Lotr starlight archive Chapter 7: 7, 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 54: Compromise

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LithosMaitreya

Character Witness

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Oct 2, 2023

#1,427

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

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Compromise

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If anyone reads this, they will be used to a spherical world. But before Númenor was destroyed, Arda was a flat plane.

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The sun had nearly set when Sarus finally made it back to the barracks. The men were outside, gathered around the campfire and eating Rock's stew. At a glance, the scene looked entirely normal, as if the evening ritual was completely unaffected by all that had happened—but in every man's eyes, Sarus could see the highstorm of emotion brewing. These were men on the very edge of doing something truly rash, though what, exactly, varied from one to another.

That had to be his first priority—getting the men's rage, fear, and confusion under control. His promotion was as much a liability as an asset if he couldn't trust that Elhokar wouldn't find himself at the end of one of his subordinates' spears.

Murk was the first to see him. He stood up sharply, almost spilling his stew in his haste. "Sarus!" he called, holding up a hand. "You're back! We were worr…" He trailed off, his eyes fixing themselves on Sarus' shoulder, where a new set of captain's knots were tied.

One by one, the others followed his gaze. Sarus took note of the spread of their expressions. Several looked mutinous—Moash, Gadol, and Sigzil most of all—but most simply looked sad. Grieving.

Ah. "Kaladin is alive," he announced, taking a seat beside the campfire. He relaxed his shoulders, making them slump forward, as if he was as emotionally drained as the rest of them.

"Wait, was that not certain?" Moash demanded furiously.

"The legal punishment for slandering a lighteyes is determined by the difference in rank between the slanderer and the slandered," Sarus said. "Kaladin may no longer be sas nahn, but that doesn't mean he could accuse a third-dahn highlord safely. Legally, his punishment should have been summary execution. Fortunately, in light of Kaladin's contributions to his safety and that of his family—not least his heroism today—His Majesty showed mercy. He's been imprisoned, but won't be killed."

"Oh, good," Moash said. "His Majesty was feeling merciful. How nice."

There was a wave of agreeing grumbles around the campfire. "How dare he accuse Kaladin of slander?" Gadol said. "We knew Kaladin had been wronged. If he said those things about Amaram, it's because they're true."

"Yes," Sarus said. "I'm quite certain they are. But, unfortunately, Kaladin has no proof to offer."

"Because Amaram bought or killed off all the witnesses!"

"Presumably, yes." Sarus fixed Gadol with a look. "If you were unaware, we live in Alethkar. Are you surprised that the laws written by lighteyes make it easy for them to escape punishment for crimes done to darkeyes?"

Gadol grit his teeth and didn't answer.

"Talenelat's broken toenails," muttered Murk. "What a mess. I see you've been promoted to captain, Sarus?"

"Even if His Majesty were willing to allow Kaladin to keep the position, he couldn't very well lead from inside a cell. So, yes—I've been promoted to captain of Bridge Four." He buried the envious flare as he added, "At least for now."

"Convenient," murmured Sigzil, almost too quietly to be heard. But Sarus wasn't the only one who caught it.

"I'm sorry," Murk said to him in disbelief, "you think Sarus wanted this to happen?"

Sarus was left with a decision. Did he allow this conversation to play out in the hopes that his silence would make him seem more like their fellow former bridgeman, rather than like a man with a guilty conscience? Or did he intervene and make an example of Sigzil, as a warning to the others who might doubt him? The latter would all but guarantee that several of the men would never trust him, but it might also prevent active mutiny, at least for a while.

I'll bide my time, he decided. I can intervene if the conversation turns south.

Sigzil looked down, avoiding both Murk and Sarus' gaze. But Moash spoke up, eyes full of challenge as he met Sarus' gaze. "We know Sarus is jealous of Kal," he said.

And you aren't? Sarus thought, annoyed. But speaking the words would achieve nothing. He could discredit Moash, but that wouldn't actually help build his own credibility. Not with these men, in this context. So he let the man continue.

"He has been since before he started speaking," Moash said. "Obviously he didn't make Kaladin go down into the arena—not that Kal would have needed pushing—and he didn't make Kaladin say what he said. But he knows the ins and outs of lighteyed laws. He'd have known what Elhokar would do. And Elhokar trusts him—he could have stopped this."

"I'm flattered that you think so highly of my influence," said Sarus, hoping his dry tone would have the desired effect. "But although His Majesty trusts me with his safety, that doesn't mean I can change his decisions."

Moash snorted. "The king's a paranoid wreck, and you manipulate people like it's your Calling."

It is my Calling. "Knowing how to navigate among lighteyed politics, as a darkeyes, is as much about knowing one's limits as about achieving one's goals, Moash. I might well be able to get Kaladin out of prison before too long, but I certainly couldn't gainsay His Majesty in public in the arena. And once the order to imprison Kaladin had been given, His Majesty couldn't immediately reverse it lest he be seen as weak and arbitrary."

"He is weak and arbitrary!"

"All the more reason to ensure he doesn't look it," Sarus snapped, glaring at Moash. I know you want the king dead, but would it kill you to be a hair more subtle? "Sadeas is already scheming to depose Elhokar. Do you think he needs the help? That the civil war he will cause will be a good thing for any of us? A real civil war, not the sort of border skirmish Kaladin fought in before he was sent down here. You may think politics are a lighteyed matter, but you should have learned by now that when lighteyes go to war, it's the darkeyes who die.

"The last time even a minor rebellion was raised against the Kholin dynasty, the entire city of Rathalas was put to the torch. Women and children were slaughtered by the thousands. And that atrocity was led by the honorable Highprince Dalinar—by the Blackthorn. Do you think that a true civil war, where our enemies are led by Sadeas, will be less brutal? And once the war ends, even if we survive and win, what about when Jah Keved and Herdaz invade an Alethkar that has lost a quarter of its darkeyed population to battle, slaughter, siege, and sickness? Do you think they will be more merciful, after all that the Blackthorn did to them during the post-Unification border wars?

"Highprince Dalinar promised not to force us to go into battle on the plateaus, but do you think that will apply when the entirety of Alethkar is a battlefield? Do you think that the fact that we won't need to carry bridges will mean we're safe? I assure you, it will not. Of the men here, it's likely half will die.

"So yes, Moash, I want to keep His Majesty safe. Both from assassination and from lighteyed politics. Because understand me—the alternative is far, far worse. If that means that Kaladin has to stay in prison for a few weeks, then so be it. I am certain he would understand, if only the intricacies of these politics could penetrate his skull."

A terrible silence fell. Moash's face was ashen, his eyes so wide that a white ring was visible all around his dark irises.

"Do you really think it would come to that?" someone whispered. Dunny?

"Absolutely, lad." It was Teft who spoke, a heavy sigh underscoring the words. "I remember the unification wars. They were bloody at the best of times. At the worst… you could have told me they were a Desolation, and I'd have believed you. And that was when the Kholin-Sadeas alliance was fighting individual highprincedoms that could barely avoid killing each other long enough to try and negotiate their own cease fires. If it were between two united forces of roughly equal strength? It'd be a bloodbath."

"I thought the Alethi considered war a glorious thing," Sigzil said. His eyes were narrowed as he studied Sarus.

Teft snorted. "The lighteyes and people back home in the cities, maybe. Any darkeyed spearman who's been on the field for more than a few weeks knows better."

"And even if most soldiers did feel that way, we should know better. We've seen the ugliest face war can offer. But the bridge crews are not its only ugly face." Sarus looked around the small circle at the men who were now under his command. "I do not want Kaladin to stay in prison long," he said. And that much, at least, was true. "Nor does Highprince Dalinar. We will not leave him there. But we have to be patient, or we could make things far worse."

"Is that why you shut your mouth for five years?" Gadol grunted. "Because you made things worse?"

To Sarus' surprise, it was Moash who snapped out an arm and cuffed Gadol upside the head. "That was uncalled for!"

"Yes, it was," Murk said, with a face like a stormwall. "Do you see anyone asking about what happened to land you in the bridge crews, Gadol? Do you see us implying it was your fault?"

"Enough," Sarus said. "To answer your question, Gadol… yes. But when we got out of there I promised myself that I would not let the fear of making things worse prevent me from acting at all anymore. I do not intend to break that promise. But I still intend to act carefully. I'd rather we not be the reason Kaladin ends up executed."

That sobered the men very quickly. "This is wise," Rock said, offering Sarus a bowl of stew. "The guard rotations will need to be changed, without Kaladin."

Sarus sighed and nodded. "Yes. And we'll need to change Prince Adolin's rotation. He's refusing to leave His Majesty's jail until such time as Kaladin is freed, so we'll be watching over them both for the time being."

"Wait, he is?" Leyten asked.

"It would appear so. It remains to be seen if he stays committed. Either way, Teft, I need to know if any of the trainees from the other bridges are ready to be folded into the rotations…"

-x-x-x-

After the door to the captain's quarters closed behind Sarus, he found himself staring at the dark room for a long moment, perfectly still. That had gone better than he could have hoped. Sigzil and Gadol were still leery of him, and he didn't know where exactly Moash stood, given his part in the attempt on Elhokar's life mere weeks ago. But the rest of the men seemed to have been convinced that he was just as committed to seeing Kaladin freed as they were.

And he was, truly. He had no desire to see Kaladin languishing in jail for a crime as stupid as slandering the highlord who had slaughtered his squad. He was no use to Sarus—or anyone else—trapped in a cell. And he couldn't imagine it was easy for a man who had grown accustomed to being able to run up walls to be trapped in a single room with nothing but a cot and a chamber pot for company.

He might be able to win something out of Kaladin's time in prison, but anything he could achieve would be done quickly. The longer Kaladin remained jailed, the more reason the men would have to suspect his motives. What Sarus needed to do now was to demonstrate himself capable—show that, despite lacking the gravitic quality that drew men's loyalty to Kaladin like windspren to a highstorm, he was more capable of representing his darkeyed subordinates to the lighteyes than Kaladin was. And that meant he needed to get Kaladin out of prison, now that he was there.

There was a knock on the door—Sarus still couldn't quite think of it as his, yet. That would come with time. "Enter," he said, turning on his heel to face it.

It opened, and Moash startled to see Sarus standing just a pace inside the room. "Sarus. Can I have a word?"

The men called Kaladin Captain and it came as naturally to them as breathing. Sarus didn't know if that would ever happen to him, and he couldn't press for it. Not now. It was frustrating, but right now the only source of his authority was that the men saw him as a peer, a fellow working to get their real leader freed. Changing that attitude would be slow work. "Of course," he said, stepping back to allow Moash in.

The man shut the door behind him, then stood for a moment, facing it, his back to Sarus. His shoulders were tense. His left hand fiddled with the hem of his blue jacket.

Sarus decided to take a chance. "Is this about your attempts to get His Majesty killed?"

Moash's fist tightened on the door handle. "Did Kal tell you?"

"Yes. But I'd figured it out long before that. Who was the Shardbearer?"

"I'm not going to tell you." Moash shot him a look, and Sarus was startled to realize his eyes were bloodshot with suppressed tears. "I'm… I can't sell the others out. I can't."

Sarus frowned at him, sitting down slowly in Kaladin's—no, the captain's, his—chair. "You've changed your mind," he said softly.

Moash slumped suddenly, as if those words were a Shardblade to the neck. "No," he said. "But I don't… I don't know what to do, Sarus. I can't let him get away with it—I can't let him live. But I don't want… what you and Teft said about what a civil war would look like. I don't want that, either. I don't know what to do."

And you came to me for advice? Sarus didn't allow his astonishment, his gratification, to show on his face as he folded his hands together. "His Majesty—Elhokar—wronged you somehow."

"He killed my grandparents. They were silversmiths in Kholinar, and a lighteyes who owned a few silver smithies in the city wanted them out of the way. Elhokar did his friend a favor—had my grandparents dragged in on some charge or another, and left them in prison to rot. They died there a few months later. I was out of the city at the time, didn't even hear about it until after."

"Kholinar silversmiths should have been third nahn at least," Sarus said—softly, to make it clear he wasn't questioning the truth of Moash's story. "More likely second. Did they not have the right to demand a trial?"

"They did. Elhokar had them jailed pending a trial, then left the paperwork sitting until it was too late." Moash's fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles popped. "I hate him, Sarus. I've hated him for years. I don't know how to stop hating him. I don't even want to."

"I wouldn't expect you to," Sarus said. "We darkeyes have precious few rights. The right to our hatred is something they can never take from us, even when we're made sas nahn."

Moash met his eyes. "You understand."

"Highprince Sadeas cut my mother's throat in front of me. I understand." Sarus' lips twitched into a mirthless smile. "And he'd have been dead or crippled right now if events in that arena had gone as planned."

Moash's eyes widened. "That wasn't Kaladin's fault!"

"It was as much Kaladin's fault as King Elhokar's. Which is to say—not entirely. Kaladin doesn't know the intricacies of caste law or dueling traditions. He didn't know that what he was doing was both a crime and a grievous insult to His Majesty and Prince Adolin. But he could have known these things, if he had asked."

"He had no reason to ask!"

"True. But that does mean he jumped into a dueling arena without an understanding of what he was doing." He held up a hand to forestall Moash's next protest. "I don't blame him for doing so. But he could have stood to be cautious—circumspect, after the fighting was done, knowing he was in a more formal situation than he had ever been before. Understand me, Moash—I don't blame Kaladin for losing his head and doing what he did. I know as well as anyone that sometimes we cannot help but follow our first impulse. Like you, Kaladin has spent months, perhaps years, festering in his anger at Highlord Amaram. He saw an opportunity, and could not help but take it. That does not stop me from being angry with him—not angry enough to want him trapped in prison, but angry nonetheless."

Moash looked away. "I can understand that," he murmured.

"All three of us want vengeance, Moash," Sarus said quietly. "You, me, and Kaladin. All of us have been wronged by lighteyed men with more power than we could have hoped to challenge. All of us want to see that pain paid back. But we must think before we act, or we will bring each other down and leave our enemies standing—just as Kaladin, entirely by accident, denied me my revenge today."

"It's one thing to say that we should think before we act," Moash said. "It's another to tell me not to take my revenge at all."

"I know," Sarus said. He needed to find a way to channel Moash's rage at another target—at the advisor who had convinced Elhokar to jail the man's grandparents. "Let me tell you something else. After ordering Kaladin imprisoned, King Elhokar spoke to me."

"He did?" Moash blinked at him. "He talked to you? A lowly darkeyes?"

"Yes," Sarus said. Moash had been convinced that Elhokar's death would have a terrible cost. Now Sarus needed to show that there was a potential benefit to keeping him alive. It wasn't hard to find an argument Moash would find persuasive—the man was, after all, the same kind of cremling as Sarus. "What did you call him earlier? Weak and arbitrary? A paranoid wreck? Well, imagine what someone like that might share with the man responsible for his safety, a man he spends quite a lot of time with. Especially a lowly darkeyes. After all, what harm could I possibly do?"

Sarus smiled—a deliberately insincere expression, and Moash smiled back.

"I doubt I'll manage that trick a second time, even if we were able to replace the king without bringing Alethkar down entirely. I will not tell you all that was said—if your conspirators hear of it, he'll never trust me again. But His Majesty admitted that he made a mistake in reacting so strongly to Kaladin, that he and Kaladin both shared responsibility in giving Sadeas the opportunity to escape."

"Then why did he do it?"

"I think you know the answer."

Moash hesitated. "For the same reason that Kaladin did what he did," he murmured. "He was caught up in the moment."

"King Elhokar is desperately afraid of appearing weak. He knows to his bones that his subjects consider him unworthy of the crown his father forged. He agrees with them. His only claims to authority, in his mind, are tradition and legalism. In that arena, Kaladin directly challenged both—and in so doing, threatened Elhokar more directly than you ever did by cutting that balcony railing. Elhokar reacted as so many men do when afraid—on instinct."

"That doesn't make it right," Moash whispered.

"Of course not. And it doesn't stop us being angry with him, any more than I have stopped being angry with Kaladin because I understand why he did what he did. But I do not want Kaladin jailed for his mistake. And I do not want Elhokar killed or deposed for his."

"Letting Sadeas get away isn't the same as killing my grandparents."

"Certainly not. But—let me ask you. Who was the lighteyes who owned those silver smithies?"

Moash scowled. "Highlord Roshone. As much a cremling as any of them. Believe me, if I could see him dead, too, I would."

"And I'd have far less cause to stop you than I do to prevent the death of King Elhokar. The death of a minor highlord would be unlikely to throw the kingdom into civil war. When did this all happen?"

"About a year before Gavilar died. Why?"

Sarus leaned back. "I will never ask you to forgive His Majesty. Never. But I have interacted more closely with him than anyone else in Bridge Four—I like to think I know him relatively well, with all his many faults. I suspect I can guess at what happened from his perspective, if you're willing to listen."

Moash gritted his teeth. "If you think what he did was justified—"

"Under no sky would the deaths of two elderly citizens awaiting a trial they were entitled to because their reigning lord didn't want to give it to them be justified. I assume King Gavilar was out of Kholinar at the time? Likely negotiating with the Parshendi on the Shattered Plains?"

"Exactly. He left Elhokar in charge of the city."

Sarus nodded. "No, I do not think anything could justify what Elhokar did. But—just as Kaladin's rage and ignorance explain what happened in the arena today, perhaps something can explain it. If, again, you're willing to listen."

"Fine." Moash slumped back against the door. "Fine."

"King Elhokar is a man who, even now, is uncertain in his responsibilities as king. When he was still a prince, living in the shadow of the man who united Alethkar, it was likely even worse. When he was left in charge of Kholinar, he must have leaned heavily on the advice of whatever friends he might have had—fellow lighteyes whom he had known for years, in some cases his entire life. I can only assume Highlord Roshone was such a man—likely Elhokar's senior by several years, if not more than a decade."

"He was," whispered Moash. "He was almost Dalinar's age."

Sarus nodded. "When Prince Elhokar—a boy who had never been given this sort of responsibility before, who didn't know what was expected of him or how to win the respect his father so effortlessly commanded—was informed by a trusted advisor that two darkeyes had committed some crime, but that there was not sufficient evidence to legally convict them… well. He was a sheltered child who was accustomed to watching the man in his chair do whatever he wanted. It does not make what he did right, certainly not. But it means that his crime was foolishness, not malice."

"If it happened like that," Moash said. But something in his expression had broken, and Sarus knew he had won.

"True," Sarus said. "I may be wrong about the details. But I don't think I am. King Elhokar needs to survive. His death would lead to untold carnage. It's infuriating, that so many lives should hinge on such a flawed man, but that is the Alethkar we live in. But Roshone? He has no such protection. And if I am right about how that story played out from within the palace at Kholinar, it was Roshone, not Elhokar, who truly wished your grandparents dead."

"He couldn't have done it without Elhokar."

"Couldn't he? He was a highlord, Moash. If a highlord wants a darkeyes dead, they tend to find ways to make it happen."

Moash swore. "Damnation, you're right."

"Then will you accept this compromise? I cannot allow you to kill His Majesty. But if you agree to stop trying to kill him, I will help you hunt down Roshone and see him brought to justice. Of one sort or another."

Moash hesitated for a long moment. Salas' light through the window slats cast his face in violet, like a purpling bruise. "Fine," he whispered.

106

LithosMaitreya

Oct 2, 2023

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Threadmarks 55: Sons of Honor

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LithosMaitreya

Character Witness

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Oct 16, 2023

#1,451

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

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Sons of Honor

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Then the one the Elves called Ilúvatar struck out in terrible vengeance and destroyed Númenor. Where it sank, He bent the paths.

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"Husband?" Ialai asked softly, poking her head around the door.

Torol didn't look up. He sat slumped in an armchair, Oathbringer dangling limply from his right hand. On a small table to his left was a heavy goblet of violet wine.

Not a single other piece of furniture in the room remained whole.

Ialai closed the door behind her, then carefully stepped through the debris to his side. "Torol," she said softly. "Are you all right?"

Torol didn't answer for a long moment. "I'm still alive," he mumbled finally, without looking up. "Haven't had my face caved in by Adolin. So, all told, it could be worse."

She rested a hand on his shoulder. "Far worse," she said softly. "You slipped the noose, love."

"After walking freely onto the gallows," Torol grunted. He straightened just long enough to bring his cup to his lips before putting it back down and hunching over again. "This was a disaster."

"But not a calamity," Ialai murmured, rubbing his back. "None of the Sadeas princedom's Shards were lost. You were not forced into a duel. You—"

"I have been forced into a duel," Torol pointed out. "I've just delayed it by a year. That puts us on a much stricter timeline than I'd like."

"You didn't expect our plans to take that long anyway."

"That was before Adolin nearly doubled his family's Shards in a single day. Three sets of Plate and two Blades. Storms."

"Do you think Dalinar will take one of the new sets?"

"No." Torol shook his head. "No, he'd have kept his Plate and taken a new Blade by now if he wanted it. No, Dalinar is actively choosing to avoid taking up Shards. I assume it's more of his ridiculous notions about the Codes or some such."

"That's good, at least," Ialai said. "We won't have to worry about the Blackthorn coming back to the field."

"Won't we?" Torol finally looked up and met her eyes. "You saw Adolin on the field today. What do you think they'll call him? Bluethorn doesn't exactly have the same ring to it."

Ialai's lips thinned. "You fear him."

"I know for a fact that if I had ended up on that field today, I would have left without this sword," Torol said, gesturing vaguely with Oathbringer. "Assuming I left at all. I don't fear him any more than I fear a chasmfiend while I'm here in the warcamp. But if I were alone in the chasms, yes, I would be afraid. Today only proved—I never imagined Adolin would be capable of something like that. He's a better duelist than his father ever was, though he's yet to surpass the Blackthorn on the battlefield."

"He did have help," Ialai pointed out.

"Yes. From his invalid brother and a darkeyed slave. It was impressive that each of them managed to keep a Shardbearer busy, but let's not pretend he wasn't at least twice the warrior of any other man in that arena."

Ialai was silent for a moment. "What do you propose we do?" she asked.

Torol heaved a breath. "I'm not sure," he admitted.

"Sssss." The hissing sound emerged from behind a shattered cabinet. Both Torol and Ialai froze. "Admitting blindness is the first step."

Jerkily, Torol turned his head. The spren was there again—the strange, shifting pattern hid in the corner, barely visible in the gloom. "You," he said.

"I," said the spren.

"What are you doing back here?" Torol asked. "What do you want from me this time?"

The thing hissed thoughtfully. It seemed… not friendly, far from it, but it wasn't practically spitting its dislike of him today. "You stand at a crossroads. Ssss. Sometimes, the broken foundation must be cleared away before the tower may be built, yes?"

Torol stood slowly, finding he was slightly unsteady on his feet. Perhaps he'd had too much wine—or too much excitement. "What are you talking about?"

"What was the moment that Dalinar became the man he is?" the spren asked. Its tone suggested the question was rhetorical, but it didn't continue.

"Gavilar's death," Torol said.

"True," the spren said, as if acknowledging a fair counterargument. "But, ssss, the moment he ceased to be the man he was?"

"Rathalas. Evi's death."

"Yes. Do you understand?"

Torol blinked. "Understand what? Is there a point to this, creature?"

"Of course there is a point." The spren sounded annoyed now. "There is, sss, always a point. Do you think wood enjoys being set ablaze? That a seedpod enjoys being split open? Of course not, sssssss. But after the fire, the smoke may fly. The vinebud may bloom."

Torol stared at the spren. "What are you saying?" he murmured.

"I am saying," said the spren, "that you, Torol Sadeas, must find the most important words a man can say."

A cold shock ran down Torol's spine. He was helpless to say a word as the spren slid along the floor and slipped out the window.

"What?" whispered Ialai. "But those were—"

"Gavilar's last words," Torol said. "The words he scribbled in blood. How did that thing know them? What do they mean?"

"And why is it telling you to do what Gavilar demanded of his brother?" Ialai asked softly.

Torol shook his head. "I don't know."

Ialai was silent for a long moment. "…I might," she whispered.

Torol blinked at her. "What?"

Ialai didn't look at him. She was staring at the place the spren had been. Her face looked conflicted. Perhaps even ashamed. After a long moment, she took a deep breath and stepped away from him. She looked out the window as she spoke. "Shortly after we were married," she said, "Gavilar called in my debt to him for introducing us."

"Your… debt?" Torol's mind whirled through the implications. He had always known, of course, that Gavilar must have had specific motives for introducing Torol and Ialai—it wasn't like the man to simply play matchmaker for the sake of it. But he'd always assumed his motives were about tying Ialai's family to the burgeoning kingdom to prevent them rising as a challenge to his authority. Had he wanted something out of Ialai specifically?

Ialai nodded, still without looking back at him. "He swore me to secrecy and introduced me to an organization he himself had only recently joined," she said. "They—we—call ourselves the Sons of Honor. I joined as a favor to Gavilar, and the position has served me well. It's served you, as well—I acquired the services of half my spies and assassins through the Sons."

"But what is this organization?" Torol asked. "How have I never heard of it before? Why have you never mentioned it?"

"I never mentioned it because I was sworn to secrecy," Ialai said. "I've kept my ears open, of course, and the instant I sensed a threat to you or our house I would have broken that oath without a second thought. But I thought it best to keep my position in case that ever became necessary." She finally looked at him, and her eyes were hooded with regret. "I'm sorry."

Torol waved her apology away. "I've kept secrets from you for the same reasons," he said. "Go on. What do the Sons of Honor want? What do they have to do with the words Gavilar wanted Dalinar to find? That this spren wants me to find?"

"I have only suspicions," Ialai said. "Guesses. You know Dalinar named Amaram as the first of a new order of Knights Radiant?"

"Yes." It had been a particularly pathetic move. Torol had no idea what Dalinar hoped to accomplish besides alienating the fundamentalist factions within the ardentia. If he intended to tempt Amaram away from his oaths to House Sadeas, he would be disappointed.

"Well, we think Dalinar might have…" She hesitated, "…stumbled into the right idea."

"Explain."

"The general members of the Sons believe that if the Voidbringers return, the Heralds will follow and lead Alethkar and Roshar into a new Heraldic Epoch. Gavilar and I both believed that to be, well, stupid." Ialai shrugged. "Myself, I mostly stayed in the organization for the contacts it gave me, and to be sure I heard of it if any of them did anything monumentally stupid. But Gavilar… I'm not sure exactly what he believed. He definitely didn't hold the same ideals as the rank and file, but he also wasn't completely cynical like I was. Or at least, he eventually stopped being cynical."

"The Codes," Torol said softly.

"That was part of it," Ialai agreed. "I think he started to buy into the idea of redeeming Alethkar. Making it something close to ancient Alethela. He started meeting with the leader of the Sons, Restares, in secret. His artifabrians and scholars started doing research into fabrials and Stormlight. I was never able to get my hands on their notes—I'm still trying to this day, but being so far from the capital hasn't made it easy." She hesitated. "I don't know if he actually thought the Voidbringers existed, or if he actually thought bringing them back was a good idea, but I suspect he did want to recreate either the Heralds or the Knights Radiant—with himself at their head."

Torol rolled his eyes. "That sounds like Gavilar," he said. "Self-aggrandizing to the point of foolishness."

"At times, yes," Ialai agreed. "I've suspected for years that his last words were a hint at something he'd figured out, something he'd guessed about either the Radiants or the Heralds. Now a talking spren comes and tells you to do exactly as he told Gavilar? And you told me what that ardent said about legends of talking spren."

"He said that some myths suggested the Knights Radiant made partnerships with spren," Torol said slowly. "You can't be serious, Ialai."

She flushed. "Of course this sounds insane, Torol. I'm only bringing it up because, well, I've been looking for a good excuse to tell you about the Sons for years anyway. And it is the only idea I have, even if it's a bit of a crazy one."

Torol nodded slowly. "I understand," he said. "It's all right, love. I don't think you're insane. Even a mad idea might be better than no idea at all."

She looked relieved. "Exactly," she said. "Regardless of why the spren is echoing Gavilar, I think it makes sense to start trying to figure out what they're both talking about. Start trying to find those words."

Torol nodded slowly. "It's worth looking into, at least," he said. "If for no other reason than that I want to know why there's a talking spren following me around." He stepped forward and laced his fingers with hers. "Thank you for telling me about this."

"Keeping the secret has never sat well with me. I'm glad to have it open between us." Ialai frowned. "Restares hasn't been heard from in months. No one will question me if I officially bring you into the organization, if that's what you want. Though why you would…"

"You know me so well." He grinned. "No, you can take charge of our connection to this… cult. I have no desire at all to have people frothing at the mouth as they explain why the Voidbringers have to return."

She laughed. "A shame," she said. "It would be nice to have another sane person in the correspondence. The closest I have now is Amaram, and he hardly counts."

Torol blinked. "Meridas Amaram is a member?"

"Oh, yes. I should get you a list of all the relevant members," Ialai mused. "Amaram's been with the Sons of Honor nearly as long as I have. I suspect that's part of why Gavilar tried so hard to get Jasnah to marry the man."

Torol snorted. "I always assumed he was punishing her for something, or just trying to get rid of her after her illness."

"It was likely both. In any case, I'll go through my correspondence and figure out which highlords are members. I don't believe any of the highprinces are."

"Thank you, love," said Torol. "And I will see if any of the neutral highlords have heard anything about Dalinar's efforts to understand Gavilar's last words. Though I doubt they'll turn up much."

"Most likely," Ialai agreed. "But it never hurts to check. I'll ask my network as well." She smiled at him. "It may not be much of a plan, but it's better than tearing apart the furniture."

Torol laughed. "I suppose it is, at that."

LithosMaitreya

Oct 16, 2023

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Threadmarks 56: Volunteer

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LithosMaitreya

Character Witness

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Oct 23, 2023

#1,466

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

-x-x-x-

Volunteer

-x-x-x-

Thereafter, only His chosen people could return to His lands in the Utter West.

-x-x-x-

Six Years Ago

Twenty spears struck twenty softwood targets with a sound like a drumroll. Sarus's struck the exact center. The target was not in the shape of a man—that sort of carving wasn't an efficient use of resources for training hundreds of ordinary darkeyes—but Sarus knew where to aim on a man's body when performing this strike from years of drills. If they're lightly armored, the bottom of the chest—where the two sides of the ribcage meet. If they're more heavily armored, the exposed neck or face.

And if they were a Shardbearer, the miniscule slits in the visor. Sarus had heard that a Shardbearer's visor was translucent only to him while he wore it, but not fully transparent—which was why they still had slits. That had always struck him as odd. It wasn't that he didn't believe the armor had magical properties. Of course it did, it was Shardplate. Nor did he doubt those effects could affect their wearer differently from other bystanders. After all, Shardplate augmented the strength of a wearer, but armorers had no such benefit when fitting the Plate onto its owner.

No, the oddity was in the imperfection. Sarus might not know much about whatever ancient power went into the creation of Shards, but somehow the idea that the Shardplate visor should exist in an uncomfortable middle ground—translucent enough to allow light through, but not transparent enough to eliminate the need for slits—seemed wrong somehow. It was flawed. The weapons of the Heralds, of the Radiants, shouldn't have been flawed.

"Reset!" called the drill sergeant—a Sadear second-nahn named Matalar.

Sarus pulled his spear out of the target in a quick burst of force, taking a quick step back and returning to his Whitespine guard. Most darkeyes never learned the names of the katas and forms for spear-work. It wasn't like the swordplay of lighteyes, with the formality one might expect from a tradition which grew out of Shardblade dueling. Sarus had done what study he could of the ten dueling forms, but that was all theoretical to him. Preparation for a fight which would probably never come. And while the great masters of the spear had developed similarly formal forms and stances for the weapon of the darkeyed masses, those traditions were often cast aside in favor of the simplicity necessary to train vast numbers of soldiers as quickly as possible. The five basic forms—Whitespine, Chull, Axehound, Larkin, and Skyeel—were only ever taught and remembered by more formalized units, such as the honor guards of highlords.

Fortunately, Sarus had trained with the Sadeas honor guard, and thus benefited from that education.

"Strike!" shouted the sergeant, and the soldier on Sarus' left accidentally swung wide, striking Sarus in the shoulder with the haft of his spear. Sarus' blow still hit the target, but off-center, diverted by the shock.

Unfortunately, the men training with Sarus were not always pleased to be shown up by a boy scarcely even of age to carry a weapon.

Sarus didn't look at the man, didn't even acknowledge his insincere apology. He just remained still, his muscles still taut on his weapon, waiting for the sergeant's next command. The time between strikes was almost as important as the strikes themselves, in training like this. At least for Sarus.

For a spearman to have a cremling's chance in a highstorm of challenging a Shardbearer, he would need to be better than the Shardbearer in every way. More alert, more focused, smarter, quicker, stronger—because the Plate and Blade would be more than enough to compensate for the difference. Sarus wasn't competing against the men beside him for promotions and better duty rotations. He was competing against the dread knowledge of the impossible goal he had set before himself.

So every time the drill sergeant called "Reset!" Sarus made sure he was pulling his spear back before the second syllable had left the man's lips. He made sure his speartip emerged smoothly from the target in one motion. He made sure that no distractions could knock his spear off target.

Another boy might have stumbled when the man to his left, nearly half again his size, struck him like that. Sarus's speartip went a few inches off his target, and he counted it a failure.

-x-x-x-

"Sir," Sarus said as the tent flap fell shut behind him. He saluted. "You wanted to see me?"

"Hm?" Sergeant Matalar glanced over from the rack of spears he was examining. "Ah, right. Saras, wasn't it?"

"Sarus, sir."

"Right, right." Matalar looked him up and down. "Bit young for the army, aren't you?"

"I'm fifteen, sir. Younger than many, but old enough to volunteer."

"Which I guess you did." But the man was frowning. "Aren't you Captain Yarel's aide? How'd a kid like you end up with a post like that?"

"He knows the ardent who taught me, sir. I believe I was recommended, though I haven't asked."

"Probably wise. Don't want to draw attention to that sort of thing." The man's eyes had narrowed, and Sarus cursed internally. It was a difficult position he was in—he couldn't pretend to have no idea what could have happened to place a boy his age in a position like his, not if he wanted to excel in his training and push himself to improve. But even his superiors were jealous, sometimes. It made things… unstable. He didn't expect to be stabbed in the back directly, but if the soldier's meals weren't all prepared in the same massive pots, he'd have expected to find undercooked cremlings in his.

"Yes, sir," he said stiffly. "I just want to do my job and learn to do it better."

"Saw you in training today. How long have you been drilling with a spear?"

"Since the day I chose my Calling, sir."

"It shows. Keep it up and you'll rise through the ranks quickly."

"Thank you, sir."

Matalar nodded. "I called you in to ask if you were having any trouble adjusting to life in a warcamp. You're younger than most of the soldiers here, and I can't imagine you're used to sleeping in a barracks."

"No complaints, sir." Complaining to the sergeant, in their first one-on-one conversation, would be a lethal blow to any prospects he had in this battalion.

"Good. Feel free to come to me if anything comes up."

"Thank you, sir." Not a chance. Not unless someone does something so stupid that I can come out of complaining to the officer looking better.

Matalar nodded. "You'd best be going," he said. "There's supposed to be a highstorm tonight. Probably not for a few hours, but you don't want to be caught out in the open once it hits."

Sarus saluted and left the tent. There was no sign of the highstorm yet, but he'd heard about the stormwardens' prediction days ago. From the last forecast he'd heard, the storm should be passing through Kholinar within the next hour. It should reach the warcamp, here in the northern Sadeas highprincedom, three or four hours after that. It was premature, but the roads were already starting to empty as soldiers and staff made for shelter.

Sarus was more leisurely, as he strode past the lighteyes' and officers' compound. He had already eaten, and he'd stowed some salt-cured rations in his trunk in case the highstorm lasted unusually long. The camp wasn't so large that he'd have trouble making it to his barracks even if the storm came over the horizon at that very moment.

"…Reach Sadaras tonight, before the storm."

Sarus paused mid-step, listening. He didn't know that voice, but the tone was furtive. Suspicious.

"How many?" That voice, however, Sarus did know. That was Captain Yarel, the lighteyed soldier to whom Sarus was an aide. He hadn't interacted much with the man in person—mostly his responsibilities just involved running errands for the man's more senior support staff, when he wasn't training—but he had met him. His voice was distinctive. Higher-pitched than average, with a forced resonant quality layered over a naturally reedy tone. But right now, that voice was pitched down to be almost inaudible from where Sarus was standing.

"Ten, in two teams of five. Thought it best to appeal for the Almighty's support in any way we can," said the first man.

Sarus moved slowly as he approached the corner of a building. He didn't try to look into the alleyway. But from here, he could easily hear the men talking there.

"And they've memorized the castle blueprints?" Yarel asked.

"Yes. Tested them on it myself before they left yesterday morning."

"Good." Yarel let out a breath, shaking with tension. "They'll have to time this perfectly. You're confident they can do so?"

"That's why they left yesterday. They should already be in the woods outside Sadaras now. They can make it."

"I hope you're right. If they're caught outside the castle…"

"If they're caught outside the castle, they'll be charged with poaching at worst. As long as they time it right, by the time there's any evidence of what they're there for, the guards will all be sheltering from the highstorm."

"Not all of them," Yarel cautioned. "They know that, right? There will still be guards in the hallways, posted outside the ladies' bedrooms."

"Of course they know that," scoffed the other man. "But you're the one who told me those patrols are three men at most. These are five of our best for each target. It'll be fine, Yarel."

Yarel sighed. "No, it won't," he said grimly. "Even if everything goes off without a hitch and both Ialai and Tailiah die without any evidence to trace it back to me or the others, we're still bringing an angry Highprince Sadeas down on the army's heads."

"Better angry and desperate than calm and tactical. You heard what Paleran said. And even if he kills all of us, this is the best chance we have to end his line. He's getting too old to father a new heir, let alone find a new wife to bear him. And he'd never be settling for a girl as heir if he wasn't having trouble getting a boy out of his wife. We might not see the end of this, Yarel, but this is our best chance to make sure it does end."

Sarus turned and walked away, moving carefully to prevent his feet from scraping against the rock. Once he was out of earshot, he broke into a dead run. He wasn't making for the barracks anymore. He was heading directly for the officers' stables, where the two dozen horses belonging to the higher-ranked lighteyes were kept. He might never have ridden one before, but he'd seen it done many times and he'd always been a quick study.

He had no choice but to try, after all.

There were two guards standing guard outside the stable door. He ran past the stable to make it seem like he had business elsewhere, then doubled back. Unfortunately, the stable windows were already shuttered in preparation for the storm.

Damnation. The hard way, then. He pulled out his shortspear from the sling on his back and rounded the corner, facing the two guards. They turned to him, but he didn't give them time to react.

Where the two sides of the ribcage meet.

One of the men had time to shout as Sarus pulled the spear out of his partner before he fell. Then Sarus was inside the stable, counting the seconds until reinforcements arrived.

Yarel had no horse of his own, or Sarus would have stolen that one. Instead, he picked one at random—a mostly-black beast with a splotch of white running up its nose.

He'd once watched a more experienced aide prepare the saddle, reins, bridle, and all the other nameless straps and buckles that made a horse rideable. It had taken the better part of half an hour. Sarus didn't have that kind of time. So he didn't bother.

He just leapt up on the horse's bare back with strength he hadn't even known he'd possessed. The horse stamped and took a couple steps backward, nervous and startled. Sarus rested a hand on its neck, willing it to calm. Miraculously, it did.

"I'm going to need you to work with me," he said to it, speaking in a deep, soft tone. It seemed right to try and soothe the animal. "We have a long way to go and not long to make it."

The horse let out a rattling, snorting sound that Sarus had once heard described, for some unfathomable reason, as a whinny.

Sarus patted its neck. "Let's go." He pressed his heels into its side. It took a few steps forward, then paused. He pressed more firmly. It started again, then sped up. Its movement was bouncy and erratic, forcing him to carefully bounce with it lest he bruise against its back in a sensitive place.

It left the stable, and immediately Sarus saw that several soldiers were already jogging towards them. "Out of time," he growled, digging his heels into it. "Go!"

It whinnied again and began to run. They sped past the soldiers. A single arrow shot past Sarus' ear, but most of the men had been armed with spears. They passed the officer's compound, passed the palisade, and escaped the warcamp.

Three hours, maybe less, to make it all the way to Sadaras. Sarus had never been the most faithful, but that day he prayed that he would make it in time.

LithosMaitreya

Oct 23, 2023

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Threadmarks 57: Titles

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LithosMaitreya

Character Witness

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Oct 30, 2023

#1,476

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

-x-x-x-

Titles

-x-x-x-

That power struck out again, and once again it Sundered the world.

-x-x-x-

Sarus walked down the line of men standing at attention outside Bridge Four's barracks. Nearly a week had passed since Kaladin's imprisonment, and there had been no major explosions of insubordination. In fact, things seemed to be settling—even Gadol was barely grumbling anymore. And at dawn, after the first bell, the men were forming up outside with the same energy and discipline that they'd given Kaladin. It was a start.

"Teft," Sarus called. "How goes the training of the new recruits?"

"Not as well as I'd like," Teft said. "They're discouraged. Word of what happened with Kaladin has spread."

Sarus sighed. "Of course. I'd be surprised if morale wasn't affected." He didn't even take it personally—or at least, not much. It wasn't as though the men from the other former bridge crews knew him or Kaladin. This wasn't a matter of Kaladin's sheer magnetism paired against whatever ugliness put people on edge around Sarus. It was mere reputation. The men knew that Bridge Four—of which Kaladin had been bridgeleader—had saved Highprince Dalinar, which had bought all of them their freedom. They knew Kaladin had then been promoted to Captain as a darkeyes, and placed in charge of all of them. They knew he had secured the highprince's word that they would not be forced to fight on the plateaus.

Certainly, Sarus had been part of all of those things. But these were not men who had been there, seen Sarus' contributions with their own eyes, and still committed themselves wholeheartedly to Kaladin over him. The men of the other crews were simply hearing of Kaladin's reputation secondhand. And reputations could shift all too quickly.

"We need to reassure the men that the battalion will not fundamentally change while Kaladin is imprisoned," Sarus said. "I'll join you for my off shift this afternoon. I can't go around to every barrack and answer every man's questions, but I can do so for your recruits. And it'll do the men good to see that you and Kaladin aren't the only skilled spearmen in the force."

Teft saluted. "I'll see you then."

Sarus returned the salute, then turned to Murk. "I spoke to Highprince Dalinar yesterday," he said. "He's given us permission to set a guard rotation outside the jail where Kaladin is being kept, but he wouldn't let us take over the guard inside." Truth be told, Sarus hadn't even tried to convince him of that. No sane man would have agreed to it, and Sarus didn't think Dalinar was insane. More to the point, Dalinar nursed an instinctive dislike of Sarus—he suspected he reminded the man of Sadeas. Even asking for something as absurd as allowing the men of Bridge Four to guard their own captain's cell would inflame the suspicion that was finally starting to fade.

"We figured," Murk said. "I've already got a rotation drawn up. When does he want us to start?"

"Today. He didn't set a particular time."

"Then I can take the first patrol over after we've talked through the schedule."

"Good." Sarus turned to Moash. "No news from the night shift?"

"None," Moash reported. "Sir."

The deliberate inclusion of the honorific made something flare momentarily in Sarus' rotten heart. It wasn't pride, exactly, nor was it exactly satisfaction. But it was something adjacent to both. "No news is good news," he said. He cast his eyes up and down the line. "You all have your assignments for the day. Leyten, Ahis, we'll head over to relieve the graveyard shift with His Majesty as soon as I've spoken with Murk. The rest of you, dismissed."

Several men—not all of them, not even half, but more than yesterday—saluted. Then they split into squads and jogged off to their various assignments.

-x-x-x-

The door to the king's suite opened quite suddenly, startling Ahis and Leyten. Sarus just turned to face the king and bowed. "Your Majesty."

"Ah, good, you are on duty," Elhokar said, nodding at Sarus. "Come inside, I want a word."

Sarus followed him into the suite, shutting the door behind him. For a moment, he considered thanking Elhokar for asking to speak privately with Sarus in front of his men. It would leave an impression, lend credence to what he had been implying about his ability to represent the men to their lighteyed overlords. But he knew Elhokar hadn't done it deliberately, and he didn't want to make the man feel ashamed for not having considered the implications. So all he said, standing in parade rest, was "How can I serve, Your Majesty?"

"I need your advice," said Elhokar, throwing himself down into a plush armchair and leaning back into it, his eyes drifting to the open window. "I need to let Kaladin out of jail."

Sarus raised his eyebrows. "What brought this on?"

Elhokar shook his head. "It's not—you and I both know I overreacted in the arena. I didn't really want to execute Kaladin, not after everything he's done for my family, and I don't want him rotting in jail indefinitely." He took a deep breath. "But Adolin's forcing my hand."

"He still hasn't left?" Adolin had marched into the same jail where Kaladin was being kept the day before. The guards had feared he would break the captain out, but he had just sat down in an unoccupied cell and refused to leave. It was an honorable gesture—one Sarus still had difficulty believing of the vain princeling. Oh, he knew Adolin had inherited his father's honorable streak, but this gesture was imaginative, and Adolin simply wasn't that clever. He wondered if Renarin had originally come up with the idea, but he hadn't yet had a chance to speak with him today.

"No. And since my uncle isn't going out into the field, that leaves Renarin as the ranking commander in the Kholin warcamp. Which doesn't work, no matter how impressive his showing a week ago."

"No," agreed Sarus. "No, you need Prince Adolin to lead your family's armies."

"Even if I wish I could actually lock him up for putting me in this position," the king grumbled. "I might be able to force Adolin to leave—I don't think he'd directly ignore my orders if I walked in there and demanded he return to his post—but I don't really want to keep Kaladin in there too long either." He looked over at Sarus. "And it occurred to me that you might have some ideas for how I can use Adolin's obstinance to my advantage."

"Clever," Sarus praised. It wasn't anything he hadn't already considered, but he'd been watching the king for the past few days and had concluded he wasn't mentally prepared to begin negotiations. It was impressive that Elhokar had come forward with this himself. Sarus had been intending to suggest it in a few days. He unclasped his hands from behind his back and folded them in front of him. "There are some complexities to this."

"There always are," Elhokar sighed. "If I make it too obvious that I'm acceding to Adolin's demands, that makes that branch of the family stronger. And I'm already barely more than a figurehead for my uncle—I can't afford to lose more."

"Just so, Your Majesty." What had changed? Elhokar seemed to have grown overnight. He was still the same man—still consumed with paranoia and self-recrimination, still so paralyzed by the fear of looking weak that he had no idea how to be strong—but he had thought about this. And he had done so with some objectivity, rather than merely wallowing in his bitterness and self-pity.

Still, Sarus had been doing this his whole life. Elhokar had suddenly improved, but Sarus still had plenty of advice to offer. "You cannot afford to leave Adolin in the cell too long, either," he cautioned. "And not only because you need the Kholin armies. From your enemies' perspective, the current deadlock looks… well, not good, Your Majesty. Your highest-ranked field commander, a member of your immediate family, is refusing to serve because of a single darkeyed man. A darkeyed man who acquitted himself admirably on the sand, it's true—I'm sure his part in the duel is the talk of every lighteyed winehouse in the warcamps—but still one darkeyes, and one who then catastrophically embarrassed himself before your entire court. Highprince Sadeas will be only too happy to spread rumors of how Kaladin became such effective leverage over the king."

Elhokar grimaced, a splotchy flush rising in his cheeks. "I hadn't even considered that."

"It's far less important than the factors you have considered, Your Majesty," Sarus soothed. "Your priority is indeed to get Adolin back in the field. But it is something to add to your considerations."

"It leaves me with the same problem, though. I need to figure out when and how to release Kaladin."

Sarus nodded. "Things are not entirely bleak," he said. "You have a few days of grace before Adolin's gesture becomes truly problematic, politically. For at least a few days, it will look like you are simply trying to wait him out—assuming that he will give up on this gesture once he starts to miss fine food and wine. Which, to be fair, he may."

Elhokar shook his head. "Adolin's stubborn as a chull. I doubt it."

He's also a spoiled third-dahn lighteyes. "Have you spoken with the guards about what Prince Adolin is to be fed?"

"No?" Elhokar blinked. "Should I?"

"I would recommend it. It would be a shame if a well-meaning soldier tried to ease Adolin's stay by ensuring some comforts were brought to his cell. The best outcome for you is for him to leave of his own accord before you release Kaladin."

Elhokar nodded slowly. "That makes sense," he said. "I'll send word to the guards to make sure he's fed the same rations as the prisoners. But if that happens, don't I lose my best excuse to free Kaladin?"

"Not at all." Sarus said, smiling. "If Adolin capitulates, you can release Kaladin afterwards. As a gesture. Doing so would make it clear that your alliance with that branch of House Kholin remains strong, but that you will not be overruled by your subordinates."

"That… makes sense." Elhokar sighed. "But it probably won't happen. I don't think Adolin will be stopped by thin gruel and no wine."

"Do you think he would be willing to leave as part of a plan to achieve this outcome?"

Elhokar's eyes narrowed slowly. He leaned forward. "You mean… Adolin could pretend to capitulate, so that I can make the gesture of freeing Kaladin without it making me look weak."

"Precisely. It would be a little embarrassing for him, perhaps, but his reputation can survive it."

Elhokar nodded slowly. "Adolin doesn't mind a little embarrassment," he said. "He's brought it on himself plenty of times, with his dozens of failed courtships. Yes… this might work."

"You cannot bring the suggestion to him yourself, unless you do so a few days before the actual performance is to take place," Sarus said. "That… might be best, actually. If you are seen visiting your cousin, and then this false capitulation occurs almost at once, it will not be difficult to guess what happened. But if you visit, and no such capitulation occurs for a week or more… that might improve your position. Especially if…" His small smile widened slowly. "Yes. I have an idea, Your Majesty."

"Don't leave me in suspense," Elhokar said, lips twitching in wry amusement.

"You go and visit Prince Adolin today. You explain to him that he has put you in a difficult position—that you do not actually want Kaladin to stay locked up indefinitely, but that by tying his fate to Kaladin's, he has made it so that you cannot release him without looking weak. He may offer to leave at once—if he does, explain that if he does so immediately after your visit, and you release Kaladin afterward, it will seem like you capitulated to him. Suggest that he wait in the cell for a few days—four, perhaps, so that he has been imprisoned for a week—and then leave his cell and come to you. If he does this, then you will publicly commute Kaladin's sentence in thanks for his service to your family. I think he will agree. If he does, tell your guards to ensure he is fed well and given a reasonable allotment of wine." He hesitated—could he afford to make this request?—before continuing. "I… would appreciate it if you could offer something similar to Kaladin, Your Majesty. Perhaps not wine befitting a lighteyes, but at least a soldier's meals rather than whatever prisoners are fed."

Elhokar nods slowly, acknowledging Sarus's request. "I will consider it."

As much as Sarus could hope for, and more than he had really expected. "Thank you, Your Majesty," he said, then added one more piece of advice. "Do not tell them to do this until Adolin has agreed, because if he resists you may yet have to try and outlast him."

"Yes… yes. It makes sense. You should have been born lighteyed, Captain." He shook his head wonderingly, then squinted, looking into Sarus' eyes. "In fact, your eyes aren't very dark at all, are they? A fairly neutral grey."

"I've been told they look darker depending on the lighting."

"Hm." Elhokar considered him for a long moment. "Well, your advice is more than sound. I do appreciate it, Captain, truly."

"I am entirely at your service, Your Majesty."

"I trust it goes without saying that nothing of this conversation leaves this room?"

"Of course."

"Good. Then you may go. I'll go talk to Adolin after lunch."

-x-x-x-

The knock came at Sarus' door about an hour after dinner. "Enter," he called.

Moash stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. "I talked to them," he said, without preamble.

"Ah. Somewhere you could be seen, as I suggested?"

"Yes. I still don't think it was necessary. They wouldn't have killed me."

"People willing to assassinate a king must necessarily be willing to take extreme actions, Moash. You may think you know these men, but presumably so do the other Shardbearers your friend trains against. I rather think they would be surprised to learn of their fellow's plans."

"Fair point." Moash shook his head. "They said they'd give it up. That I was right about how bloody a civil war would be. But I don't know if I can just trust their word."

"I certainly don't," Sarus said dryly.

"Right. But I don't want to betray them if there's a chance they're sincere."

Sarus sighed. He had been unaware that honor was contagious, but Kaladin's certainly seemed to have infected Moash. Not enough to convince him not to kill Elhokar on its own, but enough that he didn't want to turn in his co-conspirators even once he'd been convinced of the importance of Elhokar's survival. "I will compromise with you," he said. "Give me their names and identities, and I will give you my word not to turn them in until and unless I find proof of their plans."

"I… I need your word, Sarus. Sir. Please."

"You have it. I swear not to turn your former co-conspirators over to His Majesty and the guards unless I find damning proof that they still intend to see their assassination attempt through."

"Okay." Moash took a deep breath. "The Shardbearer is a man named Graves."

"Damnation."

"What?"

"It's a false name." Sarus rubbed at his temples. "I'd remember if a Shardbearer in the warcamps had such a non-Vorin name. Unless he keeps his Blade secret?"

"He does, I think. I don't know for sure, but I've never seen anyone treat him like he was fourth-dahn."

"Storms, that makes this even worse. I can't watch him if I don't know who to watch, Moash."

Moash grimaced. "You can probably find the others. I know more about them. Maybe you can find Graves through them? I can describe him, but the warcamp is big."

Sarus nodded. "Anything you can give me, please. I'll keep my word, but everything you tell me will better prepare me to keep an eye on them—or to defend His Majesty, if I can't find proof in time."

Of course I'll keep my word, Sarus thought as Moash described Graves and the other conspirators. Fortunately, some of them could be identified with ease. Apparently one of them was one of Elhokar's scribes. That was a lead Sarus could track down.

Sarus had no intention of turning Graves in before the man had a chance to make an attempt on Elhokar's life. After all, that attempt would be Sarus' best chance in years at winning a Shardblade of his own. All he'd have to do was beat the man in a fight. And knowing what his voice seemed capable of now, that did not seem so impossible.

And if Elhokar died in the struggle, that would be a tragedy. But Sarus had grown accustomed to tragedy, and there were many dead he would mourn before he mourned the king.

"Thank you," he said when Moash finished. "Again, I swear not to tell His Majesty about any of this without proof. And even then, your name will be kept out of it."

"Thanks." Moash fidgeted. "Why do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Call him His Majesty all the time. Even in private, when it's just us. Neither of us like him. So why?"

Sarus laughed in startled delight.

"What?" Moash blinked at him. "What's so funny?"

"No one's ever asked me before. Even before I went silent in the bridge crews, none of those poor wretches at the beginning asked why I still insisted on referring to Highprince Sadeas by his title."

"Huh. You know, I never noticed, but you do. Why?"

"Because the title has no meaning other than the people who wear it."

Moash frowned. "…What? What does that mean?"

"If I refuse to call the lighteyes I dislike by their titles, it implies that I believe that there is a nobility in those titles that they do not deserve. I do not. Nothing good is implied by Highprince Sadeas' rank, nor by His Majesty's, nor even by Highprince Dalinar. It isn't that Highprince Dalinar deserves to be highprince, and Highprince Sadeas doesn't. They simply both are men who have been given power for a reason that has nothing at all to do with virtue or aptitude. I use these men's titles, Moash, not as a show of respect to the men, but as a show of disrespect to the title."

Moash was still frowning at him. "Sounds convoluted."

"Have we met?" Sarus laughed again.

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Oct 30, 2023

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Threadmarks 58: Stormform

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LithosMaitreya

Character Witness

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Nov 6, 2023

#1,485

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

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Stormform

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The earth beneath my feet shattered, and I found myself lingering on a single piece of what was once the only world.

-x-x-x-

Rlain paused for a moment as he crested the final plateau. It was a slanted one, one of the rare few where its eastern side was higher than its western one. It paid for that defiance against the highstorms, however, by having eroded away until it was little more than a speartip on its eastern side, sharpened by centuries of winds to a deadly point aimed at the heart of the Shattered Plains.

And there, at last, was Narak. It had taken days to cross this distance, partly because he had to avoid anything that might be a chasmfiend preparing to come out to pupate. He couldn't afford to get caught in one of the battles between the Alethi and his people. Not now.

Narak had not visibly changed. It remained as it always had—a collection of ruins so dilapidated that many of them were scarcely distinct from the plateaus on which they rested. Atop the crem-encrusted bones of the ancient city was the Listeners' settlement. There was the central plateau, with the great tower that had somehow survived all these generations of storms. There was the circular plateau with the domed structure in its center, where Rlain remembered drilling with his fellows. His friends.

Oh, Eshonai, he thought, attuning the Rhythm of Anxiety. Please, let Sarus have misread the situation. Please, let me be wrong.

He leapt off the plateau, sailing through the air and landing with a thud on the crem-encrusted surface of the next. The lookouts would have seen him now, and would likely send someone to collect him.

Sure enough, about halfway across the next plateau a Listener in warform met him. "Welcome home, friend," she said to Confusion. "Where did you come from? What were you doing out on the Plains alone?"

"I am Rlain," he told her, the fierce tones of Determination on his tongue. "I am one of the dullform spies sent to the Alethi warcamps. I was likely presumed dead after missing several rendezvous, but I am alive. I came back to report, and because I heard dire news about what has happened here."

For a flickering instant, the warrior attuned the Rhythm of the Terrors before audibly suppressing it in favor of Tension. "Dire news?" she asked. "Has word reached the Alethi, then?"

"Nothing they will understand," Rlain said. "But I think I do. Is it true, then? Has Eshonai taken a Form of Power?"

A single note of the Terrors burst out through Tension again. "It is," said the femalen stiffly. "She and two hundred others have taken Stormform."

Rlain found himself cycling through Rhythms, almost faster than he could process them—Betrayal, Resignation, Despair, the Terrors—but he took a deep breath and forced himself into Resolve. "I must speak with her. I must hear of this from her own mouth."

The femalen nodded. "Come with me, then. But…" She paused, humming to Consideration for a moment. "You should know that she and Venli are pushing for more of us to take Stormform. The Five are not convinced yet, but she is respected."

Rlain nodded, still humming Resolve. "I understand."

-x-x-x-

"Rlain? Rlain, is that you?" The call came to the Rhythm of Joy.

Rlain had been walking down the closest thing Narak had to a main road, on his way to the Council of Five. He turned at the sound of his name and was greeted by an achingly familiar pattern of marbling. "Thude!" he exclaimed, joining him in Joy.

Thude jogged up to him, alternately humming a few beats at a time of Surprise and Joy. "We thought you dead!" he said. "You missed three meetings in a row. We assumed…"

"It was a near thing," Rlain said. "It's a long story."

"Well, I want to hear it. But I suppose you have to report in to the Five."

"Yes. And… I have some questions. I've heard only a little of what's been happening here. The guard who saw me approach confirmed some of it. Thude—is it true? Has Eshonai…?"

"Yes," said Thude, his tone abruptly shifting to the Rhythm of Tension. "Venli discovered a spren which would allow Listeners to take Stormform. Eshonai has been… odd, ever since."

"You fear the form is affecting her judgement?"

"I fear… I'm not sure what I fear, exactly. I know that taking a different form doesn't change who we are, it never has. But…"

"But you're not sure that a Form of Power will be the same," Rlain finished for him.

"Exactly." Thude shook his head. "I don't… I think it's still Eshonai. I do. But she's changed. More decisive. Quicker to anger. Do you remember how she agonized over killing the unarmored humans carrying their bridges at the beginning of the war?"

"Bridgemen," Rlain said. "Yes, I remember."

"She no longer fights with my unit, but the last time I was near her in a battle, I saw her smiling as the—bridgemen, you called them?—fell. Any hesitation is gone from her. I think she is willing to do anything to win this war now. She was going to negotiate with the human leader, before—the king's brother, do you remember him?"

"Highprince Dalinar," said Rlain. "That is why I rushed back, Thude—I heard about what she said in that meeting. She implied that the Listeners were going to call the gods back."

Thude's eyes widened. "I haven't heard about that plan," he said. "You're certain?"

"No. I wasn't there." What had Sarus told him, exactly? He was sure Sarus had remembered the exact words Eshonai had spoken, but Rlain no longer did. "All I remember is what I was told by someone who was—that Eshonai admitted the Five sent the assassin to stop King Gavilar from summoning back the gods, but that now things have changed."

"They have," Thude agreed. "But if Eshonai intends to call the gods back, I haven't heard a word of it. There is a plan, however."

"And?"

"Eshonai believes that a large enough group of Listeners in stormform—"

"Well, this is a pleasant surprise!" a booming voice called from down the main road. Rlain and Thude both turned, and Rlain's gemheart felt as if it had suddenly become host to a gravitationspren.

Eshonai was walking towards them, but she was barely recognizable. The bulky armor of warform was gone, but it was replaced by thin ridges in strange, sharp patterns. But that was not what frightened Rlain, made him instinctively attune the Rhythm of the Terrors before he forced himself back into Surprise.

No, what terrified Rlain was the vile red glow in Eshonai's eyes.

"Rlain, welcome home! We had feared you dead!" There was an odd quality to her voice. Rlain did not think he would have even noticed it—it was subtle, like a slight imperfection in the pitch of Eshonai's recitation of the Rhythm of Joy—except that he remembered Sarus had mentioned the oddity of Eshonai's rhythms.

"I nearly was," Rlain said, meeting her in Joy. "It's good to see you, Eshonai."

"Likewise," she said. "What kept you so long in the human warcamps, Rlain? Why did you miss your rendezvous, and why didn't you come back to us sooner?"

"The humans grew uncomfortable with me," Rlain said. "I don't think they suspected I was actually a Listener, but I was smarter than they were comfortable with in a parshman. So, they sent me to die in their bridge crews."

Both Eshonai and Thude attuned Surprise, although Eshonai momentarily brushed against some other Rhythm Rlain had never heard before—an angry, vicious beat, hummed in righteous fury.

"But—how did you survive?" Thude asked. "And why did no one report seeing a Listener carrying the humans' bridges?"

"They would not have been able to see Rlain's patterns at that distance," Eshonai said to Irritation. "And we agreed from the beginning to fire at parshmen if the humans forced them to carry the bridges. We could not afford to do otherwise."

Rlain nodded. "Fortunately," he said, "I was placed in the command of a particular human bridgeleader—a man named Kaladin. He was determined to protect his crew. Even me."

Thude frowned. "A human tried to protect a parshman?" he asked to the Rhythm of Confusion.

"Did he suspect that you were one of us?" Eshonai asked, suddenly attuned to Suspicion. "Was he trying to subvert you?"

Rlain shook his head. "No—it wasn't about me. Captain Kaladin simply… doesn't know how to let people die. Even parshmen. It was his crew that remained behind to give Highprince Dalinar a chance to escape, the day you surrounded him at the Tower, though I was not on bridge duty that day."

"The Tower?" Thude asked blankly.

"That must be the human name for the eastern bulwark," Eshonai said, glowering. The expression was startlingly feral with her eyes glowing red. "The humans have never managed to beat us there, and have never tried to press past that plateau. But apparently we have this 'Kaladin' to thank for the human leader's escape."

"I don't know why they call it the Tower, but yes. Kaladin's crew was in service to a rival highprince who intended to betray Dalinar, but they disobeyed orders to save him. In thanks, Dalinar bought the freedom of all of that highprince's bridgemen. I was briefly a soldier under Kaladin's command before I escaped."

"Ha! A Listener soldier in Alethi colors." Eshonai shook her head to Amusement, and for a moment the way the skin around her eyes crinkled was achingly familiar. Then they opened again, and the red put Rlain back on guard. "Well, it's good that you've managed to escape. We need every Listener we can get."

"Thude was just telling me that you have some sort of plan to win the war?" Rlain asked.

"Yes." Eshonai raised a hand and formed a fist. Unnatural red lightning arced in tiny strands as her fingers closed. "I assume you've heard about our new form?"

"It seems there's some internal debate about it," Rlain said to Consideration. "The guard who met me at the edge of the city seemed worried."

Eshonai briefly attuned a strange, discordant rhythm Rlain had never heard before. She quickly settled back into Amusement. "It unsettles some," she said. "But it is powerful, Rlain. I can feel it, although I can't do as much alone as I need to. There is a storm building beneath the Rhythms. A large enough group of Listeners in stormform could call it forward, call down a storm on the humans and destroy them once and for all."

"The humans have been dealing with highstorms as long as we have," Rlain pointed out, still calmly projecting Consideration. "One storm, even an unexpected one, won't destroy them."

"It will if they're in the open when we call it," said Eshonai. "You may not have heard, but the humans are planning a final offensive during the lull. It is the only time they can hope to cross the entire Shattered Plains between highstorms. A storm then, when their entire army is exposed and expecting only calm rains… that would destroy them."

Rlain kept humming to Consideration. "It's a good plan," he acknowledged. "But how large would the group of Listeners in stormform have to be?"

"As many as possible," Eshonai said. "I intend to suggest to the Five that all of the Listeners take stormform. The more we have, the better our chances of successfully summoning the storm.

"That will be difficult to organize. How will you even find enough spren for all of the Listeners to take this form? And who will make blankets and clothing if no one is in nimbleform? Who will work the rockbud farms if no one is in workform?"

Eshonai frowned, studying him. "We can do these things in stormform. You haven't felt it, Rlain—it's better than the other forms. More."

"It's a Form of Power. I'd be surprised if it wasn't. But there were once many Forms of Power, just as there are many common forms. That implies that even a single Form of Power isn't designed to do everything."

"There's no need to be afraid of this form, Rlain," Eshonai said. She attuned to the Rhythm of Peace for just an instant before something seemed to catch in her throat, and she switched abruptly to Confidence. "You'll understand when you take it."

"You may well be right," Rlain said. "And I do agree with you, Eshonai. Securing our survival against the humans is our highest priority. But we also have to secure our survival against famine, the highstorms, and all the other things that will kill us if we're not able to farm, build, or care for our children."

Thude was staring at Rlain, attuned to the Rhythm of Confusion. Eshonai, however, was humming Consideration—though it seemed somewhat forced. "I will consider what you've said. But you must want to rest. Go—get something to eat, and then come to the training grounds to give your full report." She smiled at him, those red eyes boring into him like embers burning a hole through cloth. "It is good to see you again, my friend."

As she left, Rlain turned to meet Thude's eyes. Thude was still humming to Confusion. "What… what was that, Rlain?" he asked. "You almost… you almost seemed to agree with her. Even if you were arguing that not everyone can take this new form, it was all logistical arguments—nothing about how it's changing her. How it's wrong. Surely you noticed?"

"I did," Rlain confirmed. "And I'm just as worried as you are, Thude, I promise."

"Then why did you…?" Thude slowly shifted to the Rhythm of Awe. "…When did you get so good at—at lying?"

"I had an excellent teacher. I'll tell you about him when I have a chance."

Last edited: Nov 6, 2023

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Nov 6, 2023

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Threadmarks 59: Prince of House Kholin

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LithosMaitreya

Character Witness

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Nov 13, 2023

#1,493

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

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Prince of House Kholin

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I saw thousands, millions, perhaps billions of other scintillae scattering out into the Void, leaving those terrible stone monoliths far behind.

-x-x-x-

"Prince Renarin! Highprince Hatham!" The scout jogged up to where Renarin and General Khal rode beside Highprince Hatham at the head of the column of infantry. With how slow the chull-pulled bridges were, House Kholin had taken to sending scouts ahead at each plateau, to make sure the Parshendi never took them by surprise. It was especially important at the end of a run, where the final chasm could be scouted in advance to see whether the Parshendi had already arrived.

"Any word?" Hatham asked.

"Yes, Brightlord," said the scout. He wore Kholin blue, but faced directly at Hatham as he spoke—not deliberately ignoring Renarin, exactly, just… not prioritizing him. "The Parshendi are ahead of us. They hadn't reached the chrysalis when I saw them, but they will have by now. We have only a few minutes before they get it open."

"Then we must hurry," said Hatham. He looked past Renarin, at General Khal. "General Khal, I will send my lighter bridge crews forward with my cavalry. Have your shock troops join them across the plateau when convenient."

General Khal shot Renarin a look. "Prince Renarin?" he asked. "Is that acceptable?"

Renarin was keenly aware of the three former bridgemen marching along behind his horse, who knew intimately just what Hatham meant by lighter bridge crews. "Fine," he said softly.

Hatham nodded. "See you at the battle," he said—speaking more to Khal, resplendent in his newly-won green Shardplate, than to Renarin. Then he turned and spurred his horse away from the combined column of infantry, towards his cavalry unit.

"Brightlord," General Khal said, leaning across the distance between their horses to speak quietly to Renarin. "You have every right to demand more respect, from both Highprince Hatham and from the rank and file."

Renarin just shook his head. "What good would that do?" he asked. "No, General—better for you and Hatham to run things. I'm just here as a figurehead in Adolin's place."

"You have the right to respect even if you defer on military tactics to those more familiar with them," Khal said.

"If you have ideas for how to manage that, I'm all ears."

Khal hesitated, seemingly trying to come up with something, so Renarin just shrugged at him. "My reputation is pretty set in stone at this point. The last thing I want is to undermine you by being petulant about it. Just do your job, General, and I'll do mine—which is to look pretty as a Prince of House Kholin at the head of this army, and try not to die."

Khal sighed. "By your leave, I'll see to the bridges."

"Go."

Khal rode away, leaving Renarin to brood.

He's right, you know, Glys murmured in Renarin's head. You do have the right to respect.

Maybe in Azir or Shinovar, Renarin countered dryly. Not so much here in Alethkar.

…I hate this, Glys mumbled. You shouldn't have to be marching at the head of an army. It was bad enough you felt like you had to march with the army even when you weren't supposed to be in charge.

Well, Adolin's honor is very important, Renarin said.

More important than you?

Adolin certainly seems to think so. Renarin let out a quiet sigh. That was uncharitable.

Nothing I haven't been thinking, Glys growled. It's almost enough to make me want to reveal myself, just so I can give your idiot brother a piece of my mind.

If I'd known it was that easy, I'd have asked Sarus to force me to lead the army weeks ago.

Ha, ha. I said almost.

They approached the plateau. Renarin could see the scout had been right; the Parshendi were working on cutting open the chrysalis. A line of archers were already set up as Hatham sent his bridge crews forward. Renarin watched, his stomach turning, as dozens of men died running into the storm of arrows.

"Storms," muttered one of the former bridgemen.

Sometimes I think Father should have to keep making these runs, Renarin said to Glys. He should have to look his so-called allies in the face and remember that every time he approaches a battle with one of them, dozens of bridgemen die. Even if he's not the one fielding them.

You won't hear any argument from me, Glys said. You would have made a good Edgedancer, you know, if you weren't already such a good Truthwatcher.

Edgedancer?

They're all about remembering people who get forgotten or ignored, I think. Their spren are cultivationspren. I remember getting along well with their kind.

"Brightlord," said one of Renarin's guards. "Will you be riding at the head of the infantry?"

He wanted to correct the man—Malop—to tell him to call him by his name. Renarin was supposedly a member of Bridge Four as well, after all, even if he hadn't been able to come by the barracks for more than a few minutes since Adolin had dumped all of his responsibilities on him. But there was no point. He knew the men didn't accept him as one of them, and he couldn't blame them. He wasn't one of them, even if he desperately wanted to learn from both Kaladin and Sarus.

"I think I have to," Renarin said. "The men are used to having a Kholin prince at their head." He glanced back at them. "I don't expect you to go with me, of course. I'll be fine—I have Shards and an army at my back."

Malop grimaced. "Captain Sarus would never forgive us if you died on our watch, Sir."

Captain Sarus. It was still new to hear that, and somehow it seemed less natural than hearing Captain Kaladin, despite the fact that both men were darkeyed. But Renarin was quickly growing accustomed to it. It wasn't as though Sarus wasn't eminently capable. Indeed, Renarin thought he was probably a better officer than Kaladin, at least when it came to the politicking a lighteyed officer would have to do.

Only, that wasn't really what was expected of a darkeyed leader, even one who had been given a nominal promotion to captain. What Sarus' subordinates expected was a leader who would inspire them to be better. That was what Renarin had come to Kaladin for. And Sarus, despite his brilliance, wasn't that. But he seemed to be managing nonetheless.

"I won't," Renarin promised. "I'll be careful, and fall back if things get dangerous. You have my word."

Malop sighed. "Yes, sir."

Renarin watched the battle progressing between Hatham's cavalry and the Parshendi frontline as the Kholin bridges drew near to the chasm. It seemed to be going well, but cavalry was poorly suited to holding a beachhead long-term. Hatham's light infantry were following them in, but he lacked the heavy shock troops that House Kholin fielded. He needed their support.

The wait for the bridges to finally reach their place was interminable, but eventually they did. The heavy, wooden panels dropped across, spikes digging into the rock on the chasm's far side. And Renarin, gritting his teeth in dread and distaste, spurred Melial on, summoning his screaming Shardblade as he went.

-x-x-x-

"Prince Renarin," said the spearman standing outside Elhokar's meeting room with a salute. His name was Moash. Renarin hadn't spoken with the man more than twice. He didn't get the impression Moash much liked lighteyes in general, and Renarin couldn't fault him for it. "Your father and the king are already inside."

"I assumed as much," Renarin said. "Is Sarus inside, too?"

"He is," Moash said.

"Good. Thank you, Moash."

Moash saluted again, and Renarin passed him, stepping into the meeting.

Both Renarin's father and cousin looked up as he entered. Sarus remained standing behind Elhokar's chair, face perfectly expressionless—the consummate guard, his feelings entirely unreadable, though he did give Renarin a small nod. "Welcome back, Son," Dalinar said. "How did the battle go?"

"The Parshendi beat us to the plateau," Renarin said, taking a seat. "Hatham used his bridges to get his cavalry across before they escaped, and our shock troops arrived in time to back him up. We got the gemheart, but Hatham sustained heavy losses. Particularly his bridge crews."

"I'll need to make sure he's allocated a good share of this month's spoils, then," Elhokar said, completely ignoring the comment about the bridge crews despite the former bridgeman standing at his shoulder.

Renarin shook off the vague bitterness. It always lingered with him, after a battle, and it had only gotten worse today as the ranking brightlord on the field.

"We were just discussing the plan for the Weeping," Dalinar said. "Elhokar, this will work. Brightness Shallan has apparently been working on mapping the Plains. Navani thinks she might be able to help us find a path to the center."

"It's a significant risk," Elhokar said. "Not just the risks involved in moving such a large force on treacherous terrain—it could very easily open us to betrayal by Sadeas and his allies. Again."

"We won't let that happen."

"And how do you propose to prevent it?" Elhokar demanded. "Do you think he'll come with you on the assault? I'm not at all convinced he won't refuse even if I make it a royal decree. We're very close to open civil war at this point, Uncle. Neither of us wants that, but I'm starting to think Sadeas does."

"I'll continue negotiating with the other Highprinces," Dalinar said. "We'll figure something out. We'll make it too expensive for Sadeas to jump on the opportunity."

"I hope you're right," said Elhokar flatly. "At any rate, I agree that the Weeping is our only chance to bring this war to a decisive end. The real question is whether we can feasibly take that chance, and you and I both have further work to do to make that possible. There's no point debating it further at present. Besides, we have something else to discuss."

"What?" Dalinar asked.

"Your son."

Renarin leaned back in his chair at the naked displeasure in Elhokar's voice.

"What about him?" Dalinar asked, shooting Renarin a glance.

"Not Renarin," Elhokar said, waving a hand. "Adolin. Do you even realize what a difficult position he's put me in, Uncle?"

Dalinar sighed. "You could release Kaladin—"

"No, I can't!" Elhokar exclaimed. "Do you realize what that would imply about my position? It implies that not only do you control me—that your son thinks he can blackmail me over a darkeyes! And that he's right!"

"It's not that simple," Dalinar said.

"No," Elhokar said. "Kaladin is not an ordinary darkeyes. But he is still a darkeyes. Adolin is doing a better job undermining me in a few days than you've managed in years."

"I've never tried to undermine you."

"And yet," Elhokar said, biting off the words so they snapped like burned flatbread. "Fortunately, Adolin and I have come to an understanding."

Dalinar frowned. "An understanding?"

"I visited him yesterday," Elhokar said. "We discussed things like adults. I explained the situation to him, and offered an idea. He agreed. I only tell you in advance so you won't be taken by surprise."

"And what is this idea?" Dalinar asked.

"In a few days, Adolin is going to leave the jail voluntarily," Elhokar said. "He's going to admit that he missed the comforts of the outside world and apologize for causing trouble. In exchange, as a gesture of goodwill, I'm going to release Kaladin. I will not be reinstating him as captain of the Cobalt Guard. Captain Sarus will keep that position. But he will be returned to his barracks and be pardoned for his crime."

Renarin caught Sarus' eye. For a fraction of a second he saw the ghost of a smile flicker across the man's face before it became impassive again.

That man is brilliant, he said to Glys.

You think this was his idea?

Of course it was.

Dalinar leaned back in his seat. "It'll be embarrassing for Adolin," he said.

"So were the two dozen betrothals and courtships that have been broken off with him," Elhokar said. "His reputation survived those. It can survive this. Mine, meanwhile, is in desperate need of maintenance."

"Fine," Dalinar said. "Adolin's actions were more drastic than I wanted anyway. Speaking of Kaladin's release, however—we have a Shardblade won in the duel that has yet to be allocated."

"Absolutely not," Elhokar said flatly.

"You can't deny he defeated a Shardbearer," Dalinar said. "If you want Shards to be held by our greatest warriors, can you honestly say there's anyone better suited?"

Renarin caught a momentary twitch in Sarus' face. When he glanced back, however, the man's expression was perfectly serene again.

"How about someone who didn't actively embarrass me in front of my court?" Elhokar shot back. "Someone with a bit more loyalty?"

"Kaladin's loyalty is beyond question," Dalinar said. "It's his judgement that needs work."

"Lest we forget," Elhokar said, "he's only in your service because he betrayed his previous highprince."

"Betraying Sadeas is practically a show of loyalty to the Crown," Dalinar said. "Besides—those Shards were won by my branch of House Kholin, and by Adolin specifically. Not you. I spoke to Adolin after the duel—this was his idea."

"He didn't mention it to me," Elhokar grumbled.

"Can you blame him?"

Elhokar sighed. "Fine, fine. I can't deny that Adolin has the right to give that Blade out however he sees fit. I suppose I should be grateful that I got a set of Blade and Plate out of it, given you and Adolin could easily have kept the whole group to yourselves."

"You are our king," Dalinar said.

"Sometimes, I wonder," Elhokar muttered. "In any case, that's all I wanted to discuss today." He glanced at Renarin. "With any luck, Adolin will be back at the head of House Kholin's armies before we have to meet the Parshendi in battle again."

"With luck," Dalinar agreed, standing. "I'll continue negotiating with the other highprinces. I'll let you know if any of them have specific demands that I can't address."

"Yes, Uncle," Elhokar said with a sigh, rising to his feet. "I'd best be going. I have a meeting with the ardentia."

Dalinar left first, flanked by Moash. Elhokar swept out after, turning the other way. Sarus started after him.

"Sarus," Renarin said quietly as the man passed his chair.

Sarus glanced down at him.

"Are you… all right?" Renarin asked, hesitantly. Something about the look that had flashed across Sarus' face at the mention of Kaladin receiving Shards…

"Of course," Sarus said smoothly. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Renarin shrugged helplessly. Sarus shrugged back, a slight smile on his lips, then turned and followed Elhokar out.

LithosMaitreya

Nov 13, 2023

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Threadmarks 60: Contentment

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LithosMaitreya

Character Witness

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Nov 20, 2023

#1,500

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

-x-x-x-

Contentment

-x-x-x-

Then, beneath my feet, the shard on which I rode twisted. It transformed. What had been a stretch of shoreline and a few shattered mountains grew into a world in its own right. Then many worlds.

-x-x-x-

"I hear your concerns, Aladar." Elhokar idly swirled his goblet of sapphire wine. "As I've said, the gemhearts gathered this month will be allocated on the first of the new year. However, you can be assured that I have noted both your loyalty to the new policies and your successes on your hunts. These will not be ignored."

"Yes, Your Majesty." Aladar visibly hesitated. Sarus watched with veiled amusement from his post behind Elhokar's throne as the man tried to find a way to ignore the king's implied dismissal without giving offense. Eventually, he settled for giving only a little offense. "I only wonder if the clerks you assign to those calculations will be impartial."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," Elhokar said smoothly. It wasn't what Sarus would have recommended. In this case, Elhokar could simply acknowledge the conflict of interest inherent to having his uncle as one of his vassal highprinces. He needed to demonstrate that he was aware of—and fighting against—the undue influence Dalinar wielded over the Crown. However, the poise with which he parried the verbal strike was almost as good.

"If I might speak plainly, Your Majesty, Prince Adolin—and, by extension, House Kholin as a whole—have not demonstrated as much loyalty as a king has a right to expect of his vassals. Especially those of his own house."

"You refer to Adolin's… tantrum regarding the imprisonment of the darkeyed spearman," said Elhokar. His voice was even, betraying none of the displeasure Sarus knew was stewing beneath the surface. The king had grown significantly over the past few weeks under Sarus' tutelage. It was genuinely enough to stir something like pride in his chest. "If you must speak plainly, Highprince Aladar, I will do the same: I am aware of Adolin's behavior. It is unbecoming of a prince of the third dahn, let alone a member of my own household. And I have already made clear to Highprince Dalinar that it will be reflected in his allocation for this month. The calculations have not yet been completed, so I have no specific numbers to share with you at present, but you may trust that I am not well pleased with the behavior of the Highprince's branch of House Kholin at present."

Aladar let out a breath in relief. "I see. That is reassuring, Your Majesty."

"I am aware that only a limited number of gemhearts are gathered by the month," Elhokar said. "I realize the policies regarding their distribution are still new, and there is as yet only one example of them in action. Do you believe I was fair in my allocations at the start of this month?"

Aladar hesitated. "For the most part, Your Majesty."

"Which implies you have some objections," Elhokar said, putting down his goblet. It made contact with the wood of his small desk with an almost unnaturally loud clink. "Please, speak them."

"Well, Highprince Sadeas saw admirable success on the plains last month."

"True. He also betrayed Highprince Dalinar and Prince Adolin to death within that same span, and has categorically refused to take part in the joint chasmfiend hunts as I've ordered."

"Dalinar and Adolin survived—"

"Yes. Through the heroic actions of a single crew of darkeyes, at great personal risk. I am capable of acknowledging that fact, even when the captain of that crew is currently imprisoned for an unrelated crime." Elhokar leaned forward slightly, gripping the arms of his throne. "Highprince Sadeas is a warrior of great renown. His reputation is well deserved. There is much to admire in him. But so long as he refuses to be loyal to the crown, all the martial prowess in the world will not earn him many of my gemhearts. And lest you forget, Highprince Dalinar is still my uncle, and Prince Adolin is still my cousin. It would be one thing if Sadeas fought them honorably over some slight or just cause, but he betrayed their trust and left them to die against what should be our mutual enemies. That was not behavior befitting a highprince of Alethkar, let alone the man who—at the time—I had named Highprince of Information. No, Aladar—Sadeas may have won many gemhearts when this war was foundering as a shallow contest between highprinces, but we require more unity now. And Sadeas has not demonstrated much of that virtue. You may be assured, however, that your efforts to mediate his conflicts with House Kholin, as well as your continuing loyalty to my decrees despite your personal misgivings, have done much to distinguish you from Sadeas' flaws."

Sarus had to hold in a laugh at the conflicted expression on Aladar's face, as relief, frustration, resignation, and naked greed all warred for purchase. At length, he simply bowed. "I am your loyal servant, Your Majesty."

"Very good. Is there anything else you wanted to discuss?"

"No, Your Majesty. I will take my leave."

"Very good."

Aladar turned and left. When no one stepped into the throne room after him, Elhokar visibly slumped in his seat. "Storms," he muttered. "This would be so much easier if Aladar was…"

"More obviously in one camp or the other?" Sarus offered.

"Precisely." Elhokar rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. "He's a strange man. He admires Uncle, but still sides with Sadeas. I don't fully understand why."

"Highprince Aladar does not believe Highprince Dalinar's approach to leadership is a winning strategy in the long term," Sarus said. "He considers your uncle morally admirable but foolishly idealistic. He considers it his duty as a highprince to be more practical, and so he emulates Highprince Sadeas despite his personal distaste for the man."

"Yes, that's it exactly." Elhokar sighed. "The worst part is, I'm not sure he's wrong. Uncle is being a bit unreasonable lately. He's been right more often than not, but he's also taking a lot of risks. You just have to look at what almost happened to Adolin in that duel—one more mistake like that could be catastrophic."

"Yes, Your Majesty," said Sarus. "But, fortunately, you are not your uncle."

Elhokar shot him a glance. "I don't follow."

"Highprince Aladar sees himself as a mediating influence between Highprince Dalinar's honor and Highprince Sadeas' practicality. You are positioning yourself as much the same thing. If you are careful with your allocation of the gemhearts this month, you may be able to win Highprince Aladar's loyalty to yourself, rather than winning him over to your uncle's side. Which, as the king, should be your goal, should it not?"

Elhokar nodded slowly. "Yes… yes, I see what you mean. It does mean I'll have to make sure to limit how many gemhearts Uncle Dalinar receives at the end of the month…"

"In fairness," Sarus said, "the expedition to the center of the Plains will be undertaken before the month ends. That may throw all calculations into question, depending on how it goes."

"True." Elhokar sighed again. "Speaking of terrible risks…"

At that moment, the door to the throne room opened. Elhokar straightened, looking toward it, even as Sarus schooled his expression back into a guard's neutrality.

"Your Majesty! Captain!" Morel called through the door, his Bridge Four tattoo stark against his paler than average skin. "Prince Adolin is in the courtyard, asking to see you!"

"Ah," Elhokar said, standing. "Good. It's about storming time."

Sarus followed the king out of the throne room and through the war palace's entrance hall. Elhokar stopped at the top of the stairs leading down into the courtyard's rock garden.

Adolin knelt on the path leading up to the palace, his head bowed. His Shardblade was out and buried in the rock at his feet. "Cousin Adolin," Elhokar said, loudly enough for all the servants, ardents, and sundry other spectators who hadn't even bothered to come up with a real cover to hear. "This is a surprise."

"Your Majesty," said Adolin without looking up. Sarus was surprised at the contrition he managed to inject into his voice. He hadn't expected Adolin to manage such a performance. "I've come to apologize."

"What for, exactly?" Elhokar asked, clasping his hands behind his back.

Adolin hesitated for a moment. "As the field commander for House Kholin," said Adolin, "it was… unbecoming of me to refuse to serve. I've behaved disloyally and dishonored our house. Forgive me."

Elhokar took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He did not look at Sarus. "Ah, Cousin," he said. "We're family, and you of all people had reason to be displeased with the darkeyes' imprisonment. You're forgiven, but you understand I can't allow such disobedience again?"

"I understand, Your Majesty."

"Good. You will return to the Kholin warcamp and resume your post as field commander of the house armies."

Adolin hesitated again. "…Yes, Your Majesty."

Sarus could read that hesitation easily. He knew Adolin was wondering if Elhokar was going to refuse to release Kaladin now that he had secured Adolin's cooperation. It was a foolish thought—Elhokar couldn't afford to refuse to uphold his end of the bargain. For Adolin to return to jail in protest now, or worse, to announce what their bargain had been, would be far worse for Elhokar than Adolin's initial imprisonment had been. But, well, Adolin had never been brilliant.

"But in addition to being field commander of my armies," Elhokar said, "you are also my cousin. Family. I cannot brook such open disobedience, Adolin—but I can offer small gifts to my family. In exchange for your loyal service going forward… I shall release the darkeyed spearman, Kaladin, from prison. Come, we'll see to that now."

The king started down the stairs. Adolin rose to his feet and took a position at his flank. Sarus walked at his other side, the rest of both Kholins' guard contingents following them in an organized formation.

"Thank you, Elhokar," Adolin said quietly—too quietly for the rest of the guards to hear, though Sarus could have caught it even if his hearing were not unusually keen.

"No need to thank me," Elhokar said. "I appreciate your cooperation."

Adolin shot Sarus a sharp glance. Elhokar caught it.

"Sarus is aware of our arrangement," the king said. "But don't spread it further, of course."

"Of course," Adolin echoed, frowning briefly at Sarus before visibly shrugging and looking away again.

It was only a short walk to the jail. The guards—the official jailers, as well as the six men of Bridge Four standing watch outside—all saluted. Moash was among them—Sarus had made sure everyone in Bridge Four had a turn on the coveted rotation watching over Kaladin's jail, and that included his best spearman whose time would be better spent guarding a higher-priority target like Renarin or Dalinar.

"Your Majesty," said the head jailer, a lighteyes with a lieutenant's knots on his shoulder. "Your Highness." He hesitated, looking wary. "Please tell me you're not here to lock yourself up again, Your Highness."

"No," Elhokar said. "Jailer, fetch the darkeyes—Kaladin—from his cell. As a gesture of goodwill to my cousin, he goes free today."

The jailer's eyes widened for a moment. "Yes, Your Majesty. Right away." He scurried inside.

"Your Highness." A servant in Kholin colors approached the two nobles, but he spoke to Adolin. "The Shards are here, as you ordered. They're in the jailers' break room for now."

"Good," Adolin said. He shot Elhokar a look. "I… know I didn't talk to you about this…"

"I know," Elhokar said. "Your father discussed it with me. I don't approve, exactly, but you're within your rights."

"Thanks," Adolin said. "He's earned it, you know. And he'll be—" He fell silent as the jailer stepped out of the jail again. Kaladin followed him, blinking in the sudden light. Sarus's stomach clenched at the sight of him—his beard had grown out again, and there were dark shadows under his eyes. He looked… well, he looked a great deal like the man Sarus had seen bundled off a slave cart and told to carry a bridge, all those months ago.

"Soldier Kaladin," Elhokar said stiffly.

Kaladin looked up at the king, his face slack and expressionless.

"By my authority as king of Alethkar, I hereby pardon you for the crimes of slander against a highlord and contempt of traditional law," Elhokar said. "Your position as Captain will not be reinstated, but you are a free man once more, and your record shall have your crime struck from it. In your place," he nodded at Sarus, "Captain Sarus will remain in command of your unit."

Kaladin stared at him for a long moment in complete silence.

"Do you understand?" Elhokar demanded.

"I understand, Your Majesty," Kaladin said in a raspy voice. Sarus saw Syl fly a wide circle around the man's head, looking at him with an expression of deep concern on her tiny face.

"Good," Elhokar said. "Now, I believe my cousin has a matter of his own to attend with you."

Adolin stepped forward. "I… did my best to get you out," he said awkwardly. "It didn't seem right."

"Right," Kaladin said flatly.

Don't ruin the ploy, Adolin, Sarus thought.

Fortunately, Adolin seemed to keep his head. He cleared his throat. "So, as the leading duelist on our side, I won the spoils for that fight," he said. "That's three full sets of Plate and two Blades. One full set's already gone to General Khal, and a second set of Plate's been given to a lighteyes of rank in my father's army. That leaves one full set. And, well," he shrugged. "I'm curious to see if the stories are true. If a darkeyes bonds a Shardblade, will his eyes change color?"

Kaladin's eyes widened, and Sarus saw the flash of raw panic in them. Suddenly, he knew what was about to happen.

Of course Kaladin wouldn't accept Shards. Sarus, unlike Adolin, knew his history. He knew what had happened the last time Kaladin had been offered Shards. Besides, Syl hated Shards, and Kaladin loved her dearly.

The only question was, who would Kaladin give the Shards to instead?

"I can do with these as I wish?" Kaladin asked hoarsely, looking at Adolin.

"Take them," Adolin said. "They're yours."

"Is that a yes?"

Adolin blinked. "Uh. Yes?"

"Then, no, they aren't." Kaladin met Sarus' eyes for a long moment before turning away. "Moash. Take these. You're now a Shardbearer."

Sarus' heart nearly stopped. Even as Adolin jerked forward and pulled Kaladin aside to hurriedly question whether the man had gone entirely mad, his mind was running through the implications, and something very near to hatred surged up in him.

Kaladin had met his eyes. Did Kaladin really blame Sarus for his imprisonment? Was that why he had passed Sarus over? How dare he? How dare he? Sarus had been beside him from the beginning! Had, on multiple occasions, put aside his own ambitions to support Kaladin when he needed it! Now Kaladin had cast him aside simply because Sarus wasn't willing to jeopardize everything both of them had worked for after Kaladin stumbled into lighteyed politics where he had no business?

How dare he!?

No, Sarus told himself. No, Kaladin knows about Archive, who doesn't like Shards any more than Syl. He can't know that I'm questioning my partnership with her as it is. That's part of it, at least.

And there was another part. A part which, while less personally infuriating, was no less darkly sinister. Last Kaladin heard, Moash still intended to assassinate Elhokar. Kaladin knew about that plot. Whereas I have made no secret of my efforts to protect the king. The implications are clear.

Elhokar had, by imprisoning Kaladin, made an enemy of the man who was supposed to lead his guard. Sure, Sarus had been promoted to captain over him. But how loyal would Bridge Four remain, now that Kaladin was free again?

Would Moash remain committed to the course Sarus had charted, how that Kaladin had been brought around to his former way of thinking?

Kaladin and Adolin rejoined the group. "You," said the prince. "Moash, was it? I guess those Shards are yours now. Congratulations, you now outrank ninety percent of Alethkar. Pick yourself a family name and ask to join one of the houses under my father's banner, or start your own if you're so inclined."

Moash looked from Adolin to Kaladin for confirmation. Kaladin nodded once.

Then, to Sarus' surprise, Moash turned to him, as if seeking Sarus' approval. For one moment, Sarus entertained the fantasy of refusing to grant permission, of taking up the Shards for himself, of casting aside all pretense and taking what he wanted.

Then he smiled and nodded.

With shaking hands Moash took up the Shardblade. The heliodor embedded in the pommel flashed, and gloryspren rose up around the man, dozens of them.

"Congratulations," Sarus said. "Unfortunately, Kaladin's release does not relieve all of us from our duties. Moash, you're off duty for the next five days to bond that Blade. Keep it with you at all times, holding it often. Stay in the barracks, and if you must go out do not do so alone. The only possible time to steal a Blade is when it is still being bonded."

Moash saluted. "Understood, Sir."

Sarus nodded. "Brightlord," he said, turning to Adolin. "Where do you intend to go now?"

"Probably to my father," Adolin said. "Why?"

"Because Highprince Dalinar and Prince Renarin already have guard contingents, and if you're intending to join them I don't have to reserve anyone to guard you. Which is good," Sarus smiled slightly at the men who had been guarding the jail, "as I don't think any of my men would like to be kept from their celebration over Kaladin's freedom. I'm sure Rock is more than ready to break out the stew he's been simmering for the past two weeks."

The men of Bridge Four all cheered. Even Kaladin's grim expression cracked slightly.

"I will, of course, finish my rotation with Your Majesty," he said to Elhokar.

"Good, thank you," said Elhokar. There was something odd in the king's face as he met Sarus' eyes—something between confusion, respect, and sympathy. "Then let's be off. I have more meetings to attend today."

Sarus nodded at Kaladin. "It's good to see you free," he said. It wasn't quite a lie. But it wasn't quite the truth, either.

"It's good to be out," Kaladin muttered. He gave Sarus a nod—not a salute—before turning and joining the other men of Bridge Four on the way back to the barracks.

-x-x-x-

Sarus returned to the barracks several hours later to find the celebrations still ongoing. Rock had produced a second pot of stew and was already cooking a third. Lopen had apparently managed to get his hand on the oil necessary to fill another pot and was producing batches of chouta with Sigzil and Dunny's help. There was a roaring campfire just outside the barrack, and several bottles of wine were being passed around.

Sarus came to a halt just outside the ring of men, looking in at the laughing faces lit by the campfire. For a moment, the aches in his body that had been ever present in the days after his Shardblade injury rushed back with a vengeance. He felt exhausted, and old, like a fieldworker suffering the kind of fatigue gained by decades of hard labor without ever truly knowing rest.

For a moment, he wondered what it would be like to be one of these men. To sit around that fire and simply be happy. To fill a wooden goblet with cheap wine and grab a greasy chouta wrap to eat, laughing at the jokes of the man beside him without the weight of his own envy and ambition weighing him down. It was not the first time he had wondered such a thing, and it would not be the last.

For one glittering instant, he imagined putting aside his desire for a Shardblade. Imagined sitting down beside these men and being content, as they were, with the station he had. He was already higher rank than a darkeyes had any right to be. A captain was normally a lighteyes of sixth or seventh dahn, and here he was, still arguably sas nahn—he'd never formally had a rank bestowed after being freed from slavery—and with a captain's knots on his shoulder. Some part of him yearned to be content with that. To sit beside these men and enjoy the world as it was instead of constantly striving to reshape it in his own image. Kaladin was free. Could that not be enough?

Then he saw Moash raise up his new Shardblade, showing it off to several admiring men, and the moment was broken. Sarus was what he was. He could be no other.

"Hey, Captain!" Murk called from a bench by the fire. "Welcome back! Come grab some stew! Rock's outdone himself this time!"

Sarus painted a smile on his face, as genuine as any artist's rendition, and stepped forward. "I'm sorry I missed your celebratory stew, Rock," he said, accepting a bowl from the large Horneater. "I'm sure it was excellent, with how long you've been working on it." Rock had started simmering the stew the day Kaladin had been imprisoned. He had tended to it every night since.

"Nonsense!" Rock said, pointing at the bowl in Sarus' hands. "I saved that bowl for you! Is celebration stew! For everyone to share!"

Sarus blinked at the still-warm bowl in his hands. "You put it over the coals?"

"Cold stew is not stew at all."

Sarus chuckled. "Well, I'm touched, Rock. Truly." He took a bite of the stew. It really was excellent.

And speaking of Kaladin, Sarus could see him approaching the fire, a chouta wrap in one hand. He was in the middle of a conversation with Teft about training the recruits. "They'll be glad to hear you're back," Teft was saying. "I know they don't know you well, but hearing you were in a cell wasn't good for their morale."

"Kaladin," Sarus called, ruthlessly quashing the part of himself that wanted anything but to speak to the man right now. Both Teft and Kaladin looked his way. "We'll get you rolled back into the guard rotations in a few days. In the meantime, why don't you join Teft in training the new recruits when you're feeling up to it? I imagine you'll want to get back into shape."

"Yeah," Kaladin said, walking over and sitting down near—but not beside—Sarus. Teft sat on Kaladin's other side, watching the both of them with something like concern. "The knots suit you," Kaladin commented, eyes darting from Sarus' shoulder to his face.

"Freedom suits you," Sarus said. It was true—Kaladin's face had cleared of some of the grim shadow that had been painted over it when he first emerged from his cell. But Sarus didn't miss how a veil of hurt and suspicion passed over his eyes when they met Sarus'.

"Yeah. It's not my first time in a cell. It's never agreed with me."

"No, I imagine not." Sarus considered telling Kaladin about his own part in securing Kaladin's freedom—and his request for better conditions during Kaladin's stay in jail—but thought better of it. He didn't want to beg for Kaladin's forgiveness. Not when there should be nothing to forgive, and not when he needed to retain the men's respect. He was their captain. He was Kaladin's captain. He needed to act like it. "It should go without saying, but even though His Majesty stripped the rank of captain from you, you remain a lieutenant," Sarus said. "Take as long as you need to recover and to refamiliarize yourself with freedom. When you're ready, we'll discuss your new responsibilities."

"Sure," Kaladin said.

Sarus forced a smile on his face as he stood. He reached out and clasped a hand around Kaladin's shoulder companionably. "I'm sorry this all happened," he said. "Truly. I know it hasn't been easy for you. But you're free now. It will be all right."

Then he turned and walked off to join a conversation between Sigzil and Murk about the vagaries of Vorin doctrine, leaving Kaladin behind.

-x-x-x-

"Your leadership is," came a voice from behind Sarus as he hung his captain's coat on the rack beside the door.

Sarus turned to see Archive in full human size, seated on the chair behind Sarus' bed, watching him with her ink-black hands clasped in her lap. "Is that a compliment?"

"An acknowledgement," she said. "Your men's growth is. Your command has been good for them."

"You think so?" he asked, placing his spear in the rack on the wall.

"I do. Kaladin motivated these men to be better. You have shown them how to be wiser."

Sarus paused in his preparations for bed. What was this? He and Archive had scarcely spoken these past few weeks. He had thought her hesitance over his killing of those assassins, and her concern over the ways he had regressed, had driven a wedge between them. A wedge he had not even been certain was unwelcome, as exhausted as he was with having to constantly chase growth. "A few dozen former slaves need more than motivation to survive among lighteyes and officers," he said. "I can't be Kaladin, but I can be that. My education prepared me for it."

"And yet you question your place."

"I do," he acknowledged. "It is in my nature, I fear."

"Your nature is," she said. "But your growth is, also. One day, you will learn to trust."

He took a slow, steadying breath, pressing the fire that threatened to burn free in rage into a cold ingot of fury, stored deep within his belly. "Perhaps," he acknowledged.

"Do you not wish it?" she asked. "Do you not want to overcome? You are not content."

"Is there not a contradiction there?" he asked stiffly, internally reprimanding himself for his lack of control. "How can I be content if I'm constantly striving to overcome myself?"

She blinked black eyes at him. "How can you be content if you are not?"

Before he could come up with an answer to that, there came a knock at his door. Archive shrunk back down as he turned. "Enter."

Moash stepped inside, his new Shardblade resting on his shoulder. Sarus held up a hand to stop him before he could step inside. "Careful," he warned, "of the doorway."

Moash looked up, then grimaced sheepishly and angled the Blade so it would not cut a slit through Sarus' wall. "Sorry about that, Sir."

"No harm done," Sarus said. "Just be careful while you're growing accustomed to the Blade, all right? I'd rather not have to request too many repairs to the barracks at the end of the week."

"I will," Moash promised. Then he met Sarus' eyes with sudden solemnity. "Kaladin and I talked a bit about… things."

"He intended to allow you to go through with the assassination attempt on the king," Sarus said. "I concluded as much when he gave you those Shards."

"Yeah." Moash shut the door behind himself, taking a deep breath. "I figured you'd guess, but I wanted to make sure. He seemed… a little disappointed when I said I wasn't planning on doing it anymore."

"Of course," Sarus said. "It must have been incredibly difficult for him to make the compromise with himself to step out of your path. And then it turned out to be entirely unnecessary. That must have been a shock."

"Yeah. You'd think it'd be a relief, though."

Sarus shook his head. "Kaladin has good reason to be displeased with His Majesty," he said. "Being imprisoned for two weeks isn't a pleasant experience at the best of times. You can't compromise your morals to that magnitude without committing to it. Realizing the compromise wasn't necessary must leave him unfulfilled."

"I… guess that makes sense," Moash said. "You think he'll be all right? Even at the celebration, he was…"

"Kaladin is not a man who does well in solitude," Sarus said. "You remember the first thing he did, the day he decided not to give up on the bridge crew? He learned all of our names. Well, except mine, but he gave me a name anyway." For a bizarre moment, some part of Sarus missed being Tesh. Or at least missed the simplicity of the camaraderie he'd had as Tesh. "Kaladin needs people. He needs to feel as though there are human beings whose lives he can touch and interact with—and protect, if it's called for. He's been alone for two weeks save for his jailers. I'd be surprised if he recovered at once."

"But he will recover?"

"Kaladin was able to pull himself out of a pit of despair without any outside help in the bridge crew," said Sarus. "This time, he has all of you. He'll be fine."

"All of us," Moash said. "You're one of us too, Captain."

Sarus' lips twitch. "I am sleeping in the room that was his, in the bed that was his, wearing the knots that once adorned his shoulder," he said. "And the only way those things fell to me was because I did not stand with him in that arena."

"You couldn't have done anything to help," Moash protested. "He understands that."

"If he does," Sarus said, "not merely on an intellectual level, but on an emotional one, then he is truly a Herald come again. No, Moash—he will accept it, eventually. I hope. But for now, I don't think my presence will be much comfort to him."

"You should talk to him," Moash said quietly. "He should know you worked to get him out. I don't know what you did, exactly, but I doubt Elhokar would have come and released him the day Adolin left the prison without you doing something."

Sarus smiled slightly. "Or perhaps Kaladin will be better served by having someone to resent besides His Majesty," he said. "I can survive Kaladin's displeasure for a time, I think, so long as he does not actively undermine the men's loyalty." And I don't want to go back and beg for his approval. I am better than that. I deserve better than that. And if the men of Bridge Four are so fickle that Kaladin's petulance is enough to break their loyalty, then I want to know that now.

Moash sighed. "I'll try to get through to him, then," he said. "But—Sarus, sometimes I wonder if you don't need people, too."

"I was at the celebration," Sarus protested. "I would have come sooner if I didn't have to finish my shift with His Majesty."

"I know. But…" Moash visibly hesitated, as if trying to put words to an idea he hadn't fully pieced together yet. "You have this way of interacting with people, Sarus. I've seen it when you talk to the lighteyes. It's like you smooth away all the hard edges and let people see what they want to see."

"It's something of a survival skill as a darkeyes moving in lighteyed spheres, Moash."

"I know. But you've been doing it to us lately, too. I saw it outside the jail, and at the celebration. It feels like you treat the men like they—like we—are potential enemies, just like the lighteyes. But we aren't."

The careful dismissal was already forming in Sarus's mouth – but one misplaced look at the Shardblade resting on Moash's shoulder sent forth vitriol in its place. "Aren't you, Moash?" he snapped, and instantly regretted it.

And yet as he met Moash's eyes, he didn't see the distaste he expected there. Instead, as Sarus watched, Moash smiled and then began to laugh.

Why? Even Moash, when he wasn't tainted by the bitterness that Sarus had been stewing in for years, was an honest, honorable man. What could he possibly find to respect in Sarus's naked envy?

"I knew it," Moash said. "I could believe you found a reason not to stand in the way. But Kaladin looked right in your eyes and passed you over, and you smiled."

"I'm… sorry." Sarus spoke slowly to cover the way his words stumbled over one another in his confusion. "I don't—"

"You'd have to be a Herald come again," Moash echoes, "and, Sarus, you don't have to be. Not with me." Moash was still smiling—and with his free hand, he reached out and clasped Sarus's. "I'm sorry. I'll let you get some sleep. We'll talk tomorrow, okay?" He turned away. "Good night, Sarus."

"Sleep well, Moash," Sarus managed to reply through lips that felt like lead.

After the door shut behind Moash, Archive grew back to full size on the chair again. "Moash's affection for you is," she said. "Kaladin's also. Their understanding can be."

"Perhaps."

"You are not content," she said softly. "You settle. These are not the same thing. You have the potential to be spectacular, but you must want to become so."

Sarus sighed. "I'll take it under advisement."

"You must find the words," she said. "You are adrift. Your goals are not, your direction is not. You must find stars by which to navigate."

"And when I find the words," Sarus said, "I'll become a Surgebinder, yes? Like Kaladin."

"You already are. Recall Kaladin using Gravitation to redirect arrows in the bridge crews, long before gaining conscious control of his abilities. Your Surges are different, and may be more difficult to use accidentally, but they are."

"What are they?" Sarus asked. "Assuming you remember."

She frowned. "I believe I do. The Elsecaller Surges are Transportation and Transformation. You humans know the latter as Soulcasting."

Sarus' heart froze solid.

Last edited: Nov 20, 2023

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Threadmarks 61: The Legacy of Man

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LithosMaitreya

Character Witness

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Dec 11, 2023

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

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The Legacy of Man

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A whole cosmere blossomed forth from the seed on which I had laid down to die.

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Six Years Ago

The stormwall was already visible in the valley below the castle when Sarus galloped his stolen horse into Sadaras' courtyard. He drove it directly to the nearest window, which had already been shuttered by a guard.

The castle staff had taken shelter from the storm. Of course they had. What thief or assassin would try to assault Sadaras—a fortress standing alone, with no other shelter for miles in any direction—so close to a highstorm?

The answer, of course, was simple: an assassin who did not care if he lived, so long as his target died.

Sarus leapt from the horse. The window's shutters were simple wood, which broke easily against Sarus' fist after only a couple blows. The splinters left his knuckles bleeding and lacerated, but there would be time to deal with that later.

Behind him, the horse whinnied in terror. The roar of the highstorm was almost upon them now; Sarus could hear the gale rising. He leapt inside, ripping his clothes against the broken glass and splintered hardwood, and ripped the broken shutters open. The window was a large one, wide and tall. Just enough. "In," he snapped at the animal. He didn't stay to see it safely inside, though as he turned and sprinted up the familiar corridor towards the princess's suite, he saw it hesitantly stepping over the sill.

The highstorm hit before he reached Tailiah's rooms. He felt the castle shudder slightly as the stormwall struck it. It was a sensation that was at once familiar—for he had been in Sadaras during a highstorm before—and entirely new. His whole body felt like a taut bowstring, hypersensitive to every sensation, every minute shift in the stone beneath his feet, the air on his skin.

He sprinted up a spiral of stairs and emerged onto a landing. Somehow he could feel how the wind affected this upper floor more than the ground level—the way the storm set the whole building rocking, so that the higher up one was, the more one's feet were moved by the gale.

He raced down the hall towards Tailiah's rooms. But as he rounded the corner, the door hung ajar. It swayed on its hinges, swinging free in the gale of the highstorm creeping in through the open window. He looked in to see that the shutters had been forced open. There was no other sign of a struggle, however.

The assassins had come to kill Tailiah, but either she had not been here when they arrived, or she had been able to escape the room before they could enter. But there was nothing to indicate the assassins had been killed, or had fled. They couldn't flee—not with the highstorm raging outside, promising death to any who ventured out of the castle. They were all trapped in here together—assassins, brightladies, guards, and Sarus alike.

He allowed himself a moment to think, standing outside Tailiah's door with the highstorm wind filtering through the window to brush by him. Where would she be? Where would she have gone? Does it matter if she left before they arrived, or after?

The answer to that last question was no. If Tailiah had known about the assassins, she would have gone to the largest concentration of guards in the castle proper. If she had not, the only place she would have been likely to shelter from the storm besides her own chamber was with her mother. Fortunately, the largest concentration of guards in Sadaras proper would be around Brightness Ialai's chambers. Either way, he knew where to go.

He turned and sprinted down the hall. Ialai's rooms were practically on the other side of the castle and a floor above Tailiah's. He took the steps three at a time. By the time he reached the landing, he could already hear the sound of battle down the hall.

He rounded a corner just in time to see a figure in a nondescript black gambeson drive a shortspear through a green-armored guard's gut. The guard let out a weak, rasping cry as he went down, hands clawing at his belly as if he could force his blood back inside. He fell beside another green-clad corpse whose light brown eyes stared sightlessly at the wall.

Sarus reached the assassin as he was tugging the shortspear free. His own was already out, and he drove it into the man's neck before he could react. The assassin fell with barely a gurgle. Sarus pulled his weapon free and stepped into the antechamber of Ialai's suite.

The battle was going poorly. Two more green-clad guards lay dead on the floor, joined by one of the assassins. Another guard was cornered by two of the enemy—one dueling him with a longspear, the other trying to get a clear shot with a bow—and the door into Ialai's bedchamber hung ajar, its lock visibly broken where it had been forced. The antechamber window had been forced open, and the highstorm roared in Sarus' ears, howling like a rabid animal baying for blood.

Ialai and Tailiah were each usually accompanied by four guards. If Sarus remembered what he had overheard, there should be ten assassins. Five of the Sadeas guards were accounted for—one in the corner, beating back two assassins with a longspear, and four dead. Five of the assassins were also accounted for—two dead here, one dead outside, two cornering the guard in the corner.

Sarus ignored the skirmish in the corner, shoving open the door to Ialai's bedchamber. Much of the floor was slick with blood. Of the three remaining Sadeas guards, one lay face-down on an ornate rug, an arrow buried in his back. Another was making a valiant effort to get at an assassin carrying a bow, but two others carrying shortspears were beating him back. The last remaining guard had cornered one of the assassins and was looking for an opening to deal a killing blow with his longspear. However, the final assassin, carrying a bow, seemed to be creeping past him, an arrow nocked in his bow as he rounded the overturned bed in the corner of the room. He took aim at the two women who no doubt cowered there, out of Sarus' sight.

Sarus threw his shortspear. It buried itself in the archer's shoulder. He shouted in pain, the arrow flying from his bow and ricocheting off the wall. He spun to face Sarus, but in the time it took him to react Sarus had already crossed the room, leaping onto him and grabbing the haft of his spear, driving it deeper into the man's flesh. The man fell on his back, and Sarus landed on top of him.

They wrestled on the ground for a moment—Sarus trying to get the spear free and drive it somewhere lethal, the assassin trying to get Sarus off of him. But Sarus was better, and in less than a minute of struggle Sarus ripped the spear free from the assassin's grasp and drove it deep into the man's throat. Blood surged forth like a crimson geyser, covering Sarus' face and getting in his eyes. He ignored the stinging pain, just wiping the fluid away as he stood up.

"Sarus!" Tailiah gasped. He turned, met her eyes. She was huddled behind her mother, whose slim frame prevented her from truly covering her daughter—not that she wasn't trying her best. "What are you—"

"Later," Sarus said, turning to face the battle. "Stay in cover!"

Just then, the guard who had been embroiled in a duel killed his target. He turned to Sarus with wide eyes. "Storms," he said. "One of them—"

"Got past you, yes," Sarus said, turning from him to the ongoing battle between two assassins and a guard on the bedroom's other side. Unfortunately, it was no longer ongoing. Even as the words left Sarus' lips, one of them found an opening, and the guard went down.

The remaining guard in the room hefted his weapon. "I'll take the one of the right," he told Sarus.

"Understood," Sarus said, and charged.

His spear clashed with that of the assassin on the left, haft meeting haft in a thwack of wood on burnished wood. The man carried a longspear, so Sarus tried to get in close with his shorter weapon, too close to be effectively attacked. The man was good—he backpedaled immediately, trying to bat Sarus away with the point of his spear. Sarus was better, but it still took him a few precious moments to fool the assassin with a feint to the left before driving forward from the right.

Even as he slipped inside the assassin's guard, he heard a pained, gurgling scream beside him. He slashed his opponent's torso open with the bladed tip of his spear, then spun around.

The two assassins who had been fighting the guard in the antechamber must have finished, because they had come up behind the guard who had been fighting beside Sarus. He had gone down with an arrow in his back. Now three men faced Sarus, and one of them was already lunging with a shortspear.

Sarus sidestepped, beating the weapon aside with his own, but before he could capitalize on the overextension he had to bring his weapon around to deflect another thrust by a bloodstained longspear.

Fighting two men at once was far, far more difficult than fighting one. And to make matters worse, these two knew each other. They were coordinated. They took turns striking at him with extremely aggressive attacks—attacks which, were he fighting them alone, he would have easily punished. But because they were together, by the time he evaded one blow all his attention had to be focused on the next one. And even as these two men drove him back, he saw the third pass him by, pulling an arrow from the quiver on his back. Sarus, locked in combat with the other two assassins, could only watch helplessly as he rounded the bed and nocked the projectile.

Finally, one of the assassins made a careless move, striking too far to the side with his longspear. Sarus capitalized—stabbing his fellow through the heart as he dodged the next blow, then shoved the survivor aside as he rushed past. He had crossed half the distance towards the assassin with the bow when the man loosed his arrow.

Time did not slow. Sarus' mind simply sped up—comparing trajectories and distances, the position of the assassin in the corner, Ialai and Tailiah by the window, and himself nearer the door. He changed course, diving over the bed, trying to put himself between the arrow and women.

Sarus leapt over the overturned bed. Even as his feet left the ground, he knew he was too late. The arrow was moving faster than he was. It would pass him before he reached its path.

As he cleared the bed, he saw that Tailiah had tried to shove her mother out of the arrow's path. Unfortunately, she had misjudged its trajectory—and had placed herself in its path, instead of her mother. The arrow slid past Sarus' nose, driving unerringly towards Tailiah's head.

Sarus reached out, desperately, every screaming axi of his body singing with a single overwhelming demand—get Tailiah out of the way of that arrow. His eyes met hers just as the fingertips of his left hand brushed against the fabric of the dress on her shoulder.

For one glittering instant, her bright green eyes, blown wide with terror, met his own. Then, in the space between heartbeats, she vanished. In her place, for a fraction of an instant, hung a silhouette of black smoke. Then that, too, broke apart, melting away into mist as it slipped through his fingers.

He landed in a crumpled heap against the wall, staring at the place where Tailiah had vanished.

"What in Damnation?" A voice cried out. One of the assassins? Ialai? Sarus wasn't sure. It seemed to reach his ears from a long way off.

Tailiah, he thought.

"What did the boy do?" A different voice demanded. "What did—?"

Another arrow whizzed by Sarus' ears. His head snapped up, turning to face the assassins.

Two of them stood facing him. Both visibly paled. The archer tried to loose another arrow at Sarus, but his hands were shaking. It shot at Sarus' shoulder, and Sarus dodged it with ease.

"What are you?" demanded the spearman in a high-pitched voice. "What did you do?"

Sarus didn't know. Blood was rushing through his head. Was Tailiah dead? Was it his fault? Had he somehow doomed her by trying to save her? What had happened? What had he done?

None of these questions had answers. But these men, he knew, had come here to kill her. Regardless of what had happened, that was something he understood. That was a crime he knew how to punish. He leapt for them with bared teeth.

The next few moments were a frenzy of maddened activity. Screams echoed in his ears as the two men died under his onslaught. Then they were still, and he was crouched over them, breathing heavily.

One of the dying guards took a rattling breath into lungs half full of blood. "Not so tranquiline these halls!" he hissed out. "Thus always the legacy of man—ash and death, ash and death!"

Then he fell silent and breathed no more.

Sarus stood up and turned to face Ialai. She was huddled against the wall, staring at him in horror. "What did you do?" she asked in a shaking voice. "What did you do to my daughter, you monster? Did you Soulcast her?"

Sarus stared at her. Suddenly he was aware that no one else in the room was breathing. There were only two witnesses in this room. Only two people to report what had happened. Himself and Ialai. Only two people could report that no arrow had struck Tailiah. Only two people could tell Highprince Sadeas that the only person who had managed to touch his daughter was Sarus himself.

His hand tightened involuntarily on his shortspear. In an instant the plan came into his mind, fully formed—use one of the assassin's weapons to kill Ialai, then report that they had kidnapped Tailiah before he could stop them. She would never be found, of course—

Never, never, never

—but nor would anyone be able to trace anything back to Sarus. It was possible Sadeas would still try to use him as a scapegoat, but that possibility was far better than the certainty of punishment if Ialai lived. If she told Sadeas what had happened. If she pointed at Sarus with condemnation on her lips.

"What did you do?" she demanded.

It was the only thing that made sense. The only way to protect himself. Kill Brightness Ialai, and he had a chance. Fail to do so, and he had none.

"I don't know," he whispered. Then he slumped back against the wall, pulled his knees up against his chest, and buried his face in his arms. He was still there when the guards came to take him down to the cells after the storm had passed.

-x-x-x-

Over the past two weeks, I've come to realize that I'm a little burnt out on writing. It's been hard to get this chapter written, not because of the content, but because I've been writing almost constantly for about two years with few breaks. So I'm going to take a (brief) hiatus from all stories. I intend to resume posting on January 1st, at the new year, but don't be too surprised if I end up tacking one more week onto that. I'd hoped to finish Part Two before doing this, but that's not going to happen. I'll see you all in 2024!

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Threadmarks 62: Lies Are Not Armor

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LithosMaitreya

Character Witness

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Jan 8, 2024

#1,548

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

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Lies Are Not Armor

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When at last the sound and terror ended, I was standing on this very ground. The world that would, one day, come to be known as Yolen.

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"Remember," Torol told the darkeyed man kneeling in the dust. "Do not, under any circumstances, approach him. Stay as far away as you can reliably make the shot."

"Yes, Brightlord," said the assassin. Then he hesitated. "There are… rumors, Brightlord, of the Shardbreaker's abilities. Of his voice. Am I given to understand that—"

"A man whose hand had been severed by a Shardblade reported those stories to me," Torol said. "Personally, I think it more likely that the fool was just covering for his own failure. But the Shardbreaker—" and, Almighty, was that title corrosive on his tongue "—is captain of the Cobalt Guard, now, which means that getting close to him is dangerous regardless. The mundane dangers should be cause enough to stay at a distance without speculating about more… fantastical ones."

The man looked faintly relieved, his heavy, half-Thaylen eyebrows drooping slightly. "I understand, Brightlord."

"Good. Then off with you. And remember—you and I have never spoken."

"Of course, Brightlord."

Torol watched the man duck out of the alley, then turned and left as well. His guards—who had been playing a card game at the table of a nearby winehouse so as to keep his presence discreet—joined him. He led them back down the wide lane towards his war palace.

Once he reached his suite and shut the door behind him, he allowed himself to relax with a sigh. "Ialai," he called softly. "Are you in here?"

There was no answer. Ialai must be out.

"Sssss."

…But that didn't mean he was alone. He reluctantly turned to see the strange shadowy spren glide along his wall and settle beside a small table near the window. "What do you want?"

It hissed thoughtfully for a moment. "You sent that assassin to kill someone," it said finally. "Ss, why?"

"Vengeance," Torol said, turning away from it. He opened the wine cabinet, trying to decide which shade he wanted to drink.

"Is he dangerous to you, this man?"

"Unlikely."

"So what do you gain by killing him?"

Sapphire. This was a sapphire-worthy conversation. Torol sighed and pulled out the decanter. "Closure."

"Do you think you will gain that by his death, sssss?"

"Yes."

"I think you are wrong," the spren declared. "Ssssss, I think that by seeking to kill for no other reason than to pay back pain, you are only keeping yourself within the past."

"And you would know, I'm sure," Torol said.

"Yessssss." The final sound of the word flowed into one of the creature's hisses, like grains of fine sand pouring through a narrow gap.

"You are a spren," Torol snapped, patience quite suddenly running dry. "What do you know about hate? About grief?"

"I am a Cryptic," the spren said. "I may not remember everything I was before I came here, but I know that I have tasted loss, sssss. And I know what it looks like when a man lies to himself."

"I'm not lying to myself."

"No? This man's death will not give you back your daughter."

"You think I don't know that!?" Torol roared, Oathbringer falling into his hand unbidden. A sound, like a man screaming in tortured agony, echoed just on the barest edge of hearing. "You think I don't know that my daughter is dead!? That she will stay dead, no matter what I do!? You think I don't understand that with every passing day the distance between me and her grows!? Of course I know that, wretched creature! And the knowledge that he gets to carry on, gets to grow and change and increase his influence when he didn't even leave a body for me to bury—"

His voice broke. Oathbringer melted into the air as his fist loosened. He fell into a chair, resting his head on his hands. Painspren like orange hands and anguishpren like teeth sprouted from the floor around his chair.

The Cryptic was silent for a long moment. "This," it said finally, "this is truth. There is truth in your heart, even as you surround yourself with lies. Sssssss, you wear them like armor. But they are not armor. The grief is already inside. You are not keeping it out, you are ssssealing it in."

"Maybe that's the idea," Torol murmured without lifting his head. "I can't hold my daughter ever again, but I can cling to the grief."

"She would not want thissss."

"You don't know that," Torol said. "You never even saw her."

"If she cared about you at all like you care for her, ssssshe would not want this."

"Then that was just one more failure on my part," Torol said, finally raising his head and standing up. "Vengeance is part of the Alethi way. It's why we're here on these blasted Plains to begin with. If she didn't understand that, it's only because I failed to educate her properly."

The spren let out a hissing sound like a long sigh. "You are telling yourself more lies. Making excussssses."

"I don't need to justify myself to you."

"No," the Cryptic said. "No, I sssuppose you do not."

-x-x-x-

"Brightlord!"

Torol turned. An ardent was hurrying towards him from the other side of the courtyard. Buildings, beasts, men, even rockbuds all cast long, ghastly shadows in the reddish-tinted evening light. The ardent's own long shadow followed him like a dark cloak, stretching back and to the side as though in a strong wind.

It took Torol a moment to place him. This was the ardent who had told him about the possible connection between talking spren and the Knights Radiant. "Yes?" he prompted as the man approached.

"I've done some further research into the matter we discussed some weeks ago," the ardent said. "Shall I—when would you like my report?"

"After dinner," Torol said. "Come to my chambers."

"Yes, Brightlord," said the ardent with a deferential bow.

Dinner was a pleasant enough affair. Ialai—who had been gone for most of the day—returned just before the first dishes were brought in.

"Where were you all afternoon?" Torol asked her as a servant set a plate before him—steamed cremlings in a smooth brown sauce, served on the shell.

"An unexpected social occasion," Ialai said. "One initiated by Highlord Amaram."

Torol paused with a bite of cremling halfway to his mouth. "Indeed?" he asked slowly.

"Oh, yes," Ialai said. "He swore us to secrecy, you know, all those he invited. Claimed that what he had found could 'change everything.'" She sounded dryly amused.

"Well, I wouldn't want to make an oathbreaker out of my wife," said Torol, his lips twitching.

She chuckled. "Have you heard of the mysterious prisoner brought down from Kholinar? The Shardbearer?"

"I believe I heard about him from your network, as it happens. Why? He's not become lucid, has he?"

"No, not at all. He's still repeating the same thing over and over—repeating that he is the Herald Talenelat. It appears it took Amaram a few weeks to find out about him, and he rushed to the rest of our little organization to tell us about the Herald in our midst."

Torol snorted. "Meridas believes him?"

"It seems so," Ialai said, rolling her eyes. "Most of the lower-ranked members of the organization do, as well, of course—they're all true believers, which is why they're useful. I thought you ought to know."

"I appreciate it," said Torol. He didn't see how it would be immediately useful, but even just knowing that Meridas Amaram was gullible enough to believe that this madman was a Herald of the Almighty was valuable on its own. "Oh, the ardent I asked about talking spren a few weeks ago apparently has new information. I've asked him to report to me in my suite after dinner."

"Do you want me there?"

"No—I told him to keep it secret, and you know how guileless darkeyes can be. Especially ardents. I don't want him thinking that because I told someone I trust, that he can do the same with his colleagues."

"That would be treason," Ialai pointed out. "You gave him a direct order."

"Yes, but treason committed in stupidity is much harder to guard against than treason committed intentionally. The best thing we can do is prevent the idea from entering into his head. No, you go to your rooms, and I'll come and find you afterwards."

"Very well." She smirked. "I wonder if he'll have any useful information?"

"Unlikely," said Torol. "But it is possible. Worth hearing him out, at least."

The ardent arrived at his rooms only a handful of minutes after Torol himself did. He couldn't fault the man's eagerness. "Brightlord," he said, bowing at the door. "Might I have leave to enter?"

"Yes, yes," Torol said impatiently. To the guards outside, he said, "shut the door behind him, and then go post yourselves several paces away."

"Yes, Brightlord."

The door closed. Torol couldn't hear the guards' footsteps walking away, but that was by design. The door was designed to muffle sound effectively. "Now," he said to the ardent. "You had information for me?"

"Yes," said the ardent excitedly. He visibly restrained himself, however, taking a deep breath to calm down. "Yes, Brightlord. I believe I've pieced together a fraction of the creed of the Knights Radiant."

You, Torol Sadeas, must find the most important words a man can say. Torol remembered the Cryptic's words like a jolt of lightning to his spine. "Have you indeed?" he asked, carefully controlling his expression.

"I believe so, Brightlord. My research indicates that these words have something to do with the bond between Radiant and spren companion—if, indeed, such a bond existed."

"I see," Torol said evenly. "Well, out with it. What was this creed?"

The ardent paused. "To be clear," he said, "this is only one part of the oath. I hope that, perhaps, the rest of the oath might be inferable from this piece of it—but I have, as yet, failed to find any further sources, and I have exhausted most of the books I know of on the topic. I fear that we may have to guess at the rest of the oath of the Radiants—to determine it for ourselves."

Torol waved a hand. "Stop stalling. Out with it, if you please."

"Life before death," the ardent said.

Torol waited, but he said nothing more. "That's it?"

"That is all I've been able to uncover, Brightlord," the ardent said. "A portion of the oath of the Knights Radiant. I am fairly confident in its veracity. Why, if you had not sworn me to secrecy I would already have published my findings among the ardentia!"

Torol sighed. It seemed like such a little thing—he was tempted to punish this man for wasting his time—but…

You must find the most important words a man can say.

"Thank you," said Torol. "This is interesting. But I don't think it's directly related to your research into talking spren, is it?"

The ardent paled. "…Ah. Forgive me if I have wasted your time, Brightlord."

Torol shrugged. "I believe I told you to report if you found anything associated with the topic, and this is at least loosely connected. There is no harm done. But you have my permission to publish your findings on this—this specifically, mind. Nothing that has any more direct link to your research into talking spren."

"Of course, Brightlord."

"Very good. You may go."

As the ardent left, Torol was left standing in the center of the room, surrounded by silks, wines, and the other trappings of his wealth and privilege, his standing within Alethi society.

"Life before death," he murmured. "What on Roshar does that mean?"

"Sssss." The spren hiding in the corner made a soft sound. "Knowing the words is only part of it."

Torol glanced at it. The shifting array of twisting shapes was barely visible where it lingered in the shadows. "Then that is part of the Radiants' oath?" he asked. "The ardent is right?"

"I think so," the Cryptic said. "My memory of the time before is imperfect as well, ssssss. But the words themselves are only part of it. You must mean them. Even if you were told the full oath, merely saying it would not be enough. You would have to convince me that you understand what it means. That you will keep it."

Torol shrugged. "Well, I have no real intention of becoming a member of an order that has been called heretical by the ardentia since the day they vanished. Whatever Dalinar thinks, it would be political suicide. It's a curiosity, nothing more."

The spren didn't answer.

Despite his dismissal, Torol found himself turning the words over in his mind as he walked to Ialai's rooms. Life before death. Obviously life comes before death. It must have some further meaning. But for the life of him, he could not guess at what that meaning was.

-x-x-x-

Welcome back. The break took a little longer than I expected, and I still don't have the kind of prewritten backlog I'd like, but I'm feeling much better. Thank you all for the messages of support.

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Threadmarks 63: Context

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LithosMaitreya

Character Witness

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Jan 15, 2024

#1,556

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

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Context

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That is the secret. The mystery that Men and Sho Del alike have tried in vain to uncover. The mythical birth of the cosmere.

-x-x-x-

"You have your assignments," Sarus said. "Go."

The men of Bridge Four saluted as one, then split into squads. Sarus watched them leave. He still felt—wrong, after the revelations of the previous evening. Tainted.

You humans know the latter as Soulcasting.

He took a careful, slow breath. His expression was perfectly controlled. It would not do to alienate Archive at this juncture.

Sarus was not on duty for this shift, so he began a slow walk around the barracks, watching the former members of the other bridge crews slowly emerging from their own. They varied, he noticed, in their discipline. Some crews emerged and formed up in clear imitation of Bridge Four—albeit with less professionalism and pride. Others had barely changed since their days pulling bridges, with men stumbling blearily out one by one and wandering vaguely in the direction of the nearest mess hall.

An instinct had him pause between steps, one foot raised. He glanced back over his shoulder, looking down the alley between two barracks. For a moment, he'd thought he'd seen someone—

The arrow whistled past his ear, missing him by inches. He didn't hesitate before crouching down and sprinting for cover. "Archers!" he called, voice echoing around the square. "Take cover!" Most of the men from the other crews just blinked, looking around. Some of the cleverer responded properly, diving for the nearest doorway, calling for their friends to join them.

Another arrow shot past Sarus just as he reached the corner of a building and ducked behind it. "You!" he snapped at a man cowering in the doorway just a few feet from him. "Your spear! Now!"

To his credit, the man jumped to obey. In just a few seconds Sarus caught the longspear tossed in his direction. He stood up and stepped out of cover.

There were five assassins he could make out, all holding bows with shortspears on their backs. They wore nondescript black and brown, but he didn't need to see deep green uniforms to know which highprince had sent them. They had been creeping up the alley towards him, but as he stepped out, they all fired at him, five arrows loosing in unison. He sidestepped, moving further out into the alley, and shifted his grip on the longspear before hurling it point-first at the nearest man's chest. It struck true, piercing so deep that he saw blood and viscera spray out behind the assassin as the spearpoint emerged from his back. He went down, but by the time he hit the ground Sarus was already there, yanking the spear out of his corpse with enough power that he felt ribs cracking as the spear tore back through them.

One of the other four yelped in terror. They all started firing at him, as quickly as they could. Sarus dodged—although he still felt one of the projectiles bite into him—and thrust his spear at a second man. It buried itself in his throat. Two of the others were behind that one, so he jumped, vaulting over the body with the spear as leverage before using the force of his impact with the ground on the other side to wrench it free. He shifted his grip, guiding the spear's momentum so that its haft struck a man in the eye. As he staggered back, hands coming up to his face, Sarus turned the spear on his friend, beating aside the bow with its nocked arrow before spinning the spear around and thrusting the point into his side.

Another arrow buried itself in Sarus' back. He ignored it for the moment, busying himself first with driving his spear into the uninjured eye of the surviving opponent in front of him. Then he turned to face the last assassin. The man's face had gone so white he looked dead already, his hands shaking as he tried to nock another arrow to his bowstring.

Sarus stepped forward, reached out, and closed his fist on the bow. With what felt like hardly any force, he tore it out of the man's grip. The man staggered back, dark brown eyes so wide that the irises were entirely rimmed with white.

"Oh, Almighty," he whispered. "Please, please, no, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

Sarus hand closed around the man's throat. His whimpering cut off abruptly.

"I don't think Highprince Sadeas needs another warning message," Sarus said softly. "Do you?"

The man struggled feebly in his grip. His eyes glittered with unshed tears.

"Glad you agree," said Sarus, and snapped his neck.

As the body fell at his feet, Sarus half expected it to dissolve into smoke. He stared at it for a moment, but it did not.

It was so easy to imagine it. Just reaching out and Soulcasting the body into nothing but a wisp of fume and a momentary stench of rot. But it seemed the only people he could ever do that to were those he wanted to save, to protect.

Kaladin would have saved her. The thought popped into his head, fully formed, and not even the sharp pain as he tugged the arrows out of his back and side could dislodge it.

He retrieved the spear from the body it was impaling. Gore clung to it like moss to the leeward side of a tree, so he cleaned it on one of the dead men's tunics before returning it to the former bridgeman who had given it to him.

As he turned to return to the Bridge Four barracks, he saw Kaladin jogging toward him. "I heard a commotion. What happened?"

"Assassins," Sarus said. "Five of them, for me. I dealt with them."

Kaladin blinked at him. "Again?"

"Yes," Sarus said, passing him. Kaladin fell into step beside him. Somehow Sarus found that… comforting? No—he wasn't in distress, to need comfort. It was just reassuring to know that, maybe, his friendship with Kaladin hadn't been broken beyond hope of repair.

"You think it's still Sadeas?"

"Assuredly," Sarus said. "But there won't be any identifying marks on them, I'm sure. Still, we should inform Highprince Dalinar, see if he wants to send the bodies back to the Sadeas warcamp."

"We should do more than send the bodies back to him," Kaladin growled. "He can't just keep trying to kill you."

"I assure you, he can."

"He shouldn't be able to!"

"Ah, but when has that ever mattered?"

Kaladin stopped, staring at him. Sarus stopped walking too, turning to face the man. Kaladin's eyes were hooded and dark, his expression stormy. All of the easing Sarus had observed over the past few days seemed to have fled, leaving the same grim man who had emerged from the king's cells. "I guess it never has," Kaladin said quietly. "Lighteyes do whatever the Damnation they want, and all we can do is hope to survive."

"Just so." When Kaladin didn't seem inclined to say anything else, Sarus turned and continued on his way back to the barracks.

-x-x-x-

"You took pleasure in those men's deaths."

Sarus turned away from the window, where Salas's violet light cast the Plains in strange, deep shadows. Archive sat in the chair by his bed, watching him with her inscrutable black eyes. "Pleasure is… a strong word," he said evenly. "You have an opinion on the matter?"

"No." She shook her head. "But if not pleasure, then what term should be?"

Sarus forced himself to engage with the conversation, despite the fact that a large part of him wanted nothing more than to ignore Archive entirely. He couldn't so much as look at her without remembering that awful night.

—smoke slipping through his fingers—

For five years, Sarus had looked back on that terrible moment with confusion and horror. He had never understood just what had happened. He had never been sure whether or not Tailiah's death truly was his fault, as her parents believed. No one else had ever turned to smoke under his hands before. In the same way that Sadeas had been bereft without the closure of a body to bury, Sarus had been left without any answers.

Now he had them, and they tasted like bile. It wasn't even comforting to know that it wasn't an ability of his that had destroyed Tailiah, because Archive couldn't have used Soulcasting without a Surgebinder bonded to her. The fault might not be all his, but he had still been an essential part of what had happened.

And he couldn't even act on the revelation. He couldn't deny he still had questions—that he was still curious. Why had he only accidentally Soulcast that one time, and then never again? How could he ensure it never happened again? He guessed that his ability to generate his own orange Stormlight had provided the fuel for the Surge, but was there a way to detect when he was consuming his own supply in that way?

But he couldn't ask them. He couldn't risk alienating Archive, not yet. She clearly didn't remember the event—it must have happened very shortly after her arrival in the Physical Realm, before her mind and memory had stabilized. As much as he wanted to rage at her, to force her to acknowledge what had happened, what she had done to him, to Tailiah—that was senseless. It was purposeless.

Archive served a purpose, for now. Eventually, she would not, and then he would have his catharsis. But until then—until he had a Shardblade in his hand and eyes slowly lightening as Moash's were—he would endure. He would tolerate this cursed Nahel bond until it delivered him what he wanted.

"Satisfaction, perhaps?" he finally answered.

"Why?"

"Two reasons," Sarus said. "First, because their deaths weakens Highprince Sadeas. Not significantly, to be sure—he will disavow the operation, and few will even hear about it. But those who matter—the other highprinces, his more relevant vassals—will. They will know that he sent five men to kill one darkeyes, and that only the darkeyes walked out of the alley. And second, because their attempt on my life was a contest—one I won."

"Yet you taunted the last man," Archive said. "What purpose was there in service to those two satisfactions?"

"Do you judge me?" Sarus asked sardonically.

"No," she said. "They were men who sought to kill you, and you are a warrior. I am no honorspren, so obsessed with preservation that I feel any death as a keen failure. Their lives are not, but nor was those lives' sanctity, except insofar as life comes before death. If you take pleasure in defeating your enemies, my judgement is not. So long as you are aware of it, and are careful who those enemies are."

"Noted," said Sarus. "And if I were to sneak over to the Sadeas warcamp in the dead of night and kill every armed man there? Or cut the man's own throat? Would you have an opinion then?"

"It would depend on the context," Archive said with a shrug, perfectly nonchalant. "Do you believe that if Sadeas was not, more lives would be spared? Or more innocent lives? Do you believe Roshar is better if he is not?"

"I suppose I do."

"Then I find no fault in seeking his death," she said. "But I do find it difficult to believe that you would make the same calculation for every armed man in his employ."

"True enough," Sarus said. "Is that the line, then? Dealing death is acceptable if and only if it makes the world better?"

"A line is not," Archive said. "Hard lines—hard rules, principles, laws—are attempts to enforce order on a disorderly cosmere. You are an Elsecaller, and I am your inkspren. We are more concerned with the cosmere as it is than as we wish it was."

"Surely there have to be boundaries, though," Sarus prodded, unable to help himself entirely. "Things I could do which you would find unjustifiable in principle."

"Unjustified, yes. Unjustifiable? Perhaps, perhaps not. The context always matters, my Elsecaller. Journey before destination."

Don't call me that, Sarus wanted to snap. I'm not your Elsecaller. My bond to you cost the life of the only person who ever storming understood me. I don't want this Nahel bond, and I don't want you. He swallowed the words down. "Somehow," he said, "I don't think that's how Kaladin and Syl see that part of the oath."

"Likely not," Archive said. "But we are not them."

At that moment, a ribbon of blue light darted in through the window. Sarus blinked as Syl coalesced back into her usual form as a glowing girl the size of his hand. She looked around, her head darting about on her neck oddly, almost as if her gaze was being dragged around the room unwillingly. She did a double take when she met his gaze.

"Oh, hello Sarus," she said brightly, waving vigorously at him.

Archive's eyes darted to her suddenly. Sarus assumed that meant Syl had made herself visible. "Hello, Syl," he said.

"Hello," she echoed, already darting over to examine the spear on its rack by the door.

"Do you… need something?" he asked.

"Hm?" She looked over at him. "Oh. No, I don't think so."

"Then… why are you here?"

She narrowed her eyes at him. "I spend most nights here."

"I think I would have noticed," Sarus said dryly.

"Oh, right. I guess I did spend most nights here, when it was Kaladin's room. I forgot it was yours now." She suddenly blinked at Archive, as if noticing her for the first time. "Hello, Archive!"

"Syl," Archive said, her voice uncharacteristically gentle. "Are you… well?"

"Hm? No, probably not." Syl sighed, tone shifting suddenly into despondency. "Is Sarus a good Elsecaller, Archive?"

"I'm right here," Sarus said dryly, but he was listening intently. Was Syl implying…?

"I have had no other," Archive said. "But my complaints are not. I worry for him, at times, but my faith in him is. I believe it will prove warranted, in the end."

Even as skilled as Sarus was in controlling his expressions, he still had to avert his eyes. Hopefully Archive would interpret that as embarrassment or humility.

Syl hummed, studying her reflection in the tip of Sarus' spear. When she had said nothing for several heavy seconds, Sarus cleared his throat. "Syl?"

"Yes?" she blinked at him. "What were you saying? Or, no, it was Archive speaking."

"Syl," Archive said. "Has something happened to your bond with Kaladin?"

Syl pursed her lips. "I don't think he'd want me talking about it," she said. "And I don't want to betray him. Even unspoken oaths are still oaths."

"I understand," said Archive quietly.

Syl nodded absently, still not looking at Sarus or Archive. "I feel like I'm almost remembering something," she said softly. "Which doesn't make sense. I'm having trouble even remembering what was happening thirty seconds ago. Why would I be uncovering new memories now?"

"What are you remembering?" Sarus asked.

"Words," Syl said, still looking at the spear as if her reflection in the polished metal of its tip held the answers to all her questions. "Words. An oath, maybe?"

"Perhaps," Archive said.

Syl kept staring. "I do not love the… spear?" she whispered. "No, that's wrong. That's all wrong." Then she blinked and turned to look at Sarus. "Sorry, this is your room now. I'll go."

"Is Kaladin upset that I've taken his former position?" Sarus asked.

"Kaladin's… upset about a lot of things, right now," Syl said. "But he loves you, Sarus. Even when he's angry and hurt."

Sarus tried not to think to heavily on the relief which lightened his heart. "I did try to get him out," Sarus said. "I think I even helped, a little."

"I know," Syl said, smiling at him. "You love him too. Sometimes it's hard to tell, with you. But I can see it, most of the time. And so can he. Most of the time."

"I'm glad," Sarus whispered.

She nodded. Then she transformed back into a ribbon of blue light and darted out the window.

"Their Nahel bond is weakening," Archive said softly.

"Because Kaladin was going to allow Moash to kill Elhokar?"

"Most likely. Since that plot no longer is, hopefully their recovery will be."

Sarus felt sick. "Is that what happens, when the bond starts to fail?"

"We need the Nahel bond to think, here in the Physical Realm," said Archive. "As the bond decays, so does thought."

"And if the bond breaks entirely, you die."

"Yes." Archive sighed. "It will not come to that. Kaladin is a Windrunner. He will remember before it is too late. My faith is."

"You have a great deal of faith to go around, it seems," Sarus said quietly.

"Perhaps," Archive said. "Or perhaps faith is not a resource to spend, but a choice to make."

"And what if it's a mistake?"

Archive's ink-black lips twitched. "It would depend on the context."

"Misplaced faith can be a death sentence," Sarus said quietly.

"Yes," she said. "But so can misplaced suspicion."

Sarus didn't reply.

106

LithosMaitreya

Jan 15, 2024

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