“Why would the Voidbringers give me these visions?” Dalinar said. “Why would they grant us great powers, like the one that flew us here? It’s not rational, Kadash.”
“Neither is what you’re saying about the Almighty.” He held up a hand to cut off Dalinar. “I don’t want to have this argument again. Before, you asked me for proof that we are following the Almighty’s precepts, right?”
“All I asked for and all I want is the truth.”
“We have it already. I’ll show you.”
“I look forward to it,” Dalinar said, walking to the door. “But Kadash? In my painful experience, the truth may be simple, but it is rarely easy.”
Dalinar crossed to the next building over and counted down the rooms. Storms, this building felt like a prison. Most of the doors hung open, revealing uniform chambers beyond: each had one tiny window, a slab for a bed, and a thick wooden door. The ardents knew what was best for the sick—they had access to all the world’s latest research in all fields—but was it really necessary to lock madmen away like this?
Number thirty-seven was still bolted shut. Dalinar rattled the door, then threw his shoulder against it. Storms, it was thick. Without thinking he put his hand to the side and tried summoning his Shardblade. Nothing happened.
What are you doing? the Stormfather demanded.
“Sorry,” Dalinar said, shaking his hand out. “Habit.”
He crouched down and tried peeking under the door, then called out, suddenly horrified by the idea that they might have simply left the man in here to starve. That couldn’t have happened, could it?
“My powers,” Dalinar said, rising. “Can I use them?”
Binding things? the Stormfather said. How would that open a door? You are a Bondsmith; you bring things together, you do not divide them.
“And my other Surge?” Dalinar said. “That Radiant in the vision made stone warp and ripple.”
You are not ready. Besides, that Surge is different for you than it is for a Stoneward.
Well, from what Dalinar could see underneath the door, there seemed to be light in this room. Perhaps it had a window to the outside he could use.
On his way out, he poked through the ardent chambers until he found an office like Kadash’s. He didn’t find any keys, though the desk still had pens and ink sitting on it. They’d left in haste, so there was a good chance the wall safe contained records—but of course, Dalinar couldn’t get in. Storms. He missed having a Shardblade.
He rounded the outside of the building to check the window, then immediately felt silly for spending so much time trying to get through the door. Somebody else had already cut a hole in the stone out here, using the distinctive, clean slices of a Shardblade.
Dalinar stepped inside, picking his way around the broken remnants of the wall, which had fallen inward—indicating that the Shardbearer had cut from the outside. He found no madman. The ardents had likely seen this hole and moved on with their evacuation. News of the strange hole must not have filtered up to the lead ardents.
He didn’t find anything to indicate where the Herald had gone, but at least he knew a Shardbearer was involved. Someone powerful had wanted into this room, which lent even more credence to the madman’s claims of being a Herald.
So who had taken him? Or had they done something to him instead? What happened to a Herald’s body when they died? Could someone else have come to the same conclusion that Jasnah had?
As he was about to leave, Dalinar spotted something on the ground beside the bed. He knelt down, shooed away a cremling, and picked up a small object. It was a dart, green with yellow twine wrapped around it. He frowned, turning it over in his fingers. Then he looked up as he heard someone distantly calling his name.
He found Kaladin out in the monastery courtyard, calling for him. Dalinar approached, then handed him the little dart. “Ever seen anything like this before, Captain?”
Kaladin shook his head. He sniffed at the tip, then raised his eyebrows. “That’s poison on the tip. Blackbane derived.”
“Are you sure?” Dalinar asked, taking the dart back.
“Very. Where did you find it?”
“In the chamber that housed the Herald.”
Kaladin grunted. “You need more time for your search?”
“Not much,” Dalinar said. “Though it would help if you’d summon your Shardblade.…”
A short time later, Dalinar handed Navani the records he’d taken from the ardent’s safe. He dropped the dart in a pouch and handed it over as well, warning her about the poisoned tip.
One by one, Kaladin sent them into the sky, where his bridgemen caught them and used Stormlight to stabilize them. Dalinar was last, and as Kaladin reached for him, he took the captain by the arm.
“You want to practice flying in front of a storm,” Dalinar said. “Could you get to Thaylenah?”
“Probably,” Kaladin said. “If I Lashed myself southward as fast as I can go.”
“Go, then,” Dalinar said. “Take someone with you to test flying another person in front of a storm, if you want, but get to Thaylen City. Queen Fen is willing to join us, and I want that Oathgate active. The world has been turning before our very noses, Captain. Gods and Heralds have been warring, and we were too focused on our petty problems to even notice.”
“I’ll go next highstorm,” Kaladin said, then sent Dalinar soaring up into the air.
This is all we will say at this time. If you wish more, seek these waters in person and overcome the tests we have created.
Only in this will you earn our respect.
The parshmen of Moash’s new sledge crew didn’t like him. That didn’t bother him. Lately, he didn’t much like himself.
He didn’t expect or need their admiration. He knew what it felt like to be beaten down, despised. When you’d been treated as they had, you didn’t trust someone like Moash. You asked yourself what he was trying to get from you.
After a few days of pulling their sledge, the landscape began to change. The open plains became cultivated hills. They passed great sweeping wards—artificial stone ridges built by planting sturdy wooden barricades to collect crem during storms. The crem would harden, slowly building up a mound on the stormward side. After a few years, you raised the top of the barricade.
They took generations to grow to useful sizes, but here—around the oldest, most populated centers of Alethkar—they were common. They looked like frozen waves of stone, stiff and straight on the western side, sloping and smooth on the other side. In their shadows, vast orchards spread in rows, most of the trees cultivated to grow no more than the height of a man.
The western edge of those orchards was ragged with broken trees. Barriers would need to be erected to the west as well, now.
He expected the Fused to burn the orchards, but they didn’t. During a water break, Moash studied one of them—a tall woman who hovered a dozen feet in the air, toes pointed downward. Her face was more angular than those of the parshmen. She resembled a spren the way she hung there, an impression accented by her flowing clothing.
Moash leaned back against his sledge and took a pull on his waterskin. Nearby, an overseer watched him and the parshmen of his crew. She was new; a replacement for the one he’d punched. A few more of the Fused passed on horses, trotting the beasts with obvious familiarity.