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“Yes,” Renarin said, walking across broken glass to look up at the enormous depiction of Odium. “I don’t think he’s omnipresent, Father. Well, part of him is everywhere, but he can’t access that information—any more than the Stormfather knows everything the wind touches. I think … Odium might see like I do. Not events, or the world itself, but possibilities.
“This war is dangerous for us, Father. In the past, the Heralds would organize our forces, fight with us for a time—but would then return to lock away the souls of the Fused in Damnation, preventing their rebirths. That way, each Fused we killed was an actual casualty. But the Oathpact is broken now, and the Fused cannot be locked away.”
“Yes…” Dalinar said, moving to stand beside Renarin. “I’ve been thinking about this myself. Trying to determine if there was a way to restore the Oathpact, or to somehow otherwise make the enemy fear. This is new ground, for both us and Odium. There must be something about this new reality that unnerves him. Is there anything else you see?”
See the blackness that will be, Renarin? Glys said.
“Friction between the two of you,” Renarin said, pointing up at the stained glass. “And a blackness interfering, marring the beauty of the window. Like a sickness infecting both of you, at the edges.”
“Curious,” Dalinar said, looking where Renarin had pointed, though he’d see only empty air. “I wonder if we’ll ever know what that represents.”
“Oh, that one’s easy, Father,” Renarin said. “That’s me.”
“Renarin, I don’t think you should see yourself as—”
“You needn’t try to protect my ego, Father. When Glys and I bonded, we became … something new. We see the future. At first I was confused at my place—but I’ve come to understand. What I see interferes with Odium’s ability. Because I can see possibilities of the future, my knowledge changes what I will do. Therefore, his ability to see my future is obscured. Anyone close to me is difficult for him to read.”
“I find that comforting,” Dalinar said, putting his arm around Renarin’s shoulders. “Whatever you are, son, it’s a blessing. You might be a different kind of Radiant, but you’re Radiant all the same. You shouldn’t feel you need to hide this or your spren.”
Renarin ducked his head, embarrassed. His father knew not to touch him too quickly, too unexpectedly, so it wasn’t the arm around his shoulders. It was just that … well, Dalinar was so accustomed to being able to do whatever he wanted. He had written a storming book.
Renarin held no illusions that he would be similarly accepted. He and his father might be of similar rank, from the same family, but Renarin had never been able to navigate society like Dalinar did. True, his father at times “navigated” society like a chull marching through a crowd, but people got out of the way all the same.
Not for Renarin. The people of both Alethkar and Azir had thousands of years training them to fear and condemn anyone who claimed to be able to see the future. They weren’t going to put that aside easily, and particularly not for Renarin.
We will be careful, Glys thought. We will be safe.
We will try, Renarin thought to him.
Out loud, he merely said, “Thank you. It means a lot to me that you believe that, Father.”
You will ask him? Glys said. So my siblings can be?
“Glys wants me to note,” Renarin said, “that there are others like him. Other spren that Sja-anat has touched, changed, made into … whatever it is we are.”
“What she does is not right. Corrupting spren?”
“If I’m a blessing, Father, how can we reject the others? How can we condemn the one who made them? Sja-anat isn’t human, and doesn’t think like one, but I believe she is trying to find a path toward peace between singers and humans. In her own way.”
“Still … I’ve felt the touch of one of the Unmade, Renarin.”
And by one, you judge the others? Renarin didn’t say it though. People too often said things as soon as they popped into their heads. Instead he waited.
“How many corrupted spren are we talking about?” Dalinar finally asked.
“Only a handful,” Renarin said. “She won’t change intelligent spren without their consent.”
“Well, that’s valuable to know. I’ll consider it. Are you … in contact with her?”
“Not in months. Glys is worried at how silent she’s become, though he thinks she is somewhere near right now.”
She creates in us a faction loved by neither men nor Odium, Glys agreed. No home. No allies. She might be destroyed by either. We will need more. Like you and like me. Together.
Around Renarin, the stained glass windows began to crumble. It took Stormlight and effort by Glys to re-create them—and he was plainly getting tired. Gradually, Renarin’s world became normal.
“Let me know if she contacts you,” Dalinar said. “And if any of these episodes come upon you, bring them to me. I know a little of what it is like, son. You aren’t as alone as you probably think.”
He knows you, Glys said, thrilled by the idea. He does and will.
Renarin supposed that maybe he did. How unusual, and how comforting. Renarin—tense at first—leaned against his father, then accepted the offered strength as he watched the future become dust around him.
We need more, Glys said. We need more like us, who will be. Who?
I can think of one, Renarin said, who would be a perfect choice.…
We must not let our desires for a specific result cloud our perceptions.
—From Rhythm of War, page 6 undertext
With Stormlight, Kaladin had been able to investigate his little hideout, finding it slightly larger than he’d pictured. A stone shelf along one wall gave him a place to put Teft. He’d washed the man, then dressed him in the loose robe, with bedpan in place. One of the sacks Kaladin had taken from the monastery—stuffed with clothing—made a makeshift pillow. He’d need to find blankets, but for now his friend seemed as comfortable as Kaladin could make him.
Teft was still willing to take water, sucking it from the large metal syringe Kaladin brought back. Indeed, Teft lapped up the contents eagerly. He seemed so close to coming awake, Kaladin expected him to start cursing at any moment, demanding to know where his uniform had gone.
Syl watched, uncharacteristically solemn. “What will we do if he dies?” she asked softly.
“Don’t think about that,” Kaladin said.
“What if I can’t help thinking about it?”
“Find something to distract you.”
She sat on the stone shelf, hands in her lap. “Is that how you stand it? Knowing everyone is going to die? You just … don’t think about it?”
“Basically,” Kaladin said, refilling his syringe from the wooden water jug, then putting the tip into Teft’s mouth and slowly emptying it. “Everyone dies eventually.”
“I won’t,” she said. “Spren are immortal, even if you kill them. Someday I’ll have to watch you die.”
“What brought this on?” Kaladin asked. “This isn’t like you.”
“Yup. Right. Of course. Not like me.” She plastered a smile on her face. “Sorry.”
