Lotr starlight archive Chapter 6: 6, a 17776 fanfic

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Of Many Colors [Stormlight Archive/Lord of the Rings]

Thread starter LithosMaitreya Start date Aug 29, 2022 Tags lord of the rings (middle-earth) stormlight archive (cosmere)

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Threadmarks 44: Enough

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LithosMaitreya

Character Witness

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Jul 24, 2023

#1,243

Thanks to Elran and BeaconHill for betareading, and to Phinnia for the commissioned icon.

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Enough

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Nothing could have prepared me for what I saw down there in the dark. For one thing, it was not dark at all.

-x-x-x-

There was music in the air.

Sarus lay perfectly still in his cot, eyes shut. His ears were straining, even though it wasn't his ears that were hearing the intangible sound. It was always there, the music. He could hear it in the strange rhythmic way Rlain spoke, in the clipped cadence of Archive's abortive sentences. He could hear it in the sound of hoofbeats outside, sometimes.

But most of the time, he couldn't make out more than snatches. He could tell that it was there, but he couldn't remember any melodies or harmonies. It was like looking at a glyphward from a hundred feet away—he could tell that something was written, could narrow down the meaning somewhat, but couldn't resolve any details. And, somehow, it felt important that he do so.

Which led to this. Outside, a plateau assault had been called, so the camp was emptier than usual. The palace was, if not silent, then at least quiet. And he was trying to listen for the sounds he could just hear the edges of in that quiet.

It was there. He was certain it was there. It didn't pass into his hearing through his ears—or, at least, no more through his ears than through the rest of him. His whole body hummed with it, he felt the air vibrating with it against his skin. It was constant and omnipresent, and yet ephemeral as a candle in a highstorm. There one moment…

The door to his cell opened. Someone stepped inside. "Renarin told me you were awake, son," said Dalinar Kholin.

…And gone the next.

Sarus sighed and opened his eyes. "I am," he said, giving the man the best salute he could manage, while prone and with arms that felt like overcooked tallew noodles. "Hello, Brightlord."

Dalinar pulled up one of the two seats beside the bed and sat beside him. Sarus noticed that Archive had vanished. She would have shrunk down to the size of a grain of sand the moment the door started to open. She preferred to take her time doing that—it made it easier for Sarus to see where she ended up, when she shrank slowly enough to track. But she could do it much faster, to the point that she almost seemed to disappear into thin air.

"He also told me," Dalinar continued, "that there was an attempt on your life just before you woke up. Said you woke just in time to fight them off."

"I wouldn't have," said Sarus, "except that your son came along to help Shen before I woke. They held the assassins at bay until I could stand."

Dalinar nodded. "Well, we're all glad of it," he said. "Renarin told me Sadeas sent them."

"He did," Sarus said. "The survivor was willing to answer our questions."

"You let one go?"

"Renarin had severed his arm with his Shardblade," said Sarus. "Even if he returns to Sadeas, it won't be as an asset."

"And you didn't think it made more sense to take him in? Keep him prisoner here, where we could interrogate him further and even bring him before the king as evidence of Sadeas' duplicity?"

"Evidence of what, exactly, Brightlord?" Sarus asked, lips twitching in dark amusement. "Even if His Majesty decided to pursue legal justice against Sadeas for the attempted—attempted, not successful—murder of a single darkeyes, all he would win is a single tenth-nahn death price. Not exactly a significant dent in the Sadeas coffers. I make that many spheres in two weeks as a member of the Cobalt Guard."

Dalinar's face fell. "You're more than a single darkeyes, now, son," he said.

Sarus' minute smirk widened into something darker. For a moment, his heart thundered with the impulse to strike. To attack Dalinar where he was weak—in his assumptions, his long-held beliefs, his ill-considered privilege. And that system would be just if that Blade hadn't broken in my chest? he imagined saying. If I had survived a more mundane wound—the fact that my death would only warrant a few broams from the coffers of one of the wealthiest men in Alethkar would be correct and good?

But Sarus was nothing if not pragmatic. So all he said was, "I suppose. What happens now, Brightlord?"

"For the moment? You rest and recover. You've earned it. You'll continue to be paid in full, and my scribes will hold the spheres for you until you're well enough to claim them."

"You have my sincerest gratitude, Brightlord," said Sarus, trying not to laugh. Dalinar was so comically awkward. He was completely out of his depth. A highprince was talking wages with a darkeyes who had just broken a Shardblade. It sounded like a bad firemoss hallucination.

Dalinar didn't know how to feel about Sarus. He could see it in the man's face as clear as the wrinkles of dignified age and the fading lines of old regrets. He was grateful that Sarus had helped against the Assassin in White. He was humbled by what would have been Sarus' sacrifice, had the Honorblade done what it was supposed to and slaughtered Sarus where he stood.

But the Honorblade had not killed him. And now Dalinar—old, conservative Dalinar, who thought that the problem with the rest of the Alethi nobility was that they weren't traditional enough—had no idea what to think. He didn't know whether to hail Sarus as the return of a Herald or to condemn him as a Voidbringer. He didn't know whether to offer Sarus a Shardblade so that he could be treated as a lighteyes, or to continue treating him as simply a very unusual darkeyes.

The idea of changing his approach to darkeyes in general had not yet come into the old highprince's head. Sarus could probably plant it there, if he so chose. It might even take root.

But it also might not. No, better to play this defensively. Play for time. Win Dalinar's confidence, then leverage that to whatever ends later.

Sarus could get a Shardblade out of this, he was certain. It might not happen immediately, but he could maneuver his way into it. With Adolin's duels—assuming he could find any more—House Kholin would soon have a surfeit of Shards. They were intended, Sarus knew, to be kept in the king's trust, to be redistributed to those who demonstrated loyalty to His Majesty. A neat way to tie the kingdom back together. But he could very easily convince both Dalinar and Elhokar that he was a suitable recipient for one of those sets of Shards.

Archive would hate him for it. She might not be as dogmatic as Syl, but she too considered Shards, and especially Blades, as abominations. It might not break their bond completely, but it would certainly fray it to its very edge.

…And that was, perhaps, part of what tempted him.

You will grow, she had said. As if he wasn't enough. As if he would never be enough. As if enough wasn't even a word that had meaning for her. He was starting to realize that maybe it didn't. If Syl was inherently fanatical about honor and protection, Archive was just as much so about growth and progress. Sarus would never be enough for her. She had been proud of him for a short while after he spoke the First Ideal, only to then set her sights on the next horizon.

Would that ever end? When he spoke the Second Ideal, would she not then immediately expect him to pursue the Third? Then the Fourth, and the Fifth? How many Ideals were there? Five or ten, she had guessed. When he spoke the last, would that finally be enough? Of course not. Life was a journey to Archive, and there was no destination.

Sarus was so, so tired of never being enough.

He wasn't ready to put down the idea of seizing a set of Shards for himself. But neither was it time to commit to that course now, in any case. All he had to do now was act natural. Advance his position. Plant the spores of opportunity and wait for them to bud.

Now to choose his opening move.

"Once I'm done resting, Brightlord," Sarus said. "What then?"

Dalinar's eyes found the window. It was shuttered, letting only thin strips of sunlight filter into the room. "I'm not sure, son," he admitted. "The ardents are debating what this all means—for you, and for the rest of us."

Next move. Sarus could play at ignorance—what do the ardents have to do with anything? Pretend that he couldn't even conceive that someone might consider what had happened miraculous, or that they might consequently attribute divinity to him. Or he could present the consummate soldier—Let them debate. I just want to know whether this will change my assignments. Either of these would endear him to Dalinar, who valued both warlike honor and virtuous humility.

But Dalinar was surrounded by people embodying both of those traits. Sarus didn't want to be just another aide, constantly running to keep up with the moving target of a highprince's approval. No, he wanted to be indispensable. He wanted to be enough.

The best mask, as always, was one's own face.

"Which way are they leaning?" Sarus asked.

"Hm?"

"Do they think the miracle was done to support me," Sarus said patiently, "or to stop the Assassin in White?"

Dalinar blinked. Then he frowned. "I don't know. I haven't asked." He shot Sarus a look. "Do you have any idea? Was it a miracle?"

"I have no idea whether or not it was a miracle," Sarus said. It was mostly true, though he was extremely hesitant to guess that any higher power would intervene to support him. Why would it start now, after all? "But I know that Sadeas fears the potential of the belief in a miracle. Why do you think he tried to have me killed before I could wake?"

Dalinar narrowed his eyes. "You have a plan."

"I wouldn't make plans without at least consulting with the actual players, Highprince Dalinar," said Sarus. "But—you said it yourself. I am no longer just another darkeyes. I have, even if only by reputation, become a very powerful weapon in your arsenal, Brightlord. So use me."

"To what end?"

"What end do you want?" Sarus asked. "A united Alethkar? A kingdom loyal to your nephew? Sadeas replaced with a highprince with more virtue than claws? I can see ways that I could help you get all of these."

"Do you?"

"Yes. Brightlord, I wasn't born sas nahn. I studied alongside lighteyes. I know my way around these games. And I want what you want. Let me help you."

Dalinar considered him for a long moment. In his face, Sarus could see the flickering of mistrust. Damnation. The last clever, politically-gifted man Dalinar had worked with had abandoned him and his son on a plateau to die. Sarus had to place distance between himself and Sadeas.

…Or, perhaps he didn't. "I was raised in Castle Sadaras, Highprince," he said.

Dalinar's eyes widened.

"I was Brightness Tailiah's servant, for a time, before she died," said Sarus, ruthlessly forcing his grief down. "When we were children, I was even her playmate for a while. And after all that, Sadeas brought me here to suffer and die, taking an arrow meant for one of his soldiers. Brightlord, I know you do not know me well, and I know that the circumstances surrounding me are uncertain, to say the least. But even if you trust in nothing else, trust in this—I want Torol Sadeas destroyed. Not killed, necessarily. I want him brought low. And what better way to do that than to reforge the Alethkar he tried so hard to keep united—and to cut him out of it entirely? We want the same thing, Brightlord. I can help us both get it."

Dalinar looked at him for a long moment, and Sarus saw the moment the decision was made. "I'm not looking for vengeance against Sadeas," he said.

Which was a lie, but Sarus wasn't about to call him out on it. Not now, when he had just won everything he wanted out of this conversation.

"But I can certainly understand wanting it," Dalinar continued. "You're right—it will burn him to watch us succeed. And I can see you're telling the truth—you did study with lighteyes. You studied with Sadeas' own daughter. I don't need to know every detail. What I know is enough. I think I can trust you, son." He stood. "I'll talk to Elhokar about bringing you in on some of our meetings. Your insights might be valuable."

"Thank you, Brightlord." Sarus saluted weakly.

Dalinar saluted back and left the small room.

Sarus waited until the door closed, and until Dalinar's footsteps faded away down the hall. Then he smiled. His deep, quiet chuckles filled the room.

Archive grew back into her seat beside him. "Your ambition is," she observed.

"Is that a problem?" Sarus asked, amused. Because he already knew the answer.

"No," Archive said.

She didn't disapprove of his ambition. But something was concerning her. She wasn't even sure what it was yet, but Sarus guessed that the bond which connected their two souls fed her some unconscious impulse. An instinct that something had changed between them.

Let her stew in that instinct. She would not act on mere hunches and emotion. And as long as he kept her from anything more solid than that, he would retain access to Stormlight healing and his Radiant abilities, such as they were.

It wouldn't last forever, of course. It never did. But that was the point, wasn't it?

The only person who would always be with Sarus, until his final, dying breath, was Sarus himself. Sooner or later, everyone else would leave, if they didn't die first. Kaladin would leave. Renarin would leave. Archive would leave, vanishing like smoke slipping through his fingers.

So, really, who could blame him if he tried to wring whatever advantage he could out of them, while they were still here?

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LithosMaitreya

Jul 24, 2023

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Threadmarks 45: The Gemheart of Truth

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LithosMaitreya

Character Witness

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Jul 31, 2023

#1,255

Thanks to Elran and BeaconHill for betareading, and to Phinnia for the commissioned icon.

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The Gemheart of Truth

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A figure stood upon a platform of stone which seemed to have been Sung from the bedrock itself. He was humming a melody, soft as a summer breeze, yet loud as a thunderclap. His hands were upraised, and between his palms a heart of blue crystal was forming, sending twining veins of musical light creeping through the mountain.

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"You're becoming quite the skilled cook, Shen," said Sigzil as he dipped his bread into the stew Rlain had served him. "This is nearly as good as what Rock makes."

"Thank you," said Rlain, the Rhythm of Joy thrumming through him.

He had found that he really did enjoy cooking for these men—these humans who, despite their uncertainty and prejudices, tried in their own small ways to include him. Sigzil spoke to him as freely as to anyone else in Bridge Four. Murk made certain he was given his wages on time and in full each week. Kaladin had given him a spear.

And, of course, Sarus had kept his secret.

"I've been thinking," Sigzil continued. "The night shift usually can't get Rock's food, at least not warm. But now that you've started cooking on your own while he's off with Kaladin and Murk, perhaps we can change that?"

"You want me to take over cooking for the night shift?" Rlain asked.

Sigzil shrugged. "It was a thought. I know nobody likes the night shift, and obviously I can't make that decision, but I thought it made sense."

Rlain hummed briefly to Consideration. "I suppose I could do that," he said. "Especially if I can get some time on the day shifts. None of the men are on the night shift for more than a week at a time."

"Which doesn't really make sense," Sigzil said, but he seemed to be talking more to himself than to Rlain. "I mean, constantly changing our sleeping schedules can't be good for us. It makes us sluggish on our first day in a new rotation. It would make more sense to designate shifts and keep people on them for several months on end."

"You can be the one to suggest to Moash that he not see the sun for months," Rlain said to Amusement.

Sigzil blanched. It was an interesting effect on his darker Azish skin. "Ah, fair point."

Rlain hummed to Amusement for a moment before serving another bowl of stew to Gadol, who had come back for seconds. Then Amusement gave way to Joy.

He didn't know why, but ever since he had helped Sarus and Renarin fight off the assassins two days ago, the Rhythms had come to him easier. It was almost as if dullform had ceased to be an impediment entirely; he heard them nearly as well as he had before coming to the Alethi warcamps. He could only assume that this was another aspect of the 'miracle' that had started to surround Sarus like a cloak. The myth of the Shardbreaker was spreading, even here among Bridge Four. This return of the Rhythms had given Rlain yet another facet to the mystery, another crack in the carapace around the gemheart of truth.

The Rhythm of Joy faded into that of Curiosity. The orange Stormlight. Breaking the Shardblade. Freezing those assassins with a word. Returning the Rhythms to me. Sarus, what are you?

His thoughts were interrupted by the sudden arrival of a sprinting Eth. "Moash!" he called.

Moash—who was the current officer in command at the Bridge Four barrack, with Sarus incapacitated, Teft training Bridge Nine, and the others helping Kaladin practice his Surgebinding—stuck his head out the barracks door. "What's going on, Eth?" he asked. "Aren't you on small Prince duty?"

"Yeah," said Eth. "Renarin wanted to come here."

"What? Why?"

"Dunno. He's doing that thing again where he gets all distant and starts responding slowly when you talk to him. We asked, but he kinda avoided answering."

Moash grimaced. "Great. Sig, make sure everyone out here knows we've got a Brightlord coming to visit. Best behavior. I'll sort out the lads inside."

"Got it, Moash," said Sigzil.

Moash retreated back into the barrack, and Sigzil looked at Rlain. "It must have to do with Sarus. Why else would Prince Renarin want to visit his off-duty guards?"

"Probably," Rlain agreed. "Especially after he helped with the assassins the other day."

"Well, whatever his reasons, we'd best be on our best behavior." Sigzil stood up and started jogging around the barracks, spreading the word to anyone outside. Soon, the very loose conglomerate of men spread around several of the barracks had become a much tighter knot of people around the campfire. The conversation remained light, but even Rlain could feel the tension in the air. The men were not speaking to Anxiety, but somehow that Rhythm seemed to hum in the air around them anyway.

Humans couldn't hear the Rhythms, Rlain knew that. But was it possible that they could… affect them? A place full of Listeners could become filled with a feeling when many of them attuned to that Rhythm at once. Could humans, even deaf as they were, have that same effect? It certainly seemed that way.

For himself, however, Rlain found he shared none of the men's concern. He understood it, certainly. After their experiences with highprinces and brightlords, small wonder they were nervous about drawing the direct attention of the highprince's son. But Rlain had stood with Renarin outside Sarus' room. Had felt the man's back shaking against his as they were surrounded. He found that, rather than Anxiety, the Rhythm he attuned to automatically was Curiosity. He wanted to know more about the strange young man, who carried a Shardblade but seemed fearful of even drawing it, who knew little of combat but still took up arms outside Sarus' room.

A few minutes later, Renarin arrived, Mart and Arik marching a few paces behind him. The young man stared straight forward as he walked, his eyes not shifting to look at the people or things around him. But eventually he stopped, and his head turned towards Rlain. "Shen," he greeted.

"Prince Renarin," Rlain said with a salute. "Would you care for some stew?"

Renarin blinked, seeming to notice the pot and ladle in front of Rlain for the first time. "I… Yes. I would. Thank you."

Rlain nodded and served him a bowl, then passed him a flatbread. "It's a Horneater recipe, I'm told," he said.

Renarin looked at him for a long moment, then looked down at the stew for an equally long one. "Thank you," he said again, and sat down on a stump nearby to eat.

Slowly, the men's conversations began around him again. He could still feel the anxiety in the air. None of them approached Renarin.

Rlain hummed to Determination for a moment, then set down his ladle and walked over. He pulled up another makeshift seat beside Renarin. "Welcome to the Bridge Four barracks, Brightlord," he said.

Renarin blinked a few times before even turning to him. He blinked a few more once he had. "Thank you," he said. "It is Shen, isn't it?"

"That is what the men here call me," Rlain said.

Renarin considered that. Suddenly, Rlain was struck by how reckless he was being. It was one thing to allow himself to show some independence, some ability to think, before darkeyed men who had most likely never spoken to parshmen before. It was another entirely to do so with the son of an Alethi highprince, someone who almost assuredly kept tens, if not hundreds, of parshman slaves. There weren't many of them on the Plains, but that wasn't unusual. One of the first things Rlain had learned in the warcamps was that the vast majority of the Alethi's parshmen had been left behind in Alethkar.

Apparently, going to a battlefield outnumbered by servants who looked a great deal like your enemies made humans uncomfortable. Rlain supposed that, if their positions were reversed, he would have been too.

He very briefly hummed to Anxiety before forcibly settling himself back into Peace. Perhaps he was making a mistake. But he had seen how the men avoided Renarin, and it reminded him of how they had avoided him, before these past few days. Before he had been trusted with a spear, had defended Sarus, and had begun to hear the Rhythms again.

He was a Listener, and he would be better than the Alethi. If he was to die, let it be with honor.

"If you were hoping to speak with Captain Kaladin, he is currently away with some of his lieutenants," said Rlain.

"I can wait. Will he return soon?"

Rlain glanced up, judging the sun's position in the sky. It was starting to dip low in the horizon, which meant second shift was nearly over. "Most likely. He prefers to return before the shift change."

Renarin nodded. "Thank you."

He says that a great deal, Rlain noted. Particularly for a man raised in Alethi privilege. Aloud, he said, "If I may, Brightlord. I was surprised to see you at Sarus' room two days ago."

"He saved my father and brother," Renarin said. "Twice."

"True enough," said Rlain. "It is our duty to protect your family, Brightlord."

"It wasn't the first time," Renarin murmured. "On the plateau, when Sadeas betrayed us. You had no duty to fulfill there."

Suddenly Rlain wondered if he would have been willing to return, if he had been there for that final run. He wasn't certain. On the one hand, the rescue of Dalinar Kholin had allowed him to reclaim a much more advantageous position for his infiltration. On the other, he still hadn't managed to find any contact with which to share his information, and escaping the bridge crews would have allowed him to return to his people. Besides, the Kholin armies were his people's enemies. The reason they were dying was because they were trying and failing to kill his people. Arguably, it was his duty to allow the warform Listeners to do their own.

And yet, despite all that, a few brief beats of the Rhythm of Shame escaped him before he brought himself back into attunement with Peace.

"Have you ever seen Sarus do that before?" Renarin asked suddenly.

"Do what? Break a Shardblade?"

"Make people freeze. Give them commands they can't disobey."

Rlain remembered the expression on the Sadeas assassins' faces as the spear was driven into their exposed, immobile throats. He would never be an expert in human body language, but he didn't need to be to identify that kind of stark, animal terror. It was the expression of a cremling faced with an axehound, or an axehound faced with a chasmfiend. Prey faced with a predator so overwhelming that even flight was futile. "No. No, I haven't."

Renarin nodded. "Do you think it's a new ability?" he asked. "Something breaking the Shardblade did to him?"

"Perhaps," said Rlain. "Or perhaps he could always do it, but didn't unless it was absolutely necessary."

"If he could always do that, wouldn't he have used it to escape the bridge crews?" Renarin asked. "Surely he could just command the overseers to let him leave."

"It would be more complicated than that. There were sentries watching all exits from the warcamp, ready to kill us if we tried to leave by any means other than throwing ourselves down into a chasm. He would have had to be able to influence an archer from a distance, possibly several. I don't know his limitations, but I suspect that might exceed them."

Renarin turned fully to look at him, his entire body rotating on his seat. "That's a very good point," he said. "But—"

"Brightlord." Kaladin's voice broke across their conversation. Rlain turned to see the Captain approaching them, the other officers dispersing among the men, working to ease their nerves. "Is there something you need?"

Renarin jumped to his feet and, to Rlain's surprise, gave Kaladin a clumsy, unpracticed salute. "I would like to serve under your command, sir."

Kaladin blinked once. His face gave nothing away, at least not to Rlain. "Let's talk away from the fire, Brightlord," the captain said after a long moment. He gently took Renarin's arm and steered him away.

Rlain watched them leave, then turned and returned to his stew to start feeding the officers who had returned.

-x-x-x-

This is a bad idea, Glys said.

So you've mentioned. Now shut up, I'm trying to hold a conversation. "I want to serve under your command, sir," Renarin said again, once Kaladin stopped leading him away from the other men. "I—"

"You shouldn't call me sir, Brightlord," Kaladin said in a low voice. "You're third dahn, the son of one of the three most powerful men in Alethkar.

For a moment, Renarin was confused. Kaladin had never seemed to care for proper decorum when it came to rank. Why should he insist on showing deference to Renarin when he never even called his father 'Brightlord'.

Then he realized.

Storms, he thought. I've been so distracted the past few days all of Sarus' lessons completely slipped my mind.

Sarus' lessons? Glys asked, and Renarin realized he had been projecting. But he couldn't afford to focus on explaining things to Glys while Kaladin was looking at him, waiting for a response.

"I'm sorry, Captain," said Renarin, striking a compromise. Both superiors and inferiors called people by their actual military rank, right? "I suppose that probably unsettled the men."

"A little, yes."

Renarin grimaced. "But still. Captain. I want to be in Bridge Four.

"Brightlord, we're your family's bodyguards. What do you intend to do—guard yourself?"

Told you he'd say that, Glys said.

Aren't you the one deathly terrified of Kaladin finding out about you? Stop distracting me. "I'd like to at least be able to defend myself, Captain."

Kaladin frowned. "Rlain told me you helped him fight off the assassins until Sarus woke up. Sounded like you held your own all right."

"Who's Rlain?"

"What? You were just—oh, Storms." Kaladin rubbed his eyes. "I guess you probably heard someone calling him Shen. Turns out his name is Rlain. He told me when I gave him his spear, two days ago. I haven't had a chance to ask him whether he wants me to tell the men."

Since when do parshmen correct their owners about their names? Renarin wondered.

They don't, Glys said darkly.

No time to pursue that line of questioning now. "Well, he was being generous," Renarin said. "I got a lucky hit in when I took them by surprise, and after that Sh—Rlain had to defend both me and Sarus from three of them."

"You still took one out," Kaladin said, but his expression had softened somewhat. Renarin wasn't certain what that meant. Pity? Empathy?

"I need to do better than that. Be better than that. Captain, the last two times my father and brother almost died, I wasn't even with them. I was ushered away like a child."

Kaladin grimaced. "Look, Brightlord. I don't know the first thing about training a lighteyed Shardbearer to be a duelist."

"I don't want you to teach me to be a duelist, Captain. I have Ardent Zahel for that. I want you to teach me how to be a soldier." And a Knight Radiant.

This is still a terrible idea, Glys said.

"I'll work hard," Renarin promised. "I can't promise it'll be easy to train me, of course. No matter how willing I am, well, my body doesn't always cooperate."

Kaladin frowned. "I've only heard people refer to your ailment in very oblique terms, Brightlord. To be honest, I thought it might just be a rumor."

"It isn't," said Renarin. "I've a blood weakness."

"That's a folk description of many different conditions," Kaladin said. "Has a surgeon told you what you really have?"

"Epilepsy," Renarin said. "It means—"

"I know what it means," said Kaladin impatiently. "Idiopathic or symptomatic?"

There was a sudden silence. "Um," Renarin said.

Kaladin sighed. "Sorry. Was it caused by a specific injury, or were you born with it?"

"I've had it since I was a child. I suppose it's possible I don't remember the injury that caused it because I was too small."

"How bad are the seizures?"

"They're fine," Renarin said quickly. Storms, was he really complaining to the man he was trying to convince that he wasn't a liability. "They aren't as bad as you'd think. Just some uncontrollable twitching for a few moments. I can usually even remain standing." Not that he'd had an epileptic fit since forming his Nahel bond with Glys. But they were a convenient cover for his visions.

"You're conscious through them?"

"Yes."

"Myoclonic, probably," Kaladin said. His words had grown more clipped and businesslike as they spoke. It was as though an entirely different man had taken the place of the bitter, cynical soldier Renarin had expected to speak to. A man who had clearly been educated in medicine. "You've been told to chew bitterleaf?"

"Yes," Renarin said. "I don't actually know if it helps. It's not just the twitching—my fits are often accompanied by periods of weakness and lethargy. Usually all down one side of my body."

"Which?"

"My left. It's also my left arm and leg that twitch most often."

Kaladin nodded. "That could fit with the seizures. Have you ever experienced a persistent relaxation of muscles in the left side of your body? An inability to smile with that side of your face, for instance?"

"No."

"Good. Tell a surgeon immediately if that happens."

"I will." Renarin could no longer contain his curiosity. "How do you know all this? I thought you were a soldier."

Kaladin blinked, and something changed in his face. Renarin wasn't good at reading people, but he was good at telling when someone was pretending to feel something—especially when he could see the moment the mask came up. He might not be able to identify what Kaladin's real face had meant or what his false one represented, but he could tell, if nothing else, that the first was true and the new was false.

"I know some field medicine," said Kaladin stiffly.

Field medicine for epilepsy? But Renarin let it slide, though he hated to suppress his curiosity. He needed Kaladin, and if Kaladin wanted to keep his past to himself, well, that was his right. For now, at least.

You swore to seek the truth, Glys reminded him, but it didn't sound like an accusation. More a probing question.

Yes, but I didn't swear to do it to exclusion. To be cruel or reckless about it. I'll keep my eyes open, Glys, but I won't drive the person I need away because he's keeping his past private.

Good. Glys sounded satisfied.

He had been silent for too long. Kaladin coughed awkwardly and continued. "I can see why they don't want you going into battle. I've seen men with wounds that gave them similar conditions, and the surgeons always dismissed them from duty. There's no shame in it."

Renarin felt his heart sink. Somehow, he'd assumed Kaladin would understand without needing to be told. But Kaladin wasn't Sarus. "That's what they all tell me," Renarin said, unable to keep the bitterness entirely from his voice. "'Not everyone is needed for fighting, every Calling is important.' Then they all go back to fighting, while the ardents teach that the entire afterlife is a war."

"If they're right, I hope I end up in Damnation," Kaladin muttered. "At least there I might get some sleep. Brightlord, you're no soldier."

"I know," said Renarin frustrated. "That's why I'm here. You don't have to set me to important tasks. You don't have to put me in harm's way. Your men spend most of your time patrolling anyway. I just need to see what it's like."

"Why?"

Renarin hesitated. "Did you know that my father made Adolin serve with a spearman squad for two months, when he was younger?"

"No. I didn't." Kaladin drew back a little in apparently genuine surprise.

"He did. But he never did that for me. He said it was important that an officer serve in the shoes of his men. That he understand what he was asking of them when he gave them commands. But I was never given that chance. I'm a Shardbearer now—" and a Radiant "—and even if I'm never going to be a warrior, there may well come a time I have to order warriors to fight and die. I will never be a real soldier, I know that. But I need to understand what life would be like if I was. You're my best chance. My only chance. Please."

Kaladin stared at him for a long, long moment. Renarin fidgeted. Glys was silent.

"I should probably point out that I'll be easier to guard if I'm spending my time training with your men," Renarin said.

Kaladin remained silent. Then, at long last, he sighed. "You really want to be a soldier?"

"Yes."

Kaladin pointed in Rlain's direction. "Go collect the dirty stew bowls and wash them in the barrel over there. Once Rlain has emptied the pot, wash that for him too."

"Yes sir—uh, Captain!" Renarin turned and leapt to work.

You seem awfully happy for someone just asked to do servants' work, Glys observed as Renarin began taking bowls from the men of Bridge Four.

This isn't servants' work, Renarin said. Servants do this for people who never do it themselves. These men rotate the duty. They share in their responsibilities, both the pleasant and the not-so-pleasant.

And if they never let you do anything other than washing up? Glys asked.

Then I'll learn just by washing up after them. I'm here mostly to watch Kaladin, remember? Learn both how he leads his soldiers, and how he approaches being a Radiant.

Glys was silent.

Not going to tell me this is a bad idea?

…I'm not certain it is.

Renarin paused in the middle of pouring water over a dirty bowl. Really?

Kaladin… isn't what I thought he was. I expected a particularly charismatic Alethi soldier. Warlike. Even meatheaded. He isn't that.

Renarin ignored the disparaging description of his own people. What is he, then?

There was a long pause before Glys finally said, A Windrunner.

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Jul 31, 2023

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LithosMaitreya

Character Witness

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Aug 7, 2023

#1,270

Thanks to Elran and BeaconHill for betareading, and to Phinnia for the commissioned icon.

-x-x-x-

Visitors

-x-x-x-

I fled. Of course I did. For this was no Man, nor Avari, nor Dwarf, Orc, or Goblin. This was an Ainu—and, more than that, I believe it was one of the Valar themselves. I still do not know what he was doing with the mountain, for I dared not stay to find out.

-x-x-x-

Sarus awoke to a knock on the door. The sunlight was already streaming in through the window. He was momentarily mortified to have slept so late before the ache in his entire body returned to remind him why he was justified in doing so. "Yes?"

"Begging your pardon, Shardbreaker," came the nervously awed voice of one of the ardents. "Prince Adolin here to see you, with a companion."

A companion? "Don't keep the Brightlord waiting at the door like a servant, Ardent," said Sarus, affecting amused embarrassment as he struggled to sit up. "Please, Brightlord, enter."

The door opened. Adolin strode inside, military uniform crisp and pressed as ever. A young woman stepped in at his side. Her hair was a rich orange-red, the color of the outer tongues of a hearth-fire. Her eyes were bright blue. Horneater blood, by the hair. Vorin upbringing, by the safehand sleeve. Veden, most likely.

"Brightness," Sarus said, inclining his head to her, before turning to Adolin. "Brightlord. Did you need me for something, or are you merely showing your companion the most interesting sights in our warcamps?"

Adolin grinned. "She asked."

"Well, I'm happy to be of service," said Sarus.

Adolin snorted. "Sure you are. Shallan, this is Sarus, Captain Kaladin's second-in-command."

"And, as of two days ago, the mysterious 'Shardbreaker,'" Shallan said, studying Sarus with eyes that glittered slyly.

For an instant Sarus thought he saw another figure standing in the doorway behind her, indistinct and shadowy, but it was there and gone again in a flash. Still, he took note. A spren? "So they tell me," he said, showing nothing on his face. "Mysterious or not, I'm just happy to be alive."

"Don't question the Almighty's gifts, as they say?" Shallan asked.

"Not until I can stand up and hold a weapon, at least," Sarus said. "In case He, in His mercy, decides to take them away again."

She grinned. "So you don't know how it happened?"

"Not the faintest idea," said Sarus. "And if the state of my body is anything to judge by, I shouldn't expect a repeat performance."

"What a shame," Shallan said thoughtfully. "You could have revolutionized duelling. A man who breaks Shardblades, in the arena. That would have been a sight."

Adolin grimaced. "Especially if that man continues to summon giants every time he's stabbed."

Sarus blinked. "Giants?"

Adolin looked surprised. "Oh, has no one told you what we saw when you were—um, stabbed?"

"No," Sarus said slowly. "No one has."

"Well, you and the Shardblade vanished," said Adolin. "And in your place was… well, a giant. A man far bigger than that Horneater in your crew. Blonde hair and beard, glowing blue eyes. He looked around for a moment, seemed surprised, then vanished when you returned with the shattered Shardblade."

Sarus stared at Adolin for a long moment. "He said nothing?"

"Not a word."

"If you vanished when you were run through," Shallan asked, seemingly half to herself, "and that giant appeared… where did you go? And where did he come from? The same place?"

Adolin shrugged. "Could be the Tranquiline Halls, for all we know," he said. "You see anything, Sarus, after you were stabbed?"

Sarus thought of a young woman in black, whispering the first syllable of a name that he knew was his, if only he could remember it. "No," he said softly. "Nothing comprehensible, at least. Flashes of light and color."

Shallan studied him for a long moment. He had the strangest feeling that she wasn't fooled, despite knowing that he was probably one of the three most skilled liars in the warcamps. "Well," she said, shrugging, "I suppose it would be unethical to try to repeat the experiment to get more complete results."

"I would certainly prefer it if you didn't," Sarus said dryly.

"Pity," Shallan said. She shot him a small smile. "We'll leave you to rest, Sir Shardbreaker."

"Please do, if the alternative is you calling me that."

She laughed. "Our chaperone will be wondering what's taking us so long anyway." She looked up at Adolin. "I believe I was promised a tour of the rest of the Kholin warcamp?"

"Of course, Brightness," said Adolin, linking his left arm with her right. "Hope you feel well enough to return to duty soon, Sarus."

"As do I, Brightlord. As do I."

They left, and Sarus laid back in his bed, staring at the ceiling. Archive bloomed to full size in the chair beside his bed.

"So," he said softly. "Adolin's mysterious causal betrothal finally appears."

"Princess Jasnah's ward is," said Archive.

They had overheard talk of Shallan Davar while standing guard over the Kholins, here and there over the past weeks. She was apparently the ward of the king's sister, Jasnah, and it was at her recommendation that she had been causally betrothed to Adolin. Now she was here.

But where was Jasnah? The princess had gone missing weeks ago. Did her ward's arrival mean she was here too, or was something else going on? Sarus hadn't wanted to voice these questions to Adolin and Shallan—he needed time to assess the newcomer, figure out what made her tick, what would set her off and what would put her at ease, before opening himself up to information exchange—but that left him to wonder now.

But as he wondered, his mind went to another girl who should have been standing beside Adolin, visiting his bedside. Tailiah had never wanted her inevitable, unspoken betrothal to Adolin.

And, in the end, Sarus had kept his word. He had saved her from that fate. That thought was a knife in his chest. Or a Shardblade.

-x-x-x-

Sarus' next visitor was one he had expected sometime today. Kaladin stomped through his door in the late afternoon, completely ignoring the ardents trying to slow him, and shut the door behind him. "Sarus."

"Captain."

Kaladin grimaced. "Don't—just Kaladin, to you."

Sarus studied him for a long moment. Kaladin had never been uncomfortable with his rank before. Was this because Sarus was injured? Or because of how he had been injured? Or something else entirely? "Very well, Kaladin. How goes the work? Have the Kholins managed to get themselves killed yet?"

Kaladin's already grim face darkened further. "Not yet."

He was hesitant. Sarus could see that he wanted to discuss something, but didn't know how to begin. "What is it?"

Kaladin scowled, turning thunderous brown eyes to Sarus. "…Nothing," he said finally. "How are you feeling? On the mend?"

"Of course," said Sarus, and it was true. He felt better today than he had the day before. His nerves still smoldered, but they were not aflame. "I expect I'll be fit for duty in a week or two. Possibly less, if you can smuggle Stormlight in for me."

Kaladin grimaced. "I should have thought of that myself. I'm sorry."

"You have clearly been distracted," Sarus said. "By what?"

Kaladin was silent for a moment, staring at nothing. "Did you know about Moash?" he asked.

Ah. "He was involved, then?" Sarus asked.

"Yes."

"Damnation."

Kaladin nodded stiffly. "I'm not sure what to do, Sarus," he said. "If you weren't injured I'd ask you to talk to him. He's told me he'll stop, but I'm not certain I believe him. He wants me to meet his conspirators."

"Be careful," Sarus warned. "At least one of those conspirators is a Shardbearer."

"I know," said Kaladin quietly. "What do I do? Syl thinks I should tell Dalinar."

Sarus snorted. "Of course she does."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Syl asked, suddenly darting up from behind Kaladin's shoulder to glare at him.

Sarus looked at her for a long moment, debating with himself.

On the one hand, he did not want Moash to kill Elhokar. Obviously. Elhokar was useful. Sarus hadn't managed to get close to the king yet, not the way Kaladin had with Dalinar (without even trying, Sarus thought with a flare of familiar envy) but he was building trust and reliance. Within a few months, Sarus would be poised very strongly to pursue whatever he wanted in Alethkar.

But on the other… Sarus didn't want Kaladin to report Moash. That would bring Dalinar and Kaladin personally closer, but it would decay trust between House Kholin and Bridge Four more generally. It was upon that general trust that Sarus was building his own position.

Ideally Moash would be convinced to stop his attempts on Elhokar's life. Failing that, Sarus would rather he be the one to prevent the assassination, rather than Kaladin. That would ensure that he was safe from the fallout. He didn't want Kaladin's position compromised, either, necessarily. If it became clear that Moash was beyond convincing, perhaps Sarus could convince Kaladin to report the man jointly. That would protect them both. But Sarus wasn't yet ready to assume that Moash couldn't be convinced. He hadn't spoken to the man about it, even before the weight of the Shardbreaker's reputation—and whatever had changed in his voice—were behind him.

No, Sarus did not want Kaladin to report Moash. But was there any point to arguing with an honorspren? He suspected that she, like Archive, was a slave to her nature: unable to truly think freely, to believe outside the narrow lines of whatever principles of 'honor' she held to be true. But he didn't know that, not for certain. It was worth investigating, if nothing else.

"What is honor, Syl?" he asked quietly.

She blinked at him. "Honor is keeping to your oaths," she said.

"Kaladin swore to protect the men of Bridge Four," said Sarus. "Was it dishonorable when several of us died?"

"Of course not," Syl said. "He tried."

"I agree," said Sarus. "But Moash is a member of Bridge Four, and turning him in to Dalinar wouldn't be trying to defend him, would it?"

"Kaladin also swore to protect Elhokar," Syl said.

"And why should that oath matter more than the oath to protect Moash?" Sarus asked.

"Why should it matter less?"

"I'll tell you why it should matter less," Sarus said flatly. "King Elhokar Kholin has hundreds of thousands of men under his control. He has the authority to levy armies and the resources to pay for the training and equipment of thousands of trained bodyguards. He is perhaps the most powerful and wealthiest man in all Alethkar, possibly in all of eastern Roshar. He can defend himself.

"Moash, on the other hand, is a darkeyes with barely a handful of broams to his name, all of them earned in the past few months. I don't know the details of his past, but I'm certain if he has anyone besides Bridge Four who would like to protect him, they have no way of doing so. Of these two men, Syl, which one needs Kaladin more?"

Syl was silent, staring at him. "It's not that simple," she finally whispered. "They're both still oaths."

"And yet, you are not pressing Kaladin to try and convince Moash to stop," Sarus said, letting the accusing tone of his voice emerge subtly. "You are pressing him to choose. And you are pressing him to choose Elhokar. Do you understand, Syl? All our lives we have been surrounded by a world that chooses the lighteyes over us, every day, every hour. Now even you, the so-called embodiment of honor itself, are doing the same."

"That's not fair," Syl said softly, but her small face looked stricken. "That's not why."

"Then why?" Sarus demanded. "What could drive you to push your Windrunner to break one of his own oaths?"

Syl took a deep breath. "Moash was part of the oath Bridge Four took to defend Elhokar," she said. "He knowingly took that oath, and knowingly decided to break it."

"So anyone who has ever behaves dishonorably deserves no honor themselves?" Sarus demanded. "I thought honor was a thing that lived in the hearts of men. I defy you to find a man who has never told a lie, who has never committed hypocrisy or turned his back on an oath in the face of new information. If the only men worthy of being treated with honor are men who do not exist, then what are you, honorspren?"

Syl was shaking. "I don't want Kaladin to stop trying to protect Moash. But Moash is undermining the oath Kaladin took. The oaths betray each other, and Moash is the betrayal."

"And so you abandon one desperate man to preserve a calamitous system," said Sarus. "And call it justice."

"No," Syl whispered. "Not justice. Honor, but not justice."

"Enough," said Kaladin. He looked from Sarus to Syl and back again, a pained expression on his face. "Thank you, Sarus, but I'll figure this out. I'll talk to Moash. Maybe when you're up to it you can talk to him too. We'll find a way to protect everyone."

"You won't always," Sarus warned.

"Probably," Kaladin agreed. "But that's no excuse to stop trying." He sighed. "I should go. Are you up for more visitors? Some of the others wanted to come see you."

Sarus smiled. "Of course. You're all welcome, although I believe the ardents are trying to limit me to two visitors at a time."

After Kaladin left, Archive looked at him from her seat for a long time. "You were cruel to Syl," she said quietly.

"Was I?" he asked, not looking at her as he held back a smirk.

"She cannot help what she is," said Archive. "She is of Honor."

He allowed himself a thin smile. "Neither can we, Archive," he said. "Neither can we."

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Aug 7, 2023

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LithosMaitreya

Character Witness

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Aug 14, 2023

#1,306

Thanks to Elran and BeaconHill for betareading, and to Phinnia for the commissioned icon.

-x-x-x-

Power

-x-x-x-

I clambered from those deep caverns, climbing up through the narrow tunnels until I emerged out into the open sky for the first time in centuries.

-x-x-x-

"What do you mean, you couldn't move?" Torol demanded.

"J-just that, Brightlord," stuttered the man. The stump where his Shardblade-severed hand had been amputated was wrapped in a thick bandage and strapped before his chest. The man's face was pale—had been pale even before he'd seen Torol—and his eyes were sunken. "The Shardbreaker just said stop, and it was like my body refused to move. Same thing happened to the others. It was…" The man cut himself off, raising the back of his remaining hand to his mouth as if to hold back from retching. "I've been a soldier for near a decade, Brightlord," he said weakly. He wasn't even looking at Torol, just staring absently into the middle distance with glazed eyes. "I don't fear death. Don't fear any man in any kind of fight, whether it's in the hall of a hospital or on a pitched battlefield. But that—he's no man, sir."

This was useless. Torol kept his temper in check. Everyone in the small hospital room was sworn to secrecy, of course—it was important to maintain deniability in something like assassination, even if it was obvious to all of Alethkar that he was the one who had ordered it—but it wouldn't do for Torol's steward and general to see him fly into a fury over something like this. The boy's importance, officially, was that the Kholins currently had control over a myth in the making, and they had to lose access before they learned to use it. That official story had to be preserved.

So rather than bellow his fury into the man's face, Torol just let out a heavy breath and turned back to his advisors. "Come," he ordered, and led them out of the field hospital. Once they were outside, he asked, "What do you make of this?"

"The stories of this Shardbreaker are compounding on one another," General Latharil said. "I am no ardent, but I find it hard to believe all of them."

"This man and his squad," said Balar in his nasal voice. "How trustworthy are they, Brightlord? Have they served important, trusted roles in the past?"

"No," Torol said. The squad had been disposable by design—even if they were captured and interrogated, they could give away no information that wasn't obvious. He could always deny having hired them, and it would simply be his word against theirs.

Balar shrugged. "Then it occurs to me that the mythical reputation of the Shardbreaker might serve as an excellent cover for desertion."

"Would that man really have gotten his hand severed by a Shardblade in order to cover his friends' desertion?" Latharil asked. "That seems… excessive."

"True," Balar agreed. "I suppose it's a question of what is more likely. Is it more likely that the so-called Shardbreaker truly has a magical voice capable of ensorcelling those who hear it, or that one man had his hand severed by a Shardblade—whether accidentally or deliberately—and used it to cover for the desertion of three other men?"

"Neither seems especially likely," said Latharil. "Especially when there's a much simpler explanation. The four men attempted to follow the highprince's orders. They were interrupted by Prince Renarin, who severed this man's hand and either killed or captured the others. Rather than admit to having been defeated by a boy who can't ride a horse without having a fit and falling from it, this man decided to spin a story of the Shardbreaker's magic voice."

"It makes sense," agreed Torol. "All we know is that the man encountered a Shardblade sometime in the past two days."

"But why would Prince Renarin be wielding his Shardblade in defense of his own bedridden guard?" Balar asked.

"It's more likely than that the man would sever his own hand," said Latharil.

"Agreed," said Torol. "So that's the only assumption that makes sense."

"Then what shall be done with the man?" asked Balar. "If he has lied to your face, Brightlord…"

Torol rolled his eyes. "Have him sent to the bridge crews," he said. "We still need men to replenish the purchase price of Oathbringer."

"Of course, Brightlord," said Balar. "I will tell the surgeons."

"Shall I find a squad to make another attempt, Brightlord?" Latharil asked.

"No," said Torol. "Not yet. I need to speak with my wife." It was an open secret, especially among Torol's own advisors, that his wife retained contact with trained assassins and spies hidden among all of the warcamps. "For now, I want you to focus your efforts on replenishing our supply of bridgemen. Bring word to your subordinates, tell them to be on the lookout for darkeyed troublemakers. Anyone whose armor could better serve on someone else, take it from them and give them a bridge instead."

"Yes, Brightlord." Torol's two closest advisors left him. He crossed the warcamp in silence, keeping his face blank as he seethed internally. He made it back to his private suite in the war palace unbothered. There, finally, he let go. His face twisted into a scowl as he summoned Oathbringer.

By the time he was finished, he was down one wine table and two chairs. He didn't feel better, exactly, but some of the pressure of his hate and rage had been relieved. Breathing heavily, he dismissed the Shardblade. It faded into mist, and the room fell into an even deeper silence, as though there had been a sound just on the edge of his hearing while he had carried the blade.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a shape scuttle along the wall below the windowsill. He glanced over, and though it fled beneath a desk, he caught another glimpse of the strange, talking spren he had seen two days ago.

He was sure he had been seeing it for weeks. Now that he knew that he hadn't been imagining it, he remembered seeing a shape in the corner of his eye everywhere from Elhokar's feasting basin to the plains between the warcamps. He had seen it in every imaginable mood, so it couldn't be a hallucination of his mind, taxed as it was by the situation at hand. It was real—he had to operate on the assumption of his own sanity, or he would be as paralyzed and ineffectual as Dalinar.

But what was it? He had never heard of such a thing. And if it could speak, it could be reporting what it saw to someone. He couldn't afford a leak like that within his very rooms. He set his jaw and left, making for the ardential quarters.

He was greeted by an unfamiliar ardent, with a rounded face and dark blue eyes. "Brightlord," the man said, bowing low as Sadeas stepped into the receiving room of his ardential wing. "How may we serve you today?"

"I have a question regarding spren," said Torol. He briefly considered saying that it was a sensitive question, but ideally he would only tell the ardent actually doing the research that. "Is there an ardent who specializes in such things here?"

"As it happens, Brightlord, I am that ardent," said the man. "I have studied all of the seminal texts of spren research, both those by traditional Vorin scholars and—"

"Yes, yes," Torol said impatiently. "I have a question that must be kept confidential. You must swear to keep secret what I ask you, as well as the answer."

"Of course, Brightlord," said the man. "I am, as always, your humble servant. Your secrets shall never pass my lips. You have my word."

"Good," said Torol. "I need to know about spren that can speak."

"Speaking spren, Brightlord?" The man looked puzzled. "There is, of course, folklore of speaking spren all over Roshar, but nothing has ever been substantiated by reputable research."

"Tell me about the folklore, then," Torol said.

The man shrugged. "There is a legend in parts of Iri of spren who served as stewards and servants," he said. "These spren were said to speak. The Iriali who hold to this claim that these spren lived in one of their prior Lands, but this is widely considered a fringe belief even among that strange people. There is also a heresy in parts of the Reshi Isles that the Voidbringers are a form of spren, and some Passionists on the eastern shore believe that the Natan people are descended from spren. There is a legend in the lands south of Shinovar that, before it was scoured, spren lived alongside men in Aimia. And, of course, there are the Knights Radiant."

Torol blinked. There was a rumor that Dalinar intended to refound the Knights Radiant. Surely that was a coincidence? "What do talking spren have to do with the Knights Radiant?"

"Oh, well, some historical texts imply some connection between the Knights Radiant and spren," said the ardent. "Some even claim that those spren could speak, and served as friends or advisors to the Radiants. This is, of course, not a widely-accepted theory. There is simply no solid evidence."

No solid evidence… except for the spren currently following me around like a stray axehound. "Is that all?" Torol asked. "No other myths of spren that can talk?"

"None that I can recall," said the ardent. "But I will, of course, consult with my collection of manuscripts and the library, to be certain. If I find any myths that I have forgotten, I will bring word to you, Brightlord."

"Do so, but keep it secret."

"Of course."

Torol left the ardent there and returned to his rooms. There he found Ialai, directing several servants to remove the wreckage left behind by his rampage with Oathbringer. "Husband," she said. "I hope you weren't attached to what remained of that table."

"Not especially," said Torol, slipping past her through the sitting room and into their bedroom. She followed, closing the door behind them.

"I gather that you received bad news," she said.

"The boy survived," said Torol. "The assassin who returned tried to spin a story about his magical voice compelling the other three men to stand still while he cut their throats. I've had him sent to the bridge crews."

"I suppose we do need to replenish those. Should I—"

Torol held up a hand to silence her. The spren was slipping under their bed silently. He tried not to feel too unsettled by that.

"Husband?"

"We are not alone," Torol said evenly. "Come out."

There was a moment of silence. Then, a faint hissing emerged from under the bed. "No," came the spren's voice.

Ialai started. "What on Roshar—who is there?"

"Ssss," the spren hissed at her. "No one. Lies."

"You clearly exist," said Torol, hiding his relief at the proof, through Ialai's reaction, that he wasn't seeing things that weren't there. "Speak. Why are you here?"

"…Shouldn't be. Sss."

"You've been following me for weeks, spren," said Torol flatly. "I imagine you were probably there when I asked the ardent about you."

"Many lies there. Then. Lying ardent, lying highprince. Lies from roof to foundation."

"Who is that?" Ialai asked. She kept her voice in check, but Torol could see in her face that she had passed surprise and slipped into fear. "What is that?"

"Cryptic. Ssssssss."

"What is cryptic?" Ialai asked.

"I am," the spren said. Slowly, reluctantly, it slipped out from under the bed, gliding along the floor, hissing faintly. The strange pattern of its shape shifted constantly as it slid over a rug. "A Cryptic. Shouldn't be here. This was a bad idea."

"What was a bad idea?" Torol asked.

"Can't remember."

"What do you mean, you can't remember?"

"Hard to come here. Hard to think. Sssss, and you aren't making it easier. So many lies, and so many of them sick."

"Speak plainly," Torol demanded, reaching out to the side and beginning to count heartbeats. "Who sent you? Why are you here? How long have you been listening—"

Oathbringer fell into Torol's hand, and suddenly his head was filled with screams. He swore, reflectively tightening his grip on the hilt. The spren was hissing madly, suddenly agitated, as if—

—as if it could hear the screams in his head too.

"Torol, what's wrong?" Ialai asked sharply, clutching at his arm.

Her voice was almost drowned out by the screaming. Torol could see by her face that she could not hear the shrieking that was somehow reverberating in his head. Yet the spren—the Cryptic—could. Why? What was happening?

He forced himself to unclench his fingers. Oathbringer fell from his hand, vanishing back into mist. As it did, the screaming fell blessedly silent.

The spren hissed sharply at him. "No summoning corpses!" it said.

"Corpses?" Torol rounded on it. "Why in Damnation was my sword just screaming at me?"

"Crossing over is hard!" it said. "Probably harder on the dead! No more desecration!"

"What are you—" Torol stopped. This was getting nowhere. No part of this conversation made any sense. Either this spren was completely insane, or it was operating from knowledge and information almost completely divorced from his own. He needed to start smaller. "You were present," he said slowly, "when I asked that ardent about talking spren. Correct?"

"Sssss. Yes." The sibilant sound of a spoken s wasn't the same as the almost ambient hissing it made between words, Torol noticed. That sound wasn't like any he had ever heard, though it vaguely resembled the sound of dry tallew grains being stirred in a bowl.

"Were any of his guesses correct?" Torol asked. "Are you one of the things he said there were myths about?"

"I think so."

"What do you mean, you think so?"

"Already told you." The spren hissed agitatedly. "Questions are lies if you don't listen to the answers."

Torol took a deep breath and let it out slowly. This creature needed to be handled calmly. "Right. You said you can't remember, because coming here was difficult. What do you mean by here?"

"Sssss. Roshar, I think."

Torol blinked once, slowly. "You're not from Roshar?"

"…Not sure. From Roshar, but not Roshar? The sun is wrong, the clouds are wrong, but the map is mostly right. I think."

That line of questioning was a dead end. Torol changed tack. "You said you think the ardent was right about something. Which of those legends do you think he was right about?"

"Ssssss. Friends and advisors." The spren sounded almost derisive. "I'm supposed to bond, I think. Find a human partner. Meant to try and bond to you. Stupid idea."

"Why would that be a stupid idea?"

"Your lies aren't the right ones," hissed the spren. "You could never speak the words. You could never mean them. You could never become."

"Become what?"

"Become." Seemingly done talking for the moment, the spren slid along the floor towards the window.

"Are you reporting what you hear near me to anyone?" Torol asked.

"No. Wouldn't be listening at all if I could avoid it."

"Then why don't you leave?" Torol asked. "That would save me the trouble of worrying about an eavesdropper."

The spren hissed rhythmically. If Torol used some imagination, the sound resembled a derisive chuckle. "A bond to you is better than no bond," it said. "I like thinking."

Torol pieced that together. "You mean, being close to me gives you the ability to think?"

"For now," said the spren. "Until I find someone better. Nahel bond. Reciprocity."

"Reciprocity? What am I supposed to get out of this 'Nahel bond'?"

"Power." And with that, the spren slipped out of the window, somehow radiating disdain in its fading hiss.

106

LithosMaitreya

Aug 14, 2023

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Threadmarks 48: And All Your Works Have Perished

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LithosMaitreya

Character Witness

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Aug 21, 2023

#1,327

Thanks to Elran and BeaconHill for betareading, and to Phinnia for the commissioned icon.

-x-x-x-

And All Your Works Have Perished

-x-x-x-

What I saw remains burned in my memory.

-x-x-x-

Sarus breathed in sharply. Pale blue light flowed in a stream from the sphere in his hand into his body. He could feel the last traces of weakness draining away from his limbs.

He swung his legs over the side of his bed and stood up. There was no difficulty—none of the shuddering frailty of the past week.

"Your strength is," Archive observed.

"Indeed," Sarus said. "We should go. There is work to be done."

She leapt from her seat, shrinking as she went, until only a speck rested on his shoulder. He reached out to the wall, taking the spear leaning there. As he pushed open the door, he leaned heavily upon it, as if it were a walking stick or staff.

He passed a woman in ardent's robes in the receiving room of the ardential wing. She started when he rounded the corner. "Shardbreaker!" she exclaimed. "You should be resting!"

"I've had quite enough of rest for now," said Sarus. "I may not be fit for open combat, but I can help in other ways. I have responsibilities to fulfill, ardent."

She bit her lip. "You are still weak."

That's just what I want you to think. "Not too weak for this. I know my limits, ardent." Sarus grinned. "Is there an expected recovery time for surviving a lethal Shardblade wound?"

She flushed, looking at him with mingled awe and chagrin. "I… suppose not."

"Then I will take my leave. You can trust that Captain Kaladin will have me back here at once if he deems it necessary."

"Very well."

She let him go. He hobbled outside and crossed the courtyard of the palace. As he walked—slow, leaning unnecessarily on his spear—he plotted.

He needed to find Dalinar. It had been fine to be isolated for a day or two, especially while he was actually too weak to walk unaided, but after more than a week he felt positively blind. What was happening in the warcamps now? Had Sadeas made any moves since his attempt on Sarus' life? Had Adolin won any new Shards? Had there been any change in the status of the war? Had those numbers continued to be scratched on Dalinar's walls during each highstorm?

He entered the palace's entrance hall and started up the wide staircase towards the upper floors, where the king and highprince's rooms were. As he reached the landing above, he heard Dalinar's voice down the hall, coming not from his own suite, but from one of Elhokar's meeting rooms. Sarus turned and started down the hall. As soon as he was sure he was out of sight of the stairwell, he stopped his limping. There was no one to perform for here.

"Why is the illusion of weakness?" Archive asked.

"Because Sadeas has already sent assassins after me once," Sarus said. "If he sends them again, I'd rather be underestimated."

The meeting room was farther than he'd realized. He had to round two corners before he reached it. His hearing, which had always been sharp, seemed to have become truly supernatural now. He wasn't sure how he felt about that.

Four men in blue uniforms were standing guard outside the meeting. Two of them Sarus did not know, but the other two were Torfin and Foran. All four of them startled at the sight of him.

"Sarus?" Torfin hissed. "Is that—Storms, man, what are you doing up?"

"Walking," said Sarus dryly. "Is Kaladin in there?"

"Yes," Torfin said. "Along with the king, highprince, and half of the important people in the warcamp."

"Per usual," grunted Sarus. "Dalinar invited me to start attending those meetings while I was ill. Mind if I go in?"

"Your funeral," said Foran. "Prince Adolin's in a mood. Think I heard him yelling at the highprince a bit ago."

Sarus' eyebrows rose. "Good for him," he said, before slipping past them and pushing open the door.

"I'm sorry, Father, but once in a while—" Adolin cut off sharply, turning towards the door, right hand already half raised to summon his Blade.

"No need for that, Brightlord," said Sarus, closing the door behind him. "It might not take anyway."

"Sarus." Kaladin gave him a sharp nod. He didn't look surprised—he had probably guessed that, thanks to the Stormlight Kaladin brought him daily, Sarus would likely recover before much longer.

"Didn't expect to see you up this quickly, son," Dalinar observed.

"I'll tell you what I told the ardent," Sarus said. "Is there an expected recovery time for being run through with a Shardblade?"

"That's a fair point."

"Father," Adolin said, looking between Sarus and Dalinar. "What is—I mean no disrespect—but what is Sarus doing here?"

"He is the head of my guard," Elhokar said, looking annoyed. "It's good to see you on your feet again, Sarus."

"It's good to be on my feet again, Your Majesty."

"Besides, I invited him to join our planning meetings," said Dalinar. "I think he'll be particularly helpful in planning around Sadeas."

"I grew up in Castle Sadaras," Sarus explained. "I know Sadeas as only his close servants can."

"Huh. Really?" Adolin frowned at him. "I spent a lot of time at Sadaras as a boy. I don't remember you."

"I do," said Renarin quietly. He was standing near the doorway wearing his Bridge Four uniform—Kaladin had told Sarus about the young man's decision to 'join' Bridge Four. Sarus had advised him to allow it, and to be kind. Renarin had difficulty understanding complex social situations, and being a highprince's son in a darkeyed regiment of former slaves certainly qualified. He reacted well to people who respected him, but did not impose unrealistic expectations.

"I did my best to stay out of your way while you courted Brightness Tailiah, Brightlord," Sarus said. "I was nearly the same age as her. Better you be waited on and chaperoned by adults."

"I guess that makes sense," said Adolin, looking somewhat mollified.

"Wait. You were one of Sadeas' servants." Elhokar's eyes were narrowed in sudden suspicion. "How do we know you're not his spy?"

"Sarus was in the bridge crews in the Sadeas warcamp longer than anyone else," Kaladin cut in. "Not just in Bridge Four—anyone. Wherever Sarus grew up, no one has more reason to hate Sadeas than he does."

Elhokar's suspicion slid off his face as quickly as it had come, leaving shame behind. "I… that makes sense," he said.

"We're not discussing Sadeas today, in any case," Dalinar said. "You're welcome to stay, though."

"Thank you, Brightlord," Sarus said. He moved behind Elhokar's chair and stood at attention.

Dalinar nodded, then turned back to Adolin. "The Parshendi will expect to see me," he said. "I don't intend to simply ignore their offer of parley."

The Listeners had offered to negotiate? Did Rlain know about this?

"We don't have to," said Adolin. "I have an idea—but I'm going to need to borrow Renarin's Shardplate."

Even without context about this meeting, Sarus understood immediately. Renarin's Plate had been Dalinar's mere weeks ago, and Renarin had not gone openly into battle wearing it. Adolin, within the Plate, could impersonate his father. Hopefully, he would do so well.

Renarin got it almost as quickly. "Of course, Adolin," he said. "We can use a spanreed and a scribe to relay whatever the Parshendi says back to the rest of us."

"What are…" It took Dalinar a moment longer, but when he got there, his eyes widened. "You want to impersonate me."

"The Parshendi may not know that you've given your Plate to Renarin," Adolin said. "They'll send their Shardbearer; it wouldn't be unreasonable for you to show up with your Shards."

"We will need to make sure you know what you are and are not allowed to promise in Dalinar's name," said Navani. "Even if we use spanreeds to communicate what the Parshendi says in real time, there will be no way for our scribe to tell you what to say. You will have to do the negotiation on your own."

"I can do that," said Adolin. "It can't be that complicated. They've been pressed back for years. We're discussing terms of surrender. All I need to know is what our basic demands are. I'm sure the Parshendi will have to report back to discuss, and Father, you would have to come back to talk to Elhokar anyway."

Not that he'd bother, Sarus thought. He could see in Elhokar's face that the king was thinking the same thing.

Dalinar nodded slowly. "It might work," he said. Then he sighed. "The kingdom should be strong enough to bear the loss of any one man, even me. But you're right—it can't. Not yet."

"We'll get it there," Adolin promised. "But we need to end this storming war to do it."

-x-x-x-

They stopped on the edge of the plateau the Listeners had appointed as a meeting place. Adolin wore the slate-grey Shardplate his father had given to his brother. He rode upon Gallant, Dalinar's Ryshadium. The horse seemed a little put out, even after the long ride from the warcamp. Sarus had always heard that the great beasts were nearly as intelligent as men. Marching now alongside one, he could believe it. It had taken more than half an hour of coaxing on the part of both Dalinar and Adolin to get Gallant to accept the new rider.

Sarus had decided to accompany Bridges Five and Twelve for this operation. Part of that was simple logic—he and Kaladin needed to split up, with one defending Dalinar and Elhokar at the warcamp while the other accompanied Adolin. Sarus could tell that Adolin didn't like having bodyguards, so he had done his best to stay among the other bridgemen. He had even helped them run the bridge, taking a bridgeleader's position near the front. His body responded easily to the exertion—easier, in fact, than it ever had before. It was as if the Stormlight healing had done more than simply restoring his strength—he felt augmented, stronger than he had been before.

But Sarus didn't just need to have one of Bridge Four's two Radiants in the field. He wanted to be out here. He wanted to see the Listeners in a context other than battle, and he wanted to be able to report what happened back to Rlain. The man deserved any news he could get about his people.

Adolin dismounted from Gallant and started across the plateau on foot, an ardent at his heels. She carried a spanreed to transmit the discussion back to Dalinar and Elhokar. As the bridgemen relaxed after laying down their bridges, Sarus looked across the plateau. It was a moderate size—more than half a mile across—but he could still see as the Listener Shardbearer emerged from the force she had brought.

His eyes narrowed. Something was wrong. Even he couldn't make out every detail at this distance, but something about her posture, the rhythm of her steps, felt off.

She and Adolin met at the center. Sarus strained his ears, trying to hear their voices a quarter mile away.

"—Eshonai," the Shardbearer said. "Do you remember me?"

"No," Adolin said, in a passable impersonation of his father.

"Not surprising," Eshonai said. "I was young and foolish when we first met. Not worth remembering. What is this?"

Sarus grimaced. Something about her voice was grating. Her rhythm was entirely unlike those he had heard when Rlain spoke—chaotic and discordant where his were smooth and harmonious.

"I came alone, as you asked, but I intend to record what is said and send it back to my advisors."

"Hmph. Very well." Eshonai sounded… dismissive. As if it didn't matter to her whether the people back at the warcamp found out what was said today. Sarus wasn't sure if that was good or bad.

"We are here to discuss the terms of a Parshendi surrender," Adolin said.

Eshonai laughed. It was a harsh, unpleasant sound. "No. We are not."

"Then what?" Adolin asked sharply. "You were eager to meet. Why?"

"Things have changed since I spoke with your son, Blackthorn. Things you cannot imagine."

"What things?" Adolin paused, but Eshonai didn't seem inclined to answer. "We tire of this war, Parshendi. Your numbers dwindle. We both know this. Let us make a truce, one that will benefit us both."

"We," said Eshonai, dark satisfaction in her voice, "are not as weak as you think."

There was a pause. "What do you want, Eshonai? How can there be peace?"

"We will have peace—"

—when you and all your works have perished—and the works of your dark master—

"—when one of us is dead."

Sarus shook his head roughly, trying to clear it of the sudden stabbing pain and distant, half-remembered voice.

"I came here, Blackthorn, to see you with my own eyes," Eshonai continued. "To warn you. We have changed the rules of this conflict. Squabbles over gemstones have ceased to matter."

"Wait!" Adolin called as Eshonai turned away. "Why are you acting so differently now? What is wrong?"

Eshonai glanced back. "You really want to end this?"

"Yes. Please. I want peace."

"Then you will have to destroy us."

"At least tell me why," Adolin said. "Why did you kill Gavilar five years ago? Why betray our treaty before the ink had even dried?"

"King Gavilar should not have revealed his plans to us that night. The poor fool thought we would welcome the return of our gods." Eshonai sounded almost mournful, and the hard, twisting edge of her voice abated slightly. "He did not know. And now, here we are." Then she turned and jogged back towards the Parshendi line.

-x-x-x-

"And now, here we are…" Rlain whispered. Sarus could hear the horror in his voice. "No. It cannot be. It cannot."

"What can't be, Rlain?" Sarus demanded.

The two of them stood alone, some distance from the Bridge Four barrack. It was a little past first moonrise, and Salas' soft light shone over them, casting the rock under their feet in a lurid shade of violet.

Rlain shook his head slowly. "My people's songs tell of our gods," he said. "We believe that they shackled us, forced us to fight in their endless war. The Listeners refused, and fled from them. We have long taught that there are some forms—Forms of Power—which will call them back to us. And we have never sought them. Our ancestors fled and hid and suffered greatly to free us of those gods.

"But Eshonai—if she said the words you report, then she does not sound like herself. Sometimes, our form can affect our minds. We are still ourselves, but our self is filtered through the skills and talents of our form. Here we are, she said."

"You think she's taken a Form of Power," Sarus said softly. "You think that the Alethi advance has made your people desperate enough to call your gods back."

"I did not think anything could make us that desperate," Rlain whispered. "I thought—I was sure that we were united in this. That we would go extinct before we summoned the gods back."

"It sounds like the people still in your home may have changed their minds," said Sarus. "She spoke to different rhythms than you do, Rlain—rhythms completely unlike those I hear in your voice. It was unsettling. Unpleasant."

"I do not know if the gods had rhythms of their own," Rlain said, "but it would not surprise me. Sarus—I must go. I must return to them, figure out what is happening, and try to stop it."

"Alone?" Sarus looked at the Listener spy. "There are still tens of thousands of Listeners on the Plains. What can you do alone against all of them?"

"I have to try," said Rlain. "I know Eshonai. I know my people. This is wrong, and they know it is wrong. They just need to be reminded."

"People doing what they know to be wrong are often the most dangerous, Rlain."

"You speak truer than you know, Sarus. That is why I have to go."

Sarus looked away. He could persuade Rlain to stay. He could threaten him, threaten to find and unmask other Listener agents. He could even use the sheer power of his voice to force Rlain to stay, as he had forced those assassins to stand still.

…But there was a chance that Rlain was right about all of this. Maybe these gods were not mere superstition. Maybe they posed a threat to both the Alethi and the Listeners. Indeed, Sarus already had a theory as to just what these gods were within Vorin theology.

After all, the Radiants were coming back now. Why, if not to fight the Voidbringers?

"At least tell Kaladin you're leaving," said Sarus with a sigh. "You don't have to tell him the truth if you don't want to, but I don't want to have to explain your absence."

Rlain nodded. Then he turned and clasped Sarus' hand. "Thank you for everything, my friend."

When Sarus woke the next morning—in his bed in the barracks, for the first time in over a week—Rlain was gone.

113

LithosMaitreya

Aug 21, 2023

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Threadmarks 49: The Spear

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LithosMaitreya

Character Witness

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Aug 28, 2023

#1,346

Thanks to Elran and BeaconHill for betareading, and to Phinnia for the commissioned icon.

-x-x-x-

The Spear

-x-x-x-

Great stone structures hung in the sky, with dark clouds drifting between them. They were perfectly silent and still, as if waiting for some sign that the time had come to fall. They were innumerable—they stretched from horizon to horizon, blanketing the world in their shadows.

-x-x-x-

Rlain knocked on the door of Kaladin's private room. "Come in," the captain called.

He stepped inside and shut it behind him. "Kaladin." He spoke to the Rhythm of Anxiety.

Kaladin looked up. "Rlain. What do you need?" Salas was setting through the small room's window, casting long shadows in the dusky light. Kaladin was silhouetted against Salas' violet light, his face in shadow.

"I have to leave," Rlain said.

There was a pause. Rlain couldn't see Kaladin's face clearly in the gloom. "All right," he said eventually. "You're not a slave anymore, Rlain. You're free to go whenever you like."

Rlain held out his spear. "Thank you."

"Keep it," Kaladin said, waving the spear away. "I'd recommend you hide it from most people, obviously—they'll see an armed parshman and assume you're Parshendi."

"Yes," said Rlain, still to Anxiety. "Assume. Right."

There was another pause. This one was colder. Sharper-edged. "Rlain," said Kaladin quietly. "I don't want to have guessed what I just guessed. Give me an excuse not to. Please."

Rlain found himself smiling as a human would. He attuned Longing and spoke. "I'm sorry. I thought you deserved to know."

"Rlain," Kaladin said roughly. "I can't let you leave if you're going to bring information to our enemies. I swore an oath."

"Then rest easy," Rlain said. "I'm not going home to report military information. I'll promise not to reveal anything about the warcamps willingly."

"Then why are you leaving?"

"Did you hear what Eshonai said today?" Rlain asked, the Rhythm of the Terrors breaking into his words momentarily before he got his voice back under control. "Sarus told me."

"Sarus knew?"

"I asked him to keep my secret. Don't be angry with him."

"I'm not." Kaladin sighed. "If you'd come to me, I'd probably have kept it from him, too. Yes, I heard. I was with Dalinar while Navani read from the spanreed."

"I know Eshonai, Kaladin. Something is very, very wrong. Something has broken among my people. I think—I think, in their desperation, they have broken oaths we have sworn to uphold for centuries."

"What oaths?"

"My people call ourselves the Listeners," Rlain said. "Long ago—or so our songs remember—we were forced to fight for our gods. But we fled from their war, and before our gods could chase us down, they were banished and sealed away. Since then, we have avoided doing anything that might bring us closer to the gods. But I'm afraid that they've done something terrible in pursuit of a way to survive."

"You think they broke some tradition?"

"I…" Rlain hesitated. "I should explain something. We Listeners can take on different forms by bonding to a spren within a highstorm. We've been trying to identify which spren will give us different forms for years—most of them were lost to us long ago. The Listeners who battle the Alethi are in warform. In the city of Narak, at the center of the Plains, there are Listeners in other forms. Mateform, nimbleform, and workform. When we fail to bond a spren at all…" Rlain gestured to himself. "We take on dullform. This form. It is difficult to think, when we are like this. We can hardly hear the Rhythms, the music that permeates Roshar, at all."

"The music that…?" Kaladin paused, then glanced out the window at where Salas had just dipped below the horizon. "No, go on. You should get out of here before second moonrise, while it's still dark."

Rlain nodded. "One day," he said, "I will explain all of this to you. If I can."

"If you can. But go on, these forms?"

"Beyond the forms we know, we have a song which lists many more. But there are other forms, listed in other songs. These we call Forms of Power, and they give us unnatural abilities. These Forms of Power are said to be given by the gods. I think that Eshonai and the others may have taken on a Form of Power. I am afraid that they might try to call back our gods."

"Why?" Kaladin asked. "Why would they call back these gods, if they're so evil?"

"Because the war they fought, long ago, was against humanity," said Rlain softly. "I fear that if they are called back, Roshar will be left with Listeners as slaves—and humans as corpses."

"Wait." Kaladin sucked in a breath. "Are your gods—are they the Voidbringers?"

"I don't know," Rlain said. "We don't remember the name Voidbringer from our lore. But we remember a terrible war against the humans. A war we had no choice in. A war we fled. A war which, if the gods are called back, will begin again, more terrible than ever."

"And you think you can prevent that by going back?"

"I know that I must try."

Kaladin was silent for a long moment. "Okay," he said. "Go, Rlain. Be quick. You have my permission to leave, but if the sentries see a parshman leaving camp to go into the plains they may try to stop you anyway."

"Thank you, Captain," said Rlain. "For whatever it's worth, I will always be Bridge Four, if you'll allow me to keep the title."

"Of course, Rlain," Kaladin said quietly. "Of course."

After a final salute, Rlain turned and left. Under the cover of darkness, he slipped out of the warcamp. He stole across the permanent bridges until they ended. Then he looked out over the chasm.

I did not think this through, he thought.

In warform or nimbleform, he could have jumped this gap easily. Even in workform, he would have been confident. But in dullform? Could he cross this distance without a spren's strength in his gemheart? It was a relatively narrow gap, but that still meant crossing more than twenty feet.

There would not be a storm tonight. There wouldn't even be one tomorrow. He couldn't afford to sit on this plateau for two days, waiting for a storm to let him attune a painspren. There wasn't time, and he'd probably have been picked up by one of the Alethi armies on their way to a battle.

I have no choice, he realized, but to try.

He threw his spear across the chasm. It clattered to the rock on the other side. Then he turned and jogged away from the edge, giving himself plenty of distance for a running start. When he felt that he had as much runway as would be helpful, he turned around. The chasm tore the land ahead of him, jaws of hungry rock ready to swallow him whole.

He was humming to the Terrors again. He stopped, took a deep breath, and forced himself to attune Resolve. Then he started to run as fast as he could, straight towards the chasm. He overcame the urge to hesitate, the urge to stop, the urge to reconsider. His feet beat against the rock to the rhythm vibrating in his blood, as though the entire plateau were his drum.

He jumped. The rock beneath him gave way to air. His heart leapt suddenly, a thrill of terror, awe, and even joy. The sky opened to welcome him.

His feet hit the plateau on the other side. He skidded and fell, tumbling forward, breathless and scraped, but alive. He forced himself upright on shaking legs, supporting himself on his spear. I don't know how many of those I can do, he thought. But I have to try.

-x-x-x-

In the end, he only managed half a dozen leaps all night. Part of that was because he had to search all around each plateau to find the narrowest chasm, but it didn't help that he had to rest for longer after each jump. After the last, he must have fallen unconscious where he struck the plateau, because the first thing he remembered after jumping was the sound of thunder rolling in the distance.

Wait. Thunder?

He forced himself to his feet. His body protested, stiff from sleeping on bare rock and battered by his jumps. His legs ached. So did the rest of his body, but his legs were worse. Then he looked to the eastern sky and suddenly, the pain in his legs didn't matter so much.

A highstorm was coming. The sun was only just rising, and a highstorm was coming. He couldn't have slept an entire day away, which meant this storm was more than a day early.

And he had no shelter at all. Even a Listener who sought to take on a new form usually took cover behind an outcrop of rock or a heavy shield that could be braced against the ground. Rlain had nothing, and the plateau around him was bare and flat.

Damnation, he thought, the human curse coming to mind before any of the ones he had learned in his youth.

He leaned down and picked up his spear. It was well-made, but it was also just a long stick with a bit of steel on the end. That was all he had to defend himself. All he had to confront the Rider of Storms.

An idea came to him. He almost dismissed it out of hand—there was no way it should work—but he had no other ideas, workable or not. He couldn't climb into the chasm—those would flood and sweep him away. There was no cover to be found. So, in desperation he raised his spear above his head with both hands, point downward. With all his strength he drove it into the rock at his feet.

It should have snapped. It was not made to embed in rock, but in flesh and carapace. Its steel tip certainly shouldn't have flashed momentarily orange, the same color as the Light in Sarus' spheres, as it sank into the rock below and stuck fast.

Rlain stared at the spear in his hands. It took him a moment to realize that he could no longer hear the Rhythms. Whatever Sarus had done that had changed him, it had been expended by this final miracle. He swallowed. Thank you, Sarus.

Rlain tightened his grip on his spear and looked up at the stormwall. Please, he thought, let this be enough.

The storm struck with the weight of an ocean. He held his spear, buried in the ground, and clung to it with all his strength. His hands burned with the effort. The water stung his eyes. Debris struck him everywhere, battering his already bruised body.

He welcomed the pain, for it was what he needed.

"Warform is worn for battle and reign," he intoned, his voice lost to the typhoon. "Claimed by the gods, given to kill. Unknown, unseen, but vital to gain. It comes to those with the will." He didn't need to recite the Song of Listing to take a form, but it had been so long since he had held one. It felt right. He narrowed his eyes against the rain, looking around, hoping against hope to see a flash of orange in the dark.

Suddenly, the rain stopped. Rlain blinked. The plateau beneath his feet was gone. There was darkness and rain surrounding him, but it fell around him, not upon him. In the distance, he could see strange shapes walking with the wind, with legs like bolts of lightning.

Two luminous eyes opened before him. They were unimaginably vast, and seeing them Rlain realized that there was a face in the storm. It looked like a listener in warform, with carapace of wind and marbling of rain.

Hurry, said the Rider of Storms.

Rlain blinked, and when he opened his eyes, the storm had passed him by. And as he looked down at his hands, he saw that their backs were lined with carapace.

He had taken warform. The Rider of Storms—a spren his people remembered as a traitor, who had sided with mankind against them in the ancient wars—had given him his blessing. Hurry, he had said.

So Rlain hurried. He pulled his spear out of the ground. Somehow, though it had held fast through the entire highstorm, it came free with only a momentary catch when it was already halfway out. When the tip was revealed again, its orange glow had faded.

Sarus had given him this chance. Rlain, beginning the long run towards Narak, vowed not to waste it.

Last edited: Aug 28, 2023

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Threadmarks 50: Truthless

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LithosMaitreya

Character Witness

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#1,363

Thanks to Elran and BeaconHill for betareading, and to Phinnia for the commissioned icon.

-x-x-x-

Truthless

-x-x-x-

There was nowhere to run from this. The caves now hosted a Vala, and the sky was filled with terror. And so I, believing myself the last of Middle-earth's dragons, laid down on the shores of the Sea of Rhûn and closed my eyes, waiting for death.

-x-x-x-

Sarus rose early the next morning. He scooped the orange-infused spheres from under his pillow into his sphere pouch, then passed by the rows of bunks to step outside the barracks. Rock was there, hunched over a doused cookfire, hurriedly packing up his stew pot.

"What's the rush, Rock?" Sarus asked.

Rock glanced up at him. "Storm," he said simply, pointing eastward. Eastward, at the approaching highstorm. There hadn't been one forecasted for today, but the stormwardens were wrong sometimes.

I hope Rlain found shelter. "Ah," Sarus said aloud. "Let me help with that."

Together, he and Rock moved the pot inside, then came back for the kindling and other equipment. They made it inside several minutes before the storm struck. "The stew is warm already," Rock said, quietly enough not to wake everyone in the barrack. "But without a fire, I cannot keep it warm. Should we wake everyone, do you think?"

Sarus shrugged. "The storm would probably wake them anyway. At least this way, they'll get warm stew too."

A few minutes later, as the storm rattled the building, Rock served Sarus a bowl. "Kaladin is on duty, yes?" Rock asked. "It is his shift now."

"He should be," Sarus confirmed, sitting down on the bunk across from the larger man. A moment later, another man sat beside him. It was Murk.

"Has anyone seen Rlain anywhere?" Murk asked, looking between them.

"No," said Rock, looking worried. "He was not in his bunk this morning. I thought he might have taken a shift for someone."

"Everyone else is accounted for, besides the men on duty now," Murk said.

"Rlain left last night," Sarus said.

They looked at him. "Left?" Murk asked blankly.

"Yes," Sarus said. "He was called away by other duties."

"You mean some storming lighteyes decided to poach him?" Murk growled.

Sarus didn't answer.

Murk took that as confirmation. "Kelek's blistered toe," he swore. "Couldn't you have stopped them?"

"It's more complicated than you think," Sarus said softly. "I can't tell you any more. Some of these secrets belong to Rlain, and no one else."

Murk simmered, but fell silent.

"I do not like this thing," Rock said. "It was good to have Rlain's help. And he saved your life."

"He did," Sarus agreed. "Trust me, Rock. I was not happy to see him leave—but I understood why he had to. In the end, it was his choice."

"What does that even mean with a parshman?" grumbled Murk. "Storms. What are we going to tell the men?"

Sarus considered for a moment. Who would make a good scapegoat? "If any ask," he said, "tell them that when he learned we had armed a parshman, Prince Adolin requested he be reassigned."

Elhokar was the obvious choice. He was the most believable. Of all the Kholins, he was the most openly elitist, and the only one who might be paranoid about a single armed parshman. But Sarus couldn't afford to give Moash another reason to want the man dead, not when he didn't know how desperate he was.

"Is this thing true?" Rock asked. "Did Adolin have something to do with it?"

"No," Sarus said. "But Kaladin and Adolin already have trouble getting along. This gives them an excuse the men will understand."

"Fair enough," Murk said with a sigh. "Storms. I'd gotten used to having him around. He'd really started to come out of his shell the past week or so."

"He had," Sarus agreed. "We may yet see him again."

"Any idea where he's gone?" Murk asked.

"Yes," said Sarus, "but we won't be able to get there to see him. Don't ask, I can't tell you more."

"Fine." Murk glanced upward. "Storm's passing."

It was. The thundering of the highstorm was giving way to the patter of the riddens. Murk quickly spooned up his last few bites of stew and stood up.

"I'd better get my squad ready," he said. "We've missed shift change, so we'll head out as soon as the rain lightens up a bit. See you two later."

Sarus and Rock bade him farewell. As soon as he was gone, Rock turned to Sarus. "Rlain has gone back to his people, then?"

"Yes," Sarus said. "Not to betray us, though." He hadn't realized Rock had learned Rlain's secret, but the Horneater tended to be more perceptive than anyone assumed. It wasn't a great surprise.

"I assumed," Rock said. "But then, why?"

"The Parshendi Shardbearer came to parley yesterday," Sarus said. "I told Rlain what she said. He was worried about her, and the rest of his people."

"Hm." Rock frowned. "I hope he makes it safely, then."

"So do I, Rock," Sarus said quietly. "So do I."

-x-x-x-

"Your Majesty," said Sarus with a bow. It was now early afternoon. The rains had passed entirely, and Sarus had just arrived for his shift. The rest of his squad was outside.

"Ah, Sarus," said Elhokar, turning from the window to look at him. "Good, you're here. I want your advice on something."

Sarus kept the triumphant smile off his face. "Anything, Your Majesty."

"There have now been two attempts on my life in few weeks," he said. "First, the railing. Then the Assassin in White. Now that you're well, I was wondering if you thought the two shared a cause."

"You mean, whether the person who ordered your railing sabotaged is the same as the person who commanded the Assassin in White?" Sarus asked.

"Precisely," said Elhokar. "My first instinct was that of course they were. The two attempts were so close together. But they were so different. The railing was… well, clumsy. There was a good chance it would achieve nothing at all, or that someone else would fall prey to the trap. Whereas the Assassin in White…"

"Your instincts are good, Your Majesty," said Sarus. "I agree—the two attempts were not likely ordered by the same party."

Elhokar grimaced. "Which means there are at least two people or groups who want me dead badly enough to have me killed. Has your investigation into the railing turned up anything?"

Sarus considered for a moment, then turned and looked out the door at the rest of his squad. "Let no one in," he ordered Eth.

"Got it," Eth said.

Sarus shut the door and turned back to the king. "I likely don't need to tell you that the information I uncover should be shared with as few people as possible," he said. Elhokar, he noticed, looked somewhat alarmed by being suddenly trapped in the room with Sarus. No surprise, with the man's paranoid tendencies. But as Sarus continued, the king calmed down. "If the perpetrator thinks we are on their trail, they may grow desperate—and dangerous."

"Of course," said Elhokar. "Does that mean you have a suspect?"

"I have narrowed the field considerably," said Sarus. "I believe your railing was severed with a Shardblade, Your Majesty."

Elhokar paled. "You're certain?"

"Unless someone has a different way to sever metal so cleanly, yes. Which means that the assassin either is a Shardbearer or commands a Shardbearer. It also means the assassin either had access to your study, or was able to convince someone with that access to let them in."

"Which means, at the least, that I have a traitor among my servants," said Elhokar. His eyes narrowed suddenly. "Or my guards. You trust all of your men?"

"With my life," said Sarus. "But that doesn't mean I trust them with yours, Your Majesty. No one is above my suspicion, I assure you."

"Not even Captain Kaladin?"

"Not even Captain Kaladin."

"Good, good," said Elhokar, looking relieved. "That's good."

"Do you have reason to suspect the Captain?" Sarus asked. He knew, of course, that Kaladin was not the assassin—and would, in fact, sooner cut out his own tongue than become one. But he wanted to understand Elhokar's thought process.

"Not exactly," said Elhokar. "But he doesn't like me very much, does he?"

"What makes you think so?" Sarus asked.

"I wanted him to take charge of my guard, and he sent you instead," Elhokar said. "It should be an honor to guard the king, but I don't think he sees it that way."

Sarus grimaced. He'd advised Kaladin that Dalinar would expect Kaladin to delegate, and the highprince hadn't complained about Sarus' assignment—but that didn't mean Elhokar would see it that way. Still… this could work to his advantage. "Kaladin is a complicated man," he said. "It is not you, Your Majesty. The Captain, like many of Bridge Four, has had bad experiences with more than one lighteyes in the past. It is easy for darkeyes of low rank to distrust everyone from tenth dahn all the way up to first."

"Bad experiences?" Elhokar asked. "What sort of bad experiences?"

"I don't know the story of every man in Bridge Four," said Sarus. "But I know that all of us have one thing in common—we were all sent to the bridge crews. That is something only a lighteyes could authorize. In many cases, we had suffered other things in the past."

Elhokar considered him. There was a complicated expression on his face. In the furrowing of his brow, Sarus detected worry. In the wrinkling around his eyes, Sarus read curiosity. In the downward turn of his lips, Sarus saw shame. "What is your story, then, Sarus?" Elhokar asked. "How did someone who once served in Castle Sadaras itself end up in Sadeas' bridge crews?"

Sarus grimaced. "It is a difficult story to tell, Your Majesty," he said, both because it was true and to buy himself a few moments to get his story straight.

"Look at it as a chance to give me another reason to want Sadeas deposed," said Elhokar.

Sarus smiled slightly. He didn't have to fake the tinge of grief in the expression. "I served Highprince Sadeas' daughter when I was a child," he said. "We were about the same age, and Brightness Ialai thought her daughter could use a playmate when she was small. However, she outgrew darkeyed friends, and I faded into the background—still her servant, but not such a close one.

"When I turned ten, I took warfare as my Calling and joined the Sadaras Guard. I was not guarding Brightness Tailiah at the time, but rebel assassins broke into Sadaras in the middle of a highstorm and killed her. Highprince Sadeas blamed me nonetheless, for though I was not Brightness Tailiah's assigned guard at the time I had been nearby. After executing the assassins, Highprince Sadeas sent me and the man who was assigned as her guard to the bridge crews. I do not think he has forgiven me for my survival." The other man had not survived. There really had been a guard stationed outside Tailiah's room that night, and he had lasted fifteen runs before a Parshendi arrow caught him in the throat.

"All this, I might be able to forgive," Sarus said. "After all, I was a guard in his castle at the time, even if I was on a different assignment. But before he took me to the Shattered Plains to answer your summons, he dragged my mother—an innocent cook who had served him faithfully for more than twenty years—before me." Sarus would never forget the blood running over the flagstones outside his cell. "He cut her throat before my eyes."

Elhokar's eyes widened. "He didn't."

"He did," said Sarus. "I could forgive him what he did to me. I will never forgive what he did to my mother."

"I understand," said Elhokar weakly. "If someone…" he trailed off, and Sarus knew he was thinking of Navani. Then, suddenly, he blinked at the mirror in the corner of the room, and then his head whipped around, as if seeking something he had spotted in the reflection.

"What is it, Your Majesty?" Sarus asked, looking into the mirror himself. He saw nothing there.

"…Nothing," said Elhokar after a long pause. "I thought I saw something." He shot Sarus a look. "Have you ever…" he hesitated. "No, never mind. Then Brightness Tailiah really did die."

Sarus blinked. "Was that in question?"

"There were rumors," said Elhokar. "Some said that a body was never buried, that she had run away from home or eloped with a foreign suitor. I never put much credence to the rumors, myself. It's good to have confirmation."

Well, there hadn't been a body to bury. "Regardless," Sarus said. "Even if I was not her guard, one lighteyes has already died where I might have protected her. I have had five years in the bridge crews to ruminate on why and how. You may trust that I will never fail again."

Elhokar considered him. Whatever he saw in Sarus' face, it satisfied him. "See that you don't," he said. "Oh, now that you're on your feet again—none of my jailers was able to get a word out of the Assassin in White. Do you think you could make headway? He certainly has cause to remember you."

Sarus considered. "I would be curious to try," he said.

"Then let's go down to the cells," said Elhokar. "I want to be there if you get anything out of him."

-x-x-x-

The moment Sarus stepped inside the Assassin in White's cell, the man's eyes fixed on him. His repetitious muttering—I am Szeth-son-son-Vallano, I am Truthless, I am Szeth-son-son-Vallano—came to an abrupt halt.

"Hello," said Sarus, sitting on the floor across from the man. "I suspect you remember me."

"You are a lie," said the man. His voice shook uncontrollably, as if he couldn't decide whether to whisper or scream. "You must be. You must."

"Why must I be a lie, Szeth-son-son-Vallano?" Sarus asked softly.

"Because I am Truthless," said Szeth. "They named me Truthless. So you cannot exist."

"And yet, to the best of my knowledge, I do exist," said Sarus. "And, to the best of both our knowledge, your Blade does not."

Szeth curled in on himself, drawing his knees up to his chin. "Jes-son-God will be displeased," he whispered. "He entrusted his Blade to us, and it is broken. But it can't be broken, because you can't exist, because I am Truthless."

Outside the cell, Elhokar sucked in a sharp breath. Sarus ignored it, and he wasn't sure if Szeth could even hear. "What does it mean to be Truthless?" he asked.

"It means one spoke a terrible falsehood," said Szeth. "A lie so loathsome, so profane, that the stones themselves rebelled against it. A Truthless is given to an Oathstone, and must obey whoever carries it, on whatever shred of honor remains to them."

"And what was your falsehood, Szeth-son-son-Vallano?"

"I said that the Voidbringers were returning," he said. "That the Radiants must come back to fight them."

Sarus paused. "And what exactly made you think that?"

"A spren came to me," said Szeth. "It claimed that it wished to bond a Radiant. It must have lied. For I am Truthless."

"And what if it was not a lie?" asked Sarus softly. "What if it was true? What if all along it was not you who had spoken a falsehood, but those who named you Truthless?"

"Then I had a choice," said Szeth hollowly. "Then everyone I have killed in service to those who held my Oathstone could have lived if I had chosen otherwise. Then their deaths are not only on my hands, but are entirely my fault."

"Yes," said Sarus. "I suppose it would mean that."

"But I am Truthless."

"You will be if you keep speaking that lie," Sarus said dryly. "Who holds your Oathstone now?"

"I was commanded not to reveal their identity."

"Yes. Commanded by the bond of a Truthless to his Oathstone. But you are not Truthless."

"I must be. I have to be."

Sarus sighed. He briefly toyed with the idea of revealing Archive, revealing his nature. But no, not with Elhokar watching. He stood. "It always amuses me," he said, without a trace of amusement in his voice, "the lies men tell themselves to avoid taking responsibility for their actions."

Szeth twitched, but said nothing. As Sarus left his cell, he began his muttering again.

"Lot more than anyone else has gotten out of him, Shardbreaker," said the guard as he locked the door behind Sarus.

"I'll try again in a few days," Sarus said. "We need the name of his employer." He turned to Elhokar. "But at least it's something."

"Yes." There was an odd expression on Elhokar's face. "He said—said a spren came and told him it was looking for a Radiant? Is that… do spren have something to do with the Knights Radiant?"

"I really couldn't say," Sarus lied smoothly.

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Threadmarks 51: Lies and Illusions

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LithosMaitreya

Character Witness

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Sep 11, 2023

#1,376

Thanks to Elran and BeaconHill for betareading, and to Phinnia for the commissioned icon.

-x-x-x-

Lies and Illusions

-x-x-x-

Death came. But it did not touch me.

-x-x-x-

"I don't like this," Glys murmured. "Something feels wrong today."

Renarin wanted to dismiss the spren, but he couldn't. He felt the same way. Aunt Navani took a jar of paint from a parshman servant to create a glyphward. Any moment now, Adolin would step into the ready room, and the armorers would entomb him in his Shardplate. Then he would step out onto the sand and fight two Shardbearers at once.

Renarin didn't have the experience he would need to understand just how much harder fighting two men at once would be. But he knew enough to realize it. This would be a challenge unlike any Adolin had faced before.

The door opened. Adolin stepped inside. When he saw that Aunt Navani was unscrewing the lid of her paint, he approached her with a smile. "No need," he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out an already-completed glyphward. It was painted in Kholin blue with the glyph for excellent. Or excellence. It was the same glyph. Where had Adolin learned to paint glyphs?

"The girl?" Aunt Navani asked stiffly.

Oh, that makes more sense.

Renarin liked Shallan. He hadn't interacted with her much, but she reminded him a little of Tailiah. Bright, in terms of both wit and temperament. She smiled often, and her smiles were cheeky things, hinting at a joke that not everyone was in on. Renarin was used to not being in on the joke, so it was refreshing that everyone else was too.

But he couldn't begrudge Aunt Navani harboring some dislike for her. After all, with the Veden woman had come the news of her daughter's death. Renarin didn't believe Jasnah had died—he had seen her stabbing him in the back in one of his visions, so she had to survive to do that—but he couldn't exactly tell his aunt that.

"She's wonderful, Aunt," said Adolin. "You should give her more of a chance. She wants to share her research with you."

"We'll see," said Navani, screwing the lid back onto her paint jar.

Adolin dropped the glyphward into the lit brazier in the center of the room. Renarin, as was customary, bowed his head while the cloth burned.

"I'm worried," Navani said quietly, while the ward burned away.

"Father and Elhokar both think the plan is a good one," Adolin said.

"Elhokar can be impulsive. You agreed to a duel to surrender, instead of to broken sections of Plate, right? That changes things."

"For the worse," Glys murmured in Renarin's ear. "Adolin could die out there."

He won't, Renarin said silently. He approached Adolin and put a hand on his shoulder. "It's a good plan," he said, hiding his own concern. What Adolin needed now—or so Renarin hoped—was confidence. Faith. "You're better than them."

"They're going to try to break you," Navani said. "That's why they wanted this to be a match to surrender, Adolin. They'll cripple you if they can."

"No different from the battlefield." Adolin's smile seemed a little forced, even to Renarin. "Actually, unlike the battlefield, they'll want me alive at the end. I'll serve as a better object lesson with Blade-dead legs than as ash."

Navani looked away as the armorers entered. She looked terribly pale, especially in the light of the brazier.

Renarin took a deep breath and tried to project confidence. He wasn't good at it. But he could practically hear Sarus' voice in his ear. Speak of the best case as if it's a certainty, if you want to seem confident. Especially if you're doing so to encourage.

"Make sure you don't give Sadeas a way out," he told Adolin. "When you issue your challenge, he'll look for an escape. Don't give him one. Drag him onto the sand and tear him apart, Brother."

"With pleasure," Adolin said, and Renarin thought his smile looked a little more sincere.

"You ate chicken?" Renarin asked, as usual.

"Two helpings with curry."

"And you have Mother's chain?"

Adolin felt his pocket. Then he felt the other. His smile fell away. "I could have sworn…"

"Damnation," Renarin said.

"It'll be all right," said Glys.

"It might be back in my rooms," Adolin said. "Storms." He took his helmet from the final armorer. "Can't be helped now."

"It'll be all right," Renarin said, echoing his spren. "You don't need luck."

Adolin's smile was tight until it was covered by his faceplate. "But it'd be nice to have."

Renarin watched his brother step outside onto the sand. The door stayed open behind him long enough for Renarin to see the door on the opposite side of the arena open.

Four men stepped out.

Before Renarin could react, the door shut.

"Was that…?" whispered Aunt Navani beside him.

How was this possible? Adolin had challenged Relis Ruthar to a disadvantaged duel, hadn't he? Relis and one other…

You and anyone you bring with you, Adolin had said. Or something like that.

"He agreed to a full disadvantaged duel," Renarin whispered. "We missed it. Relis could bring as many people as he wanted."

"No," Navani moaned. "Oh, no."

"Damnation," murmured Glys. "Well, on the bright side, at least we won't have to deal with that Shardblade screaming in our ears anymore. Adolin will have to yield, right? He can't possibly think he can fight four Shardbearers?"

I don't think he'll be willing to give up without at least trying, Renarin said. He set his jaw. And I can't let him do it alone.

He might only be a member of Bridge Four in name. He might have only begun training in the use of his Shards, and he might be paralyzed by the screaming every time he picked up his Blade. But he would not—could not—let his brother face this alone.

He spun on his heel and flung open the door to the armorer's staging room. Several men were still there, and they blinked at him, startled. "Fetch my Shards," he ordered. "As quick as you can."

-x-x-x-

"Four men!?" Dalinar exclaimed, jumping from his seat. He shouted at the Sadeas viewing box, "What is this!?"

Sadeas glanced lazily in their direction. "Don't ask me," he called back. "None of them are mine. I'm just an observer."

Sarus knew that tone. Sadeas had always enjoyed rubbing people's noses in his victories. "Your Majesty," he said, pointedly pulling the Kholins' attention away from the man who lapped up their rage like fine wine. "What exactly did Prince Adolin say when he issued his challenge?"

Elhokar blinked at him. "I don't remember the exact words, Sarus, it was two days ago!"

And the one time I was off-shift, Sarus thought furiously. Adolin had issued this challenge after a duel with Elit Ruthar, a lesser member of the house. That had been the day after Sarus had first risen from his bunk, and he had taken the morning shift with the king, rather than the afternoon. Kaladin had wanted him to spend the second shift helping Teft train the other former bridgemen. "Is it possible he said something to the effect of 'whomever you bring with you'? Without stipulating how many men Prince Relis could bring?"

Elhokar paled. "Oh, Damnation, you're right. Adolin's trapped in a fully disadvantaged duel!"

"Storms," Dalinar growled. It was an almost animal sound. "Sadeas outthought us this time. Someone tell Adolin to pull out of the duel. We need to retreat and regroup."

"That will cost you all six of the Shards you own, Uncle," Elhokar pointed out. "Are you certain?"

There was conflict in Dalinar's face. Sarus supposed he understood. Giving up six Shards without so much as a struggle would be looked on as shameful, even pathetic. And Adolin was a skilled duelist—probably the best currently in Alethkar, if Sarus was any judge.

But no one man was skilled enough to defeat four Shardbearers in a duel to surrender. He might take out one, he might even take out two, but to defeat a third would be a miracle—and even then, there would still be the fourth to contend with. Taken dispassionately, Dalinar's choice was simple.

Lose six Shards, or lose six Shards and his son.

Sarus tried to think of a way to explain that to Dalinar without jeopardizing his hard-won trust. But before he could say a word, Adolin raised his hand on the sand in a sign of agreement, then thrust his other out to the side to summon his Blade. It was too late.

Adolin had agreed to fight. Presumably, the idiot thought he could surrender if things grew too deadly.

Sarus turned his head and met Torol Sadeas' gaze. There was still a vague, almost pleasant smile on the man's face, but his eyes were edged like knives.

This isn't about me, Sarus told himself firmly. The only sensible thing for Sadeas to do, now that Adolin had agreed to fight, was to have his four thugs cripple him. They would not allow him to surrender. They would do their utmost to drown out any shout, to keep his hand from rising to yield. They would not stop until Adolin had lost the use of at least one of his limbs.

All of that would be true, even if Sarus hadn't killed Sadeas' daughter. It just made sense. But the man's expression, as those pale green eyes bore into Sarus' seemed to imply otherwise.

Suddenly, a voice called out, somehow louder than the entire thundering crowd. "One at a time, lad!" Zahel shouted. Sarus tore his gaze from Sadeas to pick out the man from the crowd. There was an expression of concentration on Zahel's face, as if he thought he could will Adolin into better swordplay. "You're not cornered! They're scared of you. Show them why!"

There was something odd about his voice. Some strange, almost melodic quality, as if his words were being carried upon the crest of the shifting well of music that Sarus could sometimes just hear the very edges of, now. Sarus narrowed his eyes. He didn't think he was imagining this. He didn't think he was imagining any of this. Not the music, nor that Zahel was somehow manipulating it.

His attention was caught when Adolin suddenly leapt forward with a shout. He beat away the other men's Blades and came after Relis like a stormwall. He threw the man onto his back, then turned on one of his fellows. He shifted stances and hammered blows upon the man's guard like a wild beast. The other men tried to help, but Adolin spun, beating them all back, before returning to the same target. Sarus could see the fear in their bodies, the way they held themselves under that Shardplate. Zahel was right—all four of these men together, and they feared Adolin at least as much as he feared them.

For a moment, he allowed himself to hope.

Then one of the Shardbearers came up from behind him and struck. Adolin staggered, which gave another man an opening. Soon he was being battered from all sides. For each blow he blocked, two more made it through his guard. Stormlight was rapidly draining away from his Plate—Sarus could see it drifting away on the faint breeze, pale blue and shimmering.

Because he knew what to look for, he caught it when Adolin's left hand tried to rise to yield. He saw when one of the men—a man with a heavy hammer instead of a Shardblade—battered it back down to Adolin's side.

"They aren't allowing him to yield," said Sarus softly.

"What?" Elhokar glanced at him distractedly.

"He tried to raise his hand to yield. They wouldn't allow it. They don't intend to let him out of that arena whole."

Elhokar paled. "But that's…"

"Honorless?" Sarus smiled mirthlessly. "Yes."

"Damnation," Dalinar said. He hadn't sat once while the fight had continued. "The rules allow Adolin to have help, so long as there are still more men on the other side. Elhokar, I'll need your Shardblade."

Elhokar looked at Dalinar for a moment. The man wasn't even looking at him, focused as he was on the melee below. "No," said Elhokar quietly.

Dalinar rounded on him. "That is my son!"

"You're without Plate, and you don't have time to put it on," Elhokar said. "You think Sadeas doesn't know you want to go down and help? Don't you realize that's exactly what he wants? This isn't about Adolin, Uncle, it's about you. He wants you to go down there, without Plate, and suffer an accident. If you go out there, Blade or no, you won't walk out again."

Dalinar let out a wordless growl. Sarus saw his hands twisting against the railing, as if imagining they were on Sadeas' neck. Or maybe that was Sarus projecting. Then something past the highprince caught his eye, and the bottom dropped out of his stomach.

Renarin, clad in the slate-grey Plate he had inherited from his father, carrying the Shardblade Adolin had won for him, had stepped onto the sand.

-x-x-x-

This was a terrible idea, Glys said. His voice shook in abject terror, even as it passed directly to Renarin's mind. What do you think we can do?

We have to do something, Renarin said, trying to make himself heard over the dead Blade screaming in his ears.

You can barely swing that sword without stumbling, and its yelling isn't helping!

I have to try.

One of the men separated from the battle with Adolin. He approached Renarin slowly, almost swaggering, his sword resting easily on his shoulder in a relaxed grip. He didn't fear Renarin. And why should he? Renarin couldn't do a storming thing to him.

But at least that's one man who isn't trying to kill Adolin.

I can't lose you, Renarin, said Glys quietly. And I don't think we have enough Stormlight on us to heal from a Shardblade injury.

Wait. I can heal from Shardblade injuries?

You came out here without realizing you could heal from Shardblade injuries!?

Before Renarin could reply, the Shardbearer attacked them. Renarin barely got his own Blade up in time to attempt a parry, but the impact almost knocked the weapon from his grip. The man didn't even bother to follow through. He just stepped back to give Renarin time to get his Blade back in position before coming in again, almost lazily, to bat it aside once more.

At least he doesn't seem to want you dead, Glys said hysterically. That's something, right?

Renarin looked past the man at the duel on the other side. He realized that the other three men had stopped fighting Adolin for a moment. Even as he watched, however, Adolin charged them. Before he could see the outcome, the man in front of him attacked again.

"You can watch this!?" called his father's voice over the crowd. "My sons fight alone! Will none of the Shardbearers here fight with them?"

Oh, Dalinar, whispered Glys. Haven't you heard? Honor is dead.

Renarin looked up towards the Kholin box. Dalinar stood at its corner, near the judge, glaring around the crowd. Elhokar looked grim sitting behind him. At his side stood Sarus, hand on his spear. His expression was wooden. Maybe someone else could have read something there, but Renarin couldn't catch the slightest hint of what he might be thinking. Beside Dalinar, however, stood Captain Kaladin. And Kaladin's expression was dark, but also almost—relieved? Relaxed? Resigned? He said something to Dalinar, and before Renarin's father could do more than turn to look at him, Kaladin had vaulted over the railing and dropped onto the sand.

-x-x-x-

No, no, no, Sarus thought, teetering on the edge of panic. No, Kaladin, what in Damnation do you think you're doing?!

But it was obvious what Kaladin thought he was doing. Syl sailed down behind him, invisible to all but Kaladin and Sarus. Storms, Sarus should have seen this coming. Kaladin was a Windrunner. Maybe the ancient Windrunners hadn't taken it so far, but for Kaladin, protection and rescue were pathological. He could never have stood by while this happened in front of him.

And now Sarus had lost his own chance to intervene. In his cowardice, he had hesitated too long, and now Kaladin had stepped into the last permitted position alongside Adolin, according to the rules of disadvantaged duels.

He knew what to look for, so he saw when Kaladin sucked in Stormlight. On Sarus' shoulder, Archive let out an almost silent grunt, so it must have been Sarus' orange Stormlight Kaladin had pulled in. The Captain charged, driving his spear into Relis' cracked vambrace. As Relis staggered back, cursing, Kaladin slipped past him, joining Adolin in the center of the circle of Shardbearers. The two men put their backs to each other. Sarus knew Kaladin had difficulty trusting Adolin, and he knew Adolin was a little suspicious of Kaladin's meteoric rise in standing, but today none of that mattered to either of them.

The three men circled the two for a moment. Then Elit—the man with the Shardhammer—lunged. Less than a heartbeat later, Relis followed him in. Kaladin ducked under the Shardblade and lunged for Relis. Sarus immediately saw the plan Adolin and Kaladin must have come up with. Kaladin would keep Relis distracted while Adolin defeated Elit and Jakamav. Hopefully, Abrobadar wouldn't decide to use his battle with Renarin as leverage against the rest of the Kholin side.

Kaladin dodged around Relis for a few blows, clearly trying to come up with a way to keep the man distracted. That crack in Relis' vambrace wouldn't be enough—once Relis realized that it and the slit in his faceplate were the only openings Kaladin's spear could possibly penetrate, he would abandon Kaladin and return to the fight with Adolin. Adolin could defeat the other two—three was too many.

Kaladin charged. A few paces from Relis, he jumped into the air. Sarus saw him accelerating unnaturally as he jumped—no, fell—feet first into Relis' breastplate. He'd Lashed himself—layered several Lashings on top of each other—and the force of his amplified fall cracked both the Plate and Kaladin's legs. Sarus saw him fall to the sand, groaning. His eyes managed to catch the Stormlight knitting the bones back together. As Kaladin forced himself back to his feet, Sarus saw Relis rise to his knees, struggling to stay even there under the weight of his cracked breastplate.

Adolin was struggling against the two men set against him, but they were flagging too. Elit's breastplate had broken completely, and he moved sluggishly, the Shardplate barely amplifying his strength at all without that central piece.

Sarus glanced over at the fourth man, Abrobadar, and saw something odd. The man seemed to be staggering back from Renarin. No, not from Renarin—from another figure who stood in front of Renarin, a man in the same orange Plate as Abrobadar himself. But the figure was almost transparent, like the wisps of Stormlight rising from Kaladin…

…And from Renarin.

-x-x-x-

Renarin didn't have more than a moment to take in what Captain Kaladin had done before Abrobadar attacked him again. This time, he didn't get his own Blade up in time, and the impact clipped his helm. His vision went white.

Damnation, Glys said. Now of all times!?

Renarin's vision cleared, and suddenly he felt cold. All around him and Abrobadar, there were panes of stained glass floating in the air. Nine of them hovered in a ring around them. He immediately picked out one which showed the same storm as every other vision of this type, complete with the numbers in lines of gold.

One pane showed an army of men in Sadeas-green uniforms, their eyes glowing red as they charged.

Another showed what looked like a shooting star, sapphire-blue, falling from the heights of a great tower.

The next pane showed Elhokar twitching on the ground, a spear in his eye, held by a man in a Kholin-blue uniform whose rank and company insignias had been torn away.

Then a pane showed—

—Abrobadar's Blade caught Renarin in the side. His vision went white again.

—"Ah, there you are." A woman in robes that seemed woven of roots and vines stood over him. Her skin was darker than an Alethi's—Azish, perhaps?—and her eyes were green and slitted. A great, indistinct shape hovered behind her, seemingly made of deep green smoke. Renarin had never seen her in this form in his visions, but he knew her all the same. This was Cultivation.

"I know you're low on time," said Cultivation, "so I'll be quick, —" She spoke three words then, but somehow they became indistinct in Renarin's ears, as though a veil had fallen between them momentarily. "You will have noticed that you have two types of visions. That is not a coincidence or a random quirk of your voidbinding. It is my doing. The other visions, the panes of glass, they are his, and many are outdated. But these? These are mine, little one."

"Yours?" Renarin whispered. "But how?"

"No time for answers now," said Cultivation. "I believe you have a duel to get back to."

—Renarin blinked just in time to see Abrobadar's sword coming towards his shoulder. He took a step back, and the blade sailed harmlessly past.

What was that? Glys asked, sounding shaken. Our visions—some of them come from Cultivation? How is that possible? Why?

Abrobadar stepped forward. Renarin found he felt oddly calm, almost focused. Somehow, the fear had melted away. He felt… comforted. As if Cultivation was with him. Even the screaming of his Blade had quieted. His next parry was far stronger than he'd expected, and he realized that he was infused. Either he had unconsciously sucked in Stormlight during his vision, or this was a final gift from Cultivation.

But even with enhanced strength, Renarin couldn't beat Abrobadar. He simply lacked the training. But he had something Abrobadar lacked, too.

Surgebinding.

His Surge of Illumination was altered, Glys had said. But that didn't mean Renarin had to be at the mercy of its random occurrences. He was the Surgebinder—the Voidbinder—and the Surge would serve him.

He batted Abrobadar's blade aside and, on instinct, raised his left hand. He reached out, with both hand and soul, and felt something catch. A Connection formed between him and the man before him.

And down that connection, Renarin pushed the future.

A figure coalesced between the two of them. It was Abrobadar, clad in the same orange Plate. He stood with his back to Renarin, staring his real self down. Only, he wasn't staring at all. Without even needing to look, Renarin knew that the illusory man's eyes were empty, burned-out embers in his head.

With a choked, terrified grunt, Abrobadar staggered back. Renarin stepped forward, passing through his own illusion, and raised his Blade, ignoring its screaming. His cut was unpracticed, but this time it was Abrobadar who barely managed to parry it in time.

Renarin smiled.

-x-x-x-

Renarin must be using one of his Surges. Illumination, if Sarus remembered right. With any luck only Sarus, Renarin, and his target could see the illusory image of the Shardblade-severed corpse. Abrobadar wouldn't dare tell anyone for fear of being thought insane and, if Renarin was careful in future, his secret would be kept.

Meanwhile, Kaladin had returned to attacking Relis. Elit was being beaten back by Adolin, who was only giving Jakamav enough focus to avoid being taken by surprise. As Sarus watched, Adolin severed the head of Elit's Shardhammer from its handle. Elit slumped, knowing he was defeated, and the judge pronounced him beaten. That done, Adolin rounded on Jakamav.

Relis fell back from Kaladin, who was driving blows dangerously close to the crack in the man's breastplate. He tried to bring his Blade around to cut at Kaladin, but with his breastplate cracked his enhanced strength was fading fast, and Kaladin was a Windrunner. Relis might as soon catch a highstorm.

It was only a matter of time, Sarus realized. Somehow, Kaladin and Renarin had plucked victory from the grip of defeat.

The first to fall was Jakamav. Without another foe to distract him, Adolin had little trouble dismantling him. Then he turned to help Renarin, only to stop in apparent amazement as Abrobadar fell onto his back on the sand. Renarin was clumsy with his Blade, but even he could drive it down like a club into the struggling man's breastplate. It cracked, and Adolin stepped in to join him. A moment later, the judge pronounced Abrobadar beaten.

Kaladin stepped away from his offensive. Relis almost charged him, but then looked around and realized his position. Sarus saw him slump. He saw the Blade slip from his fingers and hit the sand, its bond to his bearer broken. "I yield!" he called to the judge, shame and impotent rage thick in his voice.

Excellent. Somehow, impossibly, the plan was on pace. The idea, as it had been explained to Sarus, was simple. Adolin would acquit himself impressively by defeating two Shardbearers in the field. In recognition of the achievement, Elhokar would offer him a boon. Adolin would request the opportunity to duel Sadeas—immediately. Sadeas would have no choice but to obey the king's summons or openly disobey the king before all of Alethkar.

Indeed, it all seemed to be going well. "Warriors, duelmasters!" Elhokar called down formally. "I am greatly pleased by what you have accomplished today. This was a fight the like of which hasn't been seen in Alethkar for generations. You have pleased your king greatly."

The crowd cheered.

"I offer you a boon," Elhokar said, pointing at Adolin. "Name what you wish of me or of this court. It shall be yours. No man, having seen this display, could deny you."

Sarus glanced at the Sadeas booth and saw that Sadeas was already trying to leave. He had realized where this was going, and knew his only hope was to get out of the arena before Adolin spoke.

"For my boon," Adolin called, "I demand the Right of Challenge. I demand the chance to duel Highprince Sadeas, right here and now, as redress for the crimes he committed against my house!"

Sadeas stopped. Sarus saw his shoulders slump in defeat.

Sarus smiled.

"And for my boon!" Kaladin shouted.

Sarus whirled. No, he thought.

"I demand the Right of Challenge against the murderer Amaram! He stole from me and slaughtered my friends to hide it. Amaram branded me a slave! I demand the right to duel him, here and now!"

For a moment, Sarus' mind was completely blank. How could he not have seen this coming? Kaladin hadn't been raised in the court of a highprince. Of course he didn't know the intricacies of king's boons and dueling law.

It was not just untraditional for a darkeyes to duel a lighteyes of the fourth dahn. It was illegal, unless the darkeyes had already jumped through about a dozen hoops designed to ensure that they never got that far. More to the point, the boon had been offered to Adolin, as the primary duelist—not to everyone on the victorious team.

Sarus had to do something. He could already see the heat rising in Elhokar's cheeks. He opened his mouth—

"Arrest him!" Elhokar shouted.

—and closed it again. He looked down at Kaladin in the arena, watched the man's triumphant smile fade as he realized what was happening. He looked up, and his eyes found Sarus'.

Sarus could do nothing now. Not without jeopardizing both of their precarious positions. He needed to speak to Elhokar privately, later. For now… he just had to let this happen.

He had just long enough to see Kaladin's expression crumple in betrayal before he turned away.

Last edited: Sep 11, 2023

LithosMaitreya

Sep 11, 2023

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Threadmarks 52: Captain

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LithosMaitreya

Character Witness

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Sep 18, 2023

#1,402

Thanks to Elran and BeaconHill for betareading, and to Phinnia for the commissioned icon.

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Captain

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I cannot describe what followed. It defies word or logic.

-x-x-x-

Sarus followed Elhokar and Dalinar into the room. Soldiers saluted as the two nobles entered. Between them, chained to a chair, sat Kaladin. His eyes were turned downward.

"—Absolutely unheard of! Unacceptable behavior!" Elhokar said. His argument with Dalinar had been carrying on for several minutes and showed no signs of stopping. "Leave us," he told the soldiers before continuing. "I shouldn't have even allowed a darkeyes onto the sand, and that was how—"

"The Captain only went onto the sand because not a single other man in that arena was willing to help my sons!" Dalinar shouted back.

"Which is the only reason I allowed it! Protecting them is his job. And then he decided that doing his job was so praiseworthy that he felt comfortable insulting a highlord in front of my entire court! He challenged him to a duel! The gap between them could hold all of Alethkar!"

"He was caught up in the moment!" Dalinar countered. "Be reasonable, Elhokar; the man had just helped bring down four Shardbearers!"

"Where his help was invited! And I shouldn't have allowed it then! I should have called off the duel the moment a darkeyes stepped in! And for him to challenge a highlord!?"

"What I said was true," Kaladin said. His voice was toneless. Sarus wanted to look away, but his eyes kept drifting back to the man, even as Kaladin seemed unable or unwilling to look up from the floor.

"Be silent!" Elhokar roared. "You've said enough! You've ruined our chance at Sadeas!"

That made Kaladin glance up, frowning. "But Adolin issued his challenge. Surely Sadeas can't ignore it."

"Adolin didn't get a chance to see his challenge accepted immediately," Dalinar said quietly. "Sadeas sent word as soon as he left the arena. He agreed to duel Adolin—in a year's time."

Kaladin's face fell. His eyes darted to Sarus' face, then turned down again.

"He slipped the noose!" Elhokar said, rubbing his temples. "We needed that moment—the excitement, the splendor—in the arena to pin him down and shame him into an immediate fight. You stole that moment, bridgeman! This is what you get, Uncle, for putting a—" Suddenly, Elhokar cut himself off. He shot Sarus a quick glance, then shook his head and turned back to Kaladin. "It's shameful."

"You saw him fight, Elhokar. He's excellent."

"It's not his skill I object to," Elhokar growled. "It's his discipline. Execution."

Both Sarus and Kaladin's eyes shot to the king. Sarus felt ice in his stomach.

"Don't be ridiculous," Dalinar said, taking a step so that he was beside Kaladin's chair—placing himself clearly on the captain's side.

"It's the legal punishment for slandering a highlord."

"And, as king, you can pardon any crime! Don't tell me you honestly want to see this man hanged after today?"

"Would you stop me?"

Paradoxically, hearing that relieved Sarus. Elhokar didn't actually want to execute Kaladin. He wanted to push Dalinar's boundaries, see where his uncle's limits were. That was something Sarus could understand—and it meant he didn't have to face the terrible decision of whether to value Kaladin's life over his own position and reputation.

"I wouldn't stand for it," said Dalinar.

"Am I your king?" Elhokar snapped.

"Of course."

"I say the boy is to be executed. What do you say to that?"

"I'd say that in attempting such a thing," Dalinar said softly, tension rippling through his frame, "you'd make an enemy of me, Your Majesty."

Sarus knuckles were white on his spear. He forced them to relax. It wouldn't come to that. He knew what Elhokar was about.

Sure enough, a moment later, Elhokar turned away, calling "Prison," back at Dalinar.

"For how long?" the highprince asked.

"Until I say he's done!" Elhokar turned back to glare at Dalinar for a moment, before turning away and continuing towards the exit.

Sarus shot Kaladin one last glance. The captain's eyes were staring down at the floor, but Syl hovered above his head. The look she sent Sarus' way was pleading. Accusing.

Somehow, that made it easier. He fixed her with his gaze for a long moment, then turned away and followed the king.

Elhokar was standing just outside Dalinar's rooms. A gentle, chill breeze flowed through the courtyard, rustling a few strands of the cropped hair beneath his crown. He didn't turn around as Sarus stepped out behind him. For a long moment, both of them were silent.

"You claim to know Sadeas," Elhokar said finally. His voice was just the slightest bit hoarse after shouting at Dalinar for more than a quarter of an hour. "What will he do now?"

"Nothing you couldn't guess, Your Majesty," said Sarus. "At least, not immediately. He will withdraw to his palace to lick his wounds and plan his next offensive. We did win today, lest we forget. We won several Shards from his allies."

"But he slipped the trap."

"Yes. And it cost him a great deal to escape. Five Shards, if I counted correctly, given that Brightlord Elit had borrowed yours."

"But none of those men were actually Sadeas'," Elhokar pointed out.

"They may not have worn his colors," said Sarus dryly, "but as they say, if it bays like an axehound and hunts like an axehound, only a fool would call it a chull."

Elhokar snorted quietly. "Maybe I am a fool," he said softly. Then, suddenly, he seemed to remember who he was speaking to. He shot Sarus a suspicious look. "Can I trust you not to follow in your captain's footsteps?"

"I will always admire Captain Kaladin for his ability to inspire men to be greater than they are," said Sarus. "But he is also brash, even foolish. I may not share his strengths, but neither do I share his failures."

"Good," Elhokar said, turning and starting toward his chambers.

Sarus followed, and for a time they walked in silence. None of the other guards were with them now. Sarus had sent them away after the disastrous duel, fearing that any of them might do something rash in defense of their captain.

"What will happen to the rest of your company?" Elhokar asked. "Bridge Four, as you call yourselves?"

"Most of them are fiercely loyal to Kaladin," said Sarus. "They understand the importance of the oath we took to defend you and your family, Your Majesty, but it was also a term of our employment that any man who wished could leave the warcamps. Kaladin ensured that Highprince Dalinar gave us that guarantee."

"So I'm going to have to replace the entire King's Guard. Again."

"I think most will remain," Sarus said. "They will not want to abandon Kaladin. As long as there is hope that you will order his release, they will wait for him. But they may not be entirely pleased to defend you, Your Majesty. I will not lie to you."

"And you are?" Elhokar shot him another guarded look.

Sarus met his gaze levelly. "I understand why you did what you did, Your Majesty. I share your anger. Highprince Sadeas has slipped the net once again."

"And if I had ordered the boy put to death?"

"I understand why you did what you did," Sarus repeated.

Elhokar's eyes narrowed as they reached the rooms. He held the door for Sarus. "Inside." Sarus stepped past him, and Elhokar shut the door before looking back at him again. "Do you think I am a weak king?" he asked.

"I think that Highprince Dalinar does not understand how to let go of power."

Elhokar grimaced. "So, yes."

"No, Your Majesty," Sarus said. "I think that you are a king who has been put in a difficult, if not impossible, situation. Your most important supporter is also the one who most readily ignores your dictates—second only to the man you originally sought to replace him with."

"I didn't want Sadeas to replace my uncle," Elhokar protested weakly.

"Of course not, Your Majesty. But you wanted him to provide a check against Highprince Dalinar's influence, did you not?"

Elhokar looked towards the window for a moment. "You're shrewd," he said. "For a darkeyes."

"Thank you, Your Majesty."

"What would you say if I put you in command of Bridge Four?"

Sarus blinked. "I would say that I am honored."

"Then you accept?"

"I do not know if the men of Bridge Four will obey me." The moment the words left his lips, Sarus realized they tasted like ash on his tongue. Why shouldn't the men of Bridge Four obey him? He had been among them longer than Kaladin. He was a Radiant, like Kaladin. He was the one who actually knew how to maneuver around the lethal pitfalls of lighteyed politics. But he wasn't Kaladin.

And, somehow, that was all that mattered.

"Well, someone has to be in command," Elhokar said. "Unless we want the entire force to sit in their barracks all day with nothing to do. I can't release the captain. Certainly not at once."

"Of course not, Your Majesty," said Sarus.

Elhokar shot him a look. "Was that sarcasm?"

"No," Sarus said honestly. "You have ordered the captain's arrest. You have ordered his imprisonment. Those orders must be carried out and allowed to stand for at least some time, lest your uncle's influence undermine you yet again."

"You do understand. Storms, sometimes I hate that man." Elhokar's fists clenched momentarily at his sides. "And your captain is cut from the same cloth."

"They have a great deal in common," Sarus said. It was true, to an extent, but mostly he was agreeing because Elhokar clearly needed to vent.

"Now both of them have directly undermined me in a single day," Elhokar growled. "The boy shamed me in front of my entire court. Dalinar at least had the decency to threaten me in private." Suddenly, the king's anger dropped away like dead grasses being brushed off the rock by a highstorm wind. "But it wasn't the captain who allowed Sadeas to get away, was it?" he asked.

Sarus pursed his lips. "You cannot be blamed for being distracted," he said quietly.

"But I can," Elhokar said quietly. "And I should." He shot Sarus a wry look. "I really must be a weak king, if I'm telling you this."

"I think that there has not been a king in history, from the Silver Kingdoms down to the modern day, who could stand without sharing his hidden weaknesses with anyone," Sarus said. "Even the strongest kings are still men, Your Majesty. Whatever you reveal to me, not a word of it shall spread. You have my oath."

"Are you offering to be my confidant?" Elhokar asked, sounding darkly amused.

"I would not presume, Your Majesty," said Sarus. "But I am your servant and your guard. I do not ask for any secrets. I merely assure you that, if they come into my hands, they shall never leave them."

Elhokar sighed. He crossed the room towards the window. There was a mirror propped up against the wall beside it. Elhokar turned towards it with an air of dread. He looked his own reflection up and down briefly before turning back to Sarus. "I worry sometimes that I'm going mad," he said quietly.

Sarus frowned. "Mad, Your Majesty?"

"I sometimes see shapes in the mirror," Elhokar said, jerking his head towards the glass. "The first few times, I thought it was the Assassin in White, come to kill me, but every time I look there's no one dead. And now the Assassin has been captured, but they still haunt me, those figures. You're right—I was distracted today. What the captain did was only the blunt spoon that cracked the chull's shell." He shot Sarus a thin smile. "What do you think of that?"

Sarus thought of Archive, perfectly still on his shoulder. He thought of Syl, hovering around Kaladin's head, invisible. He thought of Renarin's mysterious spren, who didn't look like a mistspren should and seemed determined to hide from anyone who might realize it. "I think," he said quietly, "that there are many strange things on Roshar, Your Majesty. There is no sense in assuming one's own madness. Not while there may be other explanations."

"What other explanation could there be for strange silhouettes in the mirror with terrifying patterns for heads?" Elhokar asked.

Sarus couldn't outright tell the man he thought that a spren was watching him for potential nomination as a Knight Radiant. It would spawn too many questions. But he could drop a hint. "Do you believe you have seen every form of spren there is, Your Majesty?"

Elhokar blinked. "No, I suppose not. But those things can't be spren. They're too big."

"I have seen spren larger than a man's head. I see no reason why spren should not exist that are larger than a man."

Elhokar's face crumpled. "You really think so?" he asked. "You don't think I'm going insane?"

"In my experience, there is no surer sign of a man's sanity than that he questions it, Your Majesty."

Elhokar was silent for a long moment. "I'm promoting you to captain of Bridge Four," he said finally. "I trust you're smart enough to find ways to get your men to obey you. Tell me if you need my authority to discipline any who disobey."

Sarus blinked once, thinking quickly. An idea occurred to him. He could suggest that Elhokar release Kaladin—not today, perhaps, but soon—and have that release be conditional on Sarus' promotion. Kaladin wouldn't mind. His rank didn't matter to him, only the safety of those he protected. But the men of Bridge Four wouldn't really be obeying Sarus, then. They'd be obeying Kaladin, and Kaladin would tell them to follow Sarus' orders. Maybe the men would see that he had wrangled Kaladin's freedom, but many of them—Moash, Gadol, and Sigzil, to name a few—would see it as a power grab. Would question his motives.

Sarus was petty. He was spiteful. He was pathetic. And he didn't want to be Kaladin's figurehead.

He wanted to be enough.

He bowed low. "Yes, Your Majesty."

Last edited: Oct 2, 2023

LithosMaitreya

Sep 18, 2023

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Threadmarks 53: Loyal Subjects

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LithosMaitreya

Character Witness

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Sep 25, 2023

#1,419

Thanks to Elran and BeaconHill for betareading, and to Phinnia for the commissioned icon.

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Loyal Subjects

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A power came out of the West. The very power that, before my birth, had sunk Númenor beneath the waves and twisted the very shape of the earth, bending the world and the sky around one another.

-x-x-x-

Six Years Ago

"Gavilar can't possibly expect me to abandon my princedom now," Torol said incredulously.

"I'm afraid His Majesty was quite insistent, Brightlord," said the messenger smoothly.

Torol looked the man up and down. He wore a crisp uniform in Kholin blue, of the style Gavilar had lately started favoring. His short hair was slicked back with rather too much of whatever holding mixture he used, giving his head an unnatural, domed appearance. His pale lilac eyes fixed Torol with an almost imperious air, as though being Gavilar's direct servant made him more important than the highprince in whose tent he was currently standing.

Annoyingly, he wasn't wrong enough that Torol could punish him for it. That wouldn't go down well with the king.

"Two of my highlords are in open rebellion," Torol told him. "I'm in the middle of a siege. Gavilar can go and play with his savages if he wants; I have work to do here."

"Of course, Brightlord," said the man. "Shall I return and tell His Majesty that you have disobeyed him?"

Torol bared his teeth. "Watch your tongue, messenger."

The man affected a bemused expression. The morning sunlight streamed inside from the half-open tent flap behind him. "Is there a better way to phrase this?" he asked. "His Majesty ordered that you come to Kholinar. You refuse. Is that not disobedience?"

There was a cracking sound. Torol looked down to see that his fist seemed to have torn away part of the arm of his own chair. He glanced back up and saw that the man's eyes had widened slightly. Suddenly he seemed a little less assured.

Which was nice, but Torol still couldn't actually gut the man. Unfortunately. "I need to confer with my generals," Torol told him. "Stay for dinner. I'll have an answer for you by tonight."

The man pulled himself back together. "Very good, Brightlord. I am sure you will do what is best." With that, he turned and left Torol's tent.

Torol took a few slow, calming breaths. Then he stood and left the meeting tent by its other entrance, leading to another canvas chamber containing his war table. Upon the table, its corners pressed down with iron spherelamps, was a map of the fortress of Lemenar, complete with miniatures to mark the perimeter his forces had made around the castle.

General Tulitan was already studying the map. He gave Torol a crisp salute. "Brightlord. What did the messenger want?"

"Gavilar has summoned me to Kholinar," Torol said. "Apparently, it's important that I be there while he signs his peace treaty with those parshman savages from the Unclaimed Hills."

Tulitan's expression went wooden. "Is His Majesty unaware of the circumstances here?"

"Of course not," Torol said dryly. "He may not know the exact details, but I'm sure he's aware of the rebellion. That's probably why he's insisting. He needs to show that I put the needs of Alethkar over those of the Sadeas princedom."

"And do you?"

Torol shot his general a look. "My job," he said, "is to make sure I don't have to choose."

"And yet…" The general's words trailed away meaningfully.

"And yet," Torol sighed. "Have your men finished the ram?"

"Yes, Brightlord," said Tulitan. "They've begun work on ladders now."

"No time," said Torol. "If I'm going to have to make for Kholinar, I want to have a victory before I leave. That's the only way to show that a united Alethkar doesn't weaken me."

"Brightlord," said Tulitan, almost hesitant, "our carriers will be slaughtered bringing the ram up to the gate without ladders to put men on the walls."

"Then their sacrifice will be honored at the Almighty's side. Order all companies to prepare to assault the walls. I want Lemenar burning by nightfall."

-x-x-x-

Torol sat astride his horse on a hill overlooking Lemenar. The sun was sinking lower in the sky now, and the afternoon light was reflected gold in the armor and weapons of his army below. By the similar sparkle atop the fortress' walls, he could see that the archers were already in place, just waiting for his men to press forward.

Hoofbeats thudded against the relatively soft, fertile rock as Gavilar's messenger rode up beside him. "I do hope," he said smoothly, "that you did not have to accelerate your timeline overmuch to accommodate His Majesty."

"I'm sure you do," Torol said. He raised his hand in a signal to the trumpeters, and the horns rang out to signal the assault.

The vanguard, staffed with the least experienced and lowest ranked darkeyed soldiers, charged towards the gates. In their midst, the heavily armored column of carriers rushed towards the gate. The archers on the walls loosed their arrows.

Dozens of men died. Then hundreds. Torol watched as arrows glanced off helms, pierced gaps in mail, stained green uniforms red.

But the ram made it to the gate. Even this far away he could hear the resounding boom as it struck the wooden gate. Again, and again, and again.

And, eventually, the gate crumbled, and his men spilled into the fortress.

Torol smiled and spurred his horse forward. He passed between columns of his men as the remains of the vanguard pressed into the city. As he passed, one company after another sounded the charge. His forces followed him into the fortress. By the time he reached the gate, the broken remains of the gate had been pulled aside and his horse could easily pass through, hooves passing from the dusty lane onto the flagstones of the courtyard.

Inside, a regiment of his light spearmen was currently engaged with some of the local levy. Torol's heavy infantry passed him and joined the assault. He took a deep breath, let the Thrill fill him up, and charged in with them.

The next hour was a lurid blur of activity. His heavy sword—a massive bar of sharpened steel called a falseblade, designed to be used with Plate in the absence of a Shardblade—tore men apart. Some of his enemies wore the same green uniforms as his own soldiers, for these were his own subjects raising steel against him. They would not survive the experience.

His men blasted through the courtyard with heavy losses. They climbed the towers to reach the battlements and emptied them of enemy archers. They washed the barracks with blood. Then they turned their attention to the keep.

There were still a few archers inside, firing through arrow slits as his men brought the ram forward again to break down the door. But there were not enough, not by a breeze or a highstorm. The keep's reinforced doors broke open after a few minutes, and Torol led the charge inside—on foot, now, for there was no room for his horse indoors.

He was greeted by another man in Shardplate, a weighty Shardhammer—another weapon commonly used by men with Plate but no Blade—raised in defiance. The man's armor was pale yellow. His name was Highlord Malotam, and he had taken up arms against his highprince.

Torol dodged the first swing of the man's Shardhammer, then pressed forward with his falseblade. The man parried with the shaft of his hammer, then struck again. This blow connected, knocking Torol a step to the side and cracking one of his pauldrons.

"Yield!" roared Malotam, voice shrill and frenzied with the same Thrill boiling in Torol's blood. "Yield, you pathetic coward, and you can keep your life! I'll make you watch as I take your wife and daughter as concubines for the new highprince!"

The Thrill didn't fade—but suddenly, it was less important than the icy rage under Torol's skin. Any urge to taunt the traitor faded in the cold light of his hate. He twisted his falseblade, sending sparks flying as the blade skidded down the Shardhammer's handle. Malotam cursed as the large sword struck his gauntlets. The shock knocked the weapon from his hands. He had just long enough to look up in terror before Torol's blade whipped up and shattered his helmet in a terrible blow.

Revealed behind the scattering, molten metal of his visor, Malotam's pale grey eyes were as wide as Herdaz and twice as fearful. His face remained frozen in that expression as Torol clove his head from his shoulders.

He didn't even bother to watch the armored body fall. He just turned to slaughter another traitor. Then another, and another, until the blood ran rivers in the gaps between the tiles beneath his feet.

But at long last, there were no more men. Torol was left, casting side to side, searching for anyone to kill, but no targets presented themselves. For a moment of frenzy he considered striking the man beside him—some of the enemies wore Sadeas green, anyone here could be a traitor trying to hide among his loyal men—before he wrestled the Thrill back under control. He raised his sword and rested it on his shoulder as he turned to face his men. Celebratory cheers had begun to spread, outward from the keep into the rest of the army.

"We are not finished yet," Torol said, his voice hoarse with yelling and cold with hate. "Captainlords, organize your squads and move through the keep. Search every room, every closet, behind every tapestry. We've beaten the traitors. Now we must exterminate them. Every child with traitor's blood, every woman to bear them. Kill them all."

His men roared approval, the Thrill howling in their blood.

-x-x-x-

"We lost nearly fifteen hundred men today, Brightlord," said Tulitan, his tone stiff.

"Almost a fifth of the army," Torol mused, swirling the wine in his goblet. "A shame. Send messengers to my loyal highlords—particularly Amaram—and call on their levies to bolster our forces. Now that we've won a victory, we can call on them without shame."

"A costly victory," Tulitan said. "We lost more men than the entire defending force."

"Such is a siege." Torol shrugged and sipped his wine. "Highlord Obrodal remains in rebellion. I trust you to see him crushed while I am in Kholinar."

"Shall I order an assault on his walls as soon as we have a ram, as well, Brightlord?" Tulitan asked.

Torol looked him in the eye. "Do you think a united Alethkar is making my princedom weak, General? Are you of like mind with Highlord Malotam?"

Tulitan paled. "Of course not, Brightlord."

"Good," said Torol. "Today was a victory. See to it that it is talked of as such. And no—you may take the siege of Obrodal's walls as slowly as they merit. Should I return before the castle falls, I will deal with the situation then."

"Yes, Brightlord," said Tulitan. He saluted quickly before leaving.

I have got to replace that man, Torol thought, before turning to the man seated beside him. "Well," he said. "The battle is won, and it seems I am now free to come to Kholinar at His Majesty's command."

"It appears so, Brightlord," said the messenger, eyes following a servant girl as she approached the table with a tray laden with several plates of food. She offered Torol his first, as was customary, before offering one to the messenger. "When do you intend to leave?"

"Tomorrow," Torol said. "The stormwardens predict a highstorm just before dawn. I'll wait for the riddens to pass, then take my guards and go south."

"Very good, Brightlord," said the messenger. "I shall bring word of your coming to His Majesty."

Torol raised an eyebrow. "Surely you don't intend to leave on the eve of a storm?"

"I must make all haste, Brightlord Sadeas," said the messenger, smiling thinly. "You need not fear for my safety."

"You may be assured that I do not," said Torol, tucking into his food.

A little under an hour later, Torol stepped outside of the keep. All around, the army's support staff were hard at work washing the blood from the walls and floor. The wine had left his head buzzing pleasantly.

A runner approached from outside the castle. "Brightlord," said the young man, saluting. He couldn't be more than fourteen or fifteen. "Companylord Maleam reports that the reinforcements recruited from Sadear have arrived. He asks whether he has leave to fold them into his company to offset his losses."

"The Sadear reinforcements?" Torol asked, surprised. "I didn't expect them for several more weeks."

"I wouldn't know anything about that, Brightlord," said the boy humbly.

"Fair enough," said Torol. "You may tell Maleam that he has leave to use the newcomers as he sees fit."

As the boy jogged off, Torol realized that another boy only a little older was probably among the recruits who had just arrived. Sarus was a quick study—if enough of the recruits were as talented as that boy, that might explain why they had been dispatched so much earlier than Torol had expected.

Torol knew Sarus had ambitions of acquiring a Shardblade and becoming lighteyed. Privately, he approved. As long as the boy was darkeyed, he could not support his friendship with Tailiah. But his daughter's minders reported that, even when they caught her sneaking to visit him after nightfall, there was no evidence that he had tried anything untoward beyond simple conversation. And the lad was undeniably clever, even brilliant.

If Sarus acquired Shards, Torol could not think of someone better to support his daughter. Not as her husband, of course—even though Shards would make the boy fourth dahn, he would still not be a suitable match for Torol's own daughter—but certainly as an advisor and highlord. But that was vanishingly unlikely. If any darkeyes had ever ascended by winning Shards in battle, it was so long ago as to be more myth than history.

Still, Torol thought as he went to bed that night. That would be a stroke of excellent fortune.

LithosMaitreya

Sep 25, 2023

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