Wind and Truth (The Stormlight Archive #5)

Prologue.2

“It was impossible only a few short years ago,” Gavilar said. “This is proof. The Connection is not severed, and the box allows for travel. Not yet as far as you’d like, but we must start the journey somewhere.”

He wasn’t certain why Restares was so eager to move Light around in Shadesmar. Thaidakar wanted this information as well. A way to transport Stormlight, and this new Voidlight, long distances. As he was contemplating that, Gavilar saw something. The door was cracked. An eye was peeking through.

Damnation. It was Navani. How much had she heard?

“Husband,” she said, immediately pushing into the room. “There are guests missing you at the gathering. You seem to have lost track of time.”

He smothered his anger at her spying, turning to Restares and his friend. “Gentlemen, I will need to excuse myself.”

Restares again ran his hand through his wispy hair. “I want to know more of the project, Gavilar. Plus, you need to know that another of us is here tonight. I spotted her handiwork earlier.”

Another one? Another Son of Honor.

No, he meant another Herald. Restares was growing more delusional.

“I have a meeting shortly with Meridas and the others,” Gavilar said, calmly soothing Restares. “They should have more information for me. We can speak again after that.”

“No,” the Makabaki man growled. “I doubt we shall.”

“There’s more here, Nale!” Restares said, though he followed as Gavilar ushered the two of them from the room. “This is important! I want out. This is the only way …”

Gavilar shut the door. Then turned to his wife. Damnation, she should know better than to interrupt him. She …

Storms. The dress was beautiful, her face more so, even when angry. Staring at him with brilliant eyes, a fiery halo almost seeming to spread around her.

Once more, he considered.

Once more he rejected the idea.

If he was going to be a god, best to sever attachments. The sun could love the stars. But never as an equal.

Some time later, after he’d seen to Navani, Gavilar slipped away again. To his chambers this time, where he could confront what he’d learned.

“Tell me,” he said, walking across the springy carpet to regard the tabletop map of Roshar. “Why is Thaidakar so interested in Ba-Ado-Mishram?”

The Stormfather formed a rippling beside Gavilar, vaguely in the shape of a person, but indistinct. Like the wavering in the air made by great heat on the stones.

She created your parshmen by accident, he said. Long ago, just before the Recreance, Mishram tried to rise up and replace Odium, giving the Voidbringers powers.

“Curious,” Gavilar said. “And then?”

And then … she fell. She was too small a being to uphold an entire people. It all came crashing down, and so some brave Radiants trapped Mishram in a gemstone to prevent her from destroying all of Roshar. A side effect created the parshmen.

Simple parshmen. They were Voidbringers. A delicious secret he’d pried out of the Stormfather some weeks ago. Gavilar strolled to the bookcase, where one of the new heating fabrials had been delivered to him by the scholar Rushur Kris. He took it from its cloth casing, weighing it.

He had found a way to ferry Voidspren through Shadesmar to this world using gemstones and aluminum boxes. Who would have thought Navani’s pet area of study would be so useful? And if that conniving Axindweth eluded his grasp, he’d have to do the next part without her. He had his scholar, though in truth Gavilar was baffled by the Light he was creating … Light that could somehow kill the Voidbringers? How had Vasher made—

He thought he heard a faint crackling sound from the Stormfather. Lightning? How cute.

“You’ve never challenged what I’m doing,” Gavilar said. “I would have thought that returning the Voidbringers would be opposed to your very nature.”

Opposition is sometimes needed, the Stormfather said. You will need someone to fight, should you become champion.

“Give it to me,” Gavilar said. “Now. Make me a Herald. I need it.”

The Stormfather turned a shimmering head in his direction. That was almost them.

“What, those?” Gavilar said. “A demand?”

So close. And so far.

Gavilar smiled, hefting the fabrial and thinking of the flamespren trapped inside. The Stormfather seemed increasingly suspicious, hostile. If things did go poorly … could he trap the Stormfather himself in one of these?

Soon Amaram arrived with a small collection of people: two men, two women. One man was Amaram’s lieutenant. The other three would be new important Sons of Honor recruits, invited to the feast and given exclusive time with the king after. It was an annoyance, but a worthy one. Gavilar identified the two women from the notes, but not the older man in robes. Who was he? A stormwarden? Amaram liked to keep them around, to teach him their script, which preserved some semblance of Vorin devotion. That was important to him.

Gavilar met each guest in turn, and as he reached the older man, something clicked. This was Taravangian, the king of Kharbranth. Famously a man of little consequence or aptitude. Gavilar glanced at Amaram. Surely they weren’t going to invite him into their confidence—they should find the power who secretly ruled Kharbranth. Likely to be one of two women, per Gavilar’s spy reports.

Amaram nodded. So, Gavilar gave his speech about ancient oaths and Radiants—of glories past and futures bright. It was a good speech, but beginning to grate on him. Once his words had inspired troops; now he spent his entire life in meetings. After finishing, he let everyone get something to drink.

“Meridas,” Gavilar whispered, pulling Amaram aside. “These meetings are growing onerous. My experiment was a success. I have the weapon.”

Amaram started, then spoke softly. “You mean …”

“Yes, once we bring back the Voidbringers, we will have a new way to fight them.”

“Or a new way to control them,” Amaram whispered.

Well, that was new. Gavilar considered his friend, and the ambition those words implied. Good for you, Amaram.

“We must restore the Desolations,” Gavilar said. “Whatever the cost. It’s the only way.”

“I agree,” Amaram said. “Now more than ever.” He hesitated. “My efforts with your daughter did not go well earlier. I thought we had an understanding.”

“You simply need more time, my friend. To win her over.”

Amaram hungered for the throne like Gavilar hungered for immortality. And perhaps Gavilar would reward Amaram with it. Elhokar certainly did not deserve to be king. He was exactly the opposite of the legacy Gavilar wanted.

He sent Amaram to talk to the others. Once they had enjoyed their drinks, Gavilar would give another short speech. Then he could be on to … He frowned, noticing that one of the new recruits wasn’t conversing with the others. The elderly man, Taravangian, was staring at the map of Roshar. The others laughed at something Amaram said. Taravangian didn’t even look toward the sound.

Gavilar strode over, but before he could speak, Taravangian whispered, “Do you ever wonder about the lives we’re giving them? The people we rule?”

Gavilar was unaccustomed to people—let alone strangers—addressing him with such familiarity. But then, this Taravangian saw himself as a king, and perhaps as Gavilar’s equal. Laughable, when Taravangian ruled only one small city.

“I worry less about their lives now,” Gavilar said, “and more about what is to come.”

Taravangian nodded, appearing thoughtful. “That was an inspiring speech. Do you actually believe it?”

“Would I say it if I didn’t?”

“Of course you would; a king will say whatever needs to be said. Wouldn’t it be grand if that were always what he believed?” He looked to Gavilar, smiling. “Do you truly believe the Radiants can return?”

“Yes,” Gavilar said. “I do.”

“And you are not a fool,” Taravangian said, musing. “So you must have good reasons.”

Gavilar found himself revising his earlier opinion. A little king was still a king. Perhaps, among all of the dignitaries in the city tonight, here was one who might … in the smallest way … understand the demands placed on the man pressed between crown and throne.

“A danger is coming,” Gavilar said softly, shocked at his own sincerity. “To this land. This world. An ancient danger.”

Taravangian narrowed his eyes.

“It’s not just a Desolation we must fear,” Gavilar said. “They come. The Everstorm. The Night of Sorrows.”

Taravangian, remarkably, grew pale.

He believed. Gavilar usually felt foolish when he tried to explain the true dangers that the Stormfather had shown him—the contest of champions for the fate of Roshar. He worried people would think him mad. Yet this man … believed him?

“Where,” Taravangian asked, “did you hear those words?”

“I don’t know that you’d believe me if I told you.”

“Will you believe me ?” Taravangian asked. “Ten years ago, my mother died of her tumors. Frail, lying on her bed, with too many perfumes struggling to smother the stench of death. She gazed at me in her last moments …” He met Gavilar’s eyes. “And she whispered: ‘I stand before him, above the world itself, and he speaks the truth. The Desolation is near … The Everstorm. The Night of Sorrows.’ Then she was gone.”

“I’ve … heard of this,” Gavilar admitted. “The prophetic words of the dying …”

“Where did you hear those words?” Taravangian asked, practically begging. “Please.”

“I see visions,” Gavilar said, frank. “Given me by the Almighty. So that we may prepare.” He looked toward the map. “Heralds send that I may become the person I need to be to stop what is coming …”

Let the Stormfather see sincerity in Gavilar. Storms … suddenly Gavilar felt it. Standing there with this little king, he felt it. Never before—in all of this—had Gavilar ever suspected he might be inadequate to the task.

Perhaps, he thought, I should encourage Dalinar to resume his training. Remind him that he is a soldier. Gavilar had the distinct impression that before too long, he would need the Blackthorn again.

Someone is approaching your door outside, the Stormfather warned. One of the listeners. Eshonai. There is something about this one …

One of the Parshendi? Gavilar shook himself. He dismissed Taravangian, Amaram, and the others—happy to be rid of that strange old man and his questioning eyes. The fellow was supposed to be unremarkable. Why did he unnerve Gavilar?

Eshonai entered as Amaram passed along his invitation. The conversation with the parshwoman went smoothly, with him manipulating her—and therefore her people. To prepare them for the role they would play.

After Gavilar grew weary at the feast once the treaty was signed, he retired to his rooms. He sank into a deep plush chair by his balcony, releasing a long sigh. Early in his career as a warlord, he’d never allowed himself the luxury of softness. He had mistakenly assumed that liking something soft would make him soft.

A common failing among men who wished to appear strong. It was not weakness to relax. By being so afraid of it, they gave simple things power over them.

The air shimmered in front of him.

“A full day,” Gavilar said.

Yes.

“The first of many such,” Gavilar continued. “I will be mounting an expedition back to the Shattered Plains soon. We can leverage my new treaty to obtain guides, have them lead us inward to the center. Toward Urithiru.”

The Stormfather did not reply. Gavilar wasn’t certain the spren could be said to have human mannerisms. Today though … that turned-away posture, hinted at in the warping of the air … that silence …

“Do you regret choosing me?” Gavilar asked.

I regret the way I have treated you, the Stormfather said. I should not have been so accommodating. It has made you lazy.

“This is lazy?” Gavilar said, forcing amusement into his voice to hide his annoyance.

You do not reverence the position you seek, the Stormfather said. I feel … you are not the champion I need. Maybe … I’ve been wrong all this time.

“You said that you were charged with this task of finding a champion,” Gavilar said. “By Honor.”

That is true. I do not speak in human ways. But still, if you become a Herald, you will be tortured between Returns. Why is it this doesn’t bother you?

Gavilar shrugged. “I will just give in.”

What?

“Give in,” Gavilar said, heaving himself out of his seat. “Why stay to be tortured and potentially lose my mind? I will give up each time and return immediately.”

The Heralds stay in Damnation to seal the Voidbringers away. To prevent them from overrunning the world. They—

“The Heralds are the ten fools for that,” Gavilar explained, pouring a drink from the carafe near his balcony. “If I cannot die, I will be the greatest king this world has ever known. Why lock away my knowledge and leadership?”

To stop the war.

“Why would I care to stop a war?” Gavilar asked, genuinely amused. “War is the path to glory, to training our soldiers to recover the Tranquiline Halls. My troops should be experienced, don’t you think?” He turned back toward the shimmer, taking a sip of orange wine. “I don’t fear these Voidbringers. Let them stay and fight. If they are reborn, then we will never run out of enemies to kill.”

The Stormfather did not respond. And again Gavilar tried to read into the thing’s posture. Was the Stormfather proud of him? Gavilar considered this an elegant solution; he was puzzled why the Heralds had never thought of it. Perhaps they were cowards.

Ah, Gavilar, the Stormfather said. I see my miscalculation. Your entire religious upbringing … created from the lies of Aharietiam and Honor’s own failings … it pointed you toward this conclusion.

Damnation. The Stormfather wasn’t pleased. It suddenly felt terribly unfair. Here he was drinking this awful excuse for wine to follow the ridiculous Codes—he gave every possible outward show of piety—yet it wasn’t enough?

“What should I do to serve?” Gavilar said.

You don’t understand, the Stormfather said. Those aren’t the Words, Gavilar.

“Then what are the storming Words!” he said, slamming the cup down on the table—shattering it, splashing wine across the wall. “You want me to save this planet? Then help me! Tell me what I’m saying wrong!”

It’s not about what you are saying.

“But—”

Suddenly the Stormfather wavered. Lightning pulsed through his shimmering form, filling Gavilar’s room with an electric glow. Blue frosted the rugs, pure light reflecting in the glass balcony doors.

Then the Stormfather cried out. A sound like a peal of thunder, agonized.

“What?” Gavilar said, backing up. “What happened?”

A Herald … a Herald has died … No. I am not ready … The Oathpact … No! They mustn’t see. They mustn’t know …

“Died?” Gavilar said. “Died. You said they were already dead! You said they were in Damnation!”

The Stormfather rippled, then a face emerged in the shimmering. Two eyes, like holes in a storm, clouds spiraling around them and leading into the depths.

“You lied,” Gavilar said. “You lied ?”

Oh, Gavilar. There is so much you do not know. So much you assume. And the two never do meet. Like paths to opposing cities.

Those eyes seemed to pull Gavilar forward, to overwhelm him, to consume him. He … he saw storms, endless storms, and the world was so frail. A tiny speck of blue against an infinite canvas of black.

The Stormfather could lie ?

“Restares,” Gavilar whispered. “Is he … actually a Herald?”

Yes.

Gavilar felt cold, as if he were standing in the highstorm, ice seeping in through his skin. Seeking his heart. Those eyes …

“What are you?” Gavilar whispered, hoarse.

The biggest fool of them all, the Stormfather said. Goodbye, Gavilar. I have seen a glimpse of what is coming. I will not prevent it.

“What?” Gavilar demanded. “ What is coming?”

Your legacy.

The door slammed open. Sadeas, his face red from exertion. “Assassin,” he said, waving Tearim—in Plate—to tromp in. “Coming this way, killing guards. We need you to put on your armor. Tearim, get it off. We must protect the king.”

Gavilar looked at him, stunned.

Then one word cut through.

Assassin.

I’ve been betrayed, he thought, and found that he was not surprised. One of them had been bound to come for him.

But which one?

“Gavilar!” Sadeas shouted. “We need you in armor! Assassin on the way.”

“Tearim can fight him, Torol,” Gavilar said. “What is one assassin?”

“This one has killed dozens already,” Sadeas said. “I think we should have you in Plate just in case. You could wear mine, but my armorers are still bringing it.”

“You brought your armor to the feast?”

“Of course I did,” Sadeas said. “I don’t trust those Parshendi. You’d do well to emulate me. Trusting too much could get you killed someday.”

Screams sounded in the distance. Tearim, loyal as always, began removing the Plate for Gavilar to don.

“Too slow,” Sadeas said. “We need to buy time. Give me your robe.”

Gavilar hesitated, then met his friend’s eyes. “You’d do that?”

“I worked too hard to put you on that throne, Gavilar,” Sadeas said, grim. “I’m not going to let that go to waste.”

“Thank you,” Gavilar said.

Sadeas shrugged, pulling on the robe as Tearim helped Gavilar suit up. Whoever this assassin was, he’d find himself outmatched by a Shardbearer.

Gavilar glanced toward where the Stormfather had been—but the shimmer was gone.

Spren couldn’t lie. They couldn’t. He’d learned that … from the Stormfather.

Blood of my fathers, Gavilar thought as the Plate locked onto his legs. What else did it lie to me about?

Gavilar fell.

And he knew, as he fell, that this was it. His ending.

A legacy interrupted. An assassin who moved with an otherworldly grace, stepping on wall and ceiling, commanding Light that bled from the very storms.

Gavilar hit the ground—surrounded by the wreckage of his balcony—and he saw white in a flash. His body didn’t hurt. That was an extremely bad sign.

Thaidakar, he thought as a figure rose before him, shadowed in the night air. Only Thaidakar could send an assassin who could do such things.

Gavilar coughed as the figure loomed over him. “I … expected you … to come.”

The assassin knelt before him, though Gavilar couldn’t see anything more than shadows. Then … the assassin—doing something Gavilar couldn’t make out—again glowed like a sphere.

“You can tell … Thaidakar,” Gavilar whispered, “that he’s too late …”

“I don’t know who that is,” the assassin said, the words barely intelligible. The man held his hand to the side. Summoning a Blade.

This was it. Behind the assassin a halo, a corona of shimmering light. The Stormfather.

I did not cause this, the Stormfather said in his head. I do not know whether that brings you peace in your last moments, Gavilar.

But …

“Then who …?” Gavilar forced out. “Restares? Sadeas? I never thought …”

“My masters are the Parshendi,” the assassin said.

Gavilar blinked, focusing on the man once more as his Blade formed. Storms … that was Jezrien’s Honorblade , wasn’t it? What was happening?

“The Parshendi? That makes no sense.”

This is my failure as much as yours, the Stormfather said. If I try again, I will do it differently. I thought … your family …

His family. In that moment, Gavilar saw his legacy crumbling. He was dying.

Storms. He was dying. What did anything matter? He couldn’t. He couldn’t …

He was supposed to be eternal …

I’ve invited the enemy back, he realized. The end is coming. And my family, my kingdom, will be destroyed, without a way to fight. Unless …

Hand quivering, he pulled a sphere out of his pocket. The weapon. They needed this. His son … No, his son could not handle such power … They needed a warrior. A true warrior. One that Gavilar had been doing his best to suppress, out of a fear he barely dared acknowledge, even as he drew his last ragged breaths.

Dalinar. Storms help them, it came down to Dalinar.

He held the sphere out toward the Stormfather, his vision fuzzing. Thinking … was … difficult.

“You must take this,” Gavilar whispered to the Stormfather. “They must not get it. Tell … tell my brother … he must find the most important words a man can say …”

No, the Stormfather said, though a hand took the sphere. Not him. I’m sorry, Gavilar. I made that mistake once. I will never trust your family again.

Gavilar gave a whine of pain, not from his body but from his soul. He had failed. He had brought them all to ruin. That, he realized with horror, would be his legacy.

In the end, Gavilar Kholin, heir to the Heralds, died. As all men, ultimately, must.

Alone.