Storms, why couldn’t this have happened on a day when Taravangian had more than half a wit?

“What makes you say this?” Taravangian said, trying to buy time for his mind to lumber through the implications. He held Szeth’s Oathstone before him, almost as if it could chase away problems like a superstitious woman’s glyphward.

“I fought him,” Szeth said. “He protected Kholin.”

“Ah, yes,” Taravangian said, thinking furiously. Szeth had been banished from Shinovar, made Truthless for something relating to a claim that the Voidbringers had returned. If he discovered that he wasn’t wrong about that claim, then what—

Him?

“You fought a Surgebinder?” Adrotagia said, glancing at Taravangian.

“Yes,” Szeth said. “An Alethi man who fed upon Stormlight. He healed a Blade-severed arm. He is… Radiant…” That strain in his voice did not sound safe. Taravangian glanced at Szeth’s hands. They were clenching into fists time and time again, like hearts beating.

“No, no,” Taravangian said. “I have learned this only recently. Yes, it makes sense now. One of the Honorblades has vanished.”

Szeth blinked, and he focused on Taravangian, as if returning from a distant place. “One of the other seven?”

“Yes,” Taravangian said. “I have heard only hints. Your people are secretive. But yes… I see, it is one of the two that allow Regrowth. Kholin must have it.”

Szeth swayed back and forth, though he did not seem conscious of the motion. Even now, he moved with a fighter’s grace. Storms.

“This man I fought,” Szeth said, “he summoned no Blade.”

“But he used Stormlight,” Taravangian said.

“Yes.”

“So he must have an Honorblade.”

“I…”

“It is the only explanation.”

“It…” Szeth’s voice grew colder. “Yes, the only explanation. I will kill him and retrieve it.”

“No,” Taravangian said firmly. “You are to return to Dalinar Kholin and do the task assigned you. Do not fight this other man. Attack when he is not present.”

“But—”

“Have I your Oathstone?” Taravangian demanded. “Is my word to be questioned?”

Szeth stopped swaying. His gaze locked with Taravangian’s. “I am Truthless. I do as my master requires, and I do not ask for an explanation.”

“Stay away from the man with the Honorblade,” Taravangian repeated. “Kill Dalinar.”

“It will be done.” Szeth turned and strode away. Taravangian wanted to yell further instructions. Don’t be seen! Don’t ever come to me in public again!

Instead, he sat right there on the path, composure crumbling. He gasped, trembling, sweat streaming down his brow.

“Stormfather,” Adrotagia said, settling on the ground beside him. “I thought we were dead.”

Servants brought Taravangian a chair while Mrall made excuses for him. The king is overcome with grief at the deaths of so many. He is old, you know. And so caring…

Taravangian breathed in and out, struggling to regain control. He looked to Adrotagia, who sat in the middle of a circle of servants and soldiers, all sworn to the Diagram. “Who is it?” he asked softly. “Who is this Surgebinder?”

“Jasnah’s ward?” Adrotagia said.

They had been startled when that one arrived on the Shattered Plains. Already they hypothesized that the girl had been trained. If not by Jasnah, then by the girl’s brother, before his death.

“No,” Taravangian said. “A male. One of Dalinar’s family members?” He thought for a time. “We need the Diagram itself.”

She went to fetch it from the ship. Nothing else—his visits to the soldiers, more important meetings with Veden leaders—mattered right now. The Diagram was off. They strayed into dangerous territory.

She returned with it, and with the stormwardens, who set up a tent around Taravangian right there on the path. Excuses continued. The king is weak from the sun. He must rest and burn glyphwards to the Almighty for the preservation of your nation. Taravangian cares while your own lighteyes sent you to the slaughter…

By the light of spheres, Taravangian picked through the tome, poring over translations of his own words written in a language he had invented and then forgotten. Answers. He needed answers.

“Did ever I tell you, Adro, what I asked for?” he whispered as he read.

“Yes.”

He was barely listening. “Capacity,” he whispered, turning a page. “Capacity to stop what was coming. The capacity to save humankind.”

He searched. He was not brilliant today, but he had spent many days reading these pages, going over, and over, and over passages. He knew them.

The answers would be here. They would. Taravangian worshipped only one god now. It was the man he had been on that day.

There.

He found it on a reproduction of one corner of his room, where he’d written in tiny script sentences over the top of one another because he’d run out of space. In his clarity of genius, the sentences had looked easy to separate, but it had taken his scholars years to piece together what this said.

They will come. You cannot stop their oaths. Look for those who survive when they should not. That pattern will be your clue.

“The bridgemen,” Taravangian whispered.

“What?” Adrotagia asked.

Taravangian looked up, blinking bleary eyes. “Dalinar’s bridgemen, the ones he took from Sadeas. Did you read the account of their survival?”

“I didn’t think it important. Just another game of power between Sadeas and Dalinar.”

“No. It’s more.” They had survived. Taravangian stood up. “Wake every Alethi sleeper we have; send every agent in the area. There will be stories told of one of these bridgemen. Miraculous survival. Favored of the winds. One is among them. He might not know yet exactly what he’s doing, but he has bonded a spren and sworn at least the First Ideal.”

“If we find him?” Adrotagia asked.

“We keep him away from Szeth at all costs.” Taravangian handed her the Diagram. “Our lives depend upon it. Szeth is a beast who gnaws at his leg to escape his bonds. If he gets free…”

She nodded, moving off to do as he commanded. She hesitated at the flaps to their temporary tent. “We might have to reassess our methods of determining your intelligence. What I have seen in the last hour makes me question whether ‘average’ can be applied to you today.”

“The assessments are not inaccurate,” he said. “You simply underestimate the average man.”

Besides, in dealing with the Diagram, he might not remember what he had written or why—but there were echoes sometimes.

She left, making way as Mrall stepped in. “Your Majesty,” he said. “Time runs short. The highprince is dying.”

“He’s been dying for years.” Still, Taravangian did hasten his step—as much as he was capable of doing these days—as he resumed his hike. He didn’t stop with any more of the soldiers, and gave only brief waves toward the cheers he received.

Eventually, Mrall led him over a hillside away from the immediate stench of the battle and the smoldering city. A series of stormwagons here flew an optimistic flag, that of the king of Jah Keved. The guards there let Taravangian enter their ring of wagons, and he approached the largest one, an enormous vehicle almost like a mobile building on wheels.