He nodded.

“If you were to live another two thousand years, Vargo,” she said, “you’d maybe have one single day like this among them. Maybe. Even odds, I’d say.”

Mrall snorted. “So it was luck.”

“No, it was simple probability.”

“Either way,” Taravangian said, folding the paper. “This was not the answer I wanted.”

“Since when has it mattered what we want?”

“Never,” he said. “And it never will.” He tucked the sheet into his pocket.

They picked their way up the rocks, passing corpses bloated from too long in the sun, and joined a small group of soldiers at the top of the beach. They wore the burnt-orange crest of Kharbranth. He had few soldiers to his name. The Diagram called for his nation to be unthreatening.

The Diagram was not perfect, however. They caught errors in it now and then. Or . . . not truly errors, just missed guesses. Taravangian had been supremely brilliant that day, but he had not been able to see the future. He had made educated guesses—very educated—and had been right an eerie amount of the time. But the farther they went from that day and the knowledge he’d had then, the more the Diagram needed tending and cultivation to stay on course.

That was why he’d hoped for another such day soon, a day to revamp the Diagram. That would not come, most likely. They would have to continue, trusting in that man that he had once been, trusting his vision and understanding.

Better that than anything else in this world. Gods and religion had failed them. Kings and highlords were selfish, petty things. If he was going to trust one thing to believe in, it would be himself and the raw genius of a human mind unfettered.

It was difficult at times, though, to stay the course. Particularly when he faced the consequences of his actions.

They entered the battlefield.

Most of the fighting had apparently moved outside of the city, once the fire began. The men had continued warring even as their capital burned. Seven factions. The Diagram had guessed six. Would that matter?

A soldier handed him a scented handkerchief to hold over his face as they passed the dead and dying. Blood and smoke. Scents he would come to know all too well before this was through.

Men and women in the burnt-orange livery of Kharbranth picked through the dead and wounded. Throughout the East, the color had become synonymous with healing. Indeed, tents flying his banner—the banner of the surgeon—dotted the battlefield. Taravangian’s healers had arrived just before the battle, and had started ministering to the wounded immediately.

As he left the fields of the dead, Veden soldiers began to stand up from where they sat in a dull-eyed stupor at the edges of the battlefield. Then they started to cheer him.

“Pali’s mind,” Adrotagia said, watching them rise. “I don’t believe it.”

The soldiers sat separated in groups by banner, being tended to by Taravangian’s surgeons, water-bearers, and comforters. Wounded and unwounded alike, any who could stand rose for the king of Kharbranth and cheered him.

“The Diagram said it would happen,” Taravangian said.

“I thought for certain that was an error,” she replied, shaking her head.

“They know,” Mrall said. “We are the only victors this day. Our healers, who earned the respect of all sides. Our comforters who helped the dying pass. Their highlords brought them only misery. You brought them life and hope.”

“I brought them death,” Taravangian whispered.

He had ordered the execution of their king, along with specific highprinces the Diagram indicated. In doing so, he had pushed the various factions into war with one another. He had brought this kingdom to its knees.

Now they cheered him for it. He forced himself to stop with one of the groups, asking after their health, seeing if there was anything he could do for them. It was important to be seen by the people as a compassionate man. The Diagram explained this in casual sterility, as if compassion were something one could measure in a cup next to a pint of blood.

He visited another group of soldiers, then a third. Many stepped up to him, touching his arms or his robe, weeping tears of thanks and joy. Many more of the Veden soldiers remained sitting in the tents, however, staring out over the fields of dead. Numb of mind.

“The Thrill?” he whispered to Adrotagia as they left the latest group of men. “They fought through the night as their capital burned. It must have been in force.”

“I agree,” she said. “It gives us a further reference point. The Thrill is at least as strong here as it is in Alethkar. Maybe stronger. I will speak to our scholars. Perhaps this will help pinpoint Nergaoul.”

“Do not spend too much effort on that,” Taravangian said, approaching another group of Veden soldiers. “I’m not sure what we would even do if we found the thing.” An ancient, evil spren was not something he had the resources to tackle. Not yet at least. “I would rather know where Moelach is moving.”

Hopefully, Moelach hadn’t decided to slumber again. The Death Rattles had, so far, offered them the best way that they’d found to augment the Diagram.

There was one answer, however, he’d never been able to determine. One he’d give almost anything to know.

Would all of this be enough?

He met with the soldiers, and adopted the air of a kindly—if not bright—old man. Caring and helpful. He was almost that man in truth, today. He tried to do an imitation of himself when he was a little dumber. People accepted that man, and when he was of that intellect, he did not need to feign compassion nearly as much as he did when smarter.

Blessed with intelligence, cursed with compassion to feel pain for what he had done. They came inversely. Why couldn’t he have both at once? He did not think that in other people, intelligence and compassion were tied in such a way. The Nightwatcher’s motives behind her boons and curses were unfathomable.

Taravangian moved through the crowd of men, listening to them beg for more relief and for drugs to ease their pain. Listening to their thanks. These soldiers had suffered a fight that—even yet—seemed to have no victor. They wanted something to hold to, and Taravangian was neutral, supposedly. It was shocking how easily they bared their souls to him.

He came to the next soldier in line, a cloaked man clutching an apparently broken arm. Taravangian looked into the man’s hooded eyes.

It was Szeth-son-son-Vallano.

Taravangian felt a moment of sheer panic.

“We need to speak,” the Shin man said.

Taravangian grabbed the assassin by the arm, hauling him away from the crowd of Veden soldiers. With his other hand, Taravangian felt in his pocket for the Oathstone he carried on his person at all times. He pulled it out just to see. Yes, it was no fake. Damnation, seeing Szeth there had made him think that he’d been bested somehow, the stone stolen and Szeth sent to kill him.

Szeth let himself be pulled away. What had he said? That he needed to talk, you fool, Taravangian thought to himself. If he’d come to kill you, you would be dead.

Had Szeth been seen here? What would people say if they saw Taravangian interacting with a bald Shin man? Rumors had started from less. If anyone got even a hint that Taravangian had been involved with the infamous Assassin in White . . .

Mrall noticed immediately that something was wrong. He barked orders to the guards, separating Taravangian from the Veden soldiers. Adrotagia—who had been sitting with crossed arms nearby, watching and tapping her foot—leaped to stride over. She peeked at the person under the hood, then gasped, the color draining from her face.

“How dare you come here?” Taravangian said to Szeth, speaking under his breath while maintaining a cheerful pose and expression. He was of only average intelligence today, but he was still a king, raised and trained to the court. He could maintain his composure.

“A problem has arisen,” Szeth said, face hooded, voice emotionless. Speaking to this creature was like speaking to one of the dead themselves.

“Why have you failed to kill Dalinar Kholin?” Adrotagia demanded with quiet urgency. “We know you fled. Return and do the job!”

Szeth glanced at her, but did not reply. She did not hold his Oathstone. He did seem to note her, however, with those too-blank eyes of his.

Damnation. Their plan had been to keep Szeth from meeting or knowing of Adrotagia, just in case he decided to turn against Taravangian and kill him. The Diagram hypothesized this possibility.

“Kholin has a Surgebinder,” Szeth said.

So, Szeth knew about Jasnah. Had she faked her death, then, as he’d suspected? Damnation.

The battlefield seemed to grow still. To Taravangian, the moans of the wounded faded away. Everything narrowed to just him and Szeth. Those eyes. The tone of the man’s voice. A dangerous tone. What—

He spoke with emotion, Taravangian realized. That last sentence was said with passion. It had sounded like a plea. As if Szeth’s voice were being squeezed on the sides.

This man was not sane. Szeth-son-son-Vallano was the most dangerous weapon on all of Roshar, and he was broken.

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.”