She clutched her red chicken and started running.
The man behind her laughed. As if he’d been given the grandest of gifts.
Taravangian’s solitude was painful today. As was increasingly common, he wasn’t particularly smart.
Smart Taravangian hated company. Smart Taravangian forgot the point of being around other people. Smart Taravangian was terrifying, but he would gladly have been that version of himself today. He would have welcomed the emotional anesthesia.
He sat alone in a stormwagon, hands in his lap, surrounded by swirling brown exhaustionspren. The Everstorm was nearing its end. He was now to give the order for his men to betray the coalition. If Taravangian’s guesses were right, it also meant Odium had launched an attack on Urithiru.
Taravangian did not give the order yet. Odium had said he would come to confirm, and so far he hadn’t. Perhaps … perhaps Taravangian’s service wouldn’t be needed today. Perhaps the plan had changed.
Weak, frail hopes for a weak, frail man.
He so wished he could be smart. When had he last been intelligent? Not brilliant—he’d given up on feeling that way again—but merely smart? The last time had been … storms, over a year ago. When he’d planned how to destroy Dalinar.
That attempt had failed. Dalinar had refused to be broken. Smart Taravangian, for all his capacities, had proven insufficient.
Smart Taravangian came up with the plan that forced Odium to make a deal, he thought. That is enough.
And yet … and yet he wavered. Smart Taravangian had failed. Besides, he hadn’t just been made intelligent. He’d been given a boon and a curse. Intelligence on one side. Compassion on the other. When smart, he assumed the compassion was the curse. But was it really? Or was the curse that he could never have both at once?
He stood up in the wagon, and withstood the moment of dizziness that took him each time he stood these days: blackness creeping at the edges of his vision, like deathspren eager to claim him. He thought perhaps it was his heart, though he had not asked for a surgeon. Best not to trouble someone who could be helping wounded soldiers.
He breathed out in short breaths, listening to the soft cracks of the Everstorm outside. The thunder was ebbing. Almost at the end.
He shuffled the short distance to his trunk. Here, Taravangian forced himself to kneel. Storms, when had kneeling become so painful? His bones ground against one another like a pestle against its bowl.
Trying not to focus on the painspren, he fumbled at the lock’s combination with trembling fingers, then unhooked the lid. He undid the trunk’s lining on the top, reached to the secret compartment and flipped a hidden latch. That disengaged the small ink vial he’d rigged to spill and ruin the contents of the compartment if it was tampered with.
Only then could he feel around inside and locate the pages. He pulled them out with a tentative hand. A year ago, during his most recent bout of intelligence, he’d created this. A few pages from the Diagram, cut out and rearranged, with some scribbled notes. He’d burned his copy of the book itself, but had kept this excised section.
Exhausted, he crawled to his chair and struggled into the seat. Wheezing, he cradled the old sheets from the Diagram, then tried to shoo away the exhaustionspren.
When he’d created this little section, he hadn’t been as smart as he’d been on that singular day—now seven years gone—when he’d created the Diagram. On that day, he’d been a god. On the day when he’d created this fragment a year ago, he’d considered himself a prophet to that god.
So what was he now? A priest? A humble follower? A fool? In a way, it felt a betrayal to think in religious terms. This was not the act of gods, but men.
No. A god made you what you are.
He held up the pages and read through them, squinting without his reading spectacles. The cramped handwriting listed instructions, spliced together with original pieces of the Diagram. Most of it detailed the ploy to unseat Dalinar by the careful reveal of secrets—a plan designed to bring the poor man to his knees, to turn the coalition against him. In the end, that ploy had only galvanized the Blackthorn—and increased his suspicion of Taravangian. Before that day, they had been friends.
Taravangian turned this page over in his fingers, trying to understand the strange creature he became when intelligent. A being unburdened by empathy, capable of seeing straight to the heart of matters. Yet also a being who couldn’t understand the context of his efforts. He would work to preserve a people at the same time he casually ordered the deaths of children.
Smart Taravangian knew the how but not the why.
Dumb Taravangian didn’t make connections, didn’t remember things quickly, couldn’t compute in his head. In this document—intended to demoralize, defame, and destroy a man he dearly respected—dumb Taravangian found pain. He was weeping by the time he finished reading it, and the exhaustionspren had been replaced by the white petals of shamespren.
All this, he thought, to save a handful of people? He’d preserved Kharbranth by selling out the rest of humankind. He was certain Odium could not be defeated. And so, saving a remnant was the only logical path.
Right now, that seemed pathetic. Smart Taravangian considered himself so brilliant, so masterful, but this was the best he could do?
It was a dangerous line of thought. And pointless. Hadn’t he told off Mrall for making this very argument? They had to focus on what they could do. Smart Taravangian understood that, and had accomplished it.
Dumb Taravangian instead wept for all the people he had failed. All the people who would die when Odium scoured the world of humankind.
Taravangian looked back at the notes, and today saw something new in them. A small comment about a specific person. Why specifically can’t the Diagram see Renarin Kholin? the notes read. Why is he invisible?
Smart Taravangian had moved on quickly from this question. Why waste time on something minor that you couldn’t solve? Dumb Taravangian lingered on it, remembering a later time when he’d been visited by Odium. Odium had shown Taravangian something, and Renarin … Renarin Kholin had appeared as a chain of blacked-out futures, unseeable.
The wagon began to grow lighter around Taravangian. He cursed under his breath, quickly folding the papers together and hiding them in the pocket of his robes. In an instant, the stormwagon melted away—walls vanishing before a brilliant golden light. The floor changed, and Taravangian found himself sitting in his chair on a brilliant field, the ground made as if from solid gold.
A figure stood in front of him, a twenty-foot-tall human bearing a scepter. His features were Shin, and his hair and beard were completely gold, as if he were Iriali. Odium’s robes were more ornate than last time, red and gold, with a sword tied at the waist.
It was a presentation meant to stun and awe, and Taravangian couldn’t help but gasp. It was so gorgeous. He forced himself out of his seat, falling again on painful knees, bowing his head but unable to tear his eyes away from the magnificent display.
“I prefer you when you are like this, Taravangian,” Odium said with a powerful voice. “You may not think as quickly, but you do understand more quickly.”
“My lord,” Taravangian said. “Is it time?”
“Yes,” Odium said. “You are to send the orders.”
“It will be done.”
“Will they obey, Taravangian? You ask them to turn against their allies. To side with the enemy.”
“The Alethi are their enemies, Lord,” Taravangian said. “The Vedens have hated their neighbors for centuries. Plus their new leaders—installed by your own hand—are hungry for power. They believe you will reward them.”
They had not obtained promises. A god could be bound, but only by oaths. These foolish men believed that they’d be rewarded above the others, but Taravangian knew their entire country was doomed. Every human in those lands would eventually be destroyed.
They were oblivious of this fate, and Taravangian was confident they would do as they were told and attack
their former allies. He had spent a year preparing them, promoting the right men at Odium’s command, subtly indicating to all who followed him that the war was a problem for Alethkar and Azir, not for Jah Keved. That the enemy would never come for them.
He looked up to find the god inspecting him with a curious expression. “Do you not fear death, Taravangian?” Odium asked. “You know you are doomed.”
“I…” Taravangian trembled. He tried not to think about it too much, particularly when he was stupid. Because yes, he did fear death. He feared it terribly. He hoped that beyond death there was nothing. Oblivion.
For if anything else awaited him, it would not be pleasant.
“I do fear it,” he whispered.
“So honest, this version of you,” Odium said. He walked around Taravangian, who continued to kneel. “I much prefer it, yes. There is a straightforwardness to your Passion.”
“Could you not spare them?” Taravangian asked, tears in his eyes. “The people of Jah Keved, the Iriali, those who come to you willingly. Why waste their lives?”
“Oh, I will not waste them, Taravangian,” Odium said. “Their lives will be spent as they expect—in war, in glory, in blood. I will give them exactly what they’ve been asking for. They don’t know it, but they beg me for death in their requests for power. Only you have begged me for peace.”
He looked to Taravangian. “Kharbranth will remain an eye of calm in the storm to come. Do not let the others concern you. They will fight in the war they’ve been promised since birth, and though it will consume and destroy them, they will enjoy it. I shall make certain of that fact. Even if they will not be led in this glory by the one who should have been their king…”
As the god mused, Taravangian noticed something—a light emanating from Odium. It pulsed, making his skin transparent, glowing from within. There was a … sickly feel to it somehow. Indeed, Odium stopped and seemed to concentrate, making the light retreat before continuing.
I have failed in many ways, but you failed too, Taravangian thought at the god. The “one who should have been their king” was in reference to Dalinar. Odium had been planning for something for many years, a war far greater—even—than the one that now consumed Roshar. Some strange battle for the heavens.
He had wanted Dalinar for this war, but had failed to secure him. Odium still intended to use all of humankind as his frontline troops, once he won Roshar. He would throw their lives away, turn them into slaves focused on fueling his war for the heavens. He would use their blood to preserve the singers, which Odium saw as more valuable troops.
Merely considering all this horrified Taravangian. It was even worse than the quick and swift destruction he’d been imagining. This would be a drawn-out nightmare of slavery, blood, and death. Yet one thought comforted him. One that smart Taravangian would have discarded as sentimental.
You expected Dalinar to turn, Taravangian thought. You wanted him for your champion. You failed. So in the end, you were no smarter than I was. And for all your boasting that you can see the future, you do not know everything.
Taravangian had seen the god’s plans once. Could he … could he make it happen again?
No. He didn’t dare plot. He wasn’t smart. He was … he was only a man.
But … who better to stand up for men everywhere? In a moment of impassioned boldness, Taravangian reached into his pocket and took out the piece of the Diagram he’d worked on. He held it close, as if for comfort.
Odium took the bait. He strode over and snatched it from Taravangian’s fingers.
“What is this?” Odium asked. “Ah … another piece of your Diagram, is it? Edited, I see. You think yourself so smart, do you.”
“No,” Taravangian whispered, hoarse. “I know nothing.”
“As well you should acknowledge it,” Odium said, then held the papers up before himself and shredded them in a flash of light. “This is nothing. You are nothing.”
Taravangian cried out, grabbing one of the pieces as it fluttered.
Odium waved. And for a second time, Taravangian was given a glimpse of the god’s plans. Hundreds of thousands of panes of writing, hovering as if on invisible glass. This was what Odium had shown him a year ago; it was intended to impress Taravangian with how thorough and extensive Odium’s planning was. And Taravangian had managed to tempt him into showing it off, like a prized stallion.
Storms … Odium could be tricked. By dumb Taravangian.
Taravangian glanced around, trying to find the black portion he’d seen before. Yes, there it was, the corrupted writing, a section of plans ruined by Renarin Kholin.
The implications of that seemed profound now. Odium wasn’t able to see Renarin’s future. No one could.
The scar had expanded. Taravangian turned away quickly, not wanting to draw Odium’s ire. Yet right before looking away, Taravangian saw something half-consumed in the black scar.
His own name. Why? What did it mean?
I’m close to Renarin, Taravangian realized. Everyone close to the boy has their future clouded. Perhaps that was why Odium was wrong about Dalinar.
Taravangian felt a surge of hope.
Odium couldn’t see Taravangian’s future right now.
Taravangian bowed his head and bit his lip, squeezing his eyes closed, hoping the tears at the corners of his eyes would be mistaken for tears of awe or fear.
“Resplendent, isn’t it?” Odium asked. “I’ve wondered why she would give you a taste of what we can do. In some ways, you’re the only one I can talk to. The only one who understands, if in a limited way, the burden I bear.”
You could have simply come and given me the order today, then left, Taravangian thought. You talk instead. You’re lonely. You want to show off. You’re … human.
“I will miss you,” Odium said. “I’m pleased that you made me promise to keep the humans of Kharbranth alive. They will remind me of you.”
If Odium could be lonely, if he could boast, if he could be tricked … he could be afraid. Taravangian might be dumb, but when dumb, he understood emotion.
Odium had incredible power; that was clear. He was a god, in power. But in mind? In mind he was a man. What did Odium fear? He would have fears, wouldn’t he? Taravangian opened his eyes and scanned through the many hovering panes of description. Many were in languages he couldn’t read, but Odium used glyphs for names.
Taravangian looked for a knot of tight writing. He looked for letters that evoked terror—the terror of a genius. He found them, understanding them without being able to read them, in a knot near the black scar. Words written in cramped letters, circling a name being consumed by the scar. A simple, terrifying name.
Szeth. The Assassin in White.
Trembling, Taravangian turned away. Odium began ranting again, but Taravangian missed what the creature said.
Szeth.
The sword.
Odium feared the sword.
Except … Szeth was at Urithiru. Why was his name being consumed by the scar that represented Renarin? It didn’t make any sense. Could Taravangian have misunderstood?
It took him a painfully long time to see the obvious answer. Szeth was here, in the army, near Dalinar. Who was in turn near Renarin. Dalinar must have brought Szeth in secret.
“You cannot conceive how long I’ve planned for this,” Odium was saying—though the light was building within him again, his skin like thin paper. He seemed … not weak—a being who could spawn storms and destroy entire nations would never be weak. But vulnerable.
Odium had bet so much upon Dalinar being his champion. Now that was in chaos. The god bragged about his plans, but Taravangian knew firsthand that you could plan and plan and plan, but if one man’s choices didn’t align to your will, it didn’t matter. A thousand wrong plans were no more useful than a single wrong one.
“Don’t be too pained, Taravangian,” Odium said. “Dalinar won’t kill you immediately. He’ll seek to understand; it has become his way. Poor fool. The old Blackthorn
would have immediately murdered you, but this weaker version won’t be able to help himself. He’ll need to talk to you before he orders your execution.”
You’re doing the same, Taravangian thought, a dangerous plan budding in his mind. You should have killed me.
Out loud he said, “So be it. I have accomplished my goal.”
“So you have,” Odium said. “So you have. Go, my son. Make good on your part of our compact, and earn salvation for those you love.”
The golden expanse faded, depositing Taravangian on the floor of his stormwagon. He opened his hand, finding the fragment of the Diagram in it. But … the other pieces were gone. They had vanished when the vision ended. That stunned him, for it implied that he had truly been in another place. That he’d taken the papers there with him, but only this one piece remained when he returned.
He stared at the fragment for a long time, then forced himself into his seat. He took a moment to recover before digging into his satchel. He brought out the spanreed board, oriented it, and positioned the pen. When he finally got a response, he wrote out two simple words.
Do it.
He had to go through with the betrayal, of course. He needed to keep his agreement; he had to protect Kharbranth. That came before any other plots or plans. And any other such plots would have to be executed in such a way that Odium either did not know what he’d done, or couldn’t act against him to remove Kharbranth’s protections.
It took less than fifteen minutes for Dalinar’s soldiers to arrive and break into his wagon, shattering the door and storming in with weapons drawn. Yes, they’d been waiting for this betrayal. Odium had his distraction. They’d need to dedicate weeks of frantic work to be certain the Veden armies didn’t gain too much of an advantage—and Dalinar would be occupied here, fighting off Taravangian’s soldiers.
Taravangian groaned as the soldiers seized his spanreeds, a scribe among them reading the two words he’d sent.
They didn’t harm him. Odium was probably right. Taravangian likely had a few weeks before his execution. He found that he hurt less, felt less tired, as they bound and gagged him. It was painful, yes, but he could suffer a little pain. For he knew something powerful. A quiet, furtive secret as dangerous as the Diagram had been.
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