Lotr starlight archive Chapter 8: 8, 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 64: Resolute

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LithosMaitreya

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

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Resolute

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Ilúvatar destroyed one world to create many more.

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"I have been considering what you said."

Rlain turned away from his vantage overlooking the drilling warform division on one of Narak's outer plateaus. He affected the Rhythm of Surprise, then transitioned to Joy—though, of course, he had been keenly aware of Eshonai's approach for more than half a minute.

The new Rhythms that she attuned whenever she thought herself unobserved, or exclusively among her fellow stormforms, somehow grated against his ears. It wasn't painful, per se, but it was impossible to ignore. It made it very easy to know whenever she was near him. Which was good, considering his precarious position.

"Eshonai," he greeted. "I'm glad to hear it. What have you concluded?"

She approached, standing beside him and looking over the soldiers training. She was attuned to Determination, but he could somehow tell that it was forced. Not that it was difficult to guess—all of the old Rhythms were forced, when she attuned to them. If they did not unsettle the other Listeners so much, he was sure she would spend all her time attuned to one or another of the new. Her red eyes seemed to glow unnervingly in the midday sunlight. "You made good points," she said. "I agree that we cannot all transition to stormform indefinitely. Quite apart from everything else, we need mateform to replenish our numbers."

Rlain caught the use of the word indefinitely. "There are only two storms before the Weeping," he said quietly to Anxiety—instead of the Rhythm of his heart, which was Resignation. "And if the Alethi truly do attempt an assault on Narak itself in the long lull between the storms…"

"Then even if we do not all remain in stormform after the Weeping, it is a perfect opportunity that we can only seize if we take stormform during it," she finished for him.

The worst part was that she was right. It was tactically sound—more than sound, it was brilliant. Stormform was a new weapon, one the Alethi had no way of understanding or predicting, and if it truly could summon a highstorm then it made perfect sense to bait the Alethi into the open where such a sudden storm would wreak the most possible damage. He would even agree, if it wasn't for the nature of stormform.

He thought he understood, now, why they had preserved for millennia the warning against the Forms of Power. The songs said that the Listeners had been only a very small minority of the singers who had been the army of the gods in the dread war against the humans. This was why. A Form of Power was a baited snare offered by the gods, power in return for freedom. And Eshonai had walked right into the trap.

"It is sensible," he said to Consideration. "Although I warn you—the Alethi are unlikely to field their entire force against us in one battle. They have too much infighting. Highprinces Sadeas and Dalinar will never march together on the same side of a battle again, and the rest are one bad argument from falling into similar squabbles."

"You mentioned that a rival had betrayed Dalinar, that day on the eastern bulwark," Eshonai said. "This was Sadeas?"

"Yes."

"I think I remember him," she said, quietly, joining him in Consideration briefly. "He was at the feast when we signed our peace treaty with the Alethi, though he slipped out with their king before the assassin acted." Then she abandoned Consideration, saying to Confidence, "Never mind. If we can destroy even half, even a third of the Alethi force, it will make the rest hesitate. Especially if we can call down a highstorm on the battlefield. Who would dare face such power? The mere threat of it will be enough to force the survivors to withdraw."

"True enough," said Rlain. "Speaking of the assassin, I assume you've heard that he has reappeared, in service to someone else?"

"Yes," she said to one of the new Rhythms, something like Amusement. "The spies said he had been captured, and his Shardblade taken from him."

Rlain was silent for a long moment. "I have not heard what happened to his Blade," he said finally, still to Consideration, "but he could not have been captured and held if he still possessed it, that is certain."

"I suppose we should consider ourselves fortunate that his cowardice in surrendering his Blade did not rear its head while he served us," Eshonai said, still to that new Rhythm. Then she shook her head, returning to Confidence. "But regardless, Rlain—I agree that we need the other forms, at least until we can find better ones to replace them. But right now, as we prepare for the Weeping and this final great battle, we need everyone who can in stormform. We need this storm. We can return to other forms as soon as the highstorms return after the Weeping."

Rlain hummed to Consideration, hiding the dread he felt. "It's a compelling argument," he allowed. "But I don't think it will be enough to convince the more traditional among us."

"We won't force them into stormform," Eshonai said. "It would be very difficult to do so, anyway—how can you force a Listener to accept a spren into their gemheart? But we need everyone we possibly can convince. I'm going to speak to the Five now. With luck, they will see reason."

Rlain nodded, still humming Consideration.

"I can see I haven't entirely convinced you, either, old friend," Eshonai said to Amusement—true Amusement, now, not the discordant substitute of a few moments ago.

"You know me, Eshonai," he said, switching from Consideration to join her in Amusement. "I like to take my time with any decision. But your arguments are very compelling. If the Alethi reach Narak, and we do not have some kind of plan, we will be destroyed. That is true. I haven't heard any other plans besides yours, and I can't come up with anything better."

"Then you are with me?" The façade of the old Rhythms fell away as she began humming to something fierce and triumphant that seemed to rattle the carapace on his bones.

"Allow me a little longer to think," he demurred. "Go speak with the Five. I will think, and talk with Thude—see if he has any ideas worth considering. We will meet again later today."

"Very well, Rlain," she said. "I hope you will join me in this form. You'll see—it's an incredible feeling, having this much power contained within you."

Rlain remembered feeling a surge of strange power as he thrust a spear directly into the bare rock of the plateau at his feet. "I believe you," he said, attuning Awe almost without meaning to. "I will consider this carefully, Eshonai, I promise."

"Good," she said. She turned and started walking towards the city's central spire, attunine one of the fierce new Rhythms as soon as she thought she was out of earshot. Rlain watched her go until she actually left his hearing, and the grinding against his ears stopped, before turning to go and find Thude.

A Listener's form was not meant to change who they were. But it was becoming increasingly clear that Forms of Power were, to a large extent, meant to do just that. Eshonai had changed drastically, seeking power and control in a way that she never had before.

"And yet," he murmured to himself to the Rhythm of Anxiety. "And yet…"

Eshonai was not completely twisted by her new form. He still caught glimpses of his old friend, behind the red eyes and dread Rhythms. It was in the way that his hesitation drove her to Amusement, rather than Annoyance. It was in the way that her response to hearing he had been forced into a bridge crew had been fury on his behalf, even if it was fury tinged with the chaos of stormform. It was in the way she had listened to what he had said about needing other forms, had briefly backed away from her arguments in favor of stormform until she had come up with a counterargument.

And there were other unanswered questions. Rlain remembered the day Venli had given them painspren trapped in gemstones and told them she had unlocked warform. He remembered Eshonai's laughter as she sparred with him after the storm, as they discovered the might of their new forms. They hadn't known how strong their carapace was, or how powerful their arms, or how swift their feet. They'd had to test these things. Had to experiment.

So how had Eshonai known that she could summon a highstorm? Where had the idea come from? He had seen red lightning arcing down her arms as she flexed, but the obvious assumption was to learn to harness that directly, how to make their strikes contain the energy of a lightning bolt. The idea of summoning a highstorm during the Weeping was not a natural extension of the form's obvious, latent abilities.

So where had that inspiration come from?

Where had Venli found the mysterious spren who bestowed stormform?

Why did the new Rhythms grate against him in a way they did not everyone else? They unsettled the others, but no one else could hear a Listener in stormform coming from hundreds of feet off just by the Rhythms she was attuned to.

He had too many unanswered questions. It would be one thing if he knew that Eshonai was beyond saving, that his friend was already lost to him. But he didn't. He couldn't.

So the question was, how much was he willing to risk on the chance that he might be able to make a difference?

He found Thude seated atop the crem-covered mound of one of the ancient buildings of Narak, looking down at a group of stormform Listeners going about their business. As he approached, he heard the grim tones of the Rhythm of the Lost. Rlain sat beside him, humming Peace. After a moment, Thude joined him, and their two voices mingled in an island of serenity, surrounded by the storm.

"Eshonai is going to try and convince the Five to let her offer stormform to all the Listeners," Rlain said, still to Peace.

Thude's rhythm abruptly shifted to Anxiety. "I suppose it was bound to happen. Most of Narak already wants to be allowed into stormform."

"Perhaps," Rlain said.

After a moment, Thude returned to the Rhythm of Peace. "What should we do?"

"I'm not sure," Rlain admitted. "If we ignore the fact that stormform is a Form of Power, her plan makes perfect sense."

"But it is a Form of Power."

"Yes." Rlain sighed. "I'm not reaching her. I try, and sometimes I think I'm making headway, but she goes away and by the time she comes back she's convinced herself again."

"It's that form. It influences her. Those new Rhythms—they… guide her thoughts. Their thoughts." Thude shook his head, and the Rhythm of Peace slipped away from him, replaced by Despair. "Sometimes I worry that she's already gone. That whatever is walking around in her body isn't really her anymore."

"No," Rlain said. He let Peace go, and attuned Resolve. "As I said, sometimes I think I'm making headway. Maybe I can find an angle that will work."

"She doesn't really listen to you, Rlain," Thude said. "She hears your arguments so that she can find counterarguments, not because she is willing to be persuaded. She can't be persuaded."

"Perhaps," Rlain said again, quietly. He continued humming to Resolve.

Silence fell between them for a moment, save for their voices quietly joined in opposed Rhythms. Then Thude shook his head and audibly forced himself into Curiosity. "Are you not worried about what Eshonai's plans will mean for the men who took you in?" he asked. "For this Captain Kaladin, and Lieutenant Sarus? You spoke of them as though they were friends."

"They are," Rlain said. He'd told Thude of his time with Bridge Four over the past few days. It was good to have someone he could confide in without fearing that his commitment to the Listeners' survival would be questioned. It was something he would never have imagined before, but now he knew that if he tried to talk to Eshonai about Sarus, it would go poorly. To say the least. "But Bridge Four isn't required to go with the army to attack plateaus. They'll be fine."

"They are Alethi. Won't they seek glory in battle?"

"That's mostly a lighteyed thing, I think," Rlain said. "Not that the darkeyes don't believe it, but they have a more developed sense of self-preservation. And Kaladin doesn't like battle. He'll keep them safe."

"You know so much about them," Thude said to the Rhythm of Awe.

And that reminded Rlain of something else. I know more than I'll say, he thought, remembering Syl darting about the barracks and Archive's ink-black eyes. The Neshua Kadal have returned. There is hope. But he couldn't tell Thude that. It wasn't his secret to share, not even with his oldest friend.

The Listeners had songs which remembered the glory of the Knights Radiant. But unlike most songs of history, which were sung to the Rhythm of Memories, these were sung to the Rhythm of Awe. Rlain had never fully understood why—the Radiants had killed singers by the thousands, hadn't they? Even if they had been in the service of the gods before they broke free, those were still his people who the Radiants had killed.

But now, he thought he did. If the Radiants of the ancient days had been like Kaladin and Sarus—and, more importantly, if serving the gods was like this, watching his friends lose themselves to madness, bloodlust, and forced obeisance to gods they had feared for thousands of years?

Yes, Rlain thought he understood why the Radiants were immortalized in the Rhythm of Awe.

"We should go to the spire," he said. "We'll want to be there when Eshonai finishes with the council."

There was already a crowd assembling outside the Council of Five's meeting chamber by the time Thude and Rlain arrived. The Rhythm of Anticipation thudded through the air, tense and vibrant, almost enough to make Rlain's hands shake.

They had only just found a place to stand when Eshonai emerged, Venli at her heels. Both their eyes glowed red as they surveyed the crowd. Eshonai stepped forward to address the Listeners.

"In two days," she shouted, Confidence's steady beat underlying the words. "I will bring all of you who are willing into the storm to take this new form!"

Silence fell. Even the Rhythms themselves seemed to be holding their breath, though Rlain felt Resolve still beating in his gemheart.

"The Five," Eshonai continued, "would deny you this right—and in so doing, deny us any chance of defeating the Alethi when they come to destroy us in the Weeping. They are frightened—frightened of the Alethi, of this new form, of what they do not understand. But we cannot afford to be ruled by fear."

She held out a hand, and a tiny storm bloomed in the air over her palm, scattering red lightning into her fingertips and the air around them. As she brought her hands together over her head, the storm grew until it was a cyclone over her head, red and black and entirely unlike any highstorm Rlain had ever seen. It grew still further until it engulfed her in a cloak of whirling dark mist, so that the red of her eyes blended in with the flashes of scarlet within it. Then she let her hands fall, and the storm faded away. Rlain heard the Rhythm of Awe being hummed all around him—not by every Listener, but by far too many. Rlain saw the other members of the Five standing below the landing where Eshonai addressed the crowd, looking up at her. He could not hear the Rhythms they hummed, but he could guess that they, at least, were not humming Awe.

In his chest, Resolve still beat.

"With this power," Eshonai was saying, "we can destroy the Alethi and protect our people! We can survive this war! I have heard you humming Despair, heard the Rhythms of Mourning and the Lost in your voices. No more! When the Alethi come to slaughter us, it will be they who are destroyed! Come with me into the storm. It is your right and your duty. Together, we will secure our future!"

She started down the steps, then began moving through the crowd, which parted for her. Rlain knew at once where she was going—the barracks, where the soldiers in warform were waiting to hear from their beloved, trusted leader.

He hummed to Resolve. Beside him, Thude was softly singing Despair. "Take heart," Rlain said to him. "Come, we need to get to the barracks. Not all is lost."

"How can you say that?" Thude asked. "She's defying the Five! She's seizing control of Narak for herself—for the gods!"

"Yes," Rlain said, still to Resolve. "She is. But I have a plan."

"A plan…?" Slowly, the Rhythm of Despair faded from Thude's voice, replaced by Hope. "What is it?"

"I need you to do two things for me," Rlain said. "The rest… is my part. Even if I fail, your part is still necessary."

"What do you need?"

"Eshonai needs complete control of Narak for her plan," Rlain explained. "And she cannot have that while there are still those who refuse to take stormform. She will not allow the dissidents free rein. She will at least keep them contained. At worst, she may have them killed once all those loyal to her are also corrupted by stormform."

"Killed?"

"But you are still her friend, Thude, do you see?" Rlain asked. "There is some part of her that still remembers that—a part of her that cannot openly act against the goals of the gods, perhaps, but one which we can ally with nonetheless."

"I don't understand…"

"You don't need to," Rlain said, as the barracks entered their view. They were nearly out of time to talk. "Just remember this—when the opportunity comes, you and the other dissidents must ally with Highprince Dalinar Kholin. Tell him this: the gods that Eshonai is trying to summon are the creatures his people remember as Voidbringers." At this point, Rlain was nearly certain of that fact. "He will understand, and will happily aid you in stopping those Listeners who remain in stormform."

"He will kill them," Thude whispers.

"Yes," Rlain said softly. "That is our backup plan. If I succeed, it will not be necessary. Either way, the war will be over by the end of the Weeping."

"And what is your plan?"

"No time," Rlain said as they stepped across the threshold and found themselves among a lobby full of Listeners in warform.

They had barely arrived when a lookout let out a call. Rlain looked and saw Eshonai, Venli, and the other stormform Listeners approaching the barracks from another direction. She stopped when she was near enough to address the group.

"It is time to end the fight against the Alethi," she said to Determination. "Which of you will follow me in doing so?"

All around Rlain, Listeners attuned Resolve. Rlain raised his own voice to join in. Beside him, Thude was silent.

"This will require all of us in stormform," Eshonai said.

The humming continued.

"I am proud of all of you," Eshonai said, and there was a sincerity in the way that Confidence thrummed in her voice that almost cracked Rlain's gemheart. "I am going to send the Storm Division among you to take each of your word, individually, on this transformation. If there are any who do not wish to change, I must know of it. It is your decision to make, and I will not force it, but I must know." She gestured at the stormforms, who began to disperse among the soldiers still in warform.

"Come," Rlain murmured to Thude. "And attune Resolve."

Thude did, and Rlain led him up towards where Eshonai was watching the crowd. As they approached one of the Storm Division approached them. It took Rlain a moment to recognize her marbling—Melu, once of a rival to the First-Rhythm family he, Thude, and Eshonai had all been born into. Those old quarrels seemed so far away, now.

"Thude, Rlain," she said. "Will you take stormform?"

Thude looked at Rlain. Rlain nodded at him.

"I will," said Thude, hesitantly.

"I will," said Rlain, firmly.

"Good," Melu said, smiling slightly. Her red eyes bored into theirs for a moment before she moved on, allowing them to approach Eshonai.

"I am surprised that you overruled the Five," Rlain said to Resolve. He didn't even have to force the Rhythm. He was resolute.

"It was necessary," Eshonai said. "They are too afraid, and we are running out of time. We need everyone we can possibly muster in stormform within the week, when the last storm passes and the Weeping comes."

"I understand," Rlain said. "Do you truly believe that everyone needs to be in stormform?"

"Everyone who is willing," Eshonai said. "I cannot force anyone, but everyone who takes stormform improves our chances."

"The counting is finished, sir," Melu said, approaching Eshonai, barely sparing Rlain and Thude a glance.

"Excellent," Eshonai said. "Spread the word—we're going to do the same counting for everyone in the city."

"Everyone?" Thude exclaimed, unable to hold back the sharp tones of the Rhythm of Anxiety.

Eshonai's crimson eyes snapped onto him. "Our time is short," she said to Resolve. "We do not have time to train more warform soldiers and then offer them stormform. Our workform, nimbleform, and mateform fellows can return to their old forms later—for this Weeping, we need everyone." She turned back to Melu. "I want every willing Listener to be in stormform before we lose the last two storms. Those who are still unwilling have that right, but I want them gathered so we know where we stand."

So we know where we stand? Rlain thought, torn between Amusement and Despair, but suppressing both in favor of momentarily wavering Resolve. Eshonai didn't need to round the dissidents up to know where they stood. She only needed to do that if she was planning to imprison or kill them.

But it was such a clumsy excuse. Eshonai was no fool—she was smarter than this. Or at least she was when all of her was in accord. Perhaps it was wishful thinking on Rlain's part, to imagine that stumblings like this one were the outward signs of an internal struggle in his old friend, but hope was all he had now.

"It sounds like you're rounding up those who disagree with you," Thude said hesitantly, oscillating between the Rhythms of Resolve and Anxiety. "I agreed to take stormform, like everyone else, but this… this seems wrong, Eshonai."

Eshonai sighed, humming to Irritation. Something odd shifted in her face, a sudden motion in her red eyes, but singers did not show emotion through their faces as readily as humans did, and her Rhythm did not change. "Fine," she said. "You can watch over the group—you, and any soldiers you trust. That way you can assure their safety."

Rlain could barely contain the Rhythm of Joy as it threatened to break through his renewed Resolve. There was still hope!

"And you, Rlain?" she asked. "Are you willing to take stormform?"

"I am," he said.

"Excellent," Eshonai said, grinning at him. "Thude, I realize you and Rlain are friends, but I need him. His insight into the Alethi will be invaluable."

"Of course," Rlain said. He nodded to Thude, meeting his friend's eyes, wondering if this would be the last time they saw one another. "Go find a division and get to your post, Thude. Remember what we discussed."

Thude's eyes widened momentarily before he nodded. "I'll… yes." He hesitated for a moment. "Good luck," he said finally, and left.

I'll need it.

"What did you discuss with him?" Eshonai asked.

"I was encouraging him," Rlain said. "He's felt trapped for some time between his fear of stormform and of the Alethi. I was reminding him of our childhood together—all of us." He smiled at her, still attuned to Resolve. "I said that he could still trust you."

If he had not spent so long among humans, learning to read their expressions almost as well as he could hear the Rhythms, learning at Sarus' knee to understand the effect his words were having on those around him, he would never have seen the way raw agony flashed in Eshonai's face before it smoothed away again. Her Rhythm, however, never wavered from Resolve. "I'm glad you see that, at least," she said.

As she walked away, Rlain turned his gaze eastward, towards the Origin, where the Stormfather was even now preparing the gale that would in two days transform him into another of Eshonai's stormform soldiers.

I don't know if I can resist, he admitted to himself in the privacy of his thoughts. Maybe, in three days time, I will be just as twisted and corrupted as Eshonai. Maybe these next two will be the last sunrises I see as myself. But I know I must try to save her.

Last edited: Feb 5, 2024

LithosMaitreya

Feb 5, 2024

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Threadmarks 65: One Liar to Another

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LithosMaitreya

Character Witness

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Feb 12, 2024

#1,584

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

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One Liar to Another

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And, if we do not act before the fain can consume the Well of Crystal, Adonalsium will end what the God behind it began.

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"Captain."

Sarus glanced over as Murk climbed the stairs onto the battlement beside him. "Your squad's training went well?" he asked.

"Of course." Murk stopped beside him, following his gaze as he looked over the warcamp. Men in blue uniforms bustled all around, taking stock of their supplies, packing them into chull-pulled carts, and making ready to mobilize. The first drizzle of the Weeping pattered in curtains upon the rock.

"The army will be leaving within the day," Murk said. "You sure you want to stay here, sir?"

"Quite certain," Sarus said.

"Kaladin's back, now," Murk pointed out. "It seems like one of you should go with the army, doesn't it?"

"That is Kaladin's prerogative," Sarus said. "He extracted an oath from Dalinar, when first we entered his service, that no former bridgeman would be forced to join an assault against the Parshendi."

The agreement had originally been for plateau runs, specifically, but that had been before the plans for a final assault had even been conceived. Sarus had brought the topic up with Elhokar, pointing out that if the men of Bridge Four—and therefore much of the Cobalt Guard—were required to join the advance force, they would not be here to defend him. It had been easy to get him to agree that Dalinar's oath applied to this scenario as well.

"Kaladin's been… gloomy, lately," Murk said. "He might come, if all of us asked him. But he doesn't want to."

"Kaladin has little appetite for battle," Sarus said. "I certainly don't begrudge him that, after everything. He's been improving these past two weeks; I'll see him folded into the guard rotations with everyone else who remains by the time you return."

"You could leave him in charge here," Murk pointed out. "You and he have both commanded Bridge Four. Doesn't it make sense to split up?"

"I need to be here, Murk," Sarus said. "His Majesty's enemies have not had such an opportunity to remove him since the war began. All but the barest dregs of the Kholin army will be gone, leaving only His Majesty's personal contingent of the Cobalt Guard. I command that contingency, and His Majesty trusts me specifically." He shot Murk a look. "Which benefits us all, as you know."

Murk sighed. "Yeah, I know. Just thought I'd ask one more time."

Almost all of Bridge Four had volunteered to join the assault force, which would seize the opening provided by the Weeping to seek out the center of the Plains and attack the Parshendi city believed to be at its center. Only a few—particularly the non-Alethi, like Sigzil, Rock, and Lopen—had not immediately jumped at the opportunity. But even Lopen and Rock had come around once they realized most of their fellows would be going, though neither of them would be active combatants.

Kaladin himself had not volunteered, despite looks of surprise from several of the men.

Sarus had been forced to invert the process—asking for those men who would be willing to remain. In the end, he had kept twenty men, some from the original Bridge Four, some from the other crews who had progressed far enough in their training to be folded into the guard rotations. Twenty men were sufficient for four standard five-hour shifts of five men each at the palace. It was actually a slightly heavier defense than they usually set around the king. He had told the men that, with the barracks otherwise empty, he wanted to have enough to feel secure even in the event of sickness or injury.

His true motive, of course, was that he needed enough to maintain a defense around the king in case Moash's erstwhile allies decided to strike. Sarus had still not been able to identify this 'Graves', though he had done his best to investigate. Most of the other conspirators, he had found—but the most dangerous, the Shardbearer, had so far evaded notice.

Sarus saw movement in the roads approaching the Bridge Four barracks, perhaps a five minute walk away. He looked, narrowing his eyes to pick out details in the distance. He identified Moash and his squad, formed up around Dalinar—and beside Dalinar, resplendent in his yellow-gold cloak embroidered with the double-eye of the Almighty, was Brightlord Meridas Amaram. His badge of office as first of the refounded Knights Radiant. Sarus didn't bother to suppress his momentary sneer before turning away. "Back to the barracks," he said to Murk. "We'll have guests soon."

"What did you see?" Murk asked, following him down the steps.

"Highprince Dalinar," he said. "And his dear friend, Knight Amaram." He chuckled. "I wonder what he would say if we asked him which order he had sworn to?"

"Wouldn't know what we were talking about, presumably," Murk said dryly.

"And we would only expose ourselves by asking. But the thought is amusing nonetheless."

"Should we try to keep him away from Kaladin?"

"If possible." Sarus shrugged. "I doubt Highprince Dalinar would be bringing Brightlord Amaram to the barracks without cause. He was at the duel, he has more than sufficient cause to know of the… rivalry between the two of them."

"You think he's going to try and make Kaladin apologize?" Murk asked darkly.

"Dalinar isn't such a fool," Sarus said. "He trusts Kaladin. Unfortunately, he also trusts Brightlord Amaram. But I don't think he'll insist either man apologizes without proof of wrongdoing on their part."

"And there isn't any," Murk said.

"Just so. With luck, Kaladin won't be in the barracks."

Kaladin had lately taken to long, solitary walks around the warcamps and in the chasms. Sarus hadn't tried to follow him—Kaladin needed time to hash out the difficulties he was having with Syl, the struggle between his sense of honor, his oaths as a Windrunner, and his certainty that Elhokar was unfit as King of Alethkar. There was a time when Sarus thought his input in that struggle would have been welcome—but that time had passed when he had watched Kaladin be dragged off the sand and done nothing.

"We're not that lucky," Murk said.

"No," Sarus agreed. He shot Murk a look. "Has Kaladin told you? About what passed between him and Amaram?"

"No, but I've guessed some of it." Murk shook his head. "Amaram sent him down here, that much is clear. But that's not all, is it? He killed people Kaladin cared for."

"Yes," Sarus said. "And all the witnesses, so far as Kaladin or I can guess, are either dead or loyally Brightlord Amaram's."

"Pailiah's plucked eyebrows," Murk sighed. "So Dalinar just expects Kaladin to tolerate him?"

"Highprince Dalinar has a bad habit of assuming other men think the same way he does," Sarus said. "He tolerates Highprince Sadeas, after all, despite the betrayal at the tower, the deaths of a massive portion of his army, and the attempted assassinations of himself and his son. He will never trust Sadeas, of course, but nor is he forced to resist the almost overwhelming urge to strangle the man every time they meet. He doesn't understand why it would be different for Kaladin."

"At the risk of exposing my inner ardent," Murk said dryly, "the Almighty made each of us differently. For a man so devout as Highprince Dalinar, he seems not to understand a great deal about God."

"The attitude of most Highprinces is that matters of God are best left to their ardents," Sarus said. "So long as their ardents tell them the Almighty is pleased, they don't tend to consider the details." He shot Murk a look. "And I'm sure you're intimately familiar with what happens to ardents who say otherwise."

"Yeah." Murk's eyes were hooded. "Yeah, I am."

They rounded a corner and approached the barracks. Rock was outside, tending his cookfire, a red-brown stew slowly simmering in his large pot. "Captain," he greeted, nodding at Sarus. "How goes the mobilizing?"

"The army is hard at work," Sarus said. "I expect you will be out of here within a few hours at most."

Rock grimaced. "Is not right, that I go. I should stay."

"It's your choice, of course," Sarus said. "But I promise, you will have plenty of men to cook for in either case."

"Both you and Kaladin are staying here."

"Yes. And Murk, Moash, and half the crew are going with the army." He clapped a hand on Rock's shoulder. "We can survive a few weeks without your excellent cooking."

"If only Rlain were still here," Rock lamented. "He was beginning to learn! He could have stayed as cook for you here while I went with the army. But, alas." He shot Sarus a look. "Do you know where he went? I know he said he had to leave, but he did not say goodbye."

"Did you expect a parshman to say goodbye?" Murk asked.

"I expected Rlain to say goodbye," Rock said. "He told us his name. He was no longer an ordinary parshman. Not to us."

"I do not know where he went," Sarus lied. "I believe he left the warcamps. Perhaps, once the war is over, we will see him again."

"I hope so," Rock sighed. Then he glanced over at a commotion from one of the nearby barracks. "Oh, the Highprince is coming."

"Yes," Sarus said, following his gaze. "And with him, the esteemed Brightlord Amaram. Is Kaladin inside?"

"He is," said Rock grimly. "Saying goodbye to some of the men. But he will come out with them, I expect—soon. Should we…?"

"No point," Murk said, pointing. "Look, they're coming right towards us. They won't let Kaladin get out of this, whatever it is."

"Get out of what?" The barracks door opened, and Kaladin stepped out among a group of uniformed men of Bridge Four. "What's happening?"

Sarus nodded in the direction of the approaching lighteyes, flanked by Moash's squad. "We have guests," he said evenly. "We can run interference, Kaladin, if you like."

Kaladin was silent for a moment, his brown eyes hard as he stared at the approaching men. "No," he said finally. "No, I'll behave. Amaram will be gone soon anyway. He's going with the army, isn't he?"

"I believe so," said Sarus. "Though I don't think he's formally broken his fealty to Highprince Sadeas just yet."

Then there was no more time, as Dalinar and Amaram entered earshot. "Captain Sarus," the highprince called as they approached. "Is Kala—ah, there you are. I want a word."

"Yes sir," said Kaladin dully, eyes fixed on Amaram.

Sarus stepped to the side, carefully placing himself between Kaladin and Amaram without obstructing Dalinar's view of the man. "How can we help you, Brightlord?" he said politely, carefully looking only at Dalinar.

"This won't take long," Dalinar said, looking at the lighteyes beside him and gesturing to Kaladin. "Amaram. You told me you'd never seen this darkeyes before you came down to the Shattered Plains. Is that true?"

"Yes," Amaram said. Sarus almost laughed. The man couldn't even meet Dalinar's gaze, let alone Kaladin's. His expression was controlled passably well, and he kept his gaze moving between the former bridgemen as if surveying a troop of soldiers, so it might have fooled an ordinary, military-minded Alethi. But Sarus could easily imagine laughing with Tailiah over the transparency of the lie.

The image twisted the knot of old pain in his heart.

"What of his claim that you took your Blade and Plate from him?" Dalinar asked.

It took Sarus a moment to understand what Dalinar was doing. Then he got it. He's giving Amaram enough rope to hang himself with. What proof has he uncovered, I wonder?

"Brightlord," Amaram said, touching Dalinar's arm. "It's possible the lad served in my army—he bears the correct slave brand for my fief—but his allegations regarding me are preposterous. I couldn't tell you whether he merely seeks attention, or if he's touched in the head."

Sarus reached out without looking and closed his hand on Murk's wrist tightly before the man could do more than inhale. The no doubt blasphemous tirade cut off with a small squeak before he could launch into it.

Dalinar was nodding to himself, as if having something confirmed. "In that case, I believe an apology is due."

Kaladin's face fell, but Sarus shook his head, catching Kaladin's eye. "Not you," he said softly.

Kaladin frowned. "What?"

"Pardon, Captain?" asked Amaram.

Sarus turned, ignoring Amaram, and met Dalinar's intrigued gaze. "I do feel I should ask what proof you found convincing, Brightlord," he said. "Given Lieutenant Kaladin's word was clearly insufficient."

Amaram's eyes widened. He thrust his hand out to the side—a reflexive motion.

Sarus smiled at him. "Please," he said. "I would love the opportunity to relieve you of that Blade."

A Shardblade fell into a hand. But it was Dalinar's which came up to hold it at Amaram's throat. A moment later, a second fell into Amaram's grip. All around Sarus, soldiers had tensed, going for their weapons. Off to the side, he saw a third blade appear in Moash's palm.

Sarus himself remained perfectly still, standing between Kaladin and Amaram.

Amaram held perfectly still, staring down at the weapon mere inches from his throat. Silence fell for a long moment.

"There is a madman in the care of the king's ardents, Captain," Dalinar said conversationally. "A madman who was found with a Shardblade in Kholinar some months ago. He was sent down here shortly afterwards. I knew Amaram had snuck in to see him, so I asked him to investigate the man's claims—and specifically to find the man's missing Shardblade. I gave him several days to tell me, after he found it. He claimed that he had found nothing."

"Ah," Sarus said. "The Shardblade currently in your hand, I take it?"

Dalinar nodded. "I had hoped to put the Blade behind me," he said. "And I intend to do so again, once this coming battle is behind us. But it will be helpful in the coming days." He turned his face away from Sarus, looking back at Amaram. "So. Old friend."

"When did you…?" Amaram began.

"The week he spent sick, after Lieutenant Kaladin's arrest," Sarus said impatiently.

"Just so," Dalinar said. "After which, we hid the blade, and you found it. Four days ago. As long as I could possibly give you to come clean without risking that someone else would bond the Blade away from me."

"Damnation," Amaram sighed.

"Why, Amaram?" Dalinar asked, and the genuine hurt and confusion in his face stirred pity in Sarus' heart. "Of all people, I thought you were…" He let out a sound like a growl, his knuckles whitening on the hilt of his weapon.

"I did it," Amaram said, letting his own Shardblade dissipate into mist, "and I would do it again. The Voidbringers are returning, and we need practiced, competent Shardbearers to face them. In sacrificing a few of my soldiers, I hoped to save far more in the coming years."

"Liar!" Kaladin roared, suddenly shaking in rage. "You just wanted the Shards for yourself!"

"I am sorry," Amaram said, looking Kaladin in the face. There was something like relief in his expression, as if he was glad to finally have the lie in the open. "I wish what I did to you and yours had not been necessary. Sometimes, good men must die so that others can live."

Life before death, Sarus thought. And Dalinar put a Radiant cloak on your soldiers. If the Almighty exists, He has an impeccable sense of irony.

"What now?" Amaram asked Dalinar.

"You are guilty of murdering men for your personal gain," Dalinar said coldly.

"And how is that different than when you send thousands to die so that you may secure gemhearts, Dalinar? We all know that sometimes lives are the cost we pay for the greater good."

"Take off that cloak. You are no Radiant."

Amaram reached up and unclasped it. It fell into the dust at his feet. Then he turned to walk away, ignoring Dalinar's blade still hovering at his neck. Dalinar did not strike.

"No!" Kaladin said, starting after him. "You can't let him—"

"Let him go, son," Dalinar said. "His reputation is broken forever. That's all we can do for the moment."

"Not all," Sarus said softly. Then, raising his voice and lacing it with the strange power that made men heed, made them obey, he called out, "Hold a moment, Brightlord Amaram."

Amaram paused. Then he turned. There was none of the abject fear in his face that had filled Sadeas' assassins, for Sarus had been subtler this time—only enough to encourage Amaram, a man who desperately craved to be respected, to see this as an opportunity to do so. "Yes, Captain?"

"A word, before you go." Sarus stepped towards him, walking past Dalinar's Shardblade without a second glance. "Am I right in thinking," he said, "that if Kaladin had taken the Shards for himself, rather than trying to give him to one of his men, that you would have let him keep them?"

Amaram frowned at him. "I had intended to, yes. He fought a Shardbearer with nothing but a spear. He would have been magnificent with Shards. That's exactly what we need to be ready for the coming Desolation."

Sarus nodded. "And did it not occur to you to say that to him?"

Amaram started, blinking at him. "I—"

Sarus leaned forward. "Isn't it wonderful," he murmured, "when we can have everything we have ever wanted, and call it righteousness, only by choosing not to look for a better path?"

Amaram paled. "I—"

"Isn't it wonderful," Sarus continued, still in a tone barely above a whisper, "when the only sacrifices made in service to the greater good are those other people make? Isn't it wonderful when the needs of the many and the needs of the self are so perfectly in line?"

"What are you implying?" Amaram growled, voice shaking.

Sarus smiled at him. Amaram was perhaps an inch or two shorter than he was, but somehow the man seemed to be standing in his shadow. "I do not think honor is a flexible thing, Brightlord," he said. "It does not stretch. It breaks."

He stayed just long enough to watch Amaram's expression shudder. Then he turned and walked back to Dalinar and Kaladin. "There," he said quietly to them. "That is all we can do to him for now."

Dalinar looked past him as Amaram walked away. Sarus could hear the man's footsteps—not running, but certainly a hurried walk. "What on Roshar did you say to him, Captain?"

"He thought he was speaking the truth," Sarus said. "I made him understand that he was mistaken—one liar to another." He met Dalinar's eyes. "In future, Brightlord, I ask that you inform the captain of your guard of such things. It would have been helpful to know that we had a Blade behind us when we stood outside your room."

"You know as well as I do, Captain, that secrets have a way of getting back to Sadeas," Dalinar said dryly. "And Sadeas would be only too glad to share this with Amaram."

Sarus shrugged. "I would like to think you would understand that you can trust me, at least, not to betray your secrets to Highprince Sadeas."

Dalinar sighed. "You make a good point, Captain. Partly, I hadn't yet grown used to the idea of you as captain of my guard. Your appointment was barely a day old at that point."

"True enough." Sarus shrugged, as if the oversight didn't matter, as if the reminder that in Dalinar's mind he would never be the true leader of Bridge Four didn't sting. "I doubt Amaram will be joining you on the assault after this. Do you have any standing orders regarding him for those of us who remain here?"

"Just be careful with him. I don't think he has any cause to seek harm to the king, but he's shown himself a liar and a cremling. I've misjudged him once already."

"Understood, Brightlord."

"On that topic," Dalinar said. "Are you certain I can't entice you—either of you—to join us on the assault?" He looked between Sarus and Kaladin. "You're excellent soldiers and officers, the both of you. I'd be glad to have you."

"Someone has to watch His Majesty," Sarus said.

"And I'd rather not go back out on those plateaus again," Kaladin said. "Not that far."

Dalinar nodded. "Very well." He grasped Kaladin's shoulder. "I don't hold that against you, son. You extracted that promise from me for a reason, all those weeks ago, and I'm glad to honor it."

Kaladin looked away. "Thanks."

Dalinar stepped back. "Keep my nephew safe while I'm gone."

"We will," Sarus said. "End this war for us, Brightlord."

Dalinar smiled. "I will."

As he left, Moash met Sarus' gaze. The man's eyes truly had lightened, slowly turning into a pale tan. The process hadn't completed yet, but Sarus knew that in a few short months Moash would be unmistakably lighteyed. Carrying his Blade, clad in his red-on-blue Plate, he would blend in perfectly among the other fourth-dahn brightlords.

As several of the men approached Kaladin to say goodbye, Sarus approached Bridge Four's only Shardbearer. "Keep Dalinar safe," he said. "We will need him as much as ever, even if the coming battle goes as well as he hopes."

"I will," Moash said. "You do the same with Elhokar. Like it or not, we need him. And if he keeps listening to you, maybe he'll be less terrible one day."

"We can only hope."

Moash saluted him, Shardplate gleaming in the late morning light. "I'll see you in a few weeks, Captain."

Sarus saluted back. "Best of luck, Lieutenant. Now go—you're still on duty. Kaladin and I will come to see you off."

Moash grinned, then turned to follow Dalinar, taking his squad with him.

103

LithosMaitreya

Feb 12, 2024

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Threadmarks 66: Ishatev

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LithosMaitreya

Character Witness

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Feb 19, 2024

#1,598

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

-x-x-x-

Ishatev

-x-x-x-

Perhaps no one will read this. It seems all too probable, given that if we fail, Yolen is unlikely to survive.

-x-x-x-

Four. The number was in Renarin's head from the moment he awoke, the patter of the Weeping rains drumming on the fabric of his tent. It was there as he went about his morning routine—washing, dressing, shaving. Four.

Four more days. On the fifth…

He paused halfway through washing his hands in a basin of water, staring at his spherelit face reflected in the ripples.

Renarin? Glys asked. The mistspren barely came out of hiding anymore, with as little privacy as Renarin had in the midst of an army on the march.

"It's Ishatev," Renarin whispered. "Four more days until Ishishach."

Yes. Glys was silent for a moment. Are you afraid?

"Of course," Renarin said. "Aren't you?"

Extremely.

"Do you think… maybe we shouldn't be here?" Renarin asked. "I'm not a warrior, like Father or Adolin. What am I doing here?"

You're a Radiant, Glys said. It's not always about who can hit harder. You're a Truthwatcher. That means you see clearly. Sometimes that makes all the difference. Besides, you defeated that Shardbearer in the arena.

"With Surgebinding," Renarin said. "Which I barely even know how to use. And Stormlight is in short supply, anyway, with the Weeping."

There's still plenty in spheres, for now. We may not have had as much time as I'd like to train, but you're talented. It'll be okay. Besides… where would we run? When the Everstorm strikes, nowhere will be safe.

Renarin's lips twitched. "That's comforting, I suppose."

Is it? I wasn't sure.

"Yes. I once heard an ardent say before a battle that it was better to die in honor than to live in shame. Whether or not he was right, in this case I'm likely to die either way. That makes the decision easy, doesn't it?"

…I guess so. But try not to die, all right?

"I'll do my best."

-x-x-x-

"Prince Renarin," Moash said, saluting. The rest of Bridge Four looked up from their breakfast. Several of them held up their hands in greeting.

"Ah, you have come for breakfast!" Rock said in his booming voice, ladling a helping of stew and holding out a bowl.

Renarin took it gratefully. "Thank you, Rock." He looked at Moash. "How is the march going for all of you?"

"Well enough," said Moash. "I think we've all slept in worse conditions."

"At least we had a roof over our heads in the bridge crews," grumbled a man sitting cross-legged on the ground. Renarin didn't recognize him—he must be one of the recruits from the other former bridge crews.

Gadol, sitting on a stump beside him, aimed a kick at his side. "Don't be an idiot," he said. "A roof over our heads at night, and a bridge over our heads in the daytime. I'll take this, thanks."

Moash rolled his eyes at them, then turned back to Renarin. "You need something from us?"

Renarin shook his head. I know I'm not really one of you, he wanted to say. But I want to be. I really, really want to be. But he didn't.

"In that case," Murk said from the other side of the cookfire, "maybe you can help us. Do you know where in the formation you and your family are going to be marching today?"

"My father and Adolin have both been spending much of their time with Brightness Shallan," Renarin said. The young Veden woman had been researching the chasms since her arrival on the Plains, and it seemed that after a conversation with Wit—who Renarin hadn't seen since running into him disguised as one of Sadeas' ardents—she'd had an epiphany which allowed her to passably navigate the plateaus. She had been assisting the highprinces in finding a path for the army since they departed four days ago. "I expect they'll march near Sebarial's army for that reason."

"Right, the girl's staying with Sebarial, isn't she?" Moash asked.

"I suspect she's the only reason he's marching with us," Renarin admitted.

"Safe bet," murmured Murk. "Given how rarely he participated in plateau runs." He looked over at Moash. "If the Highprince and Adolin are sticking together, that makes our job easier."

"What about you, Renarin?" Moash asked. "What are you planning for the day?"

Renarin shrugged self-consciously. "I thought about joining the scouts marching ahead of the army?" Mostly, Renarin just wanted to get out of the thick of the encampment. So many men bustling around, all of them offering him deference, most of them doing so reluctantly… it was overwhelming.

"We shouldn't see any Parshendi," Murk said. "Haven't yet. Moash—you take your squad with Renarin, and I'll watch the Highprince with an expanded squad in case Prince Adolin decides to go off on his own."

Moash nodded. "Let me get my Plate on, and we'll head out, Renarin."

"I should do the same," Renarin admitted reluctantly. "I'll meet you at the perimeter."

Less than an hour later, Renarin found himself astride Melial riding ahead of the army, circling along the outer edge of the next plateau on their route. One of Aladar's bridge crews—a group of wretched, exhausted-looking men—laid their bridge across the chasm to allow Renarin and his guards to cross ahead of the army and their slower, chull-pulled bridges.

"This is weird," Moash muttered as they stepped onto the rock on the chasm's far side. "It feels wrong."

"I agree," said Renarin quietly. "But we won't let them be used the way you were. No running directly into archers. And hopefully, in a few days, bridge crews won't be necessary any longer."

"You think we're that close?" Moash asked. "The Shattered Plains are big. And we're not exactly making great time."

We have to, Renarin thought. Four days. If we haven't found the Parshendi within four days, it's all over. But aloud, all he said was, "Brightness Shallan learned from my cousin Jasnah. If she thinks she can navigate the Plains, I believe her."

"Lot of trust to give someone you haven't known all that long," Moash said.

"I see it as trust in Jasnah," Renarin said. "And I've known Jasnah since I was an infant."

"I suppose so." Moash hesitated. "I'm sorry about her. I heard she died."

Renarin grimaced. He had seen Jasnah in visions since that event—Jasnah at the front of an army, clad in blue-green Plate with a simple, straight Shardblade in her hands. He didn't believe she was dead, but he couldn't exactly say that.

And he did miss her. More now than he did when his family was at least receiving word from her periodically. He hoped she was doing well, wherever she was.

"What's that?" Gadol called out suddenly, pointing. It took Renarin a moment to identify the dark mass on the rock as a body—a body with black and red marbling across its skin, and thin ridges of carapace protruding from the arms, legs, and head.

"It's a Parshendi!" he said, spurring Melial towards the corpse. He slid off the mare as he drew near, kneeling beside the body.

It looks different from the soldiers we used to see, Glys observed.

Do you know why?

I probably did before I came to the Physical Realm. I don't anymore.

The body had breasts, more prominent ones than Renarin could remember ever seeing on a Parshendi before—although those he'd encountered in the past might have simply hidden any curves under their carapace armor. She wore cloth armor, cut with slits in specific places to allow the ridges of hard chitin to emerge. On an instinct, Renarin reached out and peeled back one of her closed eyelids.

A dull red eye glared at nothing.

"Never seen a Parshendi with red eyes like that," Moash said.

Renarin swallowed and let the eye fall shut again. "Nor have I," he said. Not outside of my visions.

"We should report this in," Moash said. "If nothing else, it's probably a sign that we're—"

"Sir, look!" Eth called, grabbing for the spear on his back.

Moash turned, quick as only a man in Plate could be, already thrusting out his hand to call his Blade. Renarin did the same, though he hesitated to call for his weapon.

A figure stood on the next plateau over, watching them. When it saw that it had their attention, it started running towards the chasm. A single, powerful leap took it all the way across the gap until it landed only a few dozen paces from them. It was a Parshendi, this one clad in the same sort of heavy carapace armor Renarin had been seeing for five years.

"Alethi," the figure called in a deep voice. He spoke in a strange, rhythmic cadence, as was typical of his people. "I would like to surrender. I bring news to your Highprince Dalinar."

Moash pointed his Shardblade at the Parshendi. "What brought this on?" he asked. "Parshendi never surrender."

The Parshendi's humming changed to a confusing, staccato beat of irregular tones. "We tried, in the early days of this war," he said. "Our people were slaughtered for attempting so."

"That… makes sense," Renarin sighed, something slotting into place.

Moash shot him a look. "Your father would never kill a soldier after they surrender."

The Blackthorn would. "But Sadeas would," Renarin pointed out. "As would Ruthar, and several of the others. To the Parshendi, we're all just Alethi. How are they to know the differences between the princedoms?" He turned to look at the Parshendi. "I am Prince Renarin of House Kholin," he called. "I accept your surrender. Come with us, and you won't be harmed."

The Parshendi approached. "House Kholin," he said slowly. "I was told to seek out Highprince Dalinar of House Kholin. Are you related to him?"

"He is my father," Renarin said. "Come, we'll take you to him. What's your name?"

The Parshendi hesitated for a moment. "I am Thude," he said finally.

-x-x-x-

Renarin looked up as his father stepped inside the tent. He slipped off his rain cloak and hung it on a post before coming towards the table where Renarin and Adolin were seated.

Adolin offered their father a glass of orange wine. "Did the prisoner have anything to say?"

"Several things," Dalinar said grimly. "Some of which confirmed some of young Shallan's suspicions."

"What suspicions?" Renarin asked.

"Among other things, he explained that Parshendi can take different 'forms', one of which looks nearly identical to a parshman. He did not directly confirm it, and I did not ask, but I suspect they've had spies in the warcamps in disguise as parshmen since the war began."

Rlain, Renarin realized. The parshman of Bridge Four, beside whom he had defended Sarus' bed as he recovered from the Assassin in White's attack. He had known peripherally that Rlain had vanished, but he had not made the connection until now. He wondered if Sarus had known.

"I suspect," Dalinar continued, "that I finally know what the warnings I've found etched on my walls have been referring to, these past weeks."

"What?" Adolin asked, leaning forward.

"Thude claims that one of his people's leaders has devised a plan. She claims that a new form—they call it stormform—will allow her people to summon a highstorm in the middle of the weeping, but it's more than that. He claims that one of their spies, a friend of his, believes that this plan will be the tipping point that begins a new Desolation."

Adolin breathed in sharply. "How do the Parshendi even know about the Desolations?" he asked.

"I don't know if they do," Dalinar said. "But that spy did. It was he who told Thude to bring word to me that the Parshendi gods—the beings who grant this new form of theirs the power to summon a storm—are the same as those we remember as Voidbringers."

"And you believe this spy?" Adolin asked.

"I wouldn't," Dalinar said grimly, "if Shallan hadn't told me that Jasnah had concluded something very similar. Jasnah apparently believed that the parshmen—all parshmen—are themselves the Voidbringers of myth, somehow rendered docile. I don't know how it all fits together—the Parshendi gods, this highstorm, the parshmen being Voidbringers—but I am more certain than ever that it does. And in four days, that storm will be summoned. Whatever the Parshendi are planning, it will happen then. We have to reach their city before that point, and stop them."

"May I speak with him?" Renarin asked suddenly.

Dalinar blinked at him. "Son? I suppose, but why?"

"Just… curious about something," he said. "Excuse me a moment."

He left the table, setting down his own barely-sipped glass of orange wine, and slipped outside with a rain cloak. He crossed to the nearby tent where two of Bridge Four stood guard. They let him pass without a word.

Thude looked up as Renarin entered. "Renarin Kholin," he said. "Does your father have further questions for me?"

"Not now, no," Renarin said, sitting in the chair in front of Thude's makeshift cell. It wasn't the most secure way to hold a prisoner, just a loose cage of iron bars held shut with a length of chain, but the Parshendi hadn't tried to resist. "But I do." He looked the prisoner in the eye. "Do you know if one of your spies was named Rlain?"

The rhythm underlying Thude's voice, which he seemed to be humming constantly, changed suddenly. "Why do you ask?"

"Because I knew a Rlain in the warcamps," Renarin said. "I… like to think I considered him a friend." They hadn't exactly been close, but Renarin had felt a sort of kinship with the parshman—his fellow outcast within Bridge Four, both of them only barely considered members of the group. "He vanished a handful of weeks ago. I was told he had decided to leave."

Thude was silent.

"Please," Renarin said. "I just want to know if I should expect to face him in battle. All of Bridge Four will want to know. They've been worrying about him."

"You know Bridge Four?" Thude asked.

Renarin's heart stuttered. "I'm… sort of a member?"

Thude studied him for a moment. "Rlain returned to Narak perhaps three or four of your weeks ago," he said finally. "Several storms before the Weeping. It was he who gave me the opportunity to escape with our elderly, our infirm, and those who protested the change to stormform."

Renarin breathed in. "But he didn't come with you?"

"No," Thude said quietly, a different rhythm coloring his voice. "He said he had a plan, but I had to flee before I had an opportunity to hear it from him. I suspect he was hoping he could convince Eshonai to turn aside from her current course."

"Eshonai?"

"She was once the leader of our soldiers," Thude said. "And my friend. But she was the first of us to take stormform, and since then she has gone mad. Rlain would have to take the form as well to remain in Narak. I do not know if the same madness would have corrupted him. I hope it has not… but I do not know how he could escape it."

Renarin swallowed. "So… as far as you know, he's in your city as just another of our enemies, now."

"As far as I know, yes." Thude's words were spoken to a dark, plodding rhythm, not unlike a funeral dirge.

Renarin took a deep breath and stood up. "Thank you," he said. "The rest of Bridge Four will want to know about this. I appreciate your trust."

"It is best this way," Thude murmured. "If he has truly been corrupted, his friends should know that he may have betrayed any secrets he refused to divulge when he was sane."

Renarin's heart sank. "I'll tell them," he promised, before fleeing the tent.

-x-x-x-

"We should have known, honestly," Moash said, staring into the campfire where it burned beneath a canvas cover to protect it from the Weeping rains. The men of Bridge Four were all huddled around, clad in rain cloaks over their blue uniforms, faces set in various states of despondency and grimness.

"He might still be all right," Murk said.

"Oh, he's all right for sure," snarled Gadol. "All right, after betraying us to the enemy!"

"He was trying to stop the Parshendi from—whatever they're planning," Renarin reminded him.

"Still a Parshendi," Gadol growled. "Still one of those storming cremlings who shot at us every day for months. He was one of them. The enemy."

"Since when was the War of Reckoning our war, Gadol?" Murk asked tiredly. "What, are you a royalist now?"

"Gavilar was a great king!"

"So? You're a darkeyes. Great kings have just as many slaves as bad ones. Just as many darkeyes starve under their rule."

Renarin looked away, gazing into the Weeping rain.

"Airsick lowlander," Rock rumbled. "To you Alethi, this war has been about vengeance. Avenging a man you have never met, and paying thousands of lives to do it. Only really, it has been about enriching highprinces you have also never met, and spending even more lives to do that. But for the Lefu'tala'liki, the Parshendi? It has always been about survival. They are not the invaders. You are."

"They did kill our king," Moash pointed out dryly, though it seemed more a casual comment than an expression of true anger.

"And we never found out why," Renarin said softly. He didn't exactly miss Uncle Gavilar—in fact, given how much better his father had been doing since the king's death, he couldn't even muster up any real grief. Gavilar had never liked him, had never liked that Renarin had not matched his expectations for what a prince of House Kholin should be. "They must have had a reason. My father and Adolin tried to get it out of their envoy, when they parleyed a few weeks ago. She said that Uncle Gavilar had promised to summon back their gods, or something of the sort. Now he's dead, probably because they didn't want that. But because we're threatening them with extinction, they're going to do it themselves."

"Talenelat's missing toenails," muttered Murk. "So all of this could have been avoided if they'd just spoken with us, or we'd spoken with them?"

"All war is like this," Rock said. "Whether the smallest argument over a single homestead, or a great war for the fate of a nation. It is your airsickness that makes you leap to war first, instead of trying to talk."

"It's not as though Horneater tribes don't have small wars over their mountains," Murk said. "Otherwise, why would you be here, hm?"

Rock was silent. "Perhaps you are right, Murk," he said quietly. "Perhaps we Unkalaki are no better."

"It's not about who's better," Moash said. "None of this was any of our fault. We didn't assassinate Gavilar, and we didn't decide to go to war over it. We didn't decide to summon a highstorm, and we didn't decide to attack the Parshendi city. We're just caught up in it. So." He stood up. "We do our duty. Like Kaladin and Sarus taught us. We're not here to kill Parshendi, or to win glory. We're here to keep House Kholin safe on the battlefield, and that's what we'll do." He grimaced, narrowing his light tan eyes. "I'll probably need to learn about all of this diplomatic and religious nonsense eventually. I'm a lighteyes now, I guess. But the rest of you don't, and I'm honestly envious."

"Oh, poor lighteyed Moash," sneered Gadol. "How sad for—"

"That's enough out of you, Gadol," Murk snapped. "What's wrong with you, anyway? You're even pricklier than usual."

Gadol was silent for a moment. Then he muttered, "Sorry, Moash."

"It's fine," Moash said curtly. "I get it, Gadol. I've spent years hating lighteyes. I still hate lighteyes, in general. Doesn't feel great being one of them, now. I keep worrying… worrying I'll wake up one morning having forgotten what it was like to have to bow and scrape and salute all the time. I get it. What is bothering you, though?"

"…I just wish Kal were here," Gadol said. "Or even Sarus. No offense, but it feels wrong having you and Murk in charge."

"None taken," Murk said with a dry laugh. "I feel the same way."

"Me too," Moash said. "But neither of them wanted to come, and can you really blame them? After everything?" He sighed. "Anyway. It's late, and we've got another day of marching in the morning. Renarin, you should get to bed too."

Renarin nodded, standing up. Three, he thought. In the morning, it will be three more days.

"Night shift, escort him back to his tent," Moash said. "I'm going to bed. I'll see all of your ugly faces in the morning."

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LithosMaitreya

Feb 19, 2024

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Threadmarks 67: Make the City a Wall

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LithosMaitreya

Character Witness

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Feb 26, 2024

#1,603

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

-x-x-x-

Make the City a Wall

-x-x-x-

But I joined this company because I had hope. Hope that this cosmere, this fragment of the world-that-was, would see many more sunrises.

-x-x-x-

"You are sure of this?" Eshonai asked, her words undercut with the discordant tones of the Rhythm of Spite. "The Alethi hate each other so much that they would sabotage their own war?"

"Absolutely," Rlain said to Derision. The new Rhythms came so easily to him now, and their names seemed to offer themselves to him without even being sought. "The rivalry between Dalinar and Sadeas is such that if they thought they could get away with it, they would kill each other in a heartbeat. Sadeas has tried."

"Yes," she said. "The battle where he abandoned Dalinar's army. You told me."

"Exactly. I do not know which of the other Highprincedoms will join Dalinar's assault, but I know for certain that Sadeas, at least, will not. And I would guess that at least half of them will join his inaction. They are indolent, complacent, and petty. This war does not matter to them. They do not wish to drive us extinct, that is just a side benefit to the chasmfiend hunts and the wealth they gain through the gemhearts they extract."

Eshonai growled to the Rhythm of Fury. "Despicable. But you do not know which princedoms will join Dalinar?"

"No," Rlain said. "I…" He stopped.

She looked at him. "Yes?"

He shook his head sharply and continued. "I was starting to learn the differences between the princedoms before I left the warcamps," he said to Destruction. "But I had only gleaned a few details. Kholin has superior heavy cavalry to the others. Sadeas has faster light cavalry. Politically, I know that both Sadeas and Kholin were courting Aladar, and that Ruthar was a solid ally of Sadeas. So Ruthar, at least, will not be present."

"Which army is Ruthar?"

"His colors are dark red, like human blood, and light blue, like the summer sky."

Eshonai nodded. "His heavy infantry is among the most skilled, I believe. We can expect the army not to have those." She hummed to Command—a prouder, more condescending form of the old Rhythm of Appreciation. "Your insight is appreciated, Rlain. We can make use of this."

"Good," Rlain said to Satisfaction. "Do we know when the Alethi will arrive?"

"Soon," Eshonai said to the dark tones of Craving. "Today, perhaps. See if any of the outer scouts have reported."

"I will," Rlain said, and left the tent.

As he walked through Narak, passing hundreds of other Listeners in stormform, he hummed softly to himself in the Rhythm of Withdrawal. It was still one of the new Rhythms, but it was a relatively calm, sedate one. It gave him the space to think.

He had almost betrayed Sarus. His name had almost slipped out when he had been explaining what he knew of the highprincedoms.

Would that have been so bad? crooned the voice in his head masquerading as his own thoughts. It's just a name. It's not like you'd be telling her his story, or that he knows about you, or that he broke a Shardblade rather than dying to it. It's just his name. It's nothing. It wouldn't matter.

Rlain kept humming to Withdrawal.

He had spent the two days between Thude's escape with the other dissidents and his transformation constantly thinking—trying to guess at how stormform's influence over those Listeners who took it worked, trying to develop strategies that might allow him to keep his mind. In the end, he had concluded that his best hope was to set for himself a few specific commitments—promises he must not break under any circumstances. It seemed to him that stormform was able to change what those who took it wanted. But he hoped, at least, that it could not actively force him to change a decision he had already made, even if it could strongly encourage him to make a different one.

He had been right.

If Rlain's mind, before, had been a city, surrounded by high walls to keep out intruders and foes, then stormform had invited an enemy inside those walls. It had allowed an infiltrator access to his soul. But that infiltrator was not the being making his decisions. No, he was still making his own decisions. All the infiltrator could do was shade the world before his eyes, change the way his emotions and thoughts responded to them.

On the first day, it had tried to overwhelm him. Tried to fill him with rage and hate—with the Rhythms of Fury, Spite, and Executions—at the thought and memory of the Alethi. Of his friends in Bridge Four. This, it could do. On that first day, he had been boiling with hate for Sarus and Kaladin, for Rock, Murk, Moash, and Renarin. For all the humans he had come to care for.

But that had shown the infiltrator's hand. Rlain had known to expect his thoughts and feelings to be manipulated. So he had transformed his own mind. What had once been a city at peace, surrounded by a wall, had become a warcamp. He had turned all of himself to the singular goal of remaining loyal to the person he had been before he had transformed. No matter how wrong those decisions felt now.

He had made the city of his mind into a wall, standing between the gods and his friends. And though the infiltrator in his mind did all it could to corrode his foundations and wrench open his gates, for now at least he stood tall.

He could not do everything. It was difficult to remember exactly what he did and did not want to confess. He wasn't sure, any longer, whether the Rlain of two weeks ago would have approved of all he had told Eshonai about the Alethi highprincedoms. It was potentially useful information to the Listener armies. Was that alone reason enough for him to try and hold it back? He couldn't remember. It was not covered by the specific lines he had set for himself, the limitations and goals he had clung to as the stormspren twisted his gemheart and turned his world red.

Tell no Listener in stormform of Bridge Four.

Get Eshonai to leave stormform.

Prevent the storm from being summoned.

Prevent the gods from returning.

Tell no Listener in stormform of these principles.

On that first day, as hate burned in his gemheart for the men of Bridge Four, he had been sorely tempted to break those principles. But no matter how his heart and mind betrayed him, he remained in control. It might be a stormspren, corrupt and hateful, within his gemheart—but it was still his gemheart.

The infiltrator had since changed tack. Now it tried to convince him to make smaller betrayals. Not to turn completely against Bridge Four, but simply to be less careful with their names, their existence. Not to give up on getting Eshonai out of stormform, but to be careless with that goal—to openly tell her that he had thought she might benefit from some time out of the new form, and thus expose himself to punishment, imprisonment, or death.

And almost as insidious was the thrill he felt every time he flexed, or clenched his fist, and felt power lurking just beneath his skin, or even sparking atop it. The intoxicating, heady rush as he exercised his newfound strength. The temptation to test the limits of stormform was constant. Eshonai had more than once commented on how well he had taken to the Form of Power.

It would be easier if the infiltrator had its own voice. But it did not. It was his own voice, murmuring in his own head, indistinguishable from his own thoughts except by the content of its words.

"Rlain, sir!"

He turned, allowing the Rhythm of Withdrawal to slip away in favor of Craving. Melu, who had taken on rotations as one of the scouts of the outer perimeter, was approaching at a run. She did not call out to him as she drew near. Instead she ran until she was immediately beside him, near enough to whisper.

"They are coming," she said to Exultation. "They will be here in a matter of hours."

He hummed to Exultation alongside her. "Good," he said. "I will report to Eshonai. Be ready—the order to begin summoning the storm will come soon."

He turned and jogged back to the command tent. Eshonai looked up as he entered. Her red eyes—beautiful, beautiful red eyes—flashed. "Are they here?"

"Near the outer perimeter," Rlain said. "They will be here in a few hours."

"Excellent," she said, stepping away from the table and the map of Narak spread across it. "Then we should…" She paused, hesitating.

A spren, like a ball of white light which left a fading trail behind it as it moved, darted out from somewhere and orbited Eshonai's head. She slapped it away, but it dodged her hand and kept moving insistently.

Neshua Kadal, Rlain thought.

No! said a voice that sounded like Rlain's thoughts. The Radiants were the enemies of my people. They slaughtered us for centuries! Hunted us like animals! Their spren would never choose one of us!

Neshua Kadal, Rlain thought.

"Eshonai," he said to Craving. "That spren…"

"It has been hounding me for weeks," Eshonai growled to Spite.

"What sort of spren is it?"

"I have no idea."

"I think it might be—"

"Sister." Venli stepped inside the tent. The spren darted under the table the moment the tent opened. "The scouts have reported back. The Alethi will be here soon."

"Yes," Eshonai said. "Rlain reported as much." She hesitated once more. "Give the order that everyone is to assemble on the western bulwark of the city. We will meet them there."

"I will tell them." Venli said. "And I will tell them to begin singing the Rhythm of Storms."

"No," Eshonai said.

Rlain's gemheart sank. He took that as an excellent sign. He turned to Eshonai. "No?" he asked.

"No," Eshonai repeated, speaking to Spite. "We must all start at once, to ensure we are all summoning the same storm, rather than many different storms. Besides, starting in unison when the Alethi are near enough to hear… it will intimidate them. They will not know what to do."

"That will delay us," Venli warned to Derision. "We should start at once. A few hand-sized storms while the more foolish learn to synchronize with the rest will be no price to pay for the extra time."

"You have my orders," snapped Eshonai, suddenly speaking to Fury. "Spread them, dear sister. Now."

Venli bared her flat teeth, humming to Spite. But she turned and went to obey.

"You too, Rlain," Eshonai said. "I will meet you at the western plateau."

"Yes, sir," he said, leaping to obey. It was only when he had run from the tent that he realized that his instinct to rush to obedience had kept him from telling Eshonai about her spren, about his suspicions.

I must not tell her, whispered the thoughts in his mind. I must not distract her. Besides, it could expose me, could expose my secrets. Could expose Bridge Four. There will be time—

There will not be time! His own thoughts bellowed, overruling the corruptive voice. I have to tell her now! Now, before the storm is summoned and the gods return!

He turned and ran back to Eshonai's tent, but she was already gone. He caught himself humming to the new Rhythm of Relief.

There, came thoughts in his voice. She is not here. I cannot tell her. Not now.

Then I will tell her at the western plateau, he told himself firmly. No excuses. This is a line I set for myself. Eshonai must understand. This is my last chance. My very last chance.

He left the tent and began going among the Listeners, telling everyone he found to assemble at the western plateau. "The Alethi are coming," he told them. "The battle will begin soon." The Rhythm of Craving rose up to a fever pitch throughout the city of Narak, a cacophony of discordant voices all crying out for bloodshed and death. As the tension mounted, he caught himself flexing his arms, allowing lightning to arc down them in a trickle of glorious power.

An hour later, he started pushing through the battle lines, trying to make it to the front. I don't have a place there, thoughts that sounded like his own said. I am not one of the Listeners' commanders. I am merely a soldier in the army. What place have I at the head of our people?

It is where Eshonai is, he thought. I must speak to her, so that is where I must be.

I don't need to speak to her! I don't! This is frivolous—it's just a random spren! I've never even seen a spren like that! I'm grasping at straws.

He forced his fists to unclench. Your desperation, he told his own voice, tells me all I need to know. There is still hope.

It had been days since he hummed one of the old Rhythms. But in that moment, Resolve rose up in him, and it drove away the infiltrator in his mind.

"Silence!" The order was bellowed from the front of the line. All at once, the Rhythm of Craving fell away, leaving the assembled Listeners waiting in restless quietude. Those nearest him shot him odd looks as he pushed past them, still humming to the Rhythm of Resolve.

Finally, he was there—at the front of the army. His breath caught.

The Alethi were there—two chasms away, only a narrow plateau between them and Narak. He could make out the colorful Shardplate of a few of their highprinces near the front.

"I ordered silence," Eshonai said sharply, to Rebuke.

Rlain turned to her, still humming to Resolve. "There are Neshua Kadal among the humans," he said.

Her eyes went wide. "What—"

"The Neshua Kadal form bonds with strange spren," he continued, still to Resolve. "Spren who can think, who can speak. Spren who need their partners to think better, and which provide their partners with power in return. Neshua Kadal, Eshonai, who are sworn to battle the gods, to oppose their return."

"And you think they can stop us?" Venli asked to ridicule.

"No," Rlain said. "I think, Eshonai, that the spren which has been following you since you entered this Form of Power is one of them."

Eshonai, who had been humming Rebuke, stuttered to silence. So did Venli. The assembled commanders were quiet for a long moment. In the distance, Rlain could just barely hear Highprince Dalinar addressing his soldiers, though his words were lost to the Weeping rains.

"You think I," Eshonai whispered, to the old Rhythm of Awe, "am a Neshua Kadal? A Knight Radiant?"

The ball of white light—the spren which held the key to Eshonai's freedom and his people's survival, appeared beside Eshonai's shoulder and orbited her head. Her red eyes followed it, wide with wonder.

"I—" Rlain began.

"Enough of this nonsense," Venli snapped to Fury. "If you will not give the order, Sister, I will." She raised her voice in the Rhythm of Command. "Begin the Rhythm of Storms!"

All around Rlain, the Rhythm of Storms surged up like the waters rising in the chasms during a highstorm. He felt it in the carapace of his form, red lightning arcing through his body in a rush of power.

"Ruash, Anla," Venli said, speaking words into the wordless Rhythm. "Take Rlain away and lock him away somewhere in Narak. Then return."

"Yes, sir," said a Listener beside Rlain, and two sets of arms seized him.

The spren in Rlain's gemheart surged with rage. How dare they lay hands on me? he thought, and for a moment he could not tell whether they were his own thoughts or those of the infiltrator in his mind. He jerked his arms free, crackling with red lightning, and rounded on Ruash and Anla, who took a startled step back from him, red eyes wide.

For a moment he stood there, hackles raised, fists clenched and halfway to a brawler's guard, electricity arcing down his arms as they hurriedly prepared to meet his aggression with their own.

Then he blinked away the red fog creeping up in his vision. He noticed the dozen stormform listeners all around him, all ready to strike. All ready to collapse upon him.

I'm more powerful than they are, thought a voice in his head. I can take them. I can take them all.

But this time, Rlain recognized the line between himself and the spren. Yes, he wanted to remain free. But he wanted to remain free so that he could persuade Eshonai. Something he could not do if he was dead, and something he would not be able to do if she was furious with him for killing her subordinates.

There was no point in fighting now. It would achieve nothing except guaranteeing his own death, failure, or both.

He lowered his fists. As half a dozen Listeners leapt on him, pinning his arms to his sides and beginning to drag him away, he met Eshonai's still-wide eyes. "Neshua Kadal," he said, still to Resolve. And then the crush of bodies closed up between them and he lost sight of her.

109

LithosMaitreya

Feb 26, 2024

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Threadmarks 68: Something of Worth

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LithosMaitreya

Character Witness

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Mar 4, 2024

#1,613

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

-x-x-x-

Something of Worth

-x-x-x-

I helped gather the Dawnshards. I provided the dragonsteel to house them. I helped forge them into the Shatterer.

-x-x-x-

Sarus leaned back against the wall of the barracks, staring out at the curtains of rain falling over the quiet warcamp. He half expected an attack to come from Sadeas or Ruthar, with most of the army off attacking the Parshendi. So far, no such attack had come. But he was alert to the possibility.

It felt like Sarus was always alert these days. Alert to the risk of an attack from Sadeas. Alert to any sign of a man meeting Moash's description of Graves. Alert to the possibility that the assassins might try something subtler than a direct assault with their Shardbearer. Alert to the risk of inflaming Elhokar's paranoia.

He was doing his best to keep the guard rotations irregular. If Kaladin was in charge of the same shift watching over Elhokar each day, it would be all too easy for the conspirators to plan their attack around one of his shifts, or at the shift where neither Kaladin nor Sarus were on duty. So Sarus ensured that those shifts were never at the same time more than two days in a row. He didn't know whether the conspirators would feel confident that Kaladin's imprisonment would have made him willing to stand aside if they attempted to kill Elhokar—he wasn't even sure whether Kaladin was still willing to stand aside if they made an attempt—but it was something he would have considered, at least, if he were them.

So even though it was currently Kaladin's shift, even though Sarus should probably be sleeping, preparing for his own shift in a few hours—he was taking two five-hour shifts a day, to maximize how often he felt confident in Elhokar's safety, and to maximize the odds that he would be there to seize Graves' Shards if and when the attack did come—here he was. Standing outside the barracks, watching the rain, unable to rest.

"Sarus?"

He blinked and glanced over. "Leyten?" he asked. "Has something happened?" Leyten was meant to be on shift with Kaladin.

"I was just about to ask you that!" Leyten said, coming over, his spear leaning casually on his shoulder. "Shouldn't you be watching the king?"

"It's… it's Kaladin's shift now."

Leyten blinked. "Kaladin said you'd changed today's rota," he said. "That you were hoping to take both daylight shifts today and get a full night's sleep for once."

Kaladin said… "You're joking," Sarus breathed. "You can't be serious."

Leyten leaned away from him. "Uh… no? Sarus, what's wrong?"

Sarus started laughing. "Get the others," he managed, his words sloppy and his hand on Leyten's shoulder. "Then—ha!—follow me!" He kept laughing as he ran past Leyten, as the Weeping rain soaked through his uniform, as he sprinted across the warcamp toward the palace.

"What is it?" Archive demanded, still a mere speck on his shoulder. "Why is your amusement?"

Sarus didn't answer, still chortling between ragged gasps for breath.

"Amusement should not be," Archive admonished. "Kaladin lied. Could it be that he is—"

Sarus rounded a corner and was faced by two men in Bridge Four uniforms. They were not men of Bridge Four. They stared at him with wide eyes and pale faces, their spears shaking in their hands. Sarus wondered what they saw—the near-mythical Shardbreaker, running towards them in the moments before an attempt on King Elhokar's life, cackling like a madman.

He finally got his laughter under control. "It was a good—ha!—a good plan," he told them. "Truly, it was. Ha ha! But it's over now. So I would like to suggest that you run."

They looked at him mutely, their spears shaking in their grip.

"I would like to," he said. "But, unfortunately, ha, I can't let you bring warning to the other conspirators. Otherwise, they might just try again. So—ha!—I hope you're willing to die for your cause. Because you are about to."

"Please—" one of them began, but by the time the word had fully left his lips Sarus had already closed the distance between them. His shortspear buried itself in the man's gut, even as his leg came up and thudded into the other man's groin. They both went down, and a moment later the second man was also bleeding out from a spear to the throat.

The door opened. Elhokar stared at him as he straightened up and saluted, still chuckling between breaths. "Your Majesty," he said.

"What is this, Sarus?" he asked, eyes darting from Sarus to the dying men at his feet.

Before Sarus could answer, the man he'd stabbed in the gut let out a rattling cough. "All the nobility of the wind," he choked, eyes wide and unseeing. "All the honor of the sky. Not enough. Never enough. I am his, his, his…" His head fell back and to the side, and he was dead.

"Hm," Sarus said. "Not the first time I've heard men say cryptic things as they die, but this one… do you think they see the future, Your Majesty? As they die?"

"The future is forbidden," Elhokar said immediately. "Storms, Sarus—Captain—what is happening? Aren't these your men?"

"I'm afraid not," Sarus said. "There are assassins on their way to kill you. These were plants, intending to allow it."

Elhokar stared at him, shaking. "Damnation," he murmured. "What should I do? Is there somewhere safe I can go?"

"Yes, of course," Sarus said, still chuckling occasionally. "Behind me."

"What is so funny about this situation?" Elhokar demanded.

"Oh, it's… difficult to explain, Your Majesty," Sarus said. "I just—"

"Damnation." The voice came from down the hall. "What are you doing here, Sarus?"

Sarus turned, and another cackle escaped him. There, having just rounded the corner Sarus himself had turned a moment ago, were two men. One wore unpainted grey Shardplate.

The other was Kaladin.

Even as they stared at one another, several other men came up behind them, stopping when they saw the standoff before them. A ribbon of blue light wove between the conspirators, darting towards Sarus. A giggle in a girlish voice emerged from it as it orbited his head. For a moment, it shifted into the familiar shape of a girl composed of blue light.

"I'm laughing too," Syl informed Sarus, a too-bright smile on her face. "Otherwise, I'll…" she trailed off, glancing at something on the other side of the hall, and then she turned into a ribbon of light again and darted away—unable to even hold on to her mind long enough to finish the thought. She bounced past Elhokar, who could only stare.

Kaladin let out a shuddering breath. "Stand aside, Sarus," he implored. "Please."

"Absolutely not," Sarus said, still smiling widely, even if he was no longer laughing. "Why on Roshar would I step aside now, when I've been trying so very hard to be in this exact place?"

Kaladin stared at him. "Alethkar deserves better than him as king."

"Alethkar is a nation of pillagers and murderers," Sarus said. "A country where the only true law is that of the sword. A country where death is the only true monarch. I assure you, my dear friend, it does not deserve better."

"We can make it better," said the Shardbearer beside Kaladin. "We can improve things. Highprince Dalinar will bring this kingdom into a new Silver Epoch."

"Ah, yes. The honorable Blackthorn. The man who put Rathalas to the torch, who threatened his own king with death to force him to obey. Yes, I can see how he would make Alethkar a less violent and brutal kingdom."

"Uncle Dalinar would be a better king than me," Elhokar whispered, quietly enough that only Sarus could hear. "Just look at this. Even the former head of my own guard, the man honorable enough to jump into a dueling arena to save my cousins—even he is willing to kill me just to get me off this throne."

"Oh, certainly, Highprince Dalinar likely would be a better monarch than you," Sarus said easily, and Elhokar flinched. "That's not in question. But that's not why darling Kaladin is doing this, is it?" He grinned across the corridor at the man, shash brand starkly red against his pale skin. "No, no. Elhokar has been a poor king for five years, as long as either of us has been in the warcamps. He's even been improving, lately. But he also imprisoned you. He took the wind from you. And—" he broke off cackling again, his eyes filling with tears of mirth.

"What's so funny?" the Shardbearer demanded. "Look, Shardbreaker, you might be strange and powerful, but there's only one of you. We have you outnumbered, and Captain Kaladin has fought Shardbearers more than once and won."

Sarus wiped the tears from his eyes. "I'll get to you," he told Graves—for who else could the Shardbearer be? "But you want to know what's funny? Is it not obvious?"

"No," Elhokar said quietly, and there was something wounded in his tone. Betrayed. "Why are you laughing, Sarus? You're… you're frightening me."

"Do you have any idea," Sarus said to Kaladin, ignoring everyone else, "what it's been like? You and I are two facets of the same gemstone. Both of us spent longer in the bridge crews than anyone else. Both of us survived through means we did not at the time understand. Both of us… well, you understand. And yet. And yet."

"And yet what?" Kaladin whispered.

Sarus bared his teeth. He felt as if his flesh might burst into flame—so much rage and bitterness and spite was rising to the surface all at once. "Do you have any idea how hard it was to get the men to so much as listen to me? Let alone to obey me as their captain? Do you have any idea how carefully I had to maneuver things to make sure they didn't break you out the moment you were jailed, or mutiny in favor of you the moment you were out of prison? Do you have any idea what it is like, Kaladin, not to be naturally beloved? To be the sort of person who naturally makes people wary, who people don't naturally trust? Of course you don't. How could you? You're Kaladin Stormblessed, beloved of man and God alike."

"Do you really think that?" Kaladin snapped, suddenly standing up straight and glaring at him. "Do you really think I'm that enviable? Everyone I ever tried to protect before being shipped down here is dead! My squad! My fellow slaves! My brother! And it's his fault Tien is dead!" He thrust an accusing finger in Elhokar's direction. "How many more innocent children have to die, Sarus? How many more people does he get to put in danger or allow to die through his selfishness and incompetence?"

"There it is!" Sarus exclaimed. "This isn't about principle at all! It's about vengeance! About lashing out at a man you feel is responsible for your pain!"

"So what if it is!?"

"So you're just the same as I am!" Sarus laughed in bitter triumph. "I've never envied your circumstances, Kaladin. I've envied your nature. I've envied that you're the sort of man who can be beaten down, over and over, and still rise up so tall that you can't help lift other men up beside you. Whereas I? I'm a wretch! I'm a parcel of bitterness and hate, held together with little more than spite! Everything I do, I do for myself! Do you think I was sincere when I gave the men that speech about how Elhokar had to be defended or Alethkar would descend into civil war? Of course not! Alethkar can burn in Damnation for all I care! But I needed the men to fall in line! I needed to preserve my position! I needed access!"

"My Elsecaller—" Archive began from his shoulder.

"Don't you dare start!" Sarus bellowed at her, heedless of all the eyes and ears watching her. "Five years, I've gone without a storming answer! Five years I've gone without any storming idea what in Damnation happened that night! My best friend, my only friend, turned to smoke under my fingertips! Finally, I have an answer, my dear Inkspren. Finally I know! Did it never occur to you how dangerous the Soulcasting you, a spren barely able to think when you first entered the Physical Realm, would offer to a man who had no idea it was even in his hands? Of course it didn't. Of course you didn't consider who might die because of your storming Surgebinding!"

She was silent and still on his shoulder.

"And you!" He rounded on Kaladin again. "What was it you swore? I will protect those who cannot protect themselves? Not so easy now, is it? Not so easy, when the man who needs your protection is one who has wrought so much of your own pain! What does it matter that Elhokar was barely taught the very basics of rulership by a father who never intended to let him get this far? What does it matter that his esteemed Uncle, whom you practically worship, barely allows him to use the privy without his consent and prior approval? What does it matter that he's a prospective Radiant, just like you and me?" Behind him, Sarus heard Elhokar mutter something, but he ignored the man in favor of continuing to scream in Kaladin's direction. "It doesn't! Of course it doesn't! Because you're still hurting! Because even knowing that he's trying, knowing that the only thing he wants in the world is to be better, to be worthy of the legacy he's inherited, doesn't change the fact that he is still the man who got your brother killed! So stop lying to yourself that this is about principle, Lieutenant Kaladin. This isn't even about your brother. Your brother is dead, just like Tailiah, and Dabbid, and everyone else who has died under your watch and mine. No, this is about you. Your pain. Your suffering. Your vengeance. In the end, for all your charisma, for all you make the men around you want to be better—in the end, Stormblessed, you are just. Like. Me."

A terrible silence fell. Behind Sarus, he could hear Elhokar hyperventilating. Kaladin stared at him, dark eyes so wide that they were ringed with white.

"Enough," said Graves hoarsely. "Enough, Shardbreaker. You're outnumbered. Stand aside."

"You're right," Kaladin said suddenly, dropping his spear with a clatter. His voice sounded rough, almost choked, as if he was holding back tears. "You're right about me, Sarus. About why I'm doing this. Of course you're right." He took a deep, shuddering breath. "And that's not good enough."

That brought Sarus up short. "What?"

"Alleviating my own pain, my own need for vengeance… it might have been reason enough to break an oath, before," Kaladin said. "When I was a slave, or when I was just a soldier. But I'm not." He straightened. "And Elhokar's death, just to soothe my own pain, is not worth Syl's life."

"You're joking," Sarus said, his hands shaking on his spear. "You can't be serious."

"I am a Knight Radiant of the Order of Windrunners," Kaladin said. "And I will protect even those I hate, so long as it is right."

For a moment, the corridor was silent. Then light exploded from Kaladin, streaming outward in brilliant sky blue, sending the other conspirators staggering back. Syl streamed back towards him in a ribbon of brilliant blue light. She flowed between his hands, elongating, solidifying. In a moment he held a spear of brilliant silver—a living Shardspear, the weapon of a Knight Radiant.

"Storms!" Graves exclaimed. "What—Kaladin, what is—"

"Go away, Graves," Kaladin said, turning on his heel and pointing his weapon, his Sylspear, at the Shardbearer. "Turn around, and walk away. I don't want to kill you—I believe that you really are here for your principles, and I don't want to kill you for them. But I can't let you kill the king. I swore an oath to protect him. This is what that means. I'm sorry."

"Don't you dare," Sarus snapped, stalking forward. "You may have decided that the beauty of your principles is worth painting over your pain for another day, Kaladin, but I have waited too storming long to let another set of Shards slip away from me."

"I was not in the Physical Realm." Archive's voice no longer came from his shoulder. She had jumped off during his tirade, and as he glanced back he saw that she had grown to her full size, standing beside Elhokar, watching Sarus with a strange, sad expression on her face. Elhokar was staring at her in a mixture of awe and terror.

"What?" he asked.

"I was not in the Physical Realm," she repeated. "When your friend vanished in smoke. I had not yet crossed over."

"Your memory is flawed," Sarus snapped. "We know this. You told me yourself."

"If our Nahel bond had not progressed to the point that I would be cognizant of my own existence, then it cannot have progressed to the point that it would give you Soulcasting," she said.

"I'm unusual," he growled. "I generate my own Stormlight. I hear the Rhythms as Rlain speaks them. I see spren even when they're trying to hide. Why should this be any different?"

"Because I remember the day I first saw you," she said. "Because I remember the first glimpse I caught of my Elsecaller. And you were already here. Already on these Plains. Already a bridgeman."

He stopped. "You're lying," he said. "You have to be."

She shook her head. "I'm sorry," she said softly. "But the answer you think you have found… is not."

"Then what is?" Sarus demanded.

"I know not." She took a deep breath. "But this is, Sarus. You are not a 'wretch.' You are occasionally wretched. You are not a bundle of bitterness and hate held together by spite. You are occasionally hateful, bitter, and spiteful. These are not the same thing. You are not defined by your lowest point. You are not even defined by your highest. You are defined, my Elsecaller, by the mountaintops to which you aspire."

"Enough of this," Graves said suddenly, and Sarus heard the stamp of his Plated boot on the stone floor as he stepped forward.

"No, you be quiet," Sarus snapped at him without looking, lacing his voice with power. Graves froze, Shardplate creaking. "I'll deal with you later." He turned back to Archive. "I am so storming tired of aspiring all the time. Has it never occurred to you, Archive, that maybe I don't want to be constantly growing? Maybe I want to be happy where I am! Maybe I want to enjoy my victories instead of constantly striving to ensure the next one! Maybe I want to rest sometimes! When am I enough, Archive? When am I enough!?"

She looked him in the eye, looking terribly sad. "Were you happy," she asked, "when you thought Kaladin had fallen to your level? When you laughed as you ran to this hall, were you happy? Was that the peace you have sought? Were you enough then, Sarus?"

"If that wasn't enough, Archive, then what is? Certainly nowhere you can define. Growth is everything to you, just as honor is everything to Syl. You don't have it in you to stop pushing me to keep reaching."

"Oh, my Elsecaller," she murmured. "Don't you see that this contradiction is not? That these are not opposites? Yes, I want you to keep reaching. I want you to grow. I want you, each day, to be more than you were the day before. But that does not mean you are not enough. It does not mean that you, as you are now, are unworthy. Of course not. I came to you, Sarus, because you were enough. Because I saw in you the core of an Elsecaller—the core of my Elsecaller. And no matter how many times you fail, how many calls you refuse, how many wrong turns you take, that core will always be, as long as you are. And as long as that is, I will remain beside you. I will try to help you succeed, to answer the call, to make the right turn, but not because you are not enough if you do not do these things. It is because you are enough that I care at all."

Sarus' hands were shaking. He clenched them into fists. "And if I take that Shardblade right now?" he asked. "If I renounce our Nahel bond? Will that be enough to destroy your valuation of me? Will I then cease to be enough for you?"

"Captain—" Elhokar began, voice shaking.

"Hush," Sarus ordered, his eyes still fixed on Archive. Elhokar obediently fell silent.

"If you renounce our Nahel bond," Archive said, "I will die. But I will die hoping, praying to Honor who is dead and Cultivation who is not, that even in my absence, you will still find a way to rise. Because you are my Elsecaller, Sarus. You will always be my Elsecaller, no matter what happens between us."

"You're enough for Moash," came a small voice beside his ear. He turned to see Syl seated on air beside his head, watching him. "You're enough for Murk, and Teft, and Rock, and Rlain. You're enough for me and Kaladin. I'm sorry we didn't make you feel like it. I'm sorry I didn't see that you were hurting—or if I did see, that I didn't understand why."

He stared at her for a long moment. Then he looked back at Archive. "It really wasn't you, was it?" he asked. "You weren't there. Whatever happened to Tailiah… it wasn't you."

"No," Archive said. "I am sorry."

"Why are you sorry?" he asked. "It means I don't have a reason to kill you."

"But it means you still have no answer," she said. "And I can see how that hurts you. I wish your pain was not. But no—it was not me."

Sarus stared at her for a long moment. Then—"Brightlord Graves," he said in a voice that rasped painfully against the inside of his throat. "I suggest you unbond your Shardblade and surrender to my custody. Otherwise, I will be forced to kill you."

There was a brief silence. Then Graves spoke. "I suppose you'll have to kill me, then."

Sarus turned, meeting his eyes. He felt raw, like flesh scraped bloody against rock. He felt exhausted, too, and grimy, as if he had just gotten back from an eight-hour bridge run. "You know something," he said. "Something you do not want to come out in interrogation."

Graves didn't answer.

"I could probably force you to speak," Sarus said. "But I don't know if I could force you to speak the truth. So I suppose I should take you prisoner."

"You can't take a Shardbearer prisoner," Kaladin said. "He'll just cut through whatever cell you put him in."

"Not without some imagination," Sarus said. "But he would find it difficult to wield his Blade, I suspect, without functioning arms."

Graves paled.

"One way or another, I intend to learn whatever you are trying to keep secret," Sarus told him. "So do us both a favor, and unbond that Shardblade."

Graves was silent for a long moment. Then he held out his Blade, and the gemstone in the pommel flashed as he unbonded it. He dropped it, and it clattered to the stone at his feet, the tip slicing a section off the stone.

"Good," Sarus said, stepping forward. The conspirators all watched him, frozen in place, as he leaned down and picked up the Blade.

It screamed in his head. It surprised him a little, perhaps, but it felt muted. Distant. Compared to everything else, it really didn't matter.

He turned and walked back to the king. He held out the Blade, hilt first. "Here," he said. "I suppose I don't need it."

With shaking hands, Elhokar reached out and took the Blade. "Captain," he began, but Sarus was already turning away, meeting Archive's eyes.

It should have been difficult to read her expression, behind the strange oily texture of her ink-black skin, to see her thoughts behind the flat, dark orbs of her eyes. It wasn't. He could see in her face joy and relief—not for herself and her own life, but for him. He could see her empathy, and her total lack of pity.

Even in his youth, he did not think he had ever had someone look at him with such selfless affection. Tailiah had been dear to him—but if he had held a knife to Tailiah's throat, he did not think she would have been able to think first of his pain, and only distantly of her own life. And yet, that was exactly what Archive had done. It made him want to crawl away and hide.

But he resisted the impulse. For a long moment he stared at Archive. His brain felt as though it was operating in a fog. It took him a moment to put words to the idea which had blossomed in the last few minutes. The understanding which had finally come. But eventually he did. "I will learn to accept… that there is something of worth within me."

She smiled at him, and he felt the rush of power even before she spoke. When she did, it was in a tone of mingled joy and sorrow. "These words are accepted, my Elsecaller."

"Sarus," Elhokar said, suddenly drawing himself up—like the bulb of a rockbud, rising after the storm had passed, fully aware that it would hide again at the first strong gale. "What in Damnation is going on? What was that about me being a Radiant? Is that a spren? Is it—"

"I'd recommend you enter your chambers and lock the door," Sarus said, ignoring the king's questions. "Allow no one entrance until Kaladin or I return."

"What?" Kaladin asked. "Where are we going?"

"Today is the end of the countdown," Sarus said. It was something he had been peripherally aware of for the past several days—but now, with Graves neutralized, it had become a priority. More to the point, some instinct—an instinct which had been present before, but which he found easier to heed now that he had sworn his Second Ideal, now that the sudden infusion of Stormlight set his whole body thrumming. "The numbers that have been scratched on Highprince Dalinar's wall during and after his visions. Today is where that number reaches zero. I suspect we are needed on the Plains."

"Yes," Syl murmured. "I can feel it. Him. Odium comes."

"There you are then," Sarus said. "Well, Windrunner? Do you think you can fly us there?"

Kaladin swallowed. "I can try."

"Excellent." Sarus looked past the conspirators, at the eight men of Bridge Four—both his and Kaladin's squads, led by Leyten—who had finally arrived. Before Leyten could say a word, he ordered them, "Please take these men into custody. And help Brightlord Graves out of his Plate. You," he told Graves, threading power into his voice once more, "will cooperate."

Graves nodded grimly.

Sarus turned back to Kaladin. "Well, Windrunner?" he said. "Shall we?"

He held out a hand. Kaladin nodded and took it.

Time to go to the battle, Sarus thought. To the center of the Shattered Plains. Just as he thought the words, he and Kaladin were gone, leaving only a sudden gust of wind and a splash of rainfall in their place.

Last edited: Mar 4, 2024

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Mar 4, 2024

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Threadmarks 69: The Rising Wind

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LithosMaitreya

Character Witness

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Mar 11, 2024

#1,637

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

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The Rising Wind

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I did not do this because I crave the power that Adonalsium's fragments will offer. Others may take up those mantles, if we succeed.

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Rlain clenched his fist, feeling the red lightning arcing down in a thrill of power. He relaxed his fingers, then clenched them again. Over and over, feeling the rush as he flexed in time to the Rhythm of Withdrawal.

Ruash and Anla had locked him away in a sheltered house not far from the battlefield. They had chained his leg to the building's foundations and left him there until Venli could see to him. He could still hear the faint echoes of the Rhythm of Storms resounding from thousands of throats outside. And, just on the edge of hearing, he could detect the slow rising of the wind.

The stormspren in his gemheart was silent at last. He had done all he could, now, and both he and the invader in his mind knew it. All that remained was to see what would come of it. He had little hope—the song had begun, and even if Eshonai decided to stop it, spreading those orders in the middle of the battle would be nearly impossible.

That hadn't… occurred to him, when he had made the decision to seek her out on the plateau after missing her in her tent. In hindsight, it was obvious. He should have sought her out at once, found her before word had spread of the coming battle, before the Listeners had all been assembled and ready to begin singing.

Just one more way his mind had betrayed him.

The door to the house creaked open, allowing the whistle of the rising wind and the patter of the thickening rain to grow louder for a moment before Eshonai shut it behind her again. She stopped just inside, red eyes watching him, Shardplate slick with rain.

"How goes the battle?" he asked to the Rhythm of Withdrawal.

She hummed momentarily, attuning Withdrawal as well, before speaking. "Many are dying," she said. "Listener and Alethi alike. It is exhilarating."

"Of course," Rlain said. "Bloodshed has always been a thrilling and desirable thing, hasn't it?"

She flinched visibly. Her fists clenched, arcing red lightning down her arms. "I want to ignore you," she said softly.

"And I want to be ignored," Rlain admitted. "You see it too, don't you? This Form of Power—it influences us. More than influences us—it controls us. Controls our feelings. Dictates what gives us joy and what gives us sorrow. What makes us angry and what calms us. Not much calms me now."

Eshonai stared at him for a long moment. Then she bent and sat on the floor beside him. "I didn't notice," she whispered. "Or perhaps… perhaps it did not let me notice. I remember being afraid as the transformation overtook me. I think I even remember the voice of the Rider of Storms as the stormspren came. But when the storm passed I felt so powerful. So… certain. I was exactly where I was meant to be, doing exactly what needed to be done. This war was the crucible that would forge me, and all Listeners, into what we were always meant to become."

"Yes," Rlain murmured. "But meant by whom?"

Eshonai didn't answer. They sat there together for a few minutes, listening to the Rhythm of Storms echoing outside, listening to the wind rise.

Then Rlain clenched his fist. Lightning arced. "No more idleness," he said. "Our idleness serves the gods. Eshonai, why did you come here? What are you hoping to find?"

"I want to understand," she said. "No—I need to understand. You said the spren which has been following me—the one I have been trying to drive away—is trying to make me into a Neshua Kadal?"

"That is my suspicion," he said. "It may not be able to speak yet. As I understand it, these spren have difficulty thinking without a strong bond to their Radiant. It may be little more than instinct for now. But it is determined. You sought to reject it and yet it follows you regardless. I cannot see why, unless it is more than a mundane spren."

She looked at him, red eyes smoldering. "What does it want from me?" she asked. "Why me? Why now?"

"I don't know why it would choose you," Rlain said, and was surprised at the surge of envy that rose in him. Was that the stormspren in his gemheart, or was that truly him? "But what it wants, Eshonai, is that you should speak the words—the First Ideal of the Knights Radiant. It is an oath that bonds spren to Radiant."

"And what is this Ideal?"

He hesitated—in large part because the words of the First Ideal practically leapt to his tongue, a telltale sign that perhaps speaking them would not be wise. "I do not think I am supposed to tell you," he said. "I recall something A—something a spren I encountered in the warcamps said. About how the spren must trust that the Radiant means the words. The Neshua Kadal I encountered among the humans discovered the words, for the most part. I worry that if I tell you, your spren will not trust that you mean them."

"But how am I meant to discover them?" Eshonai asked despairingly. "I can barely even hear the old Rhythms anymore. The Rhythm of Peace sounds like screaming in my ears! How am I meant to hear words forgotten centuries ago when I cannot even hear songs I have known my entire life?"

"Let me think," he said.

I have leverage, came a thought into his mind. She wants the words from me. I can bargain them for freedom.

His immediate reaction, as with all impulses he recognized as coming from the stormspren in his gemheart, was to ignore and deny the thought. But this time he wasn't sure. The stormspren might want him free for its own reasons—but he did want to be free. "Cut me loose?" he asked.

She hesitated.

"I am on your side," he said—and it was true, the fact that the stormspren and he were in accord this once notwithstanding. "Please, Eshonai. You cannot in one breath speak of wishing to understand the Radiants and in another keep me prisoner in the name of the gods."

She sighed, then thrust out a hand and summoned her Shardblade in a misty condensation. It sheared through the chain binding him to the house's foundations as easily as a highstorm blew an unsecured pallet into a chasm.

"Thank you," he said as she helped him to his feet, still thinking about what she had said.

She was right about the Ideal. Sarus had found the words in a moment of great emotional upheaval, of triumph and need. But those emotions could not naturally come to her—not now, with a stormspren in her gemheart manipulating her feelings. Surely a spren would understand that?

"Even if the words do not come from the same place as the Rhythms," he said slowly, speaking aloud to the old Rhythm of Consideration, "you could not be expected to find them while in stormform. The spren in your gemheart has too much control. Your emotions, your thoughts, cannot properly align. That you are here at all, asking, shows as much commitment as any spren has a right to expect."

"You think so?" she asked. But he wasn't truly speaking for her benefit.

Over her shoulder, a sphere of misty white light rose up just out of her view. It bobbed up and down in a gesture resembling a nod.

"I do," he said, glancing at the spren only very briefly before looking back at her. "The words are: Life before death. Strength before weakness. Journey before destination."

She didn't speak them at once. Instead she looked at him, humming to Withdrawal, red eyes thoughtful. Then with some difficulty she turned to the Rhythm of Consideration, coming into harmony with Rlain. "What do they mean?" she asked. "I should understand them before I say them, at least."

"Why don't you tell me?" he asked softly.

She blinked. Behind her eyes, he could see her mind working, fighting against the influence of her stormspren. "Life before death," she whispered. "My mother was with the dissidents, you know? Those Thude fled with. I would have killed her, Rlain. Because I could afford no refusal, no dissent from the transformation to stormform. I would have killed my own mother in service to the gods, and been certain that I was right to do it."

"I know," he said.

"Strength before weakness?" She laughed bitterly. "I knew this was wrong. I knew that to take a Form of Power was to invite disaster, and I took it anyway. Dalinar Kholin would have made peace with us, if I had just waited another two weeks before I transformed. But Venli was so determined. She knew, I'm certain of it. She knew what this would do to me. And I was too blind, too weak, to see it. And now because of my weakness, the gods will return."

"Perhaps," Rlain said.

"So how could any spren trust that I would mean these words?"

"Journey before destination," Rlain said.

She blinked at him. "What?"

"One of the Radiants I knew," he told her, "refused to even speak when I met him. He had been hurt so badly, for so long, that he had lost his voice. And yet, when he found it again, his spren accepted him gladly. Another Radiant was a slave who had failed to help everyone he had ever tried to protect. But when he spoke the words, his spren was beside him. Not because they were unaware of these humans' flaws and failures—but because they were overcoming them. Journey before destination, Eshonai."

She stared at him, red eyes wide. "Life before death," she whispered. "Strength before weakness. Journey before destination."

For a moment, the house was silent. Even the Rhythm outside seemed muted here, as if the song of the gods could not pierce this quietude.

Then Eshonai threw her head back and screamed in agony. Red lightning arced down her arms, across her chest, along the ridges of her brow. Rlain threw himself back as a bolt of it struck mere inches away from where he had been seated. Her body jerked and shuddered in the throes of a seizure.

The spren over her shoulder sailed up, orbiting around her, and then dove. It sank into her chest, passing through her skin with as little resistance as a Shardblade. Eshonai's agonized screaming continued for a long moment, and then, with a boom like a thunderclap, the ridges of carapace emerging from her flesh shattered. A few, such as those on her brow, sent sprays of shrapnel soaring as they broke. Most, however, were sealed inside her Shardplate, and Rlain could hear them impacting the inside of the armor. Her skin split as the bone protrusions fell away, and orange blood slid down her body in rivulets, emerging from the narrow gaps between the separate components of her Plate. The red lightning around her coalesced into the form of a tiny spren like a tiny thunderhead of dark smoke, crackling with lightning and glowing red. It darted out a window and away from the house before Rlain could do more than process its presence.

Then Eshonai fell silent, slumped on the ground, shuddering slightly in the aftershocks of her agony. He stared at her, hands shaking, red lightning jittering between his fingers.

I could kill her, came a thought in the back of his mind. I have more power in one hand than she does in her whole body. I could kill her right now.

If that was why the stormspren wanted him free, he would have rather stayed in chains. Fortunately, he could accept the impulse to freedom, and reject the one to violence. He crushed the infiltrating idea with a revulsion that even the intruder could not suppress. Instead, he knelt beside her. "Eshonai?" he whispered, stuttering to the new Rhythm of Panic. "Are you… alive?"

She stirred, pushing herself slowly up on shaking arms. She looked up at him, then started, drawing back away from him. A few beats of the Rhythm of the Terrors escaped her as she, in dullform, stared up at his red eyes. Then she stopped, and attuned Hope instead. "Rlain?" she whispered. "Rlain, is that you?"

"Of course it's me," he said to Reconciliation, forcing himself to use an old Rhythm. "Are you all right, Eshonai? You just…" he paused, struggling to find the words to describe what had just happened.

"It hurt," she murmured. "It hurt terribly. But it's all right now. I feel better. The spren is here, I can feel her. She is… clearing the corruption away. Dispelling the stormspren was only the start—I think it will be some time before I can truly trust my own mind again."

"But you're free," he said, attuning Joy. "Eshonai, I'm so happy for you."

She stared at him. "And you're still trapped in stormform," she whispered. "How can we get you out of it, Rlain? What can we do?"

He shook his head. "Nothing, for now," he said. "But that's all right. I came back to try and save the Listeners, Eshonai—and even if I couldn't save everyone, I have saved you. And Thude escaped with more. I'm sure he's gotten them somewhere safe."

"It's not enough," Eshonai said, standing up and attuning Resolve. "The Rhythm of Storms is almost done. The gods will return in a matter of minutes. We have to do what we can to stop them—to stop Venli. Come, we have work to do."

As she left the house, he moved to follow her, then paused. For an instant, he thought he saw something move in the shadows behind her. A glint of amber light, as if of topaz spheres in the dark. For an instant, they looked like eyes, peering at him from a shadowy corner.

They vanished. He stared where they had been for a long, long moment.

"Rlain?" Eshonai called from outside.

He shook himself. "I am coming," he said to Resolve, and followed her out.

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LithosMaitreya

Mar 11, 2024

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Threadmarks 70: The Everstorm

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LithosMaitreya

Character Witness

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Apr 1, 2024

#1,649

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

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The Everstorm

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Indeed, if we do succeed, I would rather stay as far from Adonalsium's shards as possible. Koravellium may believe herself the equal of an Ainu, to wield the Song so directly, but I am humbler.

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For one glittering instant, Sarus hung suspended in a place of shimmering light and lilting music. His skin was warm, and a gentle breeze ruffled his hair and carded through his white beard. A field of stars glittered before him, connected by threads of silver and gold. Where his hand met Kaladin's, he could see the intersection of threads between a pale blue star and one which seemed to shift through every color imaginable, all in that one moment.

Then Roshar reasserted itself, and Sarus was surrounded by the frantic sound of battle.

"What the—!" Kaladin dove away from him as a surprised Parshendi swiped at the two of them with an axe. The blade passed between them, and Kaladin's Sylspear came up and buried itself in the warrior's chest. As the Parshendi died, red lightning arced in a sudden burst from the falling corpse, crackling through the puddles around him.

"How did we get here?" Kaladin shouted. A moment later, Sarus felt a hand on his shoulder. "Sarus?"

Sarus blinked and shook his head as the last echoes of that strange music faded from his hearing. "Yes?"

"How did we get here?"

"I have no idea," Sarus said, noting the Parshendi beginning to encircle them. They had clearly been surprised by the sudden appearance of two humans behind their lines, but they were recovering quickly. "Surgebinding? I'm supposed to have a Surge of Transportation."

"That was not the Surge of an Elsecaller," Archive said from Sarus' shoulder, though he could not remember her approaching him after their conversation in the hallway. "Whatever it was, it did not come from our Nahel bond."

Sarus shrugged. "No time for that now!" He spun and buried his spear in an approaching warrior. Her song was cut off with a gurgle, but the rest of the army around them continued the dissonant melody.

"We need to find Dalinar!" Kaladin shouted as the Parshendi began to close in on them, surrounding them with axes and polearms. "We can't be far from the battle lines!"

"Agreed," Sarus said, drawing himself up to his full height and squinting as he looked over the Parshendi armies. He caught a glimpse of Kholin blue only a short distance from them. "This way."

They fought their way through the Parshendi lines, Sarus driving his spear through the Parshendi carapace with force enough to shatter bone, Kaladin simply scything through them with his new Sylspear. After what felt like several minutes of combat, the Parshendi gave way quite suddenly to put them face-to-face with a man in painted blue Shardplate. As each Parshendi died, red lightning darted from his body down into the rock at his feet.

"Prince Adolin," Sarus said, thrusting the butt of his spear backward to push away a Parshendi approaching his rear.

"Captain Sarus? Kaladin?" Adolin paused between precise, sweeping blows in masterful Windstance. "What is—is that a Shardblade?"

"Sort of," Kaladin said. "Where's Dalinar?"

Adolin gestured somewhere behind him. "He's commanding the battle from the plateau behind us! Renarin is—look out!" He swung his Blade, burning out the eyes of a Parshendi warrior halfway through an attack at Kaladin.

Sarus and Kaladin moved as one, taking posts to either side of Adolin and turning to face the enemy. "Where do you need us, Your Highness?" Sarus asked.

"Give me space!" Adolin ordered the soldiers to their sides. As the lines closed ahead of them, the featureless visor of his helm turned to Sarus and Kaladin. "I don't know," he said, frustration evident in every syllable. "Storms, we were supposed to get reinforcement from Roion's spearmen half an hour ago, but they never came. I have no idea what's going on back at the command tent."

"If you haven't gotten your reinforcements, do you need us for support?" Kaladin asked.

"We could use the help," Adolin admitted. "But we are surviving here. I'm more worried about…" He trailed off, pointing with his Shardblade. "You might not be able to see from here, but almost half the Parshendi aren't even joining the battle. They're just singing, and—"

His words were cut off by a sudden boom. Red lightning struck down suddenly not far from them, and Sarus heard a man scream in sudden agony, before falling deathly silent.

"And that," Adolin continued grimly. "I think they're summoning that storm, but they don't seem to be able to control it. It kills indiscriminately—mostly us, but that's more because they seem more resistant to the lightning than we are. A Parshendi turncoat claims they're trying to call back their gods."

Turncoat? "What is this turncoat's name?" Sarus asked.

"Thude, why?"

"No matter for now," Sarus said. I hope Rlain is all right.

Adolin shook his head. "I could use the help here," he said. "But my father would have a clearer picture of what the battle needs." He looked up, past the Parshendi line, at the singers in the distant city. "I could use all the Shardbearers I can get… I have a plan."

"A plan?" Sarus asked.

"We need to stop the Parshendi in the back from finishing their song," Adolin said. "I think I can get us behind them. But more Shardbearers will make it faster."

Sarus and Kaladin looked at each other. In a moment, Sarus made his decision. "Kaladin, you stay here with the Prince," he said. "I will go to Highprince Dalinar and see what he needs."

Kaladin nodded. "Stay safe."

"This is a battle, Lieutenant," Sarus said. "If I'm staying safe, I'm not doing my job."

-x-x-x-

Inside the pavilion, surrounded by scholars and artifabrians busily working on strange equipment of metal and gemstones, Dalinar sat on a chair as a surgeon tended to a wound in his side. Navani stood beside the highprince, occasionally glancing away to give instructions to one of the artifabrians. As Sarus entered, another bustled out, armed with a glowing fabrial and accompanied by a troop of archers. Sarus had seen their work already—these new fabrials appeared to be using the Surge of Gravitation to draw the heavy rainfall away from the bowstrings, allowing the archers to do their work even in the rising storm.

"Highprince Dalinar," Sarus called as he approached.

Both Dalinar and Navani turned as he approached, though the surgeon remained focused on his labor. "Captain?" the highprince asked in a voice that rasped with pain and heavy use. "What in Damnation are you doing here? Shouldn't you be back at the warcamp defending the king?"

"The king has been defended," Sarus said. "The assassins finally acted, and Lieutenant Kaladin and I stopped them. His Majesty will be watched constantly by the rest of the guards until I return."

Dalinar let out a breath. "So there were still assassins."

"Yes. Kaladin has joined Prince Adolin at the front. I came here to see whether you had any greater need of me."

Dalinar hesitated, looking at Navani. "The battle is going poorly," he admitted. "We're losing on our flanks, Roion's forces are routed. Our center is holding, even pushing back the Parshendi line… but too slowly. Far too slowly."

"Prince Adolin said that their song was summoning that storm?" Sarus said, gesturing westward in the direction where, outside the tent, he knew dark clouds were gathering.

"Yes," Dalinar said grimly. "And according to our intelligence, once they finish singing, that storm will be unleashed. None of us knows exactly what will happen then, but they're keeping at least half their forces off the battlefield, purely for the purpose of singing that song. Whatever that storm is going to do, they clearly think it will win them the battle, perhaps even the war."

"Adolin had a plan to stop their singing," Sarus said. "I believe he managed to flank them—I caught a glimpse perhaps ten minutes ago. But the singing Parshendi were relocating. I believe they left a few to fend his force off while the rest withdrew."

"Damnation." Dalinar sighed. "Hopefully Adolin bought us some time, at least."

"That's all I can do for now," the surgeon said suddenly as she straightened and stepped away from Dalinar's side. "Please, Highprince. Stay away from the front lines."

"Yes, yes, I know," Dalinar said, standing. "Navani, I should return to the command tent—see if General Khal has any more news."

"I'll join you," Navani said, gesturing to one of her scribes, who began packing up a case of intricate metal-and-gemstone machines. "In case you need any of my fabrials."

Dalinar nodded at her, then turned to Sarus. "Captain, you can come with me as well. We'll have more current information there."

"Yes, Brightlord," Sarus said.

"And you can explain how you got here so quickly, when it took the army nearly two weeks to cross the plains."

"It's a rather long—" Sarus began.

"Dalinar!" Highprince Obodar Roion rushed into the pavilion. "It's a bloodbath out there! We're dead!"

Dalinar let out a low growl deep in his chest, one which momentarily reminded Sarus of the man's fearsome reputation as the Blackthorn. He stepped forward, grabbed Roion by the lapel of his red uniform, and dragged him outside. Sarus followed.

The outside of the pavilion offered a view of the next chasm. Sarus immediately saw that Roion's soldiers in red were rapidly draining off of it, stampeding towards the bridges, chased by Parshendi with red eyes and weapons which crackled with lightning. Fortunately, in the rain, they could not field their archers, so they were slowly forming up on the edge of the plateau. Sarus suspected they were looking for a gap narrow enough for them to leap across.

"Control yourself, Brightlord," Dalinar snapped, bodily pulling Roion to face him. "Adolin has won his plateau. I haven't had word from Aladar recently, but last I heard his forces were holding. Not all is as dire as it seems."

"But—" Roion began, but even as he started speaking, another voice echoed around them.

It should not end this way.

Dalinar shoved Roion away, suddenly looking up into the sky with fury in his face. "Answer me!" he demanded. "Can you even hear me?"

I can.

"Finally!" Dalinar exclaimed. "Are you the Almighty?"

I said I am not, Child of Honor.

"Then what are you?"

I am that which brings Light and Darkness.

"The Stormfather," Dalinar said, even as Sarus recognized the obscure Vorin title. "Are you a Herald?"

No.

"Then are you a spren or a god?"

Both.

"Is he truly speaking with the Stormfather?" Archive asked in a low voice from Sarus' shoulder, barely audible over the hammering rain.

"Yes," Sarus replied. "I can hear it. Him. Is the Stormfather also the spren of a Knight Radiant?"

"I believe so."

Dalinar was still speaking. "Why speak to me? What is happening?"

They call for a storm. My opposite.

"How do we stop it?"

You don't.

"Oh, good," Sarus said aloud, stepping forward.

Every eye turned to him. In a prickling of the hairs on the back of his neck, he even felt the weight of the Stormfather's attention.

"I thought," he said, "that we would only have to contend with one hysterical brightlord. Apparently we have two."

Dalinar glowered. "Captain—"

"Not you," Sarus said to him. Then he looked up at the sky, at the rain falling and the wind rising. "Stormfather. If you intend to give up, by all means do so quietly."

For a moment there was silence save for the rain and the distant song of the Parshendi. How can you hear me? the Stormfather asked.

"Does the answer to that question really matter now?" Sarus asked. "If you will not help us deal with the enemy's storm, then at least do us the courtesy of not distracting our commander. Thank you."

Who are you?

Sarus ignored him, turning to Dalinar. "Brightlord. If he intends to be unhelpful, we have no need to heed him. What should we do?"

Dalinar stared at him for a long moment. "To the command tent," he said. "Roion, you come too. Now!"

As they marched, Dalinar grabbed Sarus by the shoulder, keeping them in step with one another. Navani and Roion both followed behind them. Sarus was keenly aware of their ears listening. "Are you what I've been looking for?" he asked. "A Radiant?"

"Yes," Sarus said. The time for secrets had passed. "Now, at least."

"And Lieutenant Kaladin as well, I'm guessing."

"I'd rather not inform on secrets others keep, Brightlord."

"And if I ordered you to tell me?"

"Are you?" Sarus challenged.

Before Dalinar could answer, a familiar voice called out from somewhere off to Sarus' right. "Brightlord Dalinar!"

They all—Roion included—turned. A man in a Kholin blue uniform with a Bridge Four patch on the shoulder was running—several men, in fact. The one who had spoken was Peet. "Word from—Captain!?"

"Peet," Sarus said. "Explanations later. What news?"

Peet blinked a few times before shaking his head and continuing. "Word from Brightness Shallan! She said to tell you to order all your armies onto the circular plateau. That if they didn't come, they'd be lost."

"Then she believes the circular plateau is the location of the pathway to Urithiru?" Dalinar asked. "Has she managed to open it?"

"Not when I left, sir! She was still investigating. But she was insistent that we can't face what's coming. Two highstorms."

"How could there be two?" Navani demanded. "And during the Weeping?"

"I have no idea, Brightness," Peet said. "That's what she said. A highstorm and something else—she called it an Everstorm—going the other direction. She said they'd clash right at the battlefield."

Before Dalinar could reply, the command tent ahead of them suddenly ripped itself loose from the pegs holding it to the rock, sailing past them. The generals who had been inside started as they were suddenly drenched.

"Storms," Dalinar said, jogging past Sarus towards the officers. "I need an update!"

"Brightlord!" said one—a commander. Sarus thought his name was Cael. "Highprince Aladar has won his plateau! The Parshendi there are routed!"

"Really?"

"Yes sir! The singing Parshendi didn't even fight back, his messenger said! Even with Roion's plateau lost, we've won the day!"

"If the singers didn't fight back," Sarus said softly, "it was because they thought their duties done."

Dalinar looked at him. "You're sure of that?"

"Look," Sarus said, pointing west. Dalinar looked—and saw, as Sarus did, the approaching storm front, unnaturally dark and crackling with red lightning and the fury of an angry god.

Dalinar took a deep breath. "Cael, send orders immediately to General Khal, my son, and Highprince Aladar. Tell them to converge all their forces on a plateau to the southeast, perfectly round. If they do not make haste, they are going to die."

"Sir?"

"Go!" Dalinar exclaimed. "Now!"

Cael saluted, barked orders to a couple of scouts nearby, and sprinted off.

"And me?" Roion asked.

"Same orders to you and your forces," Dalinar said. "Go—unless you want this bloodbath to turn into a massacre."

Roion paled and turned, running towards his soldiers without another word.

"Captain, with me," Dalinar ordered, already jogging away. "I have questions."

"I may have answers." But even as Sarus jogged after the highprince, his focus was slipping. His eyes were fixed on the horizon, on the oncoming Everstorm. It was loud—loud enough that he could hear it, even from more than a mile away. It roared like a caged beast set free, a cacophony of discordant noise like the braying of a thousand instruments all out of key with one another. The sound, faint and distant as it was, felt like a physical thing, like a wall pressing against him.

"Captain?"

Sarus realized he had stopped, staring at the Everstorm. "Yes, Brightlord?"

"Have you heard a word I've said, son?"

"No," Sarus said truthfully. "Does that storm look like it's speeding up to you?"

Dalinar followed his gaze. His eyes narrowed, then widened. "Yes."

It is, came the deep, grim voice of the Stormfather. He is pushing more of his power in the world, faster than I thought possible. His storm will reach you before mine. I am sorry.

"What does it matter?" Dalinar demanded. "Your highstorm would have killed us anyway!"

"Brightlord," Sarus said. "You should get to that plateau. Get away from here, as fast as you can."

"Do we even have time?" Dalinar asked.

"I will buy whatever time I can," Sarus said.

"How?"

Before Sarus could reply, a shout came from one of the other former bridgemen. "Parshendi!"

Sarus turned. Two Parshendi had somehow gotten past the army, likely by leaping over a chasm left unattended in the chaos. One of them—one Sarus recognized immediately as Rlain, despite the red eyes and ridged carapace—crossed his wrists in the Bridge Four salute. Though he wore the same form as the enemy warriors, Sarus noted that his red-and-black marbling was unchanged. "Lieutenant!" he shouted.

"Rlain!" Sarus called back. "That form doesn't much suit you!"

Rlain bared his flat teeth in something that might have been a grin. It was difficult to tell, at this distance and with red lightning arcing between ridges of the Listener's carapace. "Agreed! I come to offer my surrender!"

Sarus nodded. "Peet," he said, "take these two into custody and get them to safety with the rest of our men."

Peet was staring at Rlain. "Is that really—"

"Yes," Sarus said. "I can't stay. Move, all of you!"

"And what will you do?" Dalinar asked.

"Hold back the storm."

-x-x-x-

Two minutes later, Sarus planted his spear at the top of a small hill, staring westward at the approaching Everstorm. It would be here in a matter of seconds.

The weight of it was already pressing down on him. It had been growing since he had first seen it on the horizon—a physical force, beating against him, like the wind but not the wind, for the wind had not yet arrived. A wall of power—one which he could move through freely, but one which he was constantly aware of.

And, he hoped, one he could stop moving freely through.

"This should not be," Archive said from his shoulder, shouting to be heard over the gale. It wasn't the true stormwind—not yet—but it was still thunderous. "If you can do this, it does not come from our bond!"

"I gathered that much!" Sarus shouted back, watching as the storm swept over the plateau ahead of him. Glancing back, he saw that the army was starting to cross the bridge and enter that circular plateau. They entered a hole cut into the side in shifts, a few dozen at a time. Wherever they were going, it was making room for the next shift.

"I do not like this, my Elsecaller!" Archive said. "Neither of us yet understands your limits! You are placing yourself in the path of a god!"

"I'm aware!"

"He will kill you!"

"He will try!"

"Sarus—"

But they were out of time. Sarus raised his hands, and as the storm struck him, he pushed back.

The weight, already present, suddenly became immense. Immeasurable. The wind died, the clouds halted. The world fell silent. Distantly, Sarus felt the rock cracking under his feet. He could hear something behind him—voices, maybe, saying something indistinct, but he could spare no attention to them. All his focus was bent on the weight of the Everstorm—and heavier still, the attention of the god behind it.

What have we here? said a voice that filled Sarus with a primal, profound terror.

"I defy you," Sarus mumbled, the words dropping from lips that refused to cooperate.

I can see that. The voice sounded amused, as if watching a small animal snapping at the heels of a greatshell. I think I recognize you. Weren't you one of Aulë's? The name sent a shock of recognition through Sarus' spine, though he had no memory of why. What was your name again?

Cu— the woman in Sarus' vision had called out to him. It was the beginning of a name he had never heard, but which he knew to his bones belonged to him.

Now what would one of Aulë's be doing here? the god asked thoughtfully. Invention should still be halfway across the Cosmere. I'd know if it was in the system. And yet—yes, some of its Investiture is here. Through you. Fascinating.

Archive was screaming in his ears, but he could no longer hear her. He couldn't hear anything but that voice in the sky, that god which knew him by a name he couldn't remember. "I defy you!" he screamed at the Everstorm, his voice breaking with terror and exertion. "You shall not pass me!"

Oh, little Maia, Odium said. You really think you can stop me?

Red lightning arced down—not one bolt, but nine. They struck Sarus in unison, and agony turned the world white.

Then his vision cleared. He hung suspended over a sea of black beads. In the west, a dim white sun cast pale light over the world. Clouds streamed in straight lines from it, spreading outward in a starburst of white in the dark, starless sky.

All around him were red-eyed creatures with marbled skin in red, white, and black. Parshendi, but not as he knew them. Their forms were incredibly varied, and every one watched him with eyes that burned with ancient hate. They formed a ring around him—around him and the figure across from him.

Odium was clad in armor that resembled black Shardplate. Smoke billowed constantly from it, wreathing him in shadow. His own red eyes danced with mingled mirth and barely contained fury. On his brow was a golden crown, bearing three depressions, as if it had once contained large gemstones which had been removed.

"I remember your name now," he said, and his voice echoed all around Sarus as if the very air were speaking. Yet despite the pain still searing through Sarus' body, he sounded almost casual, as if he were a lighteyes speaking to a subordinate. "Curumo, wasn't it?"

At once, Sarus knew it was.

"It's not quite the reunion I would have chosen," Odium said. "Why would they send you, of all people? You don't matter. Why not someone who has a chance to stop me? Tulkas, or perhaps Ulmo. Not some Maia I barely remember."

"And yet I am holding you back," Sarus said, the words falling out of his mouth like iron weights. He could still feel the weight of the Everstorm—though his mind was no longer on that plateau, his body still was.

Odium's eyes flashed with rage, but his mouth chuckled. "So you are, so you are. Not for long, to be sure, but it's impressive nonetheless."

He stepped forward, faster than Sarus could react. His hand snapped out, and the back of his gauntlet struck Sarus across the cheek. Somehow, the blow was as painful as the lightning as it sent Sarus sprawling. He caught himself on air, still hanging above that sea of beads, breathing heavily.

"All for nothing, of course," Odium said. "An Ainu, even a Maia like you, needs to be manually factored into my foresight, you know. All the predictions in the world could be thrown off by an agent of the Song that I didn't see coming. But only if they made an effort. Only if they threw the future into a configuration I hadn't foreseen. Which, I'm sorry to say, you have not done."

"Meaning?" Sarus asked, forcing himself back to his feet on shaking legs. He looked up and met the dark god's red eyes.

"Meaning," Odium said, "that even though you've been on Roshar for—what, twenty years?—you've changed nothing. You've done nothing. Look."

He gestured, and golden light burst from him. It encircled the two of them, Sarus and Odium, forming into images, into moving visions of the world, stained-glass windows into the past.

He saw Archive telling Kaladin the words of the First Ideal on the rooftop of the barracks as a highstorm approached. He saw himself speaking his first words in years as he guided Kaladin to the Second. He saw himself leading the men of Bridge Four through training and through their duties as guards.

He saw himself turning away as Kaladin was imprisoned. He saw Kaladin's eyes pass over him as he offered the Shards to Moash. He saw Kaladin turn to face Graves beside him.

He saw Tailiah vanish into smoke under his fingertips.

Then, one by one, he vanished from these visions. He saw Archive disappear from the rooftop, yet Kaladin survived the storm anyway. He saw Kaladin find his honor even in Sarus' absence, speaking the Second Ideal as he turned to save Dalinar on the Tower. He saw Bridge Four grow into good soldiers and great men under different officers, all of them inspired by Kaladin even without Sarus there.

Without Sarus, Kaladin was still imprisoned. Without Sarus, Kaladin still offered his Shards to Moash. Without Sarus, Kaladin still found his oaths and returned to Elhokar's defense at the last moment.

Without Sarus, Tailiah still died. The only difference was that, without Sarus, her father had a body to bury.

"It's all right," said Odium softly. "You don't remember, do you? You don't remember what you are, why you can do the things you can. You weren't sent here as an agent to stop me. You found yourself here by, at best, accident. At worst, punishment." A smirk played across his lips. "There is a certain halo of Discord about you. Once, I suspect, you did serve one of mine."

Sarus' hands were shaking. "What is this?" he asked hoarsely.

"This is what my prophecies showed me," Odium said. "Roshar as I expected to find it. As you can see, I didn't know you would be here. And yet, other than that detail, everything has gone exactly as I foresaw."

"Because I've made no difference," Sarus whispered, staring at Tailiah's corpse, heart pierced by an arrow. "Because everything I've ever done has either been a failure, or completely unnecessary."

"It's not your fault," Odium said gently—soothingly. "You couldn't have seen any of this coming. You don't have foresight. You didn't know I was coming, nor could you have guessed what I predicted. Your failure to change the course of history was a failure of circumstance, a lack of information. Not a lack of power, or a lack of will."

"I'm still holding you back," Sarus protested weakly. "Right now—this place, it's not real, is it? My body is still on that hill, still holding back the storm. I can still feel the lightning."

"I imagine that's quite painful," said Odium dryly. "And it wouldn't be quite accurate to say this isn't real. This is the Cognitive Realm, just as real as the Physical. But yes. For now, you are still holding back my storm. And as I said, that is impressive. But let's not delude ourselves." He stepped forward, closed his fist—and, quite suddenly, Sarus couldn't breathe through the gauntlet around his throat. "You can delay me. You cannot hope to stop me."

Sarus scrabbled against the god's hand, choking.

"But I don't want to kill you," Odium said. He released Sarus, who fell at his feet, coughing and gasping for breath. "I will, certainly. But I don't want to. You have so much potential, little Maia—untapped, as yet, through no fault of your own. I can help you with that. I can show you how to direct that potential. How to channel it where it will make a difference. Together we can carve a path into the future that neither of us could achieve separately."

Sarus looked up at him, massaging his throat. Below the god's red eyes, his mouth was curved into a kindly smile. But those eyes were pitiless.

"You want this," murmured the god. "I can see it in your eyes. Behold." He gestured, and the halo of golden light around them formed once more into images. Sarus saw himself, armed with Shards at the head of an army of men and Parshendi, an army vaster than that of any highprince. He saw himself seated in an ornate throne as hundreds prostrated themselves before him. He watched as he bestowed Shardblades to the men of Bridge Four while lighteyes looked on with envy.

He saw Torol and Ialai Sadeas kneeling at his feet, a complex mixture of envy, hatred, pride, and regret in their faces.

"All this and more," Odium whispered. But that wasn't the god's name, not really. No, Sarus knew this creature's name, the name it had been given at the dawn of time, in a past Sarus could not remember but which Curumo should. "Everything you could want. The brightest future you can imagine. All you have to do is take my hand, and together we will make it so."

He reached down, holding out a gauntleted hand in invitation. Sarus stared at it, at the interlocking plates of his fingers. Desire surged up in him—for he did want these things. He had always wanted these things. He had always felt that he was destined for more than the small, cheap life that his dark eyes decreed for him. And now it was offered to him freely. All he had to do was take the hand of Melkor, He Who Arises in Might, and he could have it all.

He looked up, meeting Melkor's burning gaze. Then he closed his eyes, found the connection to his body back on the Shattered Plains, and let the weight of the storm slip past him.

In the Physical Realm, Sarus' body fell, insensate, and the Everstorm roared past.

Last edited: Apr 1, 2024

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Threadmarks 71: Blood on the Flagstones

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LithosMaitreya

Character Witness

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Apr 8, 2024

#1,683

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

-x-x-x-

Blood on the Flagstones

-x-x-x-

No, I did all of this because I prefer life over death. Better an uncertain death tomorrow than a certain one once the Well of Crystal is corrupted, and the Cosmere is consumed by Silence.

-x-x-x-

Six Years Ago

Sarus raised his head slowly when he heard the hinges of his cell door creak open. His jailer, a burly darkeyes, stood over him, keys in hand. "Get up, boy."

Sarus stood, stretching out his stiff legs.

"Follow," the jailer said.

Sarus followed. As soon as he stepped out of the cell, four armed guards took their places around him, far enough to be difficult to reach with his fists, but near enough to strike him with their spears.

He was led out of the jail into a familiar corridor. He had walked this path a hundred times before, though he'd never been through the door he'd just left. He was led to the right and out into the front courtyard of Sadaras.

There were no servants bustling about, no ardents walking sedately as they saw to their duties. There were only soldiers and guards, standing stiff and grim-faced in the evening twilight. However, outside the gates, he caught a glimpse of one soldier leading a familiar horse by the reins. It was Nomar, Highprince Sadeas' war charger.

It wasn't a surprise. Sarus had expected to be left in his cell until the highprince returned. Until he could judge and punish Sarus personally. That was the man's way.

They entered the castle's great doors. The hall behind them had once been a throne room, before Alethkar was unified. Now it was just a long, ornate room, richly decorated, with two grand chairs which were distinctly not thrones in the back. In those two non-thrones were seated the highprince and his wife. Sadeas was still clad in riding clothes, still flecked with the dust of the road, while Ialai was dressed in dark mourning garb. Her right hand gripped her husband's left on the conjoined arms of their two chairs, tight enough that even all the way across the hall Sarus could see her white knuckles, as if Torol Sadeas' hand were the only real thing on Roshar. She glared down at Sarus in hollow accusation.

Sarus was led forward towards the center of the room. Then a guard put a hand on each shoulder and pushed him to his knees. Sarus did not resist, kneeling before the last survivors of House Sadeas.

"Boy," said Torol Sadeas. His voice was unlike Sarus had ever heard it before. He had heard the Highprince in joy and in rage, in hate and in love, in amusement and in disgust. He had never heard the man broken, before. His voice was hoarse, and though it did not shake, it was not entirely steady either. In his face, Sarus saw no expression at all—only a mask, so thick and stiff that he doubted even the man himself knew just what was behind it.

"Brightlord," Sarus croaked. It was the first word he had spoken in more than a week.

"What happened to my daughter?"

Sarus looked down at the flagstones between him and Tailiah's father. "I don't know."

He half expected Ialai to fling accusations at him, but she was silent. So were the guards. For a long moment, no one spoke. Then the Highprince broke the quiet. "My wife tells me you Soulcast her into smoke."

"I have no Soulcaster," Sarus said, "and wouldn't know what to do with it if I did. But I do not deny the facts, Brightlord. I tried to save Brightness Tailiah—"

"Keep her name out of your mouth," Ialai Sadeas hissed at him in a voice that shuddered with grief and fury.

Sarus bowed his head in acquiescence. "I had overheard talk in the warcamp of a conspiracy to assassinate your family, Brightlord," he said. "I believed your wife and daughter to be in imminent danger, so I stole a horse and rode for Sadaras. I arrived in time to interrupt the assassins. I tried to push the princess out of the way of an arrow. But somehow, when I touched her… she vanished into foul-smelling smoke. I have no explanation. Only what I saw."

The room was silent again. It stretched, growing taut as a bowstring being pulled. "This conspiracy you overheard," the Highprince finally said. "Who were the participants?"

"I saw two men discussing it," Sarus said, looking up to meet Highprince Sadeas' gaze. "I believe they were in league with the rebels—one mentioned bringing your wrath on their army's heads even if their assassins succeeded. I did not recognize one, but the other was Captain Yarel, to whom I was an aide. I also heard the other man mention a name, Paleran."

Torol Sadeas nodded slowly. "I believe you," he said. "It is a better explanation than any I have come up with. It's undeniable that there were assassins in the castle. It's undeniable that you fought against them—my wife is witness to that. Watchmen at the warcamp report seeing you flee the warcamp with a horse that very day. I will investigate Captain Yarel and this 'Paleran', whether he is a rebel or another traitor within my own army."

"Thank you, Brightlord," Sarus said. But somehow, he felt no relief. Not yet.

His hesitation was borne out when Sadeas smiled at him. It was not a joyful expression. "Why thank me?" he asked. "I did not say you were free."

Sarus looked him in the eye for a long moment. Then he turned his gaze down to the flagstones again.

"I believe that you were here to prevent the assassination," Sadeas said. "I believe that you do not understand whatever it was you did to my daughter. But that does not change the fact that you did it. Does it?"

Sarus didn't answer.

"Answer me, boy." Sadeas' voice was quiet and sharp as a dagger in the night.

"I do not know what happened," Sarus said.

"No, you do not know what you did. But you and I both do know that whatever it was, you did it." Sadeas' voice had risen—not a shout, not yet, but only just controlled. "And to be honest, I don't much care what exactly you did. You did it. That is enough for me to know."

"I didn't mean to," Sarus whispered.

Sadeas laughed. It was a sharp, agonized sound. "What in Damnation does that matter?" he demanded. "My daughter is dead! I don't even have a body to bury, you wretched little worm! And whatever you intended, that is your doing!"

"Then take your vengeance," Sarus said quietly, "and have done. I have no more information to give you. I have told you all I know."

"You want to have this over with? You want me to just take your head and go on my merry way? No, boy. Oh, no. Tailiah is dead!" Sadeas' voice cracked on the word. "And I have to live with that! I have to go on living with that! I have to go to war with that! With the knowledge that my daughter, my heir, the best thing I have ever brought into the world, is gone forever!"

Sarus' eyes itched. It took him a moment to realize that there were tears in them. He knew that what he was about to say would do nothing to comfort the man—how could it? How could anything?—but it was all he could do. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry!?" Sadeas' voice was positively shrill, now. "No, boy. No you're not. Not yet. But you will be. Bring her out!"

Sarus blinked. Then he turned his head at the sound of a side door opening. The moment he saw what was on the other side, he knew what was about to happen.

Two guards pushed Sarus' mother into the room. She struggled against them, her face pale, her eyes red. But when they fell on Sarus, her expression brightened. "Sarus!" she called. "Oh, Sarus, I've been so worried! Are you—"

"Silence," Sadeas snapped. "Gag her. Now."

One guard struck Sarus' mother in the stomach. As she gasped, the wind knocked from her, the other shoved a cloth gag into her mouth.

It was only when he heard the shout above him that Sarus realized he had started to rise. All four of his guards and his jailer jumped on him, pressing down on him, and still he nearly freed himself. Nearly. He stared at his mother as she was dragged towards the Highprince's chair, straining against the men holding him, before looking up at the man himself. "She has served you loyally for decades!" he shouted at Sadeas. "She has nothing to do with this! She is innocent!"

Torol Sadeas looked down at him, completely ignoring the woman as she was brought to her knees at his feet, her face turned toward Sarus. "Do you know what your name comes from?" he asked. "It's been on my mind ever since Ialai sent word to Kholinar by spanreed. This woman named you in my honor. Sadas Rusuh. Courage and Generosity. No, boy, she is not innocent. She is the reason the man who killed my daughter lived past infancy."

"She had no idea this would happen! None of us had any idea this would happen! She is blameless, Brightlord! Please!"

Sadeas' eyes were pale abysses, void of all pity. "I know. This isn't her punishment. It's yours." He stood up and drew his side-sword from its scabbard at his hip.

Sarus looked away from him and met his mother's gaze. Her eyes were wide and terrified. "Please," he whispered. "Please, anything else. Torture me. Have me strung up. Flay me alive. But let her go."

"I would have rather you do any of these to me than kill my daughter," Sadeas said. "But it's my daughter who is dead. The punishment should always outstrip the severity of the crime. No punishment could possibly surpass your crime, boy—but I will do my best."

He stepped down from his raised seat, extended his sword, and laid it gently against Sarus' mother's throat. She froze, shaking in abject terror. "Ungag her," he instructed one of the guards holding her down. "She should have the chance to speak her last words."

The guard saluted quickly before reaching down and tearing the gag out of the woman's mouth. She gasped, eyes meeting her son's. "Sarus—"

The sword slashed through her throat with hardly any resistance. Whatever she had been intending to say, it cut off with a gurgle as she fell. She struggled weakly for a few moments, eyes filling with tears as she looked up Sarus. Then she fell still, and those eyes glazed over in death. Her blood pooled beneath her, spreading in a red tide over the flagstones.

Sarus realized he was screaming. He also realized he had torn free of the four men holding him down. He had almost reached the highprince before the two guards who had been holding his mother down caught him and pushed him back long enough for the other four guards to catch up. Even all six of them weren't enough to stop Sarus entirely, but when four more joined them, that was sufficient to force Sarus back to his knees.

Through it all, Torol Sadeas just stared down at him, eyes hooded, blood dripping from the sword in his hand.

"That will do as a beginning," he said. "But I've never been much for commensurate punishment, boy. Your death will be slower. Much slower. There is a war coming to Alethkar, and I already have ideas for how you can serve me. You will die, and you will die screaming. But before then, you can join me in surviving in a world that all light has abandoned."

"If there is any justice in the world," Sarus hissed, "you will die screaming, too. You will die knowing everything you have ever tried to do has failed, and that all of it is your fault."

"It already has," Sadeas said softly. "And it already is." He gestured to the guards. "Beat him. I want him more bruise than man by the time he returns to his cell."

Sarus fought them. He struck out with fists and elbows, feet and knees. Any man unfortunate enough to draw near his mouth, he bit. More guards joined them, but for a moment he almost thought he might break away from them, break through their line and reach the man who had slaughtered his mother for no reason other than to hurt him.

Then his boot slipped. He had just a moment to register that he had been tripped by the pool of his own mother's blood as he fell, before he hit the ground, sending up a smattering of crimson droplets. Then the men fell upon him, and the world descended into darkness and pain.

Last edited: Apr 8, 2024

LithosMaitreya

Apr 8, 2024

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Threadmarks 72: House Sadeas

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LithosMaitreya

Character Witness

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Apr 15, 2024

#1,726

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

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House Sadeas

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And also because I choose to have hope. Not faith—faith is for those who are not despised by God.

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"Let me see if I understand," Torol said quietly, staring down the messenger in Kholin blue. The woman shifted uncomfortably. "The Kholin, Roion, and Aladar armies survived the storms several days ago? And now they've somehow found an ancient passageway to the lost city of Urithiru? And that passage is within the Parshendi stronghold at the center of the plateau, which is now under Alethi control?"

A little less than two weeks after the expeditionary army had departed, a highstorm had surged over the warcamps. The rain of the Weeping had immediately reasserted itself after it passed. Then, a few days later, another storm had struck from the west. That storm had left marks all over the warcamps: buildings flattened by the unprecedented westerly wind, more than a few grave injuries and deaths, and—most bizarrely of all—the sudden disappearance of nearly all of the parshmen in the warcamps. Torol had heard from his spies that some had been captured as they fled, but whatever it was that had spurred them to sudden action, he could not say. None of his own parshmen, or those of his vassals, had resurfaced.

"Yes, Brightlord," said the messenger. "Brightness Navani should have sent word ahead by spanreed."

"She did," Torol acknowledged. "But it was rather light on details. Understandable, given the need to ration Stormlight during the Weeping. But I could not assume that the Parshendi had not seized the spanreed for themselves and sent the message as bait."

"Well… they didn't," the messenger said. "The lost city is high enough and sturdy enough to be safe from both highstorms and the… Everstorm, as the westerly storm is apparently called. As such, Highprince Dalinar has issued a formal invitation to all of the highprinces to shelter there until a plan of action can be established."

Torol leaned back in his seat, studying the messenger thoughtfully. Truth be told, he had assumed the spanreed to be accurate when he had received it two days ago. It was too fanciful a story to be a trap. He had sent missives to the other highprinces, and to Elhokar, and had received confirmation that they had all been sent similar messages. He had half expected Elhokar to send orders of some kind with his reply, but nothing of the sort had been forthcoming.

Still, now that messengers had arrived to confirm what the spanreeds had announced, he thought he could guess what would happen next. Elhokar would obey his uncle's summons. He was under too much stress to decide on his own course of action, what with a rumored attempted assassination mere hours before an unprecedented storm system.

And as much as it rankled to be called to heel like a disobedient axehound, Torol knew when to make a tactical retreat. He had lost this skirmish against Dalinar. He didn't know exactly what had happened—whether Dalinar had secretly allied with some rebel elements within the Parshendi and had been guided to Urithiru by them, or something else entirely—but the fact remained that Dalinar had survived the expedition, and had apparently found the lost stronghold of the Knights Radiant into the bargain. Regardless of everything else, Torol needed to be there—especially if Elhokar was going to be there as well. He needed proximity to the rest of Alethkar's power structure in order to achieve anything right now.

"I will consult with His Majesty," he said aloud. "I do not obey the whims of Highprince Dalinar, but I am the king's loyal subject. If he makes the journey to Urithiru, I will follow. I suspect he will, however." He gestured to a servant. "Have the army make ready to move, and send word to General Latharil. I want to split our forces in two, leaving half here to defend the warcamp. Let him make it so." The servant bowed and bustled off. Torol stood. "You," he told the messenger, "may take rest and refreshment at the nearest soldier's mess. One of my guards will guide you there."

As she bustled off, he swept out of the audience chamber, making for Ialai's rooms. There was a great deal to do—messengers to send, servants to organize, furnishings and goods to pack—and he would need his wife's help to see it all done quickly.

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"Your Majesty," said the redheaded Veden woman with a bow, before turning to give the same to Torol and the other highprinces. "Brightlords."

"Brightness Shallan," Elhokar said, nodding. "The men at the perimeter said you could… give us passage to the tower, somehow?"

The girl visibly bit back some ill-advised witty remark. "Yes, Your Majesty. Do you happen to have any infused spheres?"

"Are you extorting a toll from us, girl?" demanded Ruthar from Torol's left.

"Are you trying to use your brain?" she shot back. "Don't strain yourself. No, Brightlord, it's simply that the fabrial is powered by Stormlight, and we're having to ration. I don't need your spheres—only the Stormlight inside."

Torol laid a hand on Ruthar's shoulder to forestall him before turning to face the train of servants behind them. "Balar," he called his steward. "Search my chest for any infused spheres and bring them to Brightness Shallan."

"Yes, Brightlord."

"Yes, yes, the same for all of our supplies," Elhokar said. "If we need Stormlight for transportation to and from Urithiru, that's far more important than keeping our spheres from going dun."

Spheres were produced over the next few minutes. As they were brought to Shallan, she reached out toward them and breathed in sharply. As Torol watched, transfixed, the Stormlight streamed out of the gemstones and flowed into her like a pale mist. She blinked, and when her eyes opened they were glowing brighter than the now-dun spheres had. Without a word to any of them, she turned and stepped inside the round chamber behind her. Elhokar followed, and Torol and the other highprinces followed behind him. Their retinues bustled in after them.

Shallan moved around the circular chamber, touching each of the gemstones suspended in metal housings around the wall like lamps. As her fingers brushed against each gem, Stormlight flowed from her hand into it, lighting it as brightly as if it had been left out for a whole highstorm. The moment she reached the final gemstone and illuminated it, the floor beneath their feet began to glow. Light streamed into the cylindrical chamber from beneath them, as if filtering through stained glass. In the image, Torol could see cities, in a style not unlike old religious artwork. In particular, he recognized one of the cities as Kholinar, of all places, by the shape of the spires and its place between the hills.

Shallan thrust her right hand to the side, and a thin, silvery Shardblade appeared in it. Several of the men nearest her started back, but Torol just watched, fascinated. She approached a metal disc in the wall, just over one of the cities, and inserted her Blade into a thin slit within the disc. The slit seemed to flow around her weapon to conform to its shape. Then she began to push.

With a grinding of stone on stone, the inner wall of the building began to rotate. It slid across the open doorway, leaving them in darkness save for the Stormlight lamps in the walls. She pushed the Blade until it came to rest above an image of a massive circular tower—hundreds of floors, with innumerable windows ascending from its base to its tip. Then she pulled her Blade free.

The lamps on the walls all dimmed to darkness. But as they did so, the doorway—which had rotated with the room—suddenly allowed daylight to stream in. Bright daylight, unmarred by the gloomy clouds of the Weeping.

Shallan dismissed her Shardblade and led them out of the chamber. Outside was a plateau identical to the one they had just been on, complete with all the soldiers and servants Torol, Elhokar, and the other Highprinces had brought with them. Nine other circular plateaus were arranged with the one on which they stood, each with a similar crem-covered building in its center. They were in a rough semicircle, connected by a massive stone platform between them. That stone platform served as something like a drawbridge leading to the very tower Torol had just seen depicted in the glowing mosaic of the floor.

"Welcome," Shallan said, "to Urithiru. Someone inside will be able to help you find rooms which have been explored and determined to be safe. Last I heard, most of the first floor had been explored, and some of the second."

Torol's neck ached as he looked up, following the vastness of the tower-city as it ascended into the sky. It was thousands of feet high, growing thinner as it ascended. The very air had an strange quality here—cold, and brisk, and oddly light. There were a few mountains around them which ascended higher than the tower's summit, but not many.

"It's magnificent," Elhokar whispered.

From the shadows beside the chamber they had just left, Torol thought he heard a soft hiss, quiet as a whisper.

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"We haven't yet cataloged enough rooms to be able to identify suitable rooms for Highprinces, Brightlord," said an aide in a gold-on-black Sebarial uniform. "I hope these chambers will serve as a temporary place to rest until we can find you something befitting your status?"

Torol looked around the room with a critical eye. It was an extremely small suite, by his standards—two rooms, one large enough to entertain small gatherings, the other just large enough for the basic furnishings of a bedroom. Still, it was better than a campaigning tent. "It will do for now," he said. "I assume Dalinar and the others have first pick of any proper rooms that are found?"

"I couldn't possibly comment, Brightlord."

"Of course not. You may go."

The woman bustled off. A few of Torol's servants entered after her, armed with the pieces of Torol's bed, ready to be assembled in his and Ialai's new bedroom. Another group began hastily putting together a table and chairs.

"It's not exactly a palace," Ialai observed.

"Not yet," Torol said. "But you saw what this place looked like from the outside. It will be magnificent, once it's been explored and properly furnished. More to the point—you saw those other platforms. I'd gamble a few hundred broams each of those is another of those portals, leading somewhere else on Roshar." He smiled. "Can you imagine what we might do from a staging area like this? You could bring war to anywhere in the world."

"Or at least to ten specific places in the world, one of which is a random plateau in the middle of the Shattered Plains," Ialai said dryly. "And you could also have war brought to you from any of those places, if anyone else figured out how to use those fabrials."

"True," Torol acknowledged. "Presumably Navani has her artifabrians working around the clock to identify where the other portals are, and how else they can be used."

"Presumably," Ialai agreed. "I'll start trying to make inroads with some of the scholars. If our ability to travel to and from Alethkar is now dependent on a fabrial, artifabrians have just become some of the most important people to know. That's a rather woeful gap in my network."

"I'm sure you'll close it quickly," Torol said. "For now, I think I'll take some soldiers and start scouting the unexplored parts of the tower. Who knows, maybe I'll find us better rooms?"

-x-x-x-

"You three, down that hall," Torol ordered to his retinue, gesturing down the two winding paths that forked ahead of them. "You two, that way. Go until you find something worth reporting back, then come find me."

All five men saluted, then turned and marched away. Torol himself turned, raising his lantern to examine a faded painting of strange creatures, some of which he recognized from ancient mythology, on a field of grass that seemed to tolerate their footfalls without retreating into the rock. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a shifting fractal pattern of shadows on the wall dart along the side of the ancient artwork.

"There are so many works like this," he said to the spren. "All over this tower. Why? Did the ancient Radiants just have a love of mythology, or is there more significance to it?"

The spren did not answer. But there was another sound—the scrape of a boot on stone. Torol turned and blinked in surprise. "Prince Adolin," he said to the young man who had been in the process of turning to walk away from him.

"Sadeas," Adolin said, rather rudely. "I wasn't aware you'd arrived."

Torol walked past Adolin, examining another tapestry—this one of a night sky, with constellations Torol had never seen etched between strange stars. "This place is remarkable," he said. "Remarkable indeed."

"So you acknowledge my father was right," Adolin said, sounding triumphant. "His visions were true all along. The Voidbringers have returned, and you look like one of the Ten Fools."

Torol sighed. "I admit, I underestimated your father," he said. "How did he do it? I was certain that his attempted negotiation with the Parshendi went nowhere. How did he manage to organize all this with them, without my spies ever hearing about it?"

"You can't—" Adolin spluttered. "You can't possibly think this is all a show? The lost city of Urithiru? You think the Parshendi just offered that to us? Why, just to make you look foolish?"

"More likely to make the king look weak," Torol said without looking at the boy. "It's quite convenient, isn't it? That only a 'Radiant' can operate the fabrial to take us to and from this place, and the only so-called 'Radiants' we have are a lieutenant loyal to Dalinar within the Cobalt Guard and his son's betrothed?"

"Not the only ones," Adolin protested. "One of the Parshendi defectors is a Radiant, too, as is Captain Sarus."

Torol's fists clenched involuntarily at the sound of the boy's name. "Oh, still better," he said. "Two of Dalinar's loyal officers, and a prisoner who lives or dies at his pleasure. Very convenient." He smiled at Adolin.

"You don't believe a word of that," Adolin said after a long pause. "Why, Sadeas?"

Torol shrugged. "It has to happen. You can't have an army with two generals—not when they disagree on the fundamentals. Your father and I want opposite things, it's that simple. We can't both win, and I don't intend to lose."

"It really doesn't have to be that way," Adolin said. "Just—admit you were wrong. Work with us."

"You know perfectly well your father will never trust me again." Torol's lips curled in a sneer. "Nor I him."

Torol could see anger beginning to build on Adolin's face. It made him want to laugh. Certainly, there was little to gain from antagonizing Adolin here—at least in the moment—but it was about planting seeds. It was about ensuring that Adolin was angry every time he thought of Torol, angry enough to make mistakes like the one that had trapped him in a duel against four other Shardbearers. He turned his back on the boy, spreading his arms theatrically.

"I will take this from him, boy. All this? Little more than a setback. He's had a success, true, but he remains what he is—an old man clinging to ideas that were ancient before he was born. He can win a battle, but he doesn't know how to fight this kind of war. I will break him, eventually, and he will lose."

Torol turned back to see Adolin staring at him. Torol saw something shift in his face. Then the boy was on top of him. His hand closed around Torol's throat, slamming him back against the wall.

Oh, storms, Torol thought, staring at the blazing fury in Adolin's eyes. I've actually made him snap. Somehow, the idea that he might actually enrage Adolin enough to attack him, that this confrontation would leave the domain of courtly insult, had never even occurred to him. In retrospect, it probably should have.

He opened his mouth to call for his soldiers, but Adolin squeezed, cutting off the cry with a choked rasp. Torol would have to do this alone. He reached up, closing his arms around Adolin's and twisting, trying to break the boy's grip. The boy held, but the motion overbalanced him. They fell to the ground, rolling along the floor. Torol tried to heave himself to the top, to get above Adolin, but the younger man was a warrior and a duelist in the prime of his youth, and Torol was an old man well past it. He found himself pinned under Adolin as the boy fumbled with his left hand for a knife.

Damnation, Torol thought with mounting terror. He's going to kill me. He's actually going to kill me!

Life before death. The words came to his mind in the voice of the ardent who had told them to him, weeks ago. And suddenly, he thought he could piece together the rest of the oath.

"Life before death," he rasped, unable to do more with Adolin's fist still around his throat. Life came before death—not just in time, but in importance. Death was useless. More than that—it was the end of all possible use. How many times had Torol killed someone who might have served him if they had survived? How many opportunities had death stolen from him?

"No you storming don't," Adolin growled, pulling out his knife and driving it toward Torol's face. Torol caught his wrist, straining to push it away with all his might.

"Strength before weakness," Torol choked. True strength, he finally understood, was not something displayed through armies or legions of darkeyed servants. It was in how a man conducted himself, in the choices he made and his ability to resist his own vices.

It wasn't that his way of thinking had always been completely wrong. That was an oversimplification. Dalinar was still an idealistic old fool who seemed to think the world would conform to how he thought it should be if he just willed it to be so. Torol knew better. Life was struggle. Strength was earned. These ideals were not the natural state of a man like Torol Sadeas—they were not the natural state of almost anyone. That was exactly why they mattered.

Right and wrong were not simple things to be selected like weapons off a rack. They were murky, complicated, half-obscured by sheets of rain in the dark. Codes, like the Alethi Codes of War Dalinar clung to, were a trick, one men played on themselves to pretend they could distinguish right from wrong every time. But every code failed eventually. Whether it was Dalinar's code of ancient Alethela… or Torol's code of modern Alethkar.

For he had been wrong. Adolin was right. He had made enemies where he could have made allies, because he had allowed bitterness and pride to make decisions for him, rather than choosing based on necessity and utility. Certainly, he had convinced himself that the things he did were decisions made tactically. But these were excuses, ones which allowed him to continue doing what his baser instincts already wanted to do.

It was difficult to wrap his head around this thought—that the entire decision-making apparatus he had spent more than fifty years cultivating was fundamentally flawed and always had been. He did not think he could have accepted it any way other than this, in any context other than staring down the consequences of his own foolishness as the blade of a knife.

If only he had been able to realize this earlier, before he had abandoned Dalinar at the tower and permanently alienated the most powerful highprince in Alethkar, or before he had committed so many resources to trying to humble Adolin, or even before he had decided not to join the army in their final assault on the Parshendi. If he had, if he'd been able to put aside the confounded pride and anger which had driven him to these mistakes, he wouldn't be here now.

"Journey before destination," Torol mouthed, his lungs burning for air.

There was a terrible silence as the last words of the First Ideal left Torol's lips. Then a soft voice whispered from the wall beside him. "These words… are not accepted. Ssss."

"What?" Torol rasped, his eyes rolling to seek the pattern of the spren on the wall.

It had no eyes, but he felt its gaze on him nonetheless. "I don't believe you," it said simply. "You sssspeak the words in desperation, but you don't mean them. You can't. And I will not consign myself to die on vain hope alone. I am ssssorry."

Torol saw Adolin's eyes darting to the spren on the wall, then back to him. Then his knife pressed forward again, with even more force. And Torol, starved of air, felt his strength break. The knife buried itself in his eye. There was a moment of blinding, blistering agony.

Then there was nothing at all.

Last edited: Apr 15, 2024

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LithosMaitreya

Apr 15, 2024

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Threadmarks 73: The Oath of an Inkspren

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LithosMaitreya

Character Witness

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Apr 22, 2024

#1,789

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

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The Oath of an Inkspren

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Even if I die, even if all of us die, I have hope. Hope that, somehow, we will succeed. And that one day, someone will return to read these words.

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"The surgeons have done all they can. I trained as one, Moash, I know. I didn't finish my education, but I doubt they study how to treat 'smote by an evil god' in Kharbranth."

"Yeah, probably not. Still, it doesn't feel right, just sitting here and waiting for him to wake up."

"There is nothing else to be done. He will wake. He endured the wrath of the gods, held back their storm—he will not slip away now."

"I know, but how long will he—"

"Quiet," Archive's voice cut in across the chatter. "All of you. He wakes."

Sarus' mind surfaced from unconsciousness slowly. The first thing he was aware of was the voices of those around him—Kaladin, Moash, Rlain. The second was pain. It rushed through his entire body, creaking in his bones, boiling in his blood, shuddering in his muscles. Even his eyelids ached as he opened them.

His friends clustered around him. Four seats ringed his bedside, and in them gathered Kaladin, Moash, Rlain, and Archive. Syl was there, too, hovering over Kaladin's shoulder. Sarus could also hear, through aching ears, other voices nearby—muffled, perhaps, by a door? He wasn't certain.

"Welcome back, my Elsecaller," Archive said softly. Her ink-black eyes roved across his face, as if hoping to read some tell there. "Is there pain?"

"Yes," croaked Sarus, his voice rasping as it left his throat. "How long have I been out?"

"Four days," Kaladin said. "We—Shallan activated the Oathgate to take us to Urithiru, and we couldn't go back until the storms had passed. We thought you were dead, but I found you on the plateau as soon as they let me go back to search. Still alive, somehow."

"We've kept you plied with plenty of Stormlight," Moash said. "That's helped. You looked like Damnation itself when Kal first brought you in."

Sarus met Moash's eyes, and suddenly remembered the visions Melkor had shown him. He remembered seeing Kaladin turn to face the enemy Shardbearer. And, as if the memory itself was expanding in his mind, he saw what Melkor had declined to show him—the second Shardbearer who had been standing there, Blade ready, ready to kill Kaladin to get at Elhokar.

He lied to me, Sarus realized. It shouldn't be a surprise, but somehow it was. I have changed things. Not as many as I could have, perhaps. But there has been a purpose to all this. To me.

"We probably wouldn't have made it out of there if you hadn't done… whatever you did," Kaladin said. "Still—do me a favor and don't do it again. You're lucky to be alive."

Sarus' lips twitched painfully. "I don't believe you can give me orders, Lieutenant," he said.

Kaladin rolled his eyes. "Call it a doctor's recommendation."

"I thought you hadn't finished your education?"

"Still surgeon enough to know where to stick a needle to make it hurt. Don't test me."

Sarus chuckled. The action quickly devolved into a fit of pained, wheezing coughs. When it subsided, the others were looking at him with renewed worry.

"What exactly are your symptoms?" Kaladin asked.

"Pain," Sarus said flatly. "Everywhere. It would be easier to list what doesn't hurt than what does."

"Do that, then."

"Sure. Done."

Kaladin blinked.

"I said everywhere," Sarus said. "I meant it. I think my soul is sore."

"It likely is," Archive said softly. "Storms are Spiritual things, and the enemy's storm is no exception. You challenged a god in his own arena and survived. That… should not be."

Oh, little Maia. You really think you can stop me?

"I had to let him pass," Sarus said quietly. "He would have killed me."

"That you held him back at all is already impossible," Archive said. "No one could expect more." She gave him a small, complicated smile. "Not even me."

Sarus looked away. "He knows something," he said. "Something about me, about what gives me my abilities. He knows me, by the same name as the woman in my vision."

"Sorry," Moash said. "What vision?"

"I don't think I've heard about this either," Kaladin said.

Sarus explained what he had seen when the Assassin in White had stabbed him with his Shardblade. "I somehow knew the name belonged to me, but until I faced Melkor—sorry, Odium—I didn't know the rest of it. Now I do. He called me by it. Curumo."

"I just don't understand how that's possible," Kaladin said.

"In your mythology," Rlain said quietly. "Do not the Heralds return before each Desolation? Perhaps this is something like that."

Sarus looked at him. Rlain was no longer in the fearsome stormform he had been wearing at the battle, instead in the thick-carapaced shape Sarus had come to recognize as warform. In his voice, just as he had ever since the Shardblade had broken in his chest, he could hear a rhythm to Rlain's words. But this time, it was even more distinct. He thought he could somehow feel what the rhythm meant, now. This one was a slow, thoughtful one, suggesting that Rlain was considering both his words and their meanings carefully. Acting on an instinct, Sarus tried to emulate the rhythm. "By all accounts," he said, "the Heralds of the Almighty came armed with knowledge to prepare mankind for each Desolation. But other than a few flashes of insight—names, mostly—I have no such knowledge. No memories."

Rlain's eyes were wide, and as Sarus continued speaking he had begun to hum to an entirely different rhythm—one soft, almost timid, and awed. "You can speak to the rhythms," he said to the same beat.

Sarus tried to shrug, then winced as the movement sent shocks of pain through his shoulders. "I think I could learn them. It is easier to hear them in your voice, now." He grimaced. "I am changing. First the Shardblade, now this. With each miraculous survival, I fear I'm becoming less human."

"Hey," Moash said, lightly punching the mattress beside Sarus' shoulder in lieu of punching him directly. "That might not be a bad thing. Take it from me, humans can be really wretched things."

Sarus' lips twitched. "You know just what to say to comfort me, Moash."

"Glad to help."

Kaladin cleared his throat. "A lot's changed while you've been out, Sarus," he said. "I've… taken interim command of Bridge Four while you're in hospital. I hope you don't mind."

"What he isn't saying," Moash said in a stage whisper, "is that we practically had to force him to do it. He tried to give me command initially."

Kaladin shot Moash a look. "I still think that would have been better," he said. "I haven't… conducted myself especially well, these past few weeks."

Sarus sighed. "Have you told anyone the details?" he asked. "Moash? Murk or Rock? Highprince Dalinar?"

Kaladin looked away. "No," he said quietly. "I know I should. I know that when the king comes and tells Dalinar himself it'll be so much worse. But I just…"

"You can't go back to jail," Sarus said. "You can't have the winds taken from you again."

"Wait." Moash looked between the two of them. Eventually his wide eyes settled on Kaladin. "You're not serious," he breathed. "Not after—I told you what Sarus said!"

"I know you did, Moash," Kaladin said, sounding exhausted. "I wasn't… ready to listen, just then."

"I am missing something," Rlain said, speaking to a confused rhythm.

Kaladin looked at him, hesitating, visibly trying to find the words.

Sarus saved him the trouble. "Kaladin tried to assassinate King Elhokar," he said.

"He stopped!" Syl exclaimed, glaring at Sarus. "He found his honor again!"

"Yes," Sarus said. "And I'm more than confident that it won't happen again, given the oath Kaladin swore there." He looked at Kaladin. "Find Highprince Dalinar later and come visit me with him," he said. "I will find a way to explain. However—I do not think putting you in command of the Cobalt Guard will go over well."

"No," Kaladin said, face falling. "No, probably not."

"Storms," Moash swore. "What a mess. The men won't accept just anyone to lead them, Sarus. You had to make that speech to get us to give you a chance. I can't do something like that. Murk certainly can't, and Rock still refuses to pick up a weapon in the first place."

"They will have to," Sarus said stiffly. "It doesn't… the men can treat Kaladin as captain within the barracks if they prefer. Just so long as you are the one in command where the lighteyes can see. We cannot have Kaladin be openly in command of the Cobalt Guard, not after what he almost did."

"Fine," Moash said. "Just until you've recovered." He shot Kaladin a look. "And I'm going to be getting your help on a lot of the actual captaining."

"Of course," Kaladin said. His lips twitched. "We finally have a lighteyes in command of the Guard. That'll make the brightlords happy."

"Go boil your head in a pot of stormleavings," Moash growled.

"You two should go," Sarus said. "Tell the others outside that I'll be fine. I need a word with Rlain, anyway. Kaladin, come see me again later with the highprince."

Kaladin nodded at him. "Don't try to have too many important conversations today, all right?" he asked. "You're supposed to be resting."

"I'll do my best."

After Kaladin and Moash left, Sarus turned to Rlain. "Sorry about that," he said.

"About what?" Rlain looked honestly confused.

"You don't have to pretend to be a parshman anymore, you know," Sarus said. "You don't have to fade into the background of every conversation."

Rlain hummed softly to a complicated, wistful rhythm. "I don't mind."

"No?"

"No," Rlain said. "I admit—I care for those men. For all of you—all of Bridge Four. And I would like to call myself one of them. But I am… content, to merely have a seat at the table. I do not mind. It reminds me of the old days, before the human expedition found us. It was always Eshonai who made decisions, Eshonai and Venli. I was just… there beside them. And it was good. I miss those days."

"So do I," Sarus murmured, remembering a halcyon childhood spent learning from the ardents, eating his mother's cooking, and sneaking conversations with Tailiah by moonlight. "But we cannot go back. Time, like a highstorm, only blows in one direction."

Rlain hummed to a dark, worried rhythm. "Except that now we have a storm blowing the wrong direction. I do not think it will fade as it crosses the sea. It will have hit Shinovar by now."

"It's called the Everstorm for a reason," Sarus said. "What is the status of the Listeners? I know you must have suffered heavy casualties."

"Those who took stormform are all lost," Rlain said to a quiet, mournful rhythm, looking down at the floor beside Sarus' bed. "I assume some survived, but they had vanished by the time we returned to search Narak. Eshonai and I are the only exceptions."

As he spoke, Sarus saw something shift in the wall behind him. The stone seemed to morph slightly, shifting to form a tiny face with amber eyes, watching the Listener speak. It did not seem aware that Sarus could see it. He glanced at it for only an instant before focusing on Rlain again, though he kept it in the periphery of his vision. Best not to make it aware that it had been seen. "Then you were able to rescue Eshonai?" he asked. "I know you were hoping to do so."

Rlain smiled, humming a joyous rhythm. The expression was odd on his face—Sarus assumed that using the face to convey emotion was much more common among humans than among Listeners. Rlain must have picked up some habits from his time in the warcamps. "She rescued herself, in the end," he said. "I just told her what she needed to hear. She is a Radiant, you see."

Sarus' eyes widened. "A—truly?"

"Yes," Rlain said. "I only had to tell her what the spren following her wanted. To give her enough information to see that there was still a way out." His face fell, and his rhythm shifted to the same worried one he had hummed earlier. "It was able to break her free of stormform. I was… envious."

"You're free of it now," Sarus pointed out.

"Yes," Rlain said. "There was just enough time, after the highstorm hit but before the Oathgate activated. And there were… more than enough painspren to bond. Such is the battlefield. It was… intoxicating, Sarus. I knew it was influencing me, but I could not feel it. It felt like my own thoughts, my own emotions. And I felt so powerful. I reveled in it." His rhythm shifted into something beyond worried—something truly frightened. "I still miss it, sometimes. The storm barely beneath my skin. The power. I worry that it left a mark on me somehow—that even now, free of the stormspren, I still cannot truly trust my own mind."

"Power feels good," Sarus said. "That you enjoy feeling powerful is not necessarily indicative of a corruptive influence on your mind."

"I never felt this way before I took stormform."

"Didn't you?" Sarus asked. "Think back. The first time you took warform, did it feel similar?"

Rlain hesitated. After a moment, his rhythm shifted back from fear to worry. "It… did."

"There you are, then," Sarus said. "Power is not the enemy, though our enemy is powerful. Enjoying power is not necessarily cause for shame or alarm. What matters is how we use it. Strength before weakness."

"Life before death," Rlain said quietly. Sarus half expected him to speak the rest of the oath, but he did not. In the corner of his vision, Sarus saw the stone-faced spren shift slightly, though he could not make out its expression without looking at it directly. "Thude was able to lead us back to where the others who escaped Narak had hidden, fortunately. They have returned to the city for now, though some have followed us to Urithiru."

"Good." Sarus affected a yawn. "I think I will be able to sleep, now that my most pressing questions have been answered. I should rest before Kaladin returns."

"Of course," Rlain said, standing. "I hope your strength returns quickly, Sarus."

"As do I, my friend."

Rlain left, shutting the door behind him. The face in the stone wall began to melt back into the rock.

"He is a good man," Sarus said aloud, fixing his eyes directly on the spren.

It froze, staring at him. "You can see me," it accused. Its voice was deep and harsh, like grinding rock.

"I can," Sarus confirmed. "A recurring pattern with me, I'm afraid. What sort of spren are you?"

Archive followed his gaze. "A peakspren," she said. "Fascinating."

The face expanded into the miniature form of a man, seemingly made of stone. It emerged from the rock as if breaking free of it, sending debris falling to the floor—though Sarus noticed that the debris vanished as it hit the ground and that the hole the peakspren left in the wall closed up again behind it after a moment. The peakspren studied him and Archive for a long moment. "He is one of them," it—he?—said.

Sarus raised an eyebrow. "He is a good man who happens to have marbled skin and a gemheart, if that is what you mean."

"The singers served Odium for millennia," the peakspren said. "I don't remember much, but I remember that. It's easier here in the tower."

"It is," Archive agreed. "This place feels… it is not a Perpendicularity, not truly, but it is near to being one. If such a thing can be."

"Rlain's species may have served the enemy in great numbers," Sarus said. "But his people, the Listeners, went into two thousand years of exile to escape his service. Even if you insist on holding all of the descendants of the ancients responsible for their ancestor's sins, you must still acknowledge that Rlain's ancestors turned against Odium."

The peakspren studied him for a long moment. "Why does it matter to you?" he asked. "I am here to make a Nahel bond anyway. You will have a Stoneward. What does it matter to you who it is?"

"Rlain is a friend," Sarus said, "and a man of great worth. I want to see that worth recognized, that's all."

"Worth does not come from Radiance, Elsecaller," the peakspren said. "Nor does Radiance come from worth. The life of a Stoneward is often thankless, from what I remember."

"Why exactly are you testing me?" Sarus asked. "Go test Rlain, if you must test someone."

The peakspren chuckled with a sound like granite blocks crushing against one another. "He has already been tested, and tested well," he said. "I have not decided if it is enough. Do not tell him."

"I won't," Sarus promised. "But don't keep him waiting too long."

The spren didn't answer, simply stepping backward and melting back into the wall.

"Rlain, a Stoneward," Archive said. "It… fits."

"Does it?" Sarus asked. "I don't know much about that order."

"They are dependable," Archive said. "The wall between mankind and Desolation, even more so than the other Radiants. Rlain took on stormform to help his friend who needed him. This… feels Stoneward." She shrugged. "Though truly, my understanding is not. I am an inkspren."

Sarus didn't answer, staring silently up at the ceiling of the small stone room. "Archive?" he said after a time.

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry."

She was quiet for a moment. "You are forgiven," she said finally. "I am also sorry."

Sarus swallowed painfully, the tightness in his chest somehow making all his other aches even worse. "You did nothing wrong."

"Of course I did," Archive said. "I made you feel unworthy."

"I felt unworthy. That was something I brought, not something you did."

She sighed. "I saw that you struggled with envy. I saw this, Sarus. But all I saw was an opportunity for growth." Her tone was bitter. "You were right about me. Growth is everything to me, just as honor is everything to Syl. I am just as rigid as she, and I did not even see it until it was too late. Until you pointed it out to me."

"You are a spren," Sarus pointed out.

"I am a thinking spren!" she exclaimed. "I am more than my nature. I am my choices, my thoughts, my desires, dreams, hopes. These things are, Sarus. And yet, as you say, I am a spren. And as a spren, it is very easy to sink into my nature. To be nothing more than what I am. To be complacent." She sneered. It was a shockingly harsh expression on her normally sedate face. "What bitter irony. I demand growth, and yet do not see until I am forced that I need it as much as my Elsecaller."

Sarus reached out, ignoring the pain shooting through his arm, and took her hand. She started, staring at the point of contact, then following his arm back to his face. "I forgive you," he said hoarsely.

Her expression crumpled, but she smiled at him through it. "As your oath was," she said, "So now is mine. I will learn to be more than just a pressure to grow. You are Elsecaller, yes, but also mine. I will never again allow you to feel that you are unworthy."

Sarus felt tears in his eyes. "These words are accepted," he whispered.

The End Of

Part Two

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LithosMaitreya

Apr 22, 2024

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