Taravangian had long suspected he would not get a funeral. The Diagram hadn’t indicated this specifically—but it hadn’t said otherwise. Besides, the farther they progressed, the less accurate the Diagram became.

He had chosen this path, however, and knew it was not the sort that led to a peaceful death surrounded by family. This was the sort of path that led into the dark forest, full of perils. His goal had never been to emerge from the other side unscathed; it had always been to simply accomplish his goal before he was killed.

And he had. His city, his family, his people—they would be safe. He had made a deal with the enemy that ensured Kharbranth would survive the coming destruction. That had always been his end. That alone.

To tell himself otherwise was both foolish and dangerous.

So it was that he arrived at this day: the day he sent his friends away. He’d had a fire built in his hearth, here in his rooms at Urithiru. A real hearth, with real wood, dancing with flamespren. His pyre.

His friends gathered for the farewell. Recently they’d been spending more and more time away at Kharbranth, in order to make their eventual departure less suspicious. He’d made it seem as if they were needed to help rule that city now that Taravangian was focused on Jah Keved.

But today … today they were all here. One last time. Adrotagia, of course, kept her composure as he hugged her. She’d always been the stronger one. Though Taravangian was moderately intelligent today, he was still overcome with emotion as they pulled apart.

“Give my best to Savrahalidem and my grandchildren,” Taravangian said. “If they ask, tell them that I lost myself at the end and became insensate.”

“Won’t that hurt Savri more?” Adrotagia asked. “To know that her father is trapped among enemies, senile and confused?”

“No, that is not my girl,” he said. “You don’t know her as I do. Tell her I was singing when you last saw me. That will comfort her.” He squeezed Adrotagia’s wrists as she held to his. How lucky was he, to have had a friend for … storms, seventy-three years?

“It shall be done, Vargo,” she said. “And the Diagram?”

He’d promised her a final confirmation. Taravangian released her wrists, then walked to the window, passing Mrall—the enormous bodyguard was crying, bless him.

Later today, Taravangian would leave for Azir with Dalinar and Jasnah. Soon afterward, Taravangian’s armies—acting on Odium’s orders—would betray their allies and switch sides. It was a death sentence for Taravangian, who would be left surrounded by his enemies. He was bringing an army just the right size to put Dalinar and the other monarchs at ease: large enough to convince them Taravangian was committed, but small enough to leave them certain they could capture him in the event of a betrayal.

It was a calculated move on Odium’s part. What powerful monarch would leave himself so vulnerable?

Feeling tired, Taravangian rested his weathered hands upon the stone windowsill of his tower room. He’d asked for a room where he could look southward, to where this had all begun with a request to the Nightwatcher. He now suspected that his boon had been chosen by someone more grand than that ancient spren.

“The Diagram,” Taravangian said, “has served its purpose. We have protected Kharbranth. We have fulfilled the Diagram.

“Both the book and the organization we named after it were merely tools. It is time to disband. Dismantle our secret hospitals; release our soldiers to the city guard. If there are any middling members you think know too much, give them a time-consuming ‘secret’ quest far from civilization. Danlan should be among the first of this group.

“As for Delgo, Malata, and the others too useful to waste, I think they will accept the truth. We have achieved our goal. Kharbranth will be safe.” He peered down at his aged hands. Wrinkles like scars for each life he’d taken. “Tell them … there is nothing more pitiful than a tool that has outlived its usefulness. We will not simply invent something new for our organization to do. We must allow that which has served its purpose to die.”

“That is all fine,” Mrall said, stepping forward, folding his arms and acting as if he hadn’t been crying a moment before. “But you are still our king. We won’t leave you.”

“We will,” Adrotagia said softly.

“But—”

“Vargo has the Blackthorn’s suspicion,” Adrotagia said. “He will not be allowed to leave, not now. And if he did go, he would be hunted once the betrayal happens. We, on the other hand, can slip away—and then be ignored. Without him, Kharbranth will be safe.”

“This was always the intent, Mrall,” Taravangian said, still staring out over the mountains. “I am the spire that draws the lightning. I am the bearer of our sins. Kharbranth can distance itself from me once our armies in Jah Keved turn against the Alethi. The Veden highprinces are eager and bloodthirsty; each has promises from the Fused. They will perpetuate the fight, believing that they will be favored once Odium’s forces win.”

“You’re being thrown away!” Mrall said. “After all you’ve done, Odium casts you aside? At least go to Jah Keved.”

Naturally, Mrall didn’t see. That was fine. These details weren’t in the Diagram—they were in uncharted territory now.

“I am a diversion,” Taravangian explained. “I must go with the expeditionary force into Emul. Then, when Jah Keved turns, the Blackthorn will be so focused on me and the immediate threat to his soldiers that he will miss whatever Odium will be attempting in the meantime.”

“It can’t be important enough to risk you,” Mrall said.

Taravangian had his suspicions. Perhaps Odium’s ploy would be worth the cost, perhaps not. It didn’t matter. At the god’s orders, Taravangian had spent a year preparing Jah Keved to switch sides, promoting the people Odium wanted in place, moving troops into position. Now that he was done, Taravangian was useless. Worse, he was a potential weakness.

And so, Taravangian would be given to the Alethi for execution, and his corpse would be burned without a proper funeral. The Alethi gave no honors to traitors.

Acknowledging his fate hurt. Like a spear right through his gut. Odd, how much that should bother him. He’d be dead, so what did he care about a funeral?

He turned from the window and gave Mrall a firm handshake—then an unexpected hug. He gave another to short, trustworthy Maben—the servant woman who had watched over him all this time. She handed him a small bundle of his favorite jams, all the way from Shinovar. Those were increasingly rare, now that trade into the strange country had cut off. The Diagram indicated it was likely one or more of the Unmade had set up there.

“Too often,” Taravangian said to Maben, “those who write history focus on the generals and the scholars, to the detriment of the quiet workers who see everything done. The salvation of our people is as much your victory as mine.” He bowed and kissed her hand.

Finally he turned to Dukar, the stormwarden who administered Taravangian’s intelligence tests each morning. His robe was as extravagant—and silly—as always. But the man’s loyalty remained solid as he held up his pack of tests.

“I should stay with you, sire,” he said as the nearby hearth sparked, the logs shifting. “You will still need someone to test you each day.”

“The tests are no longer relevant, Dukar,” Taravangian said gently. He held up a finger. “If you stay, you will be executed—or perhaps tortured to get information out of me. While I promised to do whatever was necessary to save our people, I will not go one step further. Not a single death more than needed. So, my final act as your king is to command you to leave.”

Dukar bowed. “My king. My eternal king.”

Taravangian looked back to Adrotagia and unfolded a piece of paper from his pocket. “For my daughter,” he said. “She will be queen of Kharbranth when this is through. Be certain she disavows me. This is the reason I’ve kept her clean. Guide her well, and do not trust Dova. Having met more of the other Heralds, I’m certain Battah is not as stable as she seems.”

Adrotagia took his hand one last time, then patted him on the head as she’d done to annoy him in their childhood, once she had started growing taller than he. He smiled, then watched as the group slowly left—bowing one at a time.

They closed the door, and he was alone. He took his copy of the Diagram, bound in leather. Despite years of hoping, he’d never been given another day like that one where he’d created this book. But that one day had been enough.

Was it? a part of him whispered. You saved a single city.

The best he could do. To hope for more was dangerous.

He walked to the hearth and watched the dancing flamespren before dropping his copy of the Diagram into the fire.