And so I am not at all dissatisfied with recent events.

—Musings of El, on the first of the Final Ten Days

Dalinar returned from the Stormfather’s vision and found himself still flying with the Windrunners—face mask in place, wrapped in several layers of protective clothing.

He felt clunky and slow after being the winds moments ago. But he reveled in what he’d heard and felt. What he’d said.

These Words are accepted.

Whatever was happening at Urithiru, Kaladin would face it standing up straight. God Beyond bless it to be enough, and that the Windrunner could reach Navani. For now, Dalinar had to focus on his current task.

He urged his speed to increase, but of course that did nothing. He had no control over this lesser flight; in it, Dalinar was little more than an arrow propelled through the air by someone else’s power—buffeted by the jealous winds, which did not want him invading their sky.

A part of him acknowledged the puerile nature of these complaints. He was flying. Covering a hundred miles in less than half an hour. His current travel was a wonder, an incredible achievement. But for a brief time he’d known something better.

At least this particular flight was nearly finished. It was a relatively quick jump from the battlefields of Emul down to the border of Tukar, where Ishar’s camp had been spotted. The main bulk of the god-priest’s armies had repositioned during the coalition’s campaign, fortifying positions in case the singers or Dalinar’s army tried to advance into Tukar.

So as Dalinar’s team reached the coast, they found several depopulated camps, marked by large bonfire scars on the stone. The region had been denuded—trees chopped for lumber, hills stripped of anything edible. An army could forage and hunt to stay alive here in the West, where plants grew more readily. In the Unclaimed Hills, that had never been possible.

Sigzil slowed their group of five Windrunners, Dalinar, and Szeth into a hovering position. Beneath them, Ishar’s large pavilion remained, and some hundred soldiers stood in a ring in front. These wore similar clothing: hogshide battle leathers with hardened cuirasses painted a dark blue, closer to black than the Kholin shade. Not a true uniform, but in a theme at least. Considering their lack of Soulcasters and the prevalence of herdsmen in the area, the equipment made sense. They were armed mostly with spears, though some had steel swords.

“They’re ready for us all right,” the Azish Windrunner said, steadying Dalinar in the air so he didn’t drift away. “Brightlord, I don’t like this.”

“We’re all Radiant,” Dalinar said, “with plenty of gemstones and a Bondsmith to renew our spheres. We’re as prepared as anyone could be for whatever will happen below.”

The companylord glanced toward Szeth, who had been ostensibly flown by Sigzil, but had actually used his own Stormlight. Dalinar had let Sigzil in on the secret, naturally—he wouldn’t leave an officer ignorant of his team’s capabilities.

“Let me at least send someone else down first,” Sigzil said. “To talk, find out what they want.”

Dalinar took a deep breath, then nodded. He was impatient, but one did not build good officers by ignoring their legitimate suggestions. “That would be wise.”

Sigzil conferred with his Windrunners, then swooped toward the ground. Apparently “someone else” had meant him. Sigzil landed and was met by Ishar himself, who emerged from the pavilion. Dalinar could identify the Herald immediately. There was a bond between them. A Connection.

Sigzil was not attacked by the soldiers in the large ring. Talking to Shalash these last few days, Dalinar thought he had a good picture of the old Herald. He had always imagined Ishi as a wise, careful man, thoughtful. Really, Dalinar’s image of him had always been similar to that of Nohadon, the author of The Way of Kings.

Shalash had disabused him of these notions. She presented Ishar as a confident, eager man. Energetic, more a battlefield commander than a wise old scholar. He was the man who had discovered how to travel between worlds, leading humans to Roshar in the first place.

One word that Shalash had never used was “crafty.” Ishar was a bold thinker, a man who pulled others after him on seemingly crazed ideas that worked. But he was not a subtle man. Or at least he hadn’t been. Shalash warned that all of them had changed over the millennia, their … personal quirks growing more and more pronounced.

Dalinar was not surprised that Sigzil was able to speak to the man, then fly back up safely. Ishar did not seem the type to plan an ambush.

“Sir,” Sigzil said, floating up beside Dalinar. “I … don’t think he’s altogether sane, despite what Shalash says.”

“That was expected,” Dalinar said. “What did he say?”

“He claims to be the Almighty,” Sigzil said. “God, born again, after being shattered. He says he’s waiting for Odium’s champion to come and fight him for the end of the world. I think he means you, sir.”

Chilling words. “But he’s willing to talk?”

“Yes, sir,” Sigzil said. “Though I must warn you I don’t like this entire situation.”

“Understood. Take us down.”

Sigzil gave the orders, and they made their way to the ground and landed in the center of the ring of soldiers. A few Windrunners summoned Shardblades; the others, not yet of the Third Ideal, carried spears. They surrounded Dalinar in a circular formation, but he patted Sigzil on the shoulder and made them part.

He walked toward Ishar, Szeth shadowing him on one side, Sigzil on the other. Dalinar had not expected the old Herald to look so strong. Dalinar was used to the frailty of men like Taravangian, but the person before him was a warrior. Though he was outfitted in robes and wearing an ardent’s beard, his forearms and stance clearly indicated he was accustomed to holding a weapon.

“Champion of Odium,” Ishar said in a loud, deep voice, speaking Azish. “It has been a long wait.”

“I am not Odium’s champion,” Dalinar said. “I wish to be your ally in facing him, however.”

“Your lies cannot fool me. I am Tezim, first man, aspect of the Almighty. I alone prepare for the end of the worlds. I should not have ignored your previous messages to me; I see now what you are. What you must be. Only a servant of my enemy could have captured Urithiru, my holy seat.”

“Ishar,” Dalinar said softly. “I know what you are.”

“I am that man no longer,” Ishar said. “I am Herald of Heralds, sole bearer of the Oathpact. I am more than I once was and I will become yet more. I shall absorb your power, Odium, and become a god among gods, Adonalsium reborn.”

Dalinar took a tentative step forward, waving for the others to stay back. “I spoke to Ash,” Dalinar said calmly. “She said to tell you that Taln has returned. He’s hurt, and she pleads for your help in restoring him.”

“Taln…” Ishar said. He adopted a far-off look. “Our sin. Bearer of our agonies…”

“Jezrien is dead, Ishar,” Dalinar said. “Truly dead. You felt it. Ash felt it. He was captured, but his soul faded away after that. Her father, Ishar. She lost her father. She needs your counsel. Taln’s madness terrifies her. She needs you.”

“I prepared myself for your lies, champion of Odium,” Ishar said. “I had not realized they would be so … reasonable. Yet you have already done too much to prove who you are. Taking my holy city. Summoning your evil storm. Sending your minions to torment my people. You have corrupted the spren to your side, so you can have false Radiants, but I have discovered your secrets.” He held his hands as if to summon a Blade. “The time for the end is upon us. Let us begin the battle.”

A weapon appeared from mist in his hands. A sinuous Shardblade lined with glyphs Dalinar did not recognize—though the Blade itself was vaguely familiar. Had he seen it before?

Szeth hissed loudly. “That Blade,” he said. “The Bondsmith Honorblade. My father’s sword. Where did you get it? What have you done to my father?”

Ishar stepped forward to strike at Dalinar.

*   *   *

While some humans left Rlain’s band of rebels—returning to their rooms, hoping they hadn’t been recognized—most of them stayed. Indeed, the numbers increased as many of the resisters fetched their families. Because Rlain had to let them go fetch families. What else could they do? Leave them to the Pursuer, who was known to target the loved ones of people he hunted?

All of this ate away at their time. They were also slowed by the need to carry both the wounded and the unconscious Radiants. Rlain did what he could to keep the main group moving, taking them through the Breakaway, avoiding the central corridor—where they’d be too easily exposed to Heavenly Ones from above.

However, he found himself attuning Despair. They were being watched—that cremling that harbored a Voidspren was following them along the wall. Rlain’s band wasn’t quite halfway through the market—still a fair distance from the front of the tower—when cracks broke the air, causing gawking marketgoers to flee. Stormform lightning strikes, used as a signal to empty the streets.

Rlain backed his haggard group against the wall of the large cavern and put their soldiers up front, the Heavenly Ones flying above. Deepest Ones began to emerge from the floor in front of them, and dozens of stormforms approached.

“You’re right, listener,” Leshwi said, lowering down beside him. “I couldn’t have talked us out of this. He knows what we did. Those who approach are humming the Rhythm of Executions.”

“Maybe we should have tried to reach the crystal pillar room,” Rlain said. “And escaped through the tunnels beneath, as Venli suggested.”

“No,” Leshwi said. “Those tunnels are blocked. Our best hope was to escape out the front entrance of the tower, and perhaps cross the mountains. Unfortunately, judging by those rhythms, these who come aren’t being sent by Raboniel. Odium wants me to know. I will be tortured like the Heralds once I return to Braize.” She saluted Rlain. “So first, we fight.”

Rlain nodded, then gripped his spear. “We fight,” he said, then turned to Venli, who had stepped up by his side. “Are there any other spren like the one who bonded you? Would some want other willing singers? Someone like me?”

“Yes,” Venli said to Mourning, “but I sent them away. The Fused would have seen them, hunted them.” She paused, then her rhythm changed to Confusion. “And Timbre says … she says you’re spoken for?”

“What?” he said. “By that honorspren who said he’d take me? I turned him down. I…”

The room went dark.

Then it shone as crystals grew out from his feet like … like stained glass windows, covering the floor. They showed a figure rising in blue-glowing Shardplate, and a tower coming alight.

Keep fighting, a voice said in his head. Salvation will be, Rlain, listener. Bridger of Minds. I have been sent to you by my mother, at the request of Renarin, Son of Thorns. I have watched you and seen your worthiness.

Speak the Words, and do not despair.

*   *   *

Sigzil blocked Ishar’s attack using his Shardblade. The other Windrunners swarmed forward to protect Dalinar. Szeth, however, stumbled away. The sight of that Honorblade had plainly upset him.

The watching Tukari soldiers started to close their circle, but Ishar ordered them back. Then he danced away from Sigzil, shouting at Dalinar. “Fight me, champion! Face me alone!”

“I brought no weapon, Ishar,” Dalinar said. “The time for the contest of champions has not yet come.”

Ishar fought brilliantly as the other Windrunners tried to gang up on him. He was a blur with a flashing Blade, parrying, dodging, skepping his Blade—making it vanish for a brief moment to pass through a weapon trying to block it. The Windrunners had only recently started practicing the technique; Ishar performed the complex move with the grace of long familiarity.

He is a duelist, Dalinar thought. Storms, and a good one.

What did you expect? the Stormfather rumbled in his mind. He defended mankind for millennia. The Heralds were not all warriors when they began, but all were by the end. Existing for three thousand years in a state of near-constant war changes men. Among the Heralds, Ishar was average in skill.

Ishar faced all five Windrunners at once, and it seemed easy for him. He blocked one, then another, stepping away as a third tried to spear down from above, then swept around with his Blade, slicing the heads off two non-Shard spears.

Sigzil’s Shardblade became a long dueling sword designed for lunges. He struck when Ishar’s back was turned, but the Herald casually twisted and caught the Blade with one finger—touching it along the unsharpened side—and guided it past him. Sigzil stumbled as he drew too close, and Ishar lifted that same hand and slammed it against Sigzil’s chest, sending him sprawling backward to the stones.

Ishar then turned and raised his Shardblade in one hand to deflect one of Lyn’s strikes. Leyten came in, trying to flank, but he looked clumsy compared to the old Herald. Fortunately for the five, Ishar merely defended himself.

Despite earnestly trying, none could land a blow. It was as if … as if they were trying to hit where Ishar was, while he was able to move in anticipation of where they would be.

He is average among them? Dalinar asked. Then … who was the best?

Taln.

The one who sits in my camp? Dalinar thought. Unable to do more than mumble?

Yes, the Stormfather said. There was no dispute. But take care; Ishar’s skill as a duelist is a lesser danger. He has recovered his Honorblade. He is a Bondsmith unchained.

Ishar suddenly dashed forward, rushing into one of Sigzil’s attacks. The old man ducked the strike, then came up and touched Sigzil on the chest. When Ishar’s hand withdrew, he trailed a line of Stormlight behind him. He touched his hand to the ground, and Sigzil stumbled, gasping as his glow started to fade. Ishar had apparently tethered Sigzil to the stones with some kind of glowing rope that drained the Stormlight out and into the ground.

The other four followed, almost faster than Dalinar could track. One after another, tethered to the stone. Not bound, not frozen, but their Light draining away—and all of them stumbled, slowing, as if their lives were being drained with it.

Dalinar glanced at Szeth, but the Shin man had fallen to his knees, wide eyed. Storms. Dalinar should have known better than to depend on the assassin as a bodyguard. Navani had warned him; Szeth was nearly as unstable as the Heralds.

Dalinar didn’t want to see what happened when his troops ran out of Stormlight. He braced himself and thrust his hands between realms, then slammed them together as closed fists, knuckles meeting. In this, he united the three realms, opening a flash of power that washed away all color and infused the Radiants with Light.

Within the well of Light, Dalinar was nearly blinded—figures were mere lines, all shadows banished. Ishar, however, was distinct. Pale, eyes wide, whitened clothing rippling. He dropped his Blade and it turned to mist. Transfixed, he stepped toward Dalinar.

“How?” Ishar asked. The word sounded clear, an incongruity against the soundless rush of power surrounding them. “You … you open Honor’s path.…”

“I have bonded the Stormfather,” Dalinar said. “I need you, Ishar. I don’t need the legend, the Herald of Mysteries. I need the man Ash says you once were. A man willing to risk his life, his work, and his very soul to save mankind.”

Ishar strode closer. Holding the portal open was difficult, but Dalinar kept his hands pressed together. For the moment only he and Ishar existed here, in this place painted white. Ishar stopped a step or two from Dalinar. Yes, seeing another Bondsmith had shaken him.

I can reach him, Dalinar thought.

“I need a teacher,” Dalinar said. “I don’t know my true capabilities. Odium controls Urithiru, but I think with your help we could restore the Radiants there. Please.”

“I see,” Ishar said softly. He met Dalinar’s eyes. “So. The enemy has corrupted the Stormfather too. I had hoped…”

He shook his head, then reached out and pressed his hand to Dalinar’s chest. With the strain of keeping the perpendicularity open, Dalinar wasn’t able to move away in time. He tried to drop the perpendicularity, but when he pulled his hands apart, it remained open—power roaring through.

Ishar touched his hand to his own chest, creating a line of light between him and Dalinar. “I will take this bond to the Stormfather. I will bear it myself. I sense … something odd in you. A Connection to Odium. He sees you as … as the one who will fight against him. This cannot be right. I will take that Connection as well.”

Dalinar gasped, falling to his knees as something was torn from him—it felt as if his very soul was being ripped out. The Stormfather screamed: a terrifying, agonized sound, like lightning that warped and broke.

No, Dalinar thought. No. Please …

A shadow appeared on the field of whiteness. A shape—the shape of a black sword. This single line of darkness swiped through the line connecting Dalinar to Ishar.

The white cord exploded and frayed, trailing wisps of darkness. Ishar was cast away, hitting the stone. The perpendicularity remained open, but its light dimmed to reveal Szeth standing between Dalinar and Ishar, brandishing his strange black Shardblade. His illusion melted off like paint in the rain, breaking into Light—which was sucked into the sword and consumed.

“Where,” Szeth said to Ishar, his voice quiet, “did you get that Blade you bear?”

The Herald seemed not to have heard him. He was staring at Szeth’s sword as it dripped black liquid smoke. Around it, the white light of the perpendicularity warped and was consumed, like water down a drain.

Szeth spun and stabbed the sword into the heart of the perpendicularity. The Stormfather shouted in anger as the perpendicularity collapsed, folding in upon itself.

In a flash, the world was full of color again. All five Windrunners lay on the ground, but they were stirring. Ishar scrambled to his feet before Szeth—who stood with one arm wreathed in black tendrils, gripping the sword that dripped nightmares and bled destruction.

“Answer me!” Szeth screamed. “Did you kill the man who held that Blade before you?”

“Of course not, foolish man,” Ishar said, summoning his Blade. “The Shin serve the Heralds. They held my sword for me. They returned it when I revealed myself.”

Dalinar wiped his brow, pulling himself to his feet. He felt numb, but at the same time … warm. Relieved. Whatever the Herald had begun, he had not been able to finish.

Are you all right? he asked the Stormfather.

Yes. He tried to steal our bond. It should not be possible, but Honor no longer lives to enforce his laws.…

The perpendicularity. Did Szeth … destroy it?

Don’t be foolish, the Stormfather said. No creation of mortal hands could destroy the power of a Shard of Adonalsium. He merely collapsed it. You could summon it again.

Dalinar was not convinced that the thing Szeth bore was a simple “creation of mortal hands.” But he said nothing as he forced himself to check on the Windrunners, whose Connections to the ground had vanished. Leyten had found his feet first and was helping Sigzil, who sat on the ground with a hand to his head.

“I think your worries about this meeting were well advised,” Dalinar said, kneeling beside the Azish man. “Can you get us into the air?”

“Damnation,” Sigzil whispered. “I feel like I spent last night drinking Horneater white.” He burst alight with Stormlight, drawing it from the pouch at his belt. “Storms. The Light isn’t washing away the pain.”

“Yeah,” Lyn said. The other three Windrunners were sitting up. “My head is pounding like a Parshendi drum, sir, but we should be able to Lash.”

Dalinar glanced at Szeth, who was alight with Stormlight—though it was being drawn at a ferocious rate into his weapon. “My people,” Szeth shouted, “were not going to return your weapons to you. We kept your secrets, but you lie if you say my father gave you that Blade!”

“Your father was barely a man when I found him,” Ishar said. “The Shin had accepted the Unmade. Tried to make gods of them. I saved them. And your father did give me this Blade. He thanked me for letting him die.”

Szeth screamed, charging Ishar—who raised his Blade to casually block him, as he had with the Windrunners. However, the meeting of the two Blades caused a burst of power, and the shock wave sent both men sprawling backward.

Ishar hit hard, dropping his Blade—and Dalinar was in position to see the length of the Honorblade as it hit and bounced, then came to a rest half stuck into the ground. There was a chip in its unearthly steel where it had met the black sword.

Dalinar, in all his life, had never seen a Shardblade marred in such a way, let alone one of the Honorblades.

Ishar looked up at Szeth, dazed, then grabbed his Blade and shouted an order. His soldiers—who had watched all this in silence—broke their circle, moving into a formation. Sigzil put his hand on Dalinar’s shoulder, infusing him, preparing to Lash him.

“Wait,” Dalinar said as Ishar stood and slammed his fists together. A perpendicularity opened, as it had before, releasing a powerful explosion of light.

Impossible … the Stormfather said in Dalinar’s mind. I didn’t feel it happen. How does he do this?

You’re the one who warned me he was dangerous, Dalinar thought. Who knows what he’s capable of?

Across the stone field, Szeth sheathed his sword just before it began feasting on his soul. Dalinar pointed Leyten that way. “Grab him. Get into the air. We’re leaving. Sigzil, Lash me.”

“Right, sir.”

“Dalinar. Dalinar Kholin.”

That … that was Ishar’s voice.

“I can see clearly,” the voice said from within the perpendicularity. “I do not know why. Has a Bondsmith been sworn? We have a Connection, all of us.… Nevertheless, I feel my sanity slipping. My mind is broken, and I do not know if it can be healed.

“Perhaps you can restore me for a short time after an Ideal is spoken near me. Everyone sees a little more clearly when a Radiant touches the Spiritual Realm. For now, listen well. I have the answer, a way to fix the problems that beset us. Come to me in Shinovar. I can reset the Oathpact, though I must be sane to do it. I must … have help … to…”

The voice stumbled, as if warping.

“… to defeat you, champion of Odium! We will clash again, and I am ready for your wiles this time! You will not defeat me when next we meet, though you bear a corrupted Honorblade that bleeds black smoke! I am ALMIGHTY.”

Dalinar lurched, rising into the air as the Lashing took effect. The Windrunners darted up after him, including Leyten, who grabbed Szeth. As they left the column of light, Dalinar could see Ishar’s soldiers stepping into the perpendicularity.

A short time later it vanished. The Herald, his men, and the Honorblade were gone. Transported into Shadesmar.

*   *   *

Together, Navani and the Sibling could create Light.

Light that drove the monster Moash back along the corridor, holding his arm before his eyes. Light that drove the knife from Navani’s side as it healed her wound. Light that brought fabrials to life, Light that sang with the tones of Honor and Cultivation in tandem.

But her spren … The Sibling was so weak.

Navani grasped the pillar, pouring her power into it, but there was so much chaos muddying the system, like crem in a cistern of pure water. The Voidlight Raboniel had injected.

Navani couldn’t destroy it, but maybe she could vent it somehow. She saw the tower now as an entity, with lines of garnet very like veins and arteries. And she inhabited that entity. It became her body. She saw thousands of closed doors the scouts had missed in mapping the tower. She saw brilliant mechanisms for controlling pressure, heat—

No, stay focused.

I think we need to vent the Voidlight, Navani said to the Sibling.

I … the Sibling said. How?

I can sing the proper tone, Navani said. We fill the system with as much Towerlight as will fit, then we stop and vibrate these systems here, here, and here with the anti-Voidlight tone.

I suppose, the Sibling said. But how can we create the vibration?

There’s a plate on Raboniel’s desk. I’ll have my scholars play that. I’ll need a model to sing it, but with that, I should be able to transfer the vibration through the system. That should force the enemy’s corruption out through these broken gemstones in the pump mechanism. What do you think?

… Yes? the Sibling said softly. I think … yes, that might work.

With that done, we will need to restart the tower’s protections, Navani said. These are complex fabrials … made of the essence of spren. Of your essence?

Yes, the Sibling said, their voice growing stronger. But they are complicated, and took many years of—

Pressure fabrial here, Navani said, inspecting it with her mind. Ah, I see. A network of attractors to bring in air and create a bubble of pressure. Quite ingenious.

Yes!

And the heating fabrials … not important now … but you’ve made housings for them out of metals—you manifested physically as metal and crystal, like Shardblades manifest from smaller spren.

YES!

As she began working, Navani noticed an oddity. What was that moving through the tower? Highmarshal Kaladin? Flying quickly, his powers restored, wrapped in spren as armor. He had achieved his Fourth Ideal.

And he was going the wrong direction.

She could easily see his mistake. He’d decided the best way to protect the tower was to come here, to the pillar, and rescue Navani. But no, he was needed elsewhere.

She drew his attention with flashing lights on the wall.

Sibling? Kaladin’s voice soon sounded through the system as he touched the crystal vein.

Yes and no, Highmarshal, Navani said. The pillar is secure. Get to the Breakaway market. Tell the enemies you find there that they’d best retreat quickly.

He obeyed immediately, changing the direction of his flight.

Navani, full of incredible awareness, got to work.

*   *   *

Dalinar persuaded the Windrunners to linger in the sky above Ishar’s camp, rather than flying immediately back to the Emuli warcamp.

He worried about them though. The Radiants drooped like soldiers who had completed a full-day, double-time march. Ordinarily Stormlight would have perked them up, but they complained of headaches their powers couldn’t heal.

The effects shouldn’t be permanent, the Stormfather said. But I cannot say for certain. Ishar Connected them to the ground. Essentially, their powers saw the stones as part of their body—and so tried to fill the ground with Stormlight as it fills their veins.

I can barely make sense of what you said, Dalinar replied, hanging in the sky far above Ishar’s camp. How are such things possible?

The powers of a Bondsmith are the powers of creation, the Stormfather said. The powers of gods, including the ability to link souls. Always before, Honor was here to guard this power, to limit it. It seems that Ishar knows how to make full use of his new freedom.

The Stormfather paused, then rumbled more softly. I never liked him. Though I was only a wind then—and not completely conscious—I remember him. Ishar was ambitious even before madness took him. He cannot bear sole blame for the destruction of Ashyn, humankind’s first home, but he was the one Odium first tricked into experimenting with the Surges.

You don’t particularly like anyone, Dalinar noted.

Not true. There was a human who made me laugh once, long ago. I was somewhat fond of him.

It felt like a rare attempt at levity. Dared Dalinar hope it was progress in the ancient spren?

Below, Ishar’s large pavilion waited, flapping in the gentle wind. Dalinar had seen no sign of servants or soldiers peeking out.

“Sir?” Sigzil said, floating over to Dalinar. “My troops need to rest.”

“A few minutes longer,” Dalinar said, narrowing his eyes.

“What are we waiting for, sir?”

“To see if Ishar returns. He fled to Shadesmar. He could return at any moment. If he does, we’re leaving at speed. But if he doesn’t…” Ishar hadn’t been expecting to run. Szeth, and that strange Blade, had driven him away. “This could be a rare opportunity, Companylord. He was a scholar among Heralds; he might have written notes that give hints to applications of Bondsmith powers.”

“Understood, sir,” Sigzil said.

Dalinar glanced toward Szeth, who floated on his own away from the others, Lashed into the sky by his own power. Dalinar nodded toward him, and Sigzil—catching the meaning—gave Dalinar a brief Lashing that sent him over beside the assassin.

Szeth was muttering to himself. “How did he know? How did the old fool know?”

“Know what?” Dalinar said as he drifted near Szeth. “Ishar? How did he know about your people?”

Szeth blinked, then focused on Dalinar. It was odd to see him looking like himself with that too-pale skin and those wide eyes. Dalinar had grown accustomed to his Alethi illusions.

“I must begin preparing myself,” Szeth said. “My next Ideal is my quest, my pilgrimage. I must return to my people, Blackthorn. I must face them.”

“As you wish,” Dalinar said. He wasn’t certain he wanted to unleash this man upon anyone, least of all the one neutral kingdom of note in this conflict. But Jasnah had indicated it would happen, and besides, he doubted he could stop Szeth from doing anything he truly wanted to. “Your people. They have all of the Honorblades?”

“All but three,” Szeth said. “The Blade of the Windrunners was mine for years. The Blade of the Skybreakers was reclaimed by Nin long ago. And of course the Blade of the Stonewards was never ours to protect. So there were seven, but if Ishar has his Blade…”

You don’t need those other swords, a perky voice said in Dalinar’s mind. I am as good as ten swords. Did you see how great I was?

“I saw,” Dalinar said to the sword. “You … chipped a Shardblade. An Honorblade.”

I did? Wow. I am a great sword. We destroyed a lot of evil, right?

“You promised not to speak into the minds of others, sword-nimi,” Szeth said softly. “Do you not remember?”

I remember. I just forgot.

“I will send a team with you to Shinovar,” Dalinar said. “As soon as we return to our camp.”

“No,” Szeth said. “No. I must go alone, but not yet. I must prepare. I have … something important to do. He knew. He should not have known.…”

Storms. Dalinar wasn’t certain who was more insane: Szeth or the sword. The combination was particularly unnerving.

Without them, you would be dead, the Stormfather said, and I’d be bonded against my will. This Shin man is dangerous, but I fear Ishar more.

“Sigzil,” Dalinar called. “I don’t think he’s going to return anytime soon. Take us down. Let’s see if he left anything of value in that tent.”

*   *   *

Adin raised the spear he’d found in the atrium. People were crying, surrounded by fearspren, as the group of beleaguered humans and singers together made a circle around their wounded. They pushed the elderly and the children to the center, but Adin didn’t go with those. The spren watching would see that he wasn’t the type to hide. Even women had picked up weapons, including the surgeon’s wife, who had given her son to one of the young girls at the center to hold. War was a masculine art, but when you started attacking women, you’d stopped engaging in war. You deserved anything that happened to you after that point.

Adin’s father was among the wounded. Alive, bless the Heralds, but bleeding badly. He’d fought for the Radiants, when Adin … Adin had hidden in the hallway.

Storm him, he wasn’t going to be a coward again. He … he wasn’t. Adin fell into line beside a fearsome parshman in incredible carapace armor, then tried to position himself with his spear out, in that parshman’s same posture.

The stormforms marched in, singing a terrible song. Adin found himself trembling, his hands slick on his spear.

Oh, storms.

In that moment, he didn’t want to earn a spren. He didn’t want to fight. He wanted to be home making plates, listening to his father hum. He didn’t want to be standing here, knowing that they were all … all going to …

A hand took Adin by the shoulder and moved him backward. Not all the way back, but enough for the figure to stand in front of him. It was the quiet bridgeman, Dabbid. Adin didn’t complain, not after seeing those stormforms. Felt good to have someone in front of him, though the bridgeman’s spear shook. He was acting afraid to fool the enemy, right?

The stormforms didn’t release lightning, which was good. The others had thought they might not, because of the marketplace. Their powers were too wild. Regardless, there seemed to be … be hundreds of them. A call came from somewhere behind, and they came charging in—rippling with red lightning that flashed when they touched something.

In seconds, everything was chaos. Adin screamed, squeezing his eyes shut, holding out his spear and shaking.

No, he had to fight. He had to—

Something knocked into him from behind, throwing him forward. The strike dazed him, and he lost his spear. When he rolled over, a Voidbringer with red eyes stood above him. The creature casually speared downward.

Adin didn’t even have time to scream before—

Clink.

Clink?

The stormform cocked his head, humming an odd song. He stabbed at Adin’s chest, but the spear stopped short again. Adin looked at his body as he lay prone on the floor.

His torso was surrounded by glittering blue armor. He raised his hands, and found them covered in gauntlets.

He was in Shardplate.

He was in SHARDPLATE.

“Ha!” he shouted, and kicked at the stormform. The creature went flying, soaring twenty feet and slamming into a wall. Adin had barely felt any resistance. It was like he’d always imagined. It …

The Shardplate vanished off him and turned into a group of windspren, which soared over to Dabbid, who was about to take an axe to the head.

Clink.

Both combatants—the human now shrouded in Shardplate, and the enemy who had hit him—froze in place, stunned. The enemy backed away, and the Plate flew off again, this time surrounding the lead Heavenly One. She’d been spearing at a stormform who released a flash of lightning that enveloped her.

When Adin’s eyes cleared, he saw her floating in Shardplate, staring at her hands in obvious wonder. Confused, the stormforms began calling out, disengaging and re-forming into ranks.

The armor burst apart, forming those strange windspren who flew into the air overhead before latching on to a figure hovering above the buildings.

The Plate had fit everyone, but him it matched. A brilliant Knight Radiant in glowing armor, holding aloft an intricate Shardspear. He left the helmet off so they could all see. Kaladin Stormblessed, bright as the sun.

“I bring word from the Sibling!” he shouted. “They don’t remember inviting you in. And considering that they aren’t merely the master of this house, they literally are this house, your actions are quite the insult.”

Brilliant lights suddenly began running up the walls, making the very core of the stones glow as if molten in the center. Similar lights burst to life in the ceiling.

The ground trembled, as if the entire mountain were shaking. Clanking sounds rang in the hallways, like distant machines, and wind began to blow in the vast chamber—which now was as bright as day. Most amazing, the lightning on the stormforms went out.

Deepest Ones, who had been clawing out of the ground and grabbing at the feet of soldiers, began screaming and going limp, trapped in the stone. The Heavenly Ones who had been helping dropped to the ground suddenly, then collapsed, unconscious.

Groans sounded from behind. The Radiants on the floor at the center of the circle began stirring. They were awake!

“You may turn in your weapons,” Stormblessed said to the enemy. “And return to your kind unharmed, so long as you promise me one thing.” He smiled. “Tell him that I’m particularly going to enjoy hearing what he looked like when he found out what happened here today.”

*   *   *

A strange, unpleasant stench struck Dalinar as he stepped into Ishar’s pavilion.

The odor was chemically harsh, and he felt a faint burning in his eyes. He blinked in the dim light, finding a large chamber filled with slab tables and sheets shrouding something atop them. Bodies? The Windrunners had gone in first, of course, but they were busy inspecting the recesses of the tent to check for an ambush.

Dalinar walked up to one of the slabs and yanked off the shroud. He simply found a body underneath, an incision in its abdomen made with clean surgical precision. Male, with the clothing cut off and lying beside the body. Very pale skin and stark white hair—in death, the hair and skin seemed almost the same color. That skin had a blue cast to it; probably a Natan person.

So Ishar was a butcher, a mad surgeon as well as a crazed theocrat. For some reason, that relieved Dalinar. It was disgusting, but this was an ordinary kind of evil. He’d expected something worse.

“Sir?” Mela the Windrunner called from across the room. “You should see this.”

Dalinar walked over to Mela, who stood beside one of the other slabs. Szeth remained in the doorway to the pavilion, seated on the ground, holding his sheathed sword across his lap. He seemed not to care about the investigation.

Another corpse—half revealed by a drawn-back sheet—was on the slab in front of Mela, though this one was far stranger. The elongated body had a black shell covering most of it, from neck to feet. That had been cut free to open up the chest. Dalinar couldn’t make sense of the shell. It looked like clothing, kind of, but was hard like singer carapace—and had apparently been attached to the skin.

The head was a soggy mass of black flesh, soft like intestines, with no visible eyes or features.

“What on Roshar…” Dalinar said. “The hands seem human, if too long, but the rest of it…”

“I have no idea,” Mela said. She glanced away and shivered. “It’s not human, sir. I don’t know what it is.”

In the back of Dalinar’s mind, the Stormfather rumbled.

This … the spren said. This is not possible.

What? Dalinar asked.

That is a Cryptic, he said. The Lightweaver spren. Only they don’t have bodies in this realm. They can’t.

“Sir,” Lyn said from a nearby slab. The corpse she’d uncovered was a pile of vines vaguely shaped like a person.

Cultivationspren … the Stormfather said. Return to that first body you saw. NOW.

Dalinar did not object and walked toward the front of the pavilion. What he’d first dismissed as an ordinary body now seemed anything but. The white-blue hair, the pieces of clothing that were—he now recognized—the exact same color as the body. The Stormfather’s thunder grew distant.

I knew him, the Stormfather said. I could not see it at first. I did not want to see it. This is Vespan. Honorspren.

“So they’re not … some kind of attempt at making men into mimicries of spren,” Dalinar said. “These are actual spren corpses?”

Spren don’t have corpses, the Stormfather said. Spren do not die like men. They are power that cannot be destroyed. They … This is IMPOSSIBLE.

Dalinar searched through the chamber, where more and more drawn-back sheets revealed different strange corpses. Several just skeletons, others piles of rock.

This place is evil, the Stormfather said. Beyond evil. What has been done here is an abomination.

Sigzil jogged over, holding some ledgers he’d found in the rear. Dalinar couldn’t make sense of them, but Sigzil pointed at the Azish glyphs, reading them.

“This is a list of experiments, I think,” the companylord said. “The first column is the name of a spren, the second column a date. The third is a time … maybe how long they lived? None seem to have survived longer than a few minutes.”

“Blood of my fathers,” Dalinar said, his hands trembling. “And this last column?”

“Notes, sir,” Sigzil said. “Here, the last entry. ‘Our first honorspren lived nearly fifteen minutes. A new record, and orders of magnitude longer than all previous attempts. Honorspren seem to have the most humanlike essences. When transferred, the organs and muscles form most naturally. We must capture more of them.

“‘Cryptics and ashspren are impossible to bring over properly with our current knowledge. The process of creating bodies for them results in a physical form that collapses upon itself immediately. It appears their physiology works against the fundamental laws of the Physical Realm.’”

“Storms,” Leyten said, running a hand through his short hair. “What does it mean?”

Leave this place immediately, the Stormfather said. We must warn my children.

“Agreed,” Dalinar said. “Grab anything you think might be useful and meet me outside. We’re leaving.”

*   *   *

Moash fled through the tower, using Lashing after Lashing, as he felt the structure rumble. Felt it come alive. Felt light begin to surround him.

Her light. The queen’s light.

And before that, a terrible sound. It had pushed away his Connection to Odium, forcing Moash to feel pain for the things he’d done—pain he didn’t want. Pain he’d given away.

That pain seethed and spread inside him. He’d killed Teft.

He’d. Killed. TEFT.

Get out, get out, get out! he thought as he tore through a hallway, uncaring whether he hit people with his Shardblade as he passed over their heads. He needed it ready. In case Kaladin found him. In case he hadn’t broken.

The walls were glowing, and the light seemed brighter to Moash than it should have. He wasn’t supposed to feel afraid! He’d given that away! He couldn’t be the man he needed to be if he was afraid, or … Or.

The pain, the shame, the anger at himself was worse than the fear.

Get out. Go. Go!

The suffocating light surrounded him, burned him as he burst out the front gates of the tower. He felt more than saw what happened behind. Each level of the tower came alive, one at a time. The air warped with sudden warmth and pressure. So much light.

So much light!

Moash Lashed himself into the sky, darting out away from the tower. Soon after, however, he slammed into a hard surface. He dropped into something soft but cold, pained as his Stormlight kept him alive—barely. It ran out before it could fully heal him, so he lay there in the cold. Waiting for the numbness.

He wasn’t supposed to have to feel anymore. That was what he’d been promised.

He couldn’t blink. He didn’t seem to have eyelids anymore. He couldn’t see either—his vision had been burned away. He listened to distant cheers, distant sounds of exultation and joy, as he lay in the cold on the mountainside. The snow numbed his skin.

But not his soul. Not his wretched soul.

“Teft, I…” He couldn’t say it. The words wouldn’t form. He wasn’t sorry for what he’d done. He was only sorry for how his actions made him feel.

He didn’t want this pain. He deserved it, yes, but he didn’t want it.

He should have died, but they found him. A few Heavenly Ones who had been in the air when the tower was restored. They’d awoken, it seemed, after falling from the sky and leaving the tower’s protections. They gave him Stormlight, then lifted him, carrying him away.

Odium’s gift returned, and Moash breathed easier. Blissfully without his guilt. His spine healed. He could walk by the time they dropped him among a camp of a few others who had managed to flee the tower.

But he couldn’t see them. No matter how much Stormlight he was given, his eyes didn’t recover. He was blind.