Nearly as much as I look forward to serving you, newest Odium. Who was so recently one of them. You understand. And you are the one I’ve been waiting to worship.

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

Around four hours after Teft’s funeral, Kaladin went looking for Dalinar. The Blackthorn had returned the previous night, but Kaladin had been too exhausted that evening to do more than salute him, then find his bed.

So, he excused himself from the party at Jor’s winehouse and soared up toward the top of the tower. It felt good to fly up all on his own. Here, as reported by the messenger who’d brought him the news, Kaladin and Syl found the Bondsmith … er, the Stormfather’s Bondsmith … taking reports with Navani. The other Bondsmith. That was going to take some getting used to.

Kaladin and Syl intended to linger outside the small council room until Dalinar finished his current meeting, but as soon as he saw them, he broke it off and came trotting over.

“Kaladin,” he said. “I’ve been meaning to speak with you.”

“You’ve been busy, sir,” Kaladin said. He glanced down at his uniform. “Maybe I shouldn’t be wearing this.”

Dalinar actually blushed. What a remarkable sight. “About that,” he said. “I should have known I couldn’t—and shouldn’t—try to relieve someone like you from—”

“Sir,” Kaladin interrupted. He glanced at Syl, who nodded. He turned back to Dalinar. “Sir, you were right. I have a lot of healing to do before I should be in command again.”

“Even still?” Dalinar asked, glancing at Kaladin’s forehead—and the missing brands. “After what you have accomplished? After swearing the Fourth Ideal?”

“The Ideals don’t fix us, sir,” Kaladin said. “You know that. We have to fix ourselves. Perhaps with a little help.” He saluted. “We were on the correct path with me, sir. I need to take time away from the battle. Maybe so much time that I never return to full command. I have work to do, helping men like me and Dabbid. I’d like your permission to continue.”

“Granted,” Dalinar said. “You’ve grown, soldier. Few men have the wisdom to realize when they need help. Fewer still have the strength to go get it. Well done. Very well done.”

“Thank you, sir,” Kaladin said.

Dalinar hesitated—something seemed to be troubling him. He put his hands behind his back, watching Kaladin. Everyone else was celebrating. Not Dalinar.

“What is it, sir?” Kaladin asked.

“I haven’t made it public knowledge yet, but Odium and I have set a time for our contest of champions.”

“That’s excellent,” Kaladin said. “How long?”

“Ten days.”

“Ten … days?”

Dalinar nodded.

Syl gasped, and Kaladin felt a spike of alarm. He’d always kind of thought … He’d spent this year assuming that …

“Sir,” Kaladin said. “I can’t…”

“I know, son,” Dalinar said quietly. “You weren’t right for the champion job anyway. This is the sort of thing a man must do himself.”

Kaladin felt cold. Ten days. “The war … Does this mean … it will be over?”

“One way or another, it will end,” Dalinar said. “The terms will enforce a treaty in ten days, following the contest. The contest will decide the fate of Alethkar, among … other items. Regardless, the hostilities will continue until that day, and so we must remain vigilant. I expect the enemy to make a play to capture what he can, before the treaty finalizes borders. I perhaps made a miscalculation there.

“Regardless, an end is in sight. But I’m going to need help from someone before this contest arrives. The fight won’t simply be a swordfight— I can’t explain what it will be. I don’t know that I understand yet either, but I’m increasingly confident I need to master what I can of my powers.”

“I don’t know if I can help with that, sir,” Kaladin said. “Though we share a Surge, our abilities seem very different.”

“Yes, but there is one who can help me. Unfortunately, he’s insane. And so, Kaladin, I do not need you as a soldier right now. I need you as a surgeon. You are of the few who personally understand what it means to have your own mind betray you. Would you be willing to go on a mission to recover this individual and find a way to help him, so he can help me?”

“Of course, sir,” Kaladin said. “Who is it?”

“The Herald Ishi,” Dalinar said. “Creator of the Oathpact, Herald of Truth, and original binder of the Fused.”

Syl whistled softly.

“Sir,” Kaladin said, feeling unnerved. “Ten days isn’t enough to help someone with ordinary battle shock. It will take years, if we can even find proper methods. To help a Herald … Well, sir, their problems seem far beyond mine.”

“I know, soldier,” Dalinar said. “But I think Ishar’s malady is supernatural in nature, and he gave me clues to help him recover. All I need from you now is an agreement to help. And a willingness to travel to Shinovar in somewhat … odd company.”

“Sir?” Kaladin asked.

“I’ll explain later,” Dalinar said. “I need time to think this over, decide what I really want to do.”

Kaladin nodded, but glanced at Syl, who whistled again. “Ten days?” she said. “I guess it’s happening.…”

Dalinar started back toward his meeting—then paused and reached for something on a nearby table. A flute?

Wit’s flute.

“Lift had this,” Dalinar said, handing it toward Kaladin. “She said that Dabbid recognized it as yours.”

“It is,” Kaladin said with awe. “How is Lift, by the way?”

“My lunch is gone,” Dalinar said. “So I’d say she’s doing fine. We found her spren once the tower was restored, and they have—for some reason—decided to begin carrying around a bright red chicken.” He sighed. “Anyway, she said she found that flute in a merchant’s bin down in the Breakaway. One who sells salvage from the Shattered Plains. There might be other things your men were forced to abandon there.”

Huh. “Did she say which merchant?” Kaladin asked.

*   *   *

The Pursuer drew in a deep, angry breath as he woke.

Then he screamed in rage.

It felt good to have lungs again. It felt good to shout his frustration. He would continue to scream it. Killed. A second time. By that Windrunner. That insolent mortal, who thought his victory was due to his skill and not raw luck!

The Pursuer screamed again, glad for the sound to accompany his fury. His voice echoed; he was someplace dark, but enclosed. That made him pause. Shouldn’t he … be out in the storm?

“Are you quite done, Defeated One?” a voice said in their language, but with no rhythm.

The Pursuer sat up, twisting to look around. “Who dares call me—” He cut off as he saw who stood on the other side of the room, lit only by a Voidlight sphere held casually in his hand: a sleek figure looking out a dark window, his back to the Pursuer. The figure had twisting horns on his head and carapace that reflected the light wrong. He always ripped off his natural carapace formations at each rebirth, then replaced them with metal inclusions. They were incorporated into his body by Voidlight healing and his own special talents.

El. The one with no title.

The Pursuer silenced himself. He didn’t fear this Fused. He feared no one. But … to El, he did not complain.

“Where am I?” the Pursuer asked instead. “Why have I been reborn so quickly? I was on Braize for barely a day before I felt the pull.”

“We didn’t want to wait,” El said softly, still facing away from the Pursuer. No rhythms. El was forbidden rhythms. “So we had it done the old way. The way before the storms.”

“I thought Odium wasn’t doing that any longer.”

“Our new god made an exception, Defeated One.”

The Pursuer grunted, picking himself up off the ground. “They gave your title to another, you know. A human.”

“I’ve heard.”

“Disrespectful,” the Pursuer said to Derision. “It should have remained unused. Give me that Voidlight. I need to recharge myself, to earn back my legacy.”

“Earn back?”

The Pursuer forced himself to keep his tone respectful, to not shout. The one with no title could be … difficult. “I will hunt the mortal who killed me,” the Pursuer said. “I will kill him, and then anyone he ever loved. I will murder mortal after mortal until my vengeance is recognized, my atonement made. I assume you all know this, if you couldn’t wait for me to be reborn. So give me that damn Voidlight.”

El turned, smiling in the shadows. “It is for you, Lezian.”

“Excellent,” the Pursuer said, stalking forward.

“But you mistook me,” El said. “When we said we did not want to have to wait for your rebirth, it was not your convenience that troubled us, but mine. I am very curious, you see, and you were the sole appropriate subject.”

“Subject for what?” the Pursuer asked, reaching the window and looking out over Kholinar at night.

“Oh, to see if this really works.” El raised the Voidlight sphere … and the Pursuer saw it was attached to a knife. Did the Light look wrong somehow? Warping the air around the gemstone?

“I think this might hurt,” El said, then grabbed the Pursuer by the front of his beard. “Enjoy this final Passion, Defeated One.”

He plunged the knife down as the Pursuer struggled.

And his soul ripped itself apart.

*   *   *

Kaladin walked the now-bright streets of the Breakaway, bathed in cool steady light from above. The transformation the tower had undergone already was amazing. The air had become as warm as it was in Azir, an envelope of temperate weather that extended out to the fields.

People breathed more easily now. The entire tower was not only properly ventilated, it had water running through hidden pipes into many rooms, like they had in rich cities such as Kharbranth. And that was just the beginning. While some rooms in the tower had once held normal wooden doors, many others had stone doors that opened to the touch. They hadn’t realized how many rooms they’d missed while exploring because they’d been closed when the tower had last shut down. The place was truly a wonder.

He finally found the merchant shop Lift had told Dalinar about. Though the hour was growing late, the market was busy with people celebrating, so a lot of the shops were open, this one included. Kaladin was directed to a bin of salvage, and he began rifling through it, Syl on his shoulder. He found Rock’s razor. And some of Sigzil’s brushpens. And …

He held up a miniature wooden horse, carved in exacting detail.

Syl breathed out an awed sound.

“I lost this before coming to the Shattered Plains,” Kaladin said. “I lost this in Alethkar. Tien gave it to me the day we were recruited into the army, and it was taken with my other things when I became a slave. How…”

He clutched the horse close to his chest. He was so amazed that he walked off, and had to come running back to pay for what he’d taken. After that, he trotted back toward the tavern. He’d promised earlier that he would meet Dabbid, Noril, and the others he’d rescued from the monastery sick rooms, to decompress from yesterday’s events.

Kaladin would do as Dalinar asked, and go to save the Herald Ishi. That was for tomorrow, however. Today, Kaladin had another promise to keep. After all, he’d told Teft he would join these meetings and start taking care of himself.

*   *   *

Dalinar felt energized as he smelled the crisp cool air of the mountains. He stood at the very top of the tower, drinking it in while holding Navani, her warmth pressed against him. The sun had set, and he’d had enough of reports for the day. He wanted time with his wife and to look at the stars.

“I should have known you’d find a way out of it on your own,” he whispered to Navani as Nomon bathed them in light. “I should have seen your potential.”

She squeezed his arms. “I didn’t see it either. I spent a long time refusing to do so.”

Dalinar heard a rumbling in his mind. Not angry rumbling though. More … contemplative.

“The Stormfather doesn’t know what to make of this,” Dalinar said. “I think he finds it strange. Apparently, his Bondsmith and the Nightwatcher’s Bondsmith sometimes had relationships, but the Sibling’s Bondsmith was always apart.”

“The Sibling is … curious that way,” Navani said. “I’ll introduce you, once they are ready. It might take them time.”

“As long as it’s within ten days,” Dalinar said. “I can’t guarantee what will happen after then.”

“That deal you made…” she said.

“I’m sorry. I had to make an agreement while I had him. It isn’t everything we wanted, but—”

“It’s a good deal, Dalinar,” Navani said. “Inspired, even. We will have peace, even if we have to give up Alethkar. I think we’ve all been coming to realize that was a probability. Instead, this gives us a chance. I just wish … That last bit you agreed to. That worries me.”

He nodded. “Yes,” he whispered. “I know.”

This was his job though. To sacrifice himself, if need be, for everyone else. In that … In that Taravangian was right.

It still felt so wrong for Taravangian to be dead. Dalinar would never have a chance to prove to Taravangian that Dalinar’s way was correct. Gone. Without a farewell. Burned away in another stupid plot to manipulate Szeth.

“At least we can stop the bloodshed,” Navani said. “Tell our troops to hold position and wait for the contest.”

“Yes,” Dalinar said.

Unless … Should Dalinar have insisted the contest happen sooner? He didn’t feel ready. But would he ever?

Something feels wrong, he thought. Something has changed. We need to be ready for these next ten days. He felt that truth like a twisting in his stomach.

“I feel your tension,” Navani said.

“I’m second-guessing what I’ve done,” Dalinar said.

“The best information we have indicates this contest is our most reasonable hope of success,” Navani said. “And I doubt anyone the enemy presents can best Stormblessed.”

“I’m … not going to pick Kaladin, gemheart.”

“Why?” Navani asked. “He’s our best warrior.”

“No,” Dalinar said. “He’s our best soldier. But even if he were in peak fighting shape, I don’t think he’d be our best warrior. Or our best killer.

“Wit says the enemy can’t violate our agreement, and isn’t likely to try to misinterpret it—not intentionally. In fact, Wit seems to think the victory is already ours, but he got what he wanted. Odium will remain trapped either way. I’m worried though. There’s more I’m missing; I’m sure of it. At the very least, I think I left Odium too much room to continue fighting in the coming ten days.”

“We’ll find the answers, Dalinar,” Navani said. “We have a goal now. If you can win this contest, that will be enough. We will find a way to live in this new world, with the singers in their lands, and humans in ours.”

Navani squeezed his arm again, and he took a deep breath, intent on enjoying this moment. Storms, it felt good to be holding her. Beneath them, the tower’s lights shone brightly in the night—and down in the corridors, it was positively warm. He’d had to come all the way up here to smell mountain air.

“I should have known,” Dalinar repeated. “About you.”

“I don’t think so,” Navani said. “It was a remarkable stroke of luck that I figured it all out.”

“Not luck,” Dalinar said. “Conviction. Brilliance. I was scared for you, but should have remembered when I was scared of you—and realized how much danger the Fused were in by trying to take your fabrials from you. You are incredible. You’ve always been incredible.”

She breathed out a long, contented sigh.

“What?” he said.

“It’s good to hear someone say that.”

He held her for an extended moment of peace. But eventually, their crowns came calling. People came looking for Navani to settle something regarding the tower, and she was forced to leave.

Dalinar lingered on the top of the tower. He settled down on the edge, putting his legs over the side—the place where Kaladin had reportedly leapt into the darkness of the storm.

You were wise to give the Windrunner more time during his fall, the Stormfather said, approaching Dalinar. You were wise to show … mercy.

“It’s an important concept to learn,” Dalinar said to him. “The more you study it, the more human you will become.”

I do not wish to become human, the Stormfather said. But perhaps I can learn. Perhaps I can change.

“That’s all it takes,” Dalinar said. “A willingness.”

You are wrong though. I do understand mercy. I have expressed it, on occasion.

“Really?” Dalinar said, curious. “When?”