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“What is it, sir?” Kaladin asked.
“I haven’t made it public knowledge yet, but Odium and I have set a time for our contest of champions.”
“That’s excellent,” Kaladin said. “How long?”
“Ten days.”
“Ten … days?”
Dalinar nodded.
Syl gasped, and Kaladin felt a spike of alarm. He’d always kind of thought … He’d spent this year assuming that …
“Sir,” Kaladin said. “I can’t…”
“I know, son,” Dalinar said quietly. “You weren’t right for the champion job anyway. This is the sort of thing a man must do himself.”
Kaladin felt cold. Ten days. “The war … Does this mean … it will be over?”
“One way or another, it will end,” Dalinar said. “The terms will enforce a treaty in ten days, following the contest. The contest will decide the fate of Alethkar, among … other items. Regardless, the hostilities will continue until that day, and so we must remain vigilant. I expect the enemy to make a play to capture what he can, before the treaty finalizes borders. I perhaps made a miscalculation there.
“Regardless, an end is in sight. But I’m going to need help from someone before this contest arrives. The fight won’t simply be a swordfight— I can’t explain what it will be. I don’t know that I understand yet either, but I’m increasingly confident I need to master what I can of my powers.”
“I don’t know if I can help with that, sir,” Kaladin said. “Though we share a Surge, our abilities seem very different.”
“Yes, but there is one who can help me. Unfortunately, he’s insane. And so, Kaladin, I do not need you as a soldier right now. I need you as a surgeon. You are of the few who personally understand what it means to have your own mind betray you. Would you be willing to go on a mission to recover this individual and find a way to help him, so he can help me?”
“Of course, sir,” Kaladin said. “Who is it?”
“The Herald Ishi,” Dalinar said. “Creator of the Oathpact, Herald of Truth, and original binder of the Fused.”
Syl whistled softly.
“Sir,” Kaladin said, feeling unnerved. “Ten days isn’t enough to help someone with ordinary battle shock. It will take years, if we can even find proper methods. To help a Herald … Well, sir, their problems seem far beyond mine.”
“I know, soldier,” Dalinar said. “But I think Ishar’s malady is supernatural in nature, and he gave me clues to help him recover. All I need from you now is an agreement to help. And a willingness to travel to Shinovar in somewhat … odd company.”
“Sir?” Kaladin asked.
“I’ll explain later,” Dalinar said. “I need time to think this over, decide what I really want to do.”
Kaladin nodded, but glanced at Syl, who whistled again. “Ten days?” she said. “I guess it’s happening.…”
Dalinar started back toward his meeting—then paused and reached for something on a nearby table. A flute?
Wit’s flute.
“Lift had this,” Dalinar said, handing it toward Kaladin. “She said that Dabbid recognized it as yours.”
“It is,” Kaladin said with awe. “How is Lift, by the way?”
“My lunch is gone,” Dalinar said. “So I’d say she’s doing fine. We found her spren once the tower was restored, and they have—for some reason—decided to begin carrying around a bright red chicken.” He sighed. “Anyway, she said she found that flute in a merchant’s bin down in the Breakaway. One who sells salvage from the Shattered Plains. There might be other things your men were forced to abandon there.”
Huh. “Did she say which merchant?” Kaladin asked.
* * *
The Pursuer drew in a deep, angry breath as he woke.
Then he screamed in rage.
It felt good to have lungs again. It felt good to shout his frustration. He would continue to scream it. Killed. A second time. By that Windrunner. That insolent mortal, who thought his victory was due to his skill and not raw luck!
The Pursuer screamed again, glad for the sound to accompany his fury. His voice echoed; he was someplace dark, but enclosed. That made him pause. Shouldn’t he … be out in the storm?
“Are you quite done, Defeated One?” a voice said in their language, but with no rhythm.
The Pursuer sat up, twisting to look around. “Who dares call me—” He cut off as he saw who stood on the other side of the room, lit only by a Voidlight sphere held casually in his hand: a sleek figure looking out a dark window, his back to the Pursuer. The figure had twisting horns on his head and carapace that reflected the light wrong. He always ripped off his natural carapace formations at each rebirth, then replaced them with metal inclusions. They were incorporated into his body by Voidlight healing and his own special talents.
El. The one with no title.
The Pursuer silenced himself. He didn’t fear this Fused. He feared no one. But … to El, he did not complain.
“Where am I?” the Pursuer asked instead. “Why have I been reborn so quickly? I was on Braize for barely a day before I felt the pull.”
“We didn’t want to wait,” El said softly, still facing away from the Pursuer. No rhythms. El was forbidden rhythms. “So we had it done the old way. The way before the storms.”
“I thought Odium wasn’t doing that any longer.”
“Our new god made an exception, Defeated One.”
The Pursuer grunted, picking himself up off the ground. “They gave your title to another, you know. A human.”
“I’ve heard.”
“Disrespectful,” the Pursuer said to Derision. “It should have remained unused. Give me that Voidlight. I need to recharge myself, to earn back my legacy.”
“Earn back?”
The Pursuer forced himself to keep his tone respectful, to not shout. The one with no title could be … difficult. “I will hunt the mortal who killed me,” the Pursuer said. “I will kill him, and then anyone he ever loved. I will murder mortal after mortal until my vengeance is recognized, my atonement made. I assume you all know this, if you couldn’t wait for me to be reborn. So give me that damn Voidlight.”
El turned, smiling in the shadows. “It is for you, Lezian.”
“Excellent,” the Pursuer said, stalking forward.
“But you mistook me,” El said. “When we said we did not want to have to wait for your rebirth, it was not your convenience that troubled us, but mine. I am very curious, you see, and you were the sole appropriate subject.”
“Subject for what?” the Pursuer asked, reaching the window and looking out over Kholinar at night.
“Oh, to see if this really works.” El raised the Voidlight sphere … and the Pursuer saw it was attached to a knife. Did the Light look wrong somehow? Warping the air around the gemstone?
“I think this might hurt,” El said, then grabbed the Pursuer by the front of his beard. “Enjoy this final Passion, Defeated One.”
He plunged the knife down as the Pursuer struggled.
And his soul ripped itself apart.
