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I’m sure, Navani thought. She didn’t believe for a single heartbeat that Raboniel would do so—but at the same time, this knowledge would obviously give Navani an edge. Why did Raboniel want to prove, or disprove, that the two Lights were opposites? What was her game here?
She wants a weapon, perhaps? That explosion I inadvertently caused? Is that what Raboniel is hunting?
The Fused by the wall started talking again, louder this time. Again Raboniel hummed and glanced over.
“What does she say?” Navani asked.
“She … asks if anyone has seen her mother. She’s trying to get the wall to talk.”
“Her mother?” Navani thought, cocking her head. She hadn’t thought that the Fused would have parents—but of course they did. The creatures had been born mortal, thousands of years ago. “What happened to her mother?”
“She’s right here,” Raboniel said softly, gesturing to herself. “That was another hypothesis of mine that was disproven. Long ago. The thought that a mother and daughter, serving together, might help one another retain their sanity.”
Raboniel walked to her daughter and turned her to steer her out the door. And while singers tended not to show emotion on their faces, Navani thought for sure she could read pain in Raboniel’s expression—a wince—as the daughter continued to ask for her mother. All the while staring unseeingly past her.
I am not convinced any of the gods can be destroyed, so perhaps I misspoke. They can change state however, like a spren—or like the various Lights. This is what we seek.
—From Rhythm of War, page 21 undertext
Dalinar touched his finger to the young soldier’s forehead, then closed his eyes and concentrated.
He could see something extending from the soldier, radiating into the darkness. Pure white lines, thin as a hair. Some moved, though one end remained affixed to the central point: the place where Dalinar’s finger touched the soldier’s skin.
“I see them,” he whispered. “Finally.”
The Stormfather rumbled in the back of his mind. I was not certain it could be done, he said. The power of Bondsmiths was tempered by Honor, for the good of all. Ever since the destruction of Ashyn.
“How did you know about this ability?” Dalinar said, eyes still closed.
I heard it described before I fully lived. Melishi saw these lines.
“The last Bondsmith,” Dalinar said. “Before the Recreance.”
The same. Honor was dying, possibly mad.
“What can I do with these?” Dalinar asked.
I don’t know. You see the Connections all people have: to others, to spren, to time and reality itself. Everything is Connected, Dalinar, by a vast web of interactions, passions, thoughts, fates.
The more Dalinar watched the quivering white lines, the more details he could pick out. Some were brighter than others, for example. He reached out and tried to touch one, but his fingers went through it.
Spren have these too, the Stormfather said. And the bond that makes Radiants is similar, but far stronger. I don’t think these little ones are particularly useful.
“Surely these mean something,” Dalinar said.
Yes, the Stormfather said. But that doesn’t mean they can be exploited. I heard Melishi say something once. Imagine you had two pieces of cloth, one red, one yellow. Before you and your brother parted, you each reached into a bag and selected one—but kept it hidden, putting it away in a box, unseen.
You parted, traveling to distant quarters of the land. Then, by agreement, let us say that on the same day at the same time you each opened your box and took out your cloth. Upon finding the red one, you’d instantly know your brother had found the yellow one. You shared something, that bond of knowledge—the Connection exists, but isn’t something that can necessarily be exploited. At least not by most people. A Bondsmith though …
Dalinar removed his finger and opened his eyes, then thanked the young soldier—who seemed nervous as he returned to his place near the front of the building, joining the still-disguised Szeth. Dalinar checked his arm fabrial. Jasnah and the others should be returning from the front lines soon. The battle won, the celebrations completed. All without Dalinar.
It felt so strange. Here he was, worried about Navani and the tower—but unable to do anything until he had more information. Worried about Adolin off in Shadesmar—separated from him, like the two brothers in the Stormfather’s story. Shared destinies, shared fates, yet Dalinar felt powerless to help either his son or his wife.
You do have a part in this, he told himself firmly. A duty. Master these powers. Best Odium. Think on a scale bigger than one battle, or even one war. It was difficult, with how slowly his skills seemed to be progressing. So much time wasted. Was this what Jasnah had experienced all those years, chasing secrets when nobody else had believed her?
He had another duty today, in addition to his practice. He’d been putting it off, but he knew he should delay no longer. So, he collected Szeth and walked through the camp, turning his path toward the prison.
He needed to talk to Taravangian in person.
The building that housed the former king was not a true prison. They hadn’t planned for one of those in the temporary warcamp here in Emul. A stockade, yes. But military discipline was by necessity quick. Anything demanding more than a week or two in confinement usually resulted in a discharge or—for more serious infractions—an execution.
Taravangian required something more permanent and more delicate. So they’d blocked off the windows on a sturdy home, reinforced the door, and set guards from among Dalinar’s best soldiers. As Dalinar approached, he noted how the upper-floor windows were now filled with stark crem bricks, mortared into place. It had felt wrong to give Taravangian a home instead of a cell—but seeing those windows, it also felt wrong to leave him without sunlight.
Dalinar nodded to the salutes at the door, then waited for the guards to undo the locks and pull the door open for him. Nobody worried about his safety or made a comment about his single guard. They all thought the precautions were to prevent Taravangian from being rescued, and would never have wondered whether the Blackthorn could handle himself against an elderly statesman.
They didn’t have any inkling, even now, how dangerous Taravangian was. He sat on a stool near the far wall of the main room. He’d put a ruby into the corner and was staring at it. He turned when Dalinar entered, and actually smiled. Storming man.
Dalinar waved for Szeth to remain right inside the door as the guards closed and locked it behind them. Then Dalinar approached the corner, wary. He’d charged into many a battle with less trepidation than he now felt.
“I had wondered if you would come,” Taravangian said. “It has been nearly two weeks since my betrayal.”
“I wanted to be certain I wasn’t somehow being manipulated,” Dalinar said, honestly. “So I waited until certain tasks were accomplished before coming to you, and risking letting you influence me.”
Though, deep down, Dalinar admitted that was mostly an excuse. Seeing this man was painful. Perhaps he should have let Jasnah interrogate Taravangian, as she’d suggested. But that seemed the coward’s route.
“Ah, certain tasks are accomplished, then?” the old man asked. “By now you’ve surely recovered from the betrayal of the Veden armies. You’ve clashed with Odium’s forces in Emul? I warned Odium that we should have moved earlier, but he was adamant, you see. This was the way he wanted it to happen.”
