must be my nerves.'
Afterall, they will be traveling to Kholinar tomorrow. This won't be some sightseeing trip, they were going to travel to the capital of Althekar with a secret heir in tow. What in Damnation were they going to say? This Arthur didn't even look like an Alethi, rather, his golden hair aligned with the Irali people on the opposite side of Roshar.
She wouldn't voice her concern. Her father's words were absolute. Questioning him only provoked his fury and Shallan learnt quickly that keeping quiet was the best course of action. Sliding on her sandals, the red head slipped out into the halls of the small manor with her emerald sphere. She needed to clear her head.
It was all quiet, the air unnaturally still as the final moments before the Weeping ticked down. During the end of the year, there were no Highstorms, just perpetual rain. It would continue ceaselessly from grey skies for a period of two weeks. This was the perfect time to travel long distances as storm shelters wouldn't have to be erected for protection. She looked out the window to already see the congregation of clouds beginning their swirl overhead. In this field, she spotted someone unmistakable. His hair like a candle glow in the darkness, Arthur Kholin stood gazing at the stars.
Shallan wanted to talk to him; she still didn't apologise for what she said earlier. Opening the front door, she gracefully walked out into the frigid air. Still in her havar, Shallan approached the boy. He noticed her from the corner of his eye.
"Brightness, is something wrong?" He spoke with a firmness that wasn't threatening. It didn't boom like thunder, but managed to remain imposing. Turning to face her he gave a concerned look. Shallan didn't want to tell her the truth, she didn't even know what was happening to her.
"Nothing in particular...just had trouble sleeping."
"I understand." He sat and patted a hand on the earth beside him. Shallan went to join him, she was curious with what this soon to be king will say.
"This will be the last time I can look up at the stars before I reclaim my birthright." Arthur looked at the twinkling sky.
"I'm trying to find the answers in the stars. How I should act, what path I should take and whether my decisions will be the right one."
Shallan was given pause by those words.
"That...sounds like heresy."
Arthur lips tightened as he realised the implication.
"I'm not actually predicting the future." Arthur gave out a sigh, "Although my teacher only told me that it was bogus after I learnt it."
Shallan huffed, "Serves you right for trying to go against the Almighty's teachings."
The boy responded curtly, "It still gives me a sense of relief knowing that there is some answers out there." Arthur gave her a side long look, "Even if their fake."
Shallan couldn't believe it, this boy was going to be king of one of the strongest nations in Roshar. She shook her head at the absurdity.
"So, what will be your first command as ruler of Alethkar?" Shallan readied herself for something stupid.
Arthur however became introspective, pondering the response.
"I'm unsure, I know what I want." He closed his eyes as if visualising his kingdom. "I want a return to form. I want my country to follow the codes we have so easily discarded. I want our ceaseless warring to end. But most of all, like any king, I want my people to be happy."
Shallan couldn't think of a response to such wishes. Who could possible object to such fantasies. There were no ambition in his words, no excitement. He didn't wish for himself but rather wished for something grander. She found herself thinking back to her father's ravings: the restoration of the Knight Radiants.
Shallan found herself muttering, "A King of Knights..."
"What did you say?" Arthur didn't catch her words.
"A King of Knights. That is what you will be known as across Roshar." Shallan laughed at such blasphemous words.
Arthur smiled as if the words touched his heart. "Yes, I quite like that title."
Taravangien intelligence today was below average. The mathematical test that was provided for him said so. Therefore, the king was confined in his chambers. This was his curse. For the knowledge to save humanity, Taravangien went to the Old Magic. It granted him his boon but only on certain days. His intelligence varied with times of near omnipotence.
On one of these days, he created the Diagram. It foretold the future and how to circumvent it: to prevent the destruction of the world, this crippling man had to stain his hands with blood. In order to save the world, he had to kill.
Taravangien understood the necessity. Killing one to save the many was the most logical option. But on days when he was reduced to a simpleton, he couldn't help but despair. He faced the large window that was set into the wall. This was his city. It resided within a natural wedge-shaped valley that opens out into the sea. Buildings were coloured vibrantly, but they couldn't shimmer in the morning light during the Weeping.
It would be perpetual twilight for this period. In Vorinism, this was a time for self-reflection and contemplation with the Almighty. Taravangien thought of the deaths he was responsible for. His intelligence seemed to make the man more calloused. On certain days, he could be truly cruel.
"Kill. Kill as you have never killed before. Lay the innocent screaming at your feet and make the lighteyes weep. Do so wearing white, so all know who you are."
Just the memory of the words made him shriek. Even with his withering body, the cry pierced through walls of his prison. The door opened, allowing in a thick arm Thaylen through. The large man looked strange as he chose to shave both his head and eyebrows but to the king, he was a dear friend.
"Is everything alright?" He spoke uncharacteristically, possessing a care that he rarely showed anymore.
Taravangien could feel the tears welling up in his eyes, "I will be fine Mrall. I just need to weather this day."
Mrall's empty brow raised, "Perhaps it's best you took a walk in the garden."
"I-I-I cannot trust myself." The wisps of his white beard shook along with his head.
"I insist." There was finality in his words and Taravangien didn't possess the wit to dispute him today.
The Thaylen helped his friend off the bed and began leading him towards the gardens. His body was failing him, the perpetual aches at his joints served as a constant reminder. Many of the things people would disregard were a challenge to this old man.
The Conclave was painted white and opened into long halls deep within the mountain it was carved in. Taravangien wasn't surprised by the lack of people present. The Conclave is usually bustling with ardents and scholars making their way to the Palanauem but it was too early, and the rain discouraged many to make the trek up to the mountain.
The garden was positioned near the entrance so it could bask in the open air. It contained a diverse array of flora separated by low marble walls. The hidden flowers contained in rockbuds bloomed while vinebuds extended their tendrils upwards from thick stems to dance in the breeze. Even being sheltered under the archway, Taravangien felt the chill of the morning rain.
Taravangien spent his middays here regularly although someone else seemed to be using the space. At the centre stood a man with red hair. His stature alone would be intimidating, yet his shoulders were slumped as his neck arched towards the sky. The rain didn't faze him, his eyes remained unblinking as water streamed down his face and onto his grey robes. It was the posture of someone who had been broken.
Taravangien felt an overwhelming pity, but his bodyguard stiffened.
"How did you escape!" Mrall stood infront of the king yet even he seemed to be unnerved by the man.
His strength was undeniable. Moulded as if from stone, the man possessed a strong back and sharp features, as if chiselled by a master craftsman. It was as if the Almighty blessed this one. Anyone would assume the young man to be a budding warlord, yet his dull and lifeless eyes told another story.
He didn't seem to register the words coming from Mrall. The unresponsiveness lined up with symptoms of battle shock. Taravangien had seen cases like this before; Kharbranth's hospitals weren't strangers to fathers that returned from battle as husks. The only way to find the extent of the damage was to ask.
"Are you alright?" Taravangien looked at the man like his old self, a king who cared.
The man shuddered, as if he never heard the words before. His response came like a whisper in the winds.
"The flames don't hurt when I stand here."
'Flames? Is he in pain?' Like clockwork, even for Taravangien's addled mind, follow up questions formulated.
'Where is the pain?'
'How long have you experienced it for?'
'What caused it?'
Before he could ask, another robed figure answered.
"If you're wondering my king, the man doesn't possess any injuries."
He walked out of the shadows like a phantom, a grin on his face.
Taravangien immediately recognised the man.
"Kirei, are you treating this man?"
"He is under my care. I was planning to start the bloodletting, but he managed to shake of the sedative and flee. I apologise for the inconvenience." The healer bowed deeply.
"Ohh." Taravangien finally placed the pieces together. He appointed Kirei to lead the Silent Gathers. Therefore, this man was supposed to die.
When he was smarter, he told himself that this was necessary. In his twenty hours of lucid insanity, he outlined the brutal method to ensure mankind's survival. The diagram contained instructions yet they still couldn't fully understand it despite him being the one to write it. They knew it related to the Desolation but the things they uncovered were left up to interpretation as they had no context. The Silent Gathers collected this context from the dying.
Mrall glanced at him as he tried to hide his sorrow. When he lacked intelligence, his empathy always got the better of him.
"Wait, surely we can let this one go." Mrall said the words he was thinking.
Kirei scowled at him as if his favourite toy was at threat of being taken away.
"It is too dangerous; he will tell others." The healer gave his excuse, but his friend countered.
"No." Mrall glared at him. "He is obviously confused, I doubt the man even knows where he is."
Taravangien looked up at him with gratitude. Even with his liver spotted face, his sincerity was that of a child's.
"Then, I would like to show this patient around my city. Maybe it will distract him from whatever ailment he has."
The Thaylen nodded, prompting the little king to walk out of the shelter of the mountain to lead the redhead by the hand. He shook off the coldness and the dampening of his orange coat. This was a small mercy for the king. If he could help one man, then maybe he will be reminded of the importance of his duty. Afterall, they will be saving millions at the price of a few. He shouldn't feel guilt. He just needed to weather the storm.
Even amidst the rain, Kharbranth bustled with business. The two made it past the switch backs that lead down the mountain and into the streets. They were too narrow to allow chulls to pull carts so merchants instead hired people. Slaves would be ideal to carry such menial task but he and all the kings before him outlawed such a thing in this city. Everyone wore a smile on their face as they went about their day.
Taravangien was filled with pride. This was why he kept going: to see that the joys and hopes of people remained. An aroma of spices wafted in the air as vendors began preparing soups and pastries. The two were currently striding down an alley flanked by towering buildings. Like most structures they were blocky in nature, being built with crem and stone but it was coated over with vibrant paints that brought life into the blank canvas. Each colour represents a different purpose. Green was for food venues, violet for tailors, homes used a different pattern of pastel colours so people could express themselves without limitations.
The giant to the side of him however seemed unfazed. It was like he was lost in his own mind, his fragile hand the only thing that guided him forward.
'He is almost like a Parshman.'
Parshman were unthinking labourers. They didn't have the capacity to think for themselves and so, they were viewed as property. They were numerous and are scattered all across Roshar serving their owners. Even Kharbranth allowed their usage, it was just too invaluable a resource.
On the streets, he could even see some pulling carts carrying wealthy merchants. One got close to the pair. The redhead's glazed eyes suddenly widened in horror, it was the first time he saw a reaction from the man. He jumped, almost tripping the old man.
His breathing became ragged but Taravangien quickly soothed him.
"Shhh, its alright. They are just Parshman."
"P-p-parshman?" The words seemed to bring him relief.
Taravangien wasn't surprised by the outburst. Parshman unnerved many with their marble like skin and almost soulless existence. The reaction of the redhead got the attention of a women working a stall close by. She wore a skirt like garment and a wide brim hat to protect against the ceaseless shower. She came out of her green stall and approached the two.
"My king," she bowed reverently. "Is this one alright?"
"I'm afraid not. He suffers with an affliction to the mind." He spoke gravely.
The women pursed her lips giving a thoughtful expression. She hastily ran back to retrieve a baked roll. She cupped it, with one hand over it to protect it against the rain.
"Here," She offered the pastry to the warrior. Steam still radiated from it, emitting a pleasant fruity aroma. He accepted the gift tenderly but allowed the rain to begin soaking it.
"No!" The women exclaimed. "The crust will be ruined if you don't shelter it." The lady placed her gloved hand over his.
"I'm sorry." He spoke with such genuineness that it made the lady smile.
"It's alright, just make sure you enjoy it." The redhead copied the gesture of the lady, shielding the pastry.
Taravangien was surprised by the sudden lucidity in this despondent man. He was capable of being saved. The king nodded his thanks to the women as they continued, the redhead taking small but savoury bites from the pastry. They reached the end where it opened up into a market square. There were a few stalls open for business selling various produce and accessories. A wagon stood out in particular with a group of youngins crowding around it.
Glimmers of steel shimmered as a group of eager boys held up diamond chips that faintly glowed with stormlight.
"How much is that one?" Cried one of the boys, as he gestured towards a curved single edged sword.
"More than you can afford." The merchant said matter-a-factly. The fine embroidery on his coat coupled with his bright violet eyes displayed his wealth.
"Come on, let us at least swing the thing!"
Taravangien turned away to continue his walk but the redhead resisted the pull of his hand. His eyes, were alight with passion as he stared towards the group.
'Well he does seem to be a warrior.' Taravangien made his way towards the commotion which prompted the commoners to part after recognising their king. The lighteye merchant gave him bow but the old man knew the contempt hidden behind his expression.
"What brings you here today?" He was almost disinterested, as if knowing he would ask something trivial. But this request could save his patient.
"Could you let my companion try out one of your blades?"
The merchant's eyebrow rose, as he surveyed the warrior next to him.
"Is it safe?" The grey robes around the man made it obvious that he was a patient. Taravangien honestly didn't know whether it was a good idea to hand him a weapon. His mind seemed so unfocus that he might unintentionally hurt himself.
The redhead however, didn't wait for their permission. He strode with poise towards the rack of weapons and picked up the curved sword that garnered the children's attention.
The sword quivered in his hand as if begging him to swing it, dance with it. He accepted the calling, laying the flat of the blade on his forehead.
The people around him stumbled back. He ignored them. Taking a breath and closing his eyes, he found that he wasn't in the rain anymore. He was in his mind, seeing the memories of someone so much greater than himself. It all jumbled in his head but one thing rang clear: an oath.
'Life before death'
For once, he stopped thinking of the pain and just let himself be. Droplets sprayed off the edge of the weapon as he went through the forms he trained in all his life. He didn't need to think, his muscles knew what to do. The strikes were powerful, deliberate, each foot following through as if he was challenging the storm itself.
'Strength before weakness'
He remembered the red eyes of his enemies. There were times when he was surrounded by them but he chose this. Shirou always valued others before himself. A scene flashed, he was being impaled by a multitude of weapons. That didn't discourage him. As long as he could still breath he would stand. He quickened, his strikes changing to wide and flowing swings. He found peace in battle but he heard a voice interrupting his bliss. It was his father's.
'That is not the way to become a hero. You can't stop a storm by blowing harder. You can't save men by killing others.'
He didn't care. He trained to forget, trained for redemption, trained so he wouldn't have an excuse to ignore those pleas again. The familiar feeling of power coursed through his body. He followed his instincts and changed to a one-handed grip while his other grasped the projection of an identical copy. He made out gasps of amazement as he transitioned into a whirlwind of steel: unrelenting and unyielding.
'Journey before destination'
He spun impossibly with both blades. His muscles burned but in it, he felt the heat of a fire that burned greater than Damnation itself. It was a surprise, he thought pain was something he had to endure but his body yearned for this. This was his purpose. To stand against the impossible and fight.
Suddenly, the blade he summoned faded from existence. Leaving him standing alone amidst the rain; knees bent, right hand raised over his head, blade tucked underneath his arm in a reverse grip. He sighed in contentment.
'Ohh how I missed that.'
The men around him stood in awe. One of the boys dropped his pouch of diamond spheres. They rolled to illuminate the figure of the warrior in a battle stance. The man had finally found his purpose and managed to formulate the words.
"The army...let me fight in the army. "
Hey all!
Writing Szeth's fight really has me eager to just do a time skip so we can get to the cool fights. But we still have such a long way to go
(I haven't even gotten to the first book yet)
A battle between surgebinders doesn't happen until the end of the second book.
Also...I did a sin and nerfed Shirou with 'memory loss'. As you can probably tell, he is taking over some of Kaladin's bits so he needs to get into a certain 'crew'. I promise to not let it last too long.
Also don't worry about Shirou just stealing Kal's thunder, he will have a different dynamic and probably do something stupid to get into the 'crew'.
However the little thing were a noble phantasm must be summoned by activating circuits causes him to be unable to utilise his honour blades and by extension his powers as a stonewarden. I know, very convoluted. I hope you can just suspend your disbelief as I tell this story.
Hopefully you enjoyed this chapter!