He entered the common room, where the core of his government had gathered. Navani and the others sat on some couches around the spanreed, waiting. They’d laid out battle maps of Kholinar, talked over strategies, but then … hours had passed with no news.
It felt so frustrating to just sit here, ignorant. And it left Dalinar with too much time to think. To remember.
Instead of sitting with the others, Taravangian had taken his normal place: a seat before the warming fabrial in the corner. Legs aching and back stiff, Dalinar walked over and finally let himself sit, groaning softly as he took the seat beside Taravangian.
Before them, a bright red ruby glowed with heat, replacing a fire with something safer but far more lifeless.
“I’m sorry, Dalinar,” Taravangian finally said. “I’m sure news will come soon.”
Dalinar nodded. “Thank you for what you did when the Azish came to tour the tower.”
The Azish had arrived yesterday for an initial tour, but Dalinar had been recovering from the sudden return of his memories. Well … truth was, he was still recovering. He’d welcomed them, then retired, as Taravangian had offered to lead the tour. Navani said the Azish dignitaries had all been charmed by the elderly king, and planned to return soon for a more in-depth meeting about the possibility of a coalition.
Dalinar leaned forward, staring at the heating fabrial. Behind, Aladar and General Khal conversed—for probably the hundredth time—on how to recover the Kholinar walls, if they were lost by the time the Oathgate started working.
“Have you ever come to the sudden realization,” Dalinar said softly, “that you’re not the man everyone thinks you are?”
“Yes,” Taravangian whispered. “More daunting, however, are similar moments: when I realize I’m not the man I think of myself as being.”
Stormlight swirled in the ruby. Churning. Trapped. Imprisoned.
“We spoke once,” Dalinar said, “of a leader forced to either hang an innocent man or free three murderers.”
“I remember.”
“How does one live after making a decision like that? Particularly if you eventually discover you made the wrong choice?”
“This is the sacrifice, isn’t it?” Taravangian said softly. “Someone must bear the responsibility. Someone must be dragged down by it, ruined by it. Someone must stain their soul so others may live.”
“But you’re a good king, Taravangian. You didn’t murder your way to your throne.”
“Does it matter? One wrongly imprisoned man? One murder in an alley that a proper policing force could have stopped? The burden for the blood of those wronged must rest somewhere. I am the sacrifice. We, Dalinar Kholin, are the sacrifices. Society offers us up to trudge through dirty water so others may be clean.” He closed his eyes. “Someone has to fall, that others may stand.”
The words were similar to things Dalinar had said, and thought, for years. Yet Taravangian’s version was somehow twisted, lacking hope or life.
Dalinar leaned forward, stiff, feeling old. The two didn’t speak for a long period until the others started to stir. Dalinar stood, anxious.
The spanreed was writing. Navani gasped, safehand to her lips. Teshav turned pale, and May Aladar sat back in her seat, looking sick.
The spanreed cut off abruptly and dropped to the page, rolling as it landed.
“What?” Dalinar demanded. “What does it say?”
Navani looked to him, then glanced away. Dalinar shared a look with General Khal, then Aladar.
Dread settled on Dalinar like a cloak. Blood of my fathers. “What does it say?” he pled.
“The … the capital has fallen, Dalinar,” Navani whispered. “The ardent reports that Voidbringer forces have seized the palace. He … he cut off after only a few sentences. It looks like they found him, and…”
She squeezed her eyes shut.
“The team you sent,” Teshav continued, “has apparently failed, Brightlord.” She swallowed. “The remnants of the Wall Guard have been captured and imprisoned. The city has fallen. There is no word on the king, Prince Adolin, or the Radiants. Brightlord … the message cuts off there.”
Dalinar sank back down into his chair.
“Almighty above,” Taravangian whispered, grey eyes reflecting the glow of the heating fabrial. “I am so, so sorry, Dalinar.”
87. This Place
Good night, dear Urithiru. Good night, sweet Sibling. Good night, Radiants.
The Oathgate’s control building shook like it had been hit by a boulder. Adolin stumbled, then fell to his knees.
The shaking was followed by a distinct ripping sound, and a blinding flash of light.
His stomach lurched.
He fell through the air.
Shallan screamed somewhere nearby.
Adolin struck a hard surface, and the impact was so jarring that he rolled to the side. That caused him to tumble off the edge of a white stone platform.
He fell into something that gave way beneath him. Water? No, it didn’t feel right. He twisted in it—not a liquid, but beads. Thousands upon thousands of glass beads, each smaller than a Stormlight sphere.
Adolin thrashed, panicked as he sank. He was dying! He was going to die and suffocate in this sea of endless beads. He—
Someone caught his hand. Azure pulled him up and helped him back onto the platform, beads rolling from his clothing. He coughed, feeling that he had been drowning, though he’d gotten only a few beads in his mouth.
Stormfather! He groaned, looking around. The sky overhead was wrong. Pitch-black, it was streaked with strange clouds that seemed to stretch forever into the distance—like roads in the sky. They led toward a small, distant sun.
The ocean of beads extended in every direction, and tiny lights hovered above them—thousands upon thousands, like candle flames. Shallan stepped over, kneeling beside him. Nearby, Kaladin was standing up, shaking himself. This circular stone platform was like an island in the ocean of beads, roughly where the control building had been.
Hovering in the air were two enormous spren—they looked like stretched-out versions of people, and stood some thirty feet tall, like sentinels. One was pitch-black in coloring, the other red. He thought them statues at first, but their clothing rippled in the air, and they shifted, one turning eyes down to look at him.
“Oh, this is bad,” someone said nearby. “So very, very bad.”
Adolin looked and found the speaker to be a creature in a stiff black costume, with a robe that seemed—somehow—to be made of stone. In place of its head was a shifting, changing ball of lines, angles, and impossible dimensions.
Adolin jumped to his feet, scrambling back. He almost collided with a young woman with blue-white skin, pale as snow, wearing a filmy dress that rippled in the wind. Another spren stood beside her, with ashen brown features that seemed to be made of tight cords, the thickness of hair. She wore ragged clothing, and her eyes had been scratched out, like a canvas that someone had taken a knife to.