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She returned and affixed the diamond to the dagger, which was wet with Moash’s blood. After cleaning it and reversing the metal strip, she knelt beside Raboniel.
“Are you sure?” Navani asked.
Raboniel nodded. Her hand twitched, and Navani reached over and held it, which made the Fused relax.
“I … have done … what I wished. Odium … is worried. He may … allow … an ending.…”
“Thank you,” Navani said softly.
“I never … thought … I would be sane … at the end.…”
Navani raised the dagger. And for the first time, she wondered if she was strong enough for this.
“I do wish…” Raboniel said, “I could hear … rhythms … again.…”
“Then sing with me,” Navani said, and began to sing Honor’s tone.
The Fused smiled, then managed a weak hum to Odium’s tone. Navani modulated her tone, lowering her voice, until the two snapped together in harmony one last time.
Navani positioned the dagger above the wound in Raboniel’s breast.
“End it … Navani…” Raboniel whispered, letting the song cease. “Make sure they let it all … end.”
“I will,” she whispered back, then—humming her best, holding the hand of a former immortal—Navani thrust the dagger in deep. Raboniel’s nerves had mostly been severed, so she didn’t spasm as her daughter had. Her eyes went a glassy marble white, and a breath escaped her lips—black smoke as her insides burned away. Navani kept humming until the smoke dissipated.
You have performed a kindness, the Sibling said in her head.
“I feel awful.”
That is part of the kindness.
“I am sorry,” Navani said, “for discovering this Light. It will let spren be killed.”
It was coming to us, the Sibling said. Consequences once chased only humans. With the Recreance, the consequences became ours as well. You have simply sealed that truth as eternal.
Navani pressed her forehead against Raboniel’s as the Fused had done for her daughter. Then she rose, surrounded by exhaustionspren. Storms. Without the Towerlight infusing her, her fatigue returned. How long had it been since she’d slept?
Too long. But today, she needed to be a queen. She tucked the dagger away—it was too valuable to simply leave lying around—and took her copy of Rhythm of War under her arm.
She left a note on Raboniel’s corpse, just in case. Do not dispose of this hero’s body without first consulting the queen.
Then she went to create order from the chaos of a tower suddenly set free.
* * *
Taravangian awoke late in the day. He barely remembered falling asleep. He barely … could …
Could barely … think.
He was stupid. Stupider than he’d ever been before.
That made him weep. Stupid weeping. He cried and cried, overwhelmed by emotion and shamespren. A sense of failure. Of anger at himself. He lay there until hunger drove him to stand.
His thoughts were like crem. Thick. Slow. He stumbled down to the window, where they had left his basket of food. Trembling, he clutched it, weeping at his hunger. It seemed so strong. And storms, he drew so many spren when stupid.
He sat beside his fake hearth, and couldn’t help wishing that Dalinar could be there with him. How grand that had been. To have a friend. A real friend who understood him. He trembled at the idea, then began digging in the basket.
He stopped as he found a note. Written by Renarin Kholin, sealed by his signet. Taravangian sounded out each glyph. It took forever—drawing a fleet of concentrationspren like ripples in the air—for him to figure out what it said.
Two words. I’m sorry. Two gemstones, glowing brightly, were included with the note. What were these?
I’m sorry. Why say that? What had the boy seen? He knew his future wasn’t to be trusted. Other spren fled, and only fearspren attended him as he read those words. He needed to hide! He climbed off his chair and crawled to the corner.
He quivered there until he felt too hungry. He crawled over and began eating the flatbread in the basket. Then some kind of purple Azish vegetable mash, which he ate with his fingers. It tasted so good. Had he ever eaten anything so wonderful? He cried over it.
The gemstones continued to glow. Large ones. With something moving in them. Hadn’t … hadn’t he been told to watch for something like that?
Thunder crackled in the sky, and Taravangian looked up. Was that the Everstorm? No. No, it was a highstorm. He hadn’t realized it would come today. Thunder rattled the shutters, and he dropped the bread. He hid again in the corner with globs of trembling fearspren.
The thunder sounded angry.
He knows, Taravangian thought. The enemy knows what I’ve done. No. No, wrong storm.
He needed a way to summon Odium. Those gems. That was what they were for!
It would happen today.
Today he died.
Today it ended.
The door to his hut slammed open, broken at the hinges. Outside, guards scrambled away from a figure silhouetted against a darkening sky. The storm was almost here.
And Szeth had come with it.
Taravangian gasped, terrified, as this was not the death he had foreseen. He’d waited so long for a transcendent day when he would be supremely intelligent again. He’d never wondered about the opposite. A day when he was all emotion. A day when thoughts didn’t move in his brain, and spren swarmed him, feeding gluttonously upon his passions.
Szeth stood quietly, his illusion gone, his bald head—freshly shaved—reflecting the light of the spheres that had spilled from the basket.
“How did you know?” the Shin finally asked. “And how long have you known?”
“Kn-known?” Taravangian forced out, crawling to the side through the fearspren.
“My father,” Szeth said.
Taravangian blinked. He could barely understand the words, he was so stupid. Emotions fought inside him. Terror. Relief that it would soon be over.
“How did you know my father was dead?” Szeth demanded, striding into the room. “How did you know that Ishar reclaimed his sword? How?”
Szeth no longer wore white—he’d changed to an Alethi uniform. Why? Oh, disguise. Yes.
He wore the terrible sword at his side. It was too big. The tip of the sheath dragged against the wooden floor.
Taravangian hunched to the wall, trying to find the right words. “Szeth. The sword. You must…”
“I must do nothing,” Szeth said, approaching steadily. “I ignore you as I ignore the voices in the shadows. You know the voices, Taravangian? The ones you gave me.”
Taravangian huddled down, closing his eyes. Waiting, too overcome with emotion to do anything else.
“What are these?” Szeth said.
Taravangian opened his eyes. The gemstones. Szeth picked them up, frowning. He hadn’t drawn that terrible sword.
Say something. What should he say? Szeth couldn’t harm those. Taravangian needed them!
“Please,” he cried, “don’t break them.”
Szeth scowled, then threw them—one after the other—at the stone wall, shattering them. Strange spren escaped, transparent windspren that trailed red light. They laughed, spinning around Szeth.
“Please,” Taravangian said through the tears. “Your sword. Odium. You—”
