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They were oblivious of this fate, and Taravangian was confident they would do as they were told and attack their former allies. He had spent a year preparing them, promoting the right men at Odium’s command, subtly indicating to all who followed him that the war was a problem for Alethkar and Azir, not for Jah Keved. That the enemy would never come for them.
He looked up to find the god inspecting him with a curious expression. “Do you not fear death, Taravangian?” Odium asked. “You know you are doomed.”
“I…” Taravangian trembled. He tried not to think about it too much, particularly when he was stupid. Because yes, he did fear death. He feared it terribly. He hoped that beyond death there was nothing. Oblivion.
For if anything else awaited him, it would not be pleasant.
“I do fear it,” he whispered.
“So honest, this version of you,” Odium said. He walked around Taravangian, who continued to kneel. “I much prefer it, yes. There is a straightforwardness to your Passion.”
“Could you not spare them?” Taravangian asked, tears in his eyes. “The people of Jah Keved, the Iriali, those who come to you willingly. Why waste their lives?”
“Oh, I will not waste them, Taravangian,” Odium said. “Their lives will be spent as they expect—in war, in glory, in blood. I will give them exactly what they’ve been asking for. They don’t know it, but they beg me for death in their requests for power. Only you have begged me for peace.”
He looked to Taravangian. “Kharbranth will remain an eye of calm in the storm to come. Do not let the others concern you. They will fight in the war they’ve been promised since birth, and though it will consume and destroy them, they will enjoy it. I shall make certain of that fact. Even if they will not be led in this glory by the one who should have been their king…”
As the god mused, Taravangian noticed something—a light emanating from Odium. It pulsed, making his skin transparent, glowing from within. There was a … sickly feel to it somehow. Indeed, Odium stopped and seemed to concentrate, making the light retreat before continuing.
I have failed in many ways, but you failed too, Taravangian thought at the god. The “one who should have been their king” was in reference to Dalinar. Odium had been planning for something for many years, a war far greater—even—than the one that now consumed Roshar. Some strange battle for the heavens.
He had wanted Dalinar for this war, but had failed to secure him. Odium still intended to use all of humankind as his frontline troops, once he won Roshar. He would throw their lives away, turn them into slaves focused on fueling his war for the heavens. He would use their blood to preserve the singers, which Odium saw as more valuable troops.
Merely considering all this horrified Taravangian. It was even worse than the quick and swift destruction he’d been imagining. This would be a drawn-out nightmare of slavery, blood, and death. Yet one thought comforted him. One that smart Taravangian would have discarded as sentimental.
You expected Dalinar to turn, Taravangian thought. You wanted him for your champion. You failed. So in the end, you were no smarter than I was. And for all your boasting that you can see the future, you do not know everything.
Taravangian had seen the god’s plans once. Could he … could he make it happen again?
No. He didn’t dare plot. He wasn’t smart. He was … he was only a man.
But … who better to stand up for men everywhere? In a moment of impassioned boldness, Taravangian reached into his pocket and took out the piece of the Diagram he’d worked on. He held it close, as if for comfort.
Odium took the bait. He strode over and snatched it from Taravangian’s fingers.
“What is this?” Odium asked. “Ah … another piece of your Diagram, is it? Edited, I see. You think yourself so smart, do you.”
“No,” Taravangian whispered, hoarse. “I know nothing.”
“As well you should acknowledge it,” Odium said, then held the papers up before himself and shredded them in a flash of light. “This is nothing. You are nothing.”
Taravangian cried out, grabbing one of the pieces as it fluttered.
Odium waved. And for a second time, Taravangian was given a glimpse of the god’s plans. Hundreds of thousands of panes of writing, hovering as if on invisible glass. This was what Odium had shown him a year ago; it was intended to impress Taravangian with how thorough and extensive Odium’s planning was. And Taravangian had managed to tempt him into showing it off, like a prized stallion.
Storms … Odium could be tricked. By dumb Taravangian.
Taravangian glanced around, trying to find the black portion he’d seen before. Yes, there it was, the corrupted writing, a section of plans ruined by Renarin Kholin.
The implications of that seemed profound now. Odium wasn’t able to see Renarin’s future. No one could.
The scar had expanded. Taravangian turned away quickly, not wanting to draw Odium’s ire. Yet right before looking away, Taravangian saw something half-consumed in the black scar.
His own name. Why? What did it mean?
I’m close to Renarin, Taravangian realized. Everyone close to the boy has their future clouded. Perhaps that was why Odium was wrong about Dalinar.
Taravangian felt a surge of hope.
Odium couldn’t see Taravangian’s future right now.
Taravangian bowed his head and bit his lip, squeezing his eyes closed, hoping the tears at the corners of his eyes would be mistaken for tears of awe or fear.
“Resplendent, isn’t it?” Odium asked. “I’ve wondered why she would give you a taste of what we can do. In some ways, you’re the only one I can talk to. The only one who understands, if in a limited way, the burden I bear.”
You could have simply come and given me the order today, then left, Taravangian thought. You talk instead. You’re lonely. You want to show off. You’re … human.
“I will miss you,” Odium said. “I’m pleased that you made me promise to keep the humans of Kharbranth alive. They will remind me of you.”
If Odium could be lonely, if he could boast, if he could be tricked … he could be afraid. Taravangian might be dumb, but when dumb, he understood emotion.
Odium had incredible power; that was clear. He was a god, in power. But in mind? In mind he was a man. What did Odium fear? He would have fears, wouldn’t he? Taravangian opened his eyes and scanned through the many hovering panes of description. Many were in languages he couldn’t read, but Odium used glyphs for names.
Taravangian looked for a knot of tight writing. He looked for letters that evoked terror—the terror of a genius. He found them, understanding them without being able to read them, in a knot near the black scar. Words written in cramped letters, circling a name being consumed by the scar. A simple, terrifying name.
Szeth. The Assassin in White.
Trembling, Taravangian turned away. Odium began ranting again, but Taravangian missed what the creature said.
Szeth.
The sword.
Odium feared the sword.
Except … Szeth was at Urithiru. Why was his name being consumed by the scar that represented Renarin? It didn’t make any sense. Could Taravangian have misunderstood?
It took him a painfully long time to see the obvious answer. Szeth was here, in the army, near Dalinar. Who was in turn near Renarin. Dalinar must have brought Szeth in secret.
