“You don’t believe that.”
“I don’t. I still want you to have these visions, just in case.”
Yanagawn fidgeted, playing with the tassels on his leather breastplate. “I … don’t matter as much as you think I do.”
“Pardon, Your Excellency, but you underestimate your importance. Azir’s Oathgate will be vital, and you are the strongest kingdom of the west. With Azir at our side, many other countries will join with us.”
“I mean,” Yanagawn said, “that I don’t matter. Sure, Azir does. But I’m only a kid they put on the throne because they were afraid that assassin would come back.”
“And the miracle they’re publishing? The proof from the Heralds that you were chosen?”
“That was Lift, not me.” Yanagawn looked down at his feet, swinging beneath him. “They’re training me to act important, Kholin, but I’m not. Not yet. Maybe not ever.”
This was a new face to Yanagawn. The vision today had shaken him, but not in the way Dalinar had hoped. He’s a youth, Dalinar reminded himself. Life at his age was challenging anyway, without adding to it the stress of an unexpected accession to power.
“Whatever the reason,” Dalinar told the young emperor, “you are Prime. The viziers have published your miraculous elevation to the public. You do have some measure of authority.”
He shrugged. “The viziers aren’t bad people. They feel guilty for putting me in this position. They give me education—kind of force it down my throat, honestly—and expect me to participate. But I’m not ruling the empire.
“They’re scared of you. Very scared. More scared than they are of the assassin. He burned the emperors’ eyes, but emperors can be replaced. You represent something far more terrible. They think you could destroy our entire culture.”
“No Alethi has to set foot on Azish stone,” Dalinar said. “But come to me, Your Excellency. Tell them you’ve seen visions, that the Heralds want you to at least visit Urithiru. Tell them that the opportunities far outweigh the danger of opening that Oathgate.”
“And if this happens again?” Yanagawn asked, nodding toward the field of Shardblades. Hundreds of them sprouting from the ground, silvery, reflecting sunlight. Men were now pouring out of the keep, flooding toward those weapons.
“We will see that it doesn’t. Somehow.” Dalinar narrowed his eyes. “I don’t know what caused the Recreance, but I can guess. They lost their vision, Your Excellency. They became embroiled in politics and let divisions creep among them. They forgot their purpose: protecting Roshar for its people.”
Yanagawn looked to him, frowning. “That’s harsh. You always seemed so respectful of the Radiants before.”
“I respect those who fought in the Desolations. These? I can sympathize. I too have on occasion let myself be distracted by small-minded pettiness. But respect? No.” He shivered. “They killed their spren. They betrayed their oaths! They may not be villains, as history paints them, but in this moment they failed to do what was right and just. They failed Roshar.”
The Stormfather rumbled in the distance, agreeing with this sentiment.
Yanagawn cocked his head.
“What?” Dalinar asked.
“Lift doesn’t trust you,” he said.
Dalinar glanced about, expecting her to appear as she had in the previous two visions he’d shown Yanagawn. There was no sign of the young Reshi girl that the Stormfather detested so much.
“It’s because,” Yanagawn continued, “you act so righteous. She says anyone who acts like you do is trying to hide something.”
A soldier strode up and spoke to Yanagawn in the Almighty’s voice. “They are the first.”
Dalinar stepped back, letting the young emperor listen as the Almighty gave his short speech for this vision. These events will go down in history. They will be infamous. You will have many names for what happened here …
The Almighty said the same words he had to Dalinar.
The Night of Sorrows will come, and the True Desolation. The Everstorm.
The men on the field full of Shards started to fight over the weapons. For the first time in history, men started slaughtering one another with dead spren. Finally, Yanagawn faded, vanishing from the vision. Dalinar closed his eyes, feeling the Stormfather draw away. Everything now dissolved …
Except it didn’t.
Dalinar opened his eyes. He was still on the field before the looming, bloodred wall of Feverstone Keep. Men fought over Shardblades while some voices called for everyone to be patient.
Those who claimed a Shard this day would become rulers. It bothered Dalinar that the best men, the ones calling for moderation or raising concerns, would be rare among their numbers. They weren’t aggressive enough to seize the advantage.
Why was he still here? Last time, the vision had ended before this.
“Stormfather?” he asked.
No reply. Dalinar turned around.
A man in white and gold stood there.
Dalinar jumped, scrambling backward. The man was old, with a wide, furrowed face and bone-white hair that swept back from his head as if blown by wind. Thick mustaches with a hint of black in them blended into a short white beard. He seemed to be Shin, judging by his skin and eyes, and he wore a golden crown in his powdery hair.
Those eyes … they were ancient, the skin surrounding them deeply creased, and they danced with joy as he smiled at Dalinar and rested a golden scepter on his shoulder.
Suddenly overwhelmed, Dalinar fell to his knees. “I know you,” he whispered. “You’re … you’re Him. God.”
“Yes,” the man said.
“Where have you been?” Dalinar said.
“I’ve always been here,” God said. “Always with you, Dalinar. Oh, I’ve watched you for a long, long time.”
“Here? You’re … not the Almighty, are you?”
“Honor? No, he truly is dead, as you’ve been told.” The old man’s smile deepened, genuine and kindly. “I’m the other one, Dalinar. They call me Odium.”
If you would speak to me further, I request open honesty. Return to my lands, approach my servants, and I will see what I can do for your quest.
Odium.
Dalinar scrambled to his feet, lurching backward and seeking a weapon he didn’t possess.
Odium. Standing in front of him.
The Stormfather had grown distant, almost vanished—but Dalinar could sense a faint emotion from him. A whine, like he was straining against something heavy?
No. No, that was a whimper.
Odium rested his golden scepter against the palm of his hand, then turned to regard the men fighting over Shardblades.
“I remember this day,” Odium said. “Such passion. And such loss. Terrible for many, but glorious for others. You are wrong about why the Radiants fell, Dalinar. There was infighting among them, true, but no more than in other eras. They were honest men and women, with different views at times, but unified in their desire to do what was best.”
“What do you want of me?” Dalinar said, hand to his breast, breathing quickly. Storms. He wasn’t ready.
Could he ever be ready for this moment?
Odium strolled over to a small boulder and settled down. He sighed in relief, like a man releasing a heavy burden, then nodded to the space next to him.