“We won the day,” Aladar said. “I scattered those Parshendi. We left well over half of them dead on that plateau, perhaps even three quarters. Adolin did even better on his plateau, and from reports, the ones on Roion’s plateau have fled. The Vengeance Pact is fulfilled! Gavilar is avenged, and the war is over!”
So proud. Dalinar had difficulty finding the words to deflate him, so he just stared at the other man. Feeling numb.
Can’t afford that, Dalinar thought, sagging in his saddle. Have to lead.
“It doesn’t matter, does it?” Aladar asked more softly. “That we won?”
“Of course it matters.”
“But… shouldn’t it feel different?”
“Exhaustion,” Dalinar said, “pain, suffering. This is what victory usually feels like, Aladar. We’ve won, yes, but now we have to survive with our victory. Your men are almost across?”
He nodded.
“Get everyone onto that plateau,” Dalinar said. “Force them up against one another if you have to. We need to be ready to move through the portal as quickly as possible, once it is opened.”
If it opened.
Dalinar urged Gallant forward, crossing one of the bridges to the packed ranks on the other side. From there, he forced his way—with difficulty—toward the center, where he hoped to find salvation.
* * *
Kaladin shot into the air after the assassin.
The Shattered Plains fell away beneath him. Fallen gemstones twinkled across the plateau, abandoned where tents had blown down or soldiers had fallen. They illuminated not only the central plateau, but three others around it and one more beyond, one that looked oddly circular from above.
The armies gathered on that one. Small lumps dotted the others like freckles. Corpses. So many.
Kaladin looked toward the sky. He was free once again. Winds surged beneath him, seeming to lift him, propel him. Carry him. His Shardblade shattered into mist and Syl zipped out, becoming a ribbon of light that spun around him as he flew.
Syl lived. Syl lived. He still felt euphoric about that. Shouldn’t she be dead? When he’d asked on their flight out, her response had been simple.
I was only as dead as your oaths, Kaladin.
Kaladin continued upward, out of the path of the oncoming storms. He could see those distinctly from this vantage. Two of them, one rolling from the west and bursting with red lightning, the other approaching more quickly from the east with a dark grey stormwall. They were going to collide.
“A highstorm,” Kaladin said, shooting up through the sky after Szeth. “The red storm is from the Parshendi, but why is there a highstorm coming? This isn’t the time for one.”
“My father,” Syl said, voice growing solemn. “He brought the storm, rushing its pace. He’s… broken, Kaladin. He doesn’t think any of this should be happening. He wants to end it all, wash everyone away, and try to hide from the future.”
Her father… did that mean the Stormfather wanted them dead?
Great.
The assassin disappeared above, vanishing into the dark clouds. Kaladin gritted his teeth, Lashing himself upward again for more acceleration. He shot into the clouds, and all around him became featureless grey.
He kept watch for glimmers of light to announce the assassin coming for him. He might not have much warning.
The area around him lightened. Was that the assassin? Kaladin extended his hand to the side, and Syl formed into the Blade immediately.
“Not ten heartbeats?” he asked.
Not when I’m here with you, ready. The delay is primarily something of the dead. They need to be revived each time.
Kaladin burst out of the clouds and into sunlight.
He gasped. He’d forgotten that it was still daytime. Here, far above the earthy darkness of war, the sunlight beat upon the cover of clouds, making them glow with pale beauty. The thin air was frigid, but raging Stormlight inside him made that easy to ignore.
The assassin hovered nearby, toes pointed downward, head bowed, silvery Shardblade held to the side. Kaladin Lashed himself so that he stopped, then sank level with the assassin.
“I am Szeth-son-son-Vallano,” the man said. “Truthless… Truthless.” He looked up, eyes wide, teeth clenched. “You have stolen Honorblades. It is the only explanation.”
Storms. Kaladin had always imagined the Assassin in White as a calm, cold killer. This was something different.
“I possess no such weapon,” Kaladin said. “And I don’t know why it would matter if I did.”
“I hear your lies. I know them.” Szeth shot forward, sword out.
Kaladin Lashed himself to the side, jerking out of the way. He swiped with his Blade, but didn’t come close to connecting. “I should have practiced more with the sword,” he muttered.
Oh. That’s right. You probably want me to be a spear, don’t you?
The weapon fuzzed to mist, then elongated and grew into the shape of a silvery spear, with glowing, swirling glyphs along the sharpened sides of the spearhead.
Szeth twisted in the air, Lashing himself back into a hovering position. He looked at the spear, then seemed to tremble. “No. Truthless. I am Truthless. No questions.”
Stormlight streaming from his mouth, Szeth threw his head back and screamed; a futile, human sound that dissipated in the infinite expanse of sky.
Beneath them, thunder rumbled and the clouds shivered with color.
* * *
Shallan dashed from lamp to lamp in the circular chamber, infusing each one with Stormlight. She glowed brightly, having drawn the Light from the ardents’ lanterns. There wasn’t time for explanation.
So much for keeping her nature as a Surgebinder hidden.
This room was a giant fabrial, powered by the Stormlight of those lamps. She should have seen it. She passed Inadara, who stared at her. “How… how are you doing this, Brightness?”
Several of the scholars had settled onto the ground where they hurriedly sketched glyphward prayers onto cloths, using chalk because of the moisture. Shallan didn’t know if those prayers were a request for safety from the storms or from Shallan herself. She did hear the words “Lost Radiant” murmured by one.
Two more lanterns. She infused a ruby with Stormlight, bringing it to life, but then ran out of Light.
“Gemstones!” she said, spinning on the room. “I need more Stormlight.”
The people inside looked to one another, all but Renarin, who continued to scratch identical glyphs on the rocks as he wept. Stormfather. She’d bled them all dry. One of the scholars had dug an oil lantern from her pack, and it paled beside the lamps on the walls.
Shallan ducked out of the opening in the door, looking at the mass of soldiers who gathered there. Thousands upon thousands shuffled in the darkness. Fortunately, some of them carried lanterns.
“I need your Stormlight!” she said. “It—”
Was that Adolin? Shallan gasped, other thoughts fleeing for the moment as she spotted him in the front of the crowd, leaning on a bridgeman for support. Adolin was a mess, the left side of his face a patchwork of blood and bruises, his uniform ripped and bloodied. Shallan ran to him, pulling him close.
“Good to see you too,” he said, burying his face in her hair. “I hear you’re going to get us out of this mess.”
“Mess?” she asked.