“It was at war,” Nohadon said. “In the west. One of those senseless battles in the years following the Desolation. I don’t even remember what caused it. Someone invaded someone else, and that threatened our trade through Makabakam. So off we went.
“Well, I ended up with a scouting group on the edge of the Shin border. So you see, I tricked you just now. I said I wasn’t in Shin Kak Nish, and I wasn’t. But I was right next to it.
“My troops occupied a small village beneath one of the passes. The matron who cooked for us accepted my military occupation without complaint. She didn’t seem to care which army was in charge. She made me bread every day, and I liked it so much, she asked if I wanted to learn…”
He trailed off. In front of him, the merchant set weights on one side of his large set of scales—representing the amount Nohadon had purchased—then started pouring grain into a bowl on the other side of the scale. Golden, captivating grain, like the light of captured flames. “What happened to the cook woman?” Dalinar asked.
“Something very unfair,” Nohadon said. “It’s not a happy story. I considered putting it into the book, but decided my story would best be limited to my walk to Urithiru.” He fell silent, contemplative.
He reminds me of Taravangian, Dalinar suddenly thought. How odd.
“You are having trouble, my friend,” Nohadon said. “Your life, like that of the woman, is unfair.”
“Being a ruler is a burden, not merely a privilege,” Dalinar said. “You taught me that. But storms, Nohadon. I can’t see any way out! We’ve gathered the monarchs, yet the drums of war beat in my ears, demanding. For every step I make with my allies, we seem to spend weeks deliberating. The truth whispers in the back of my mind. I could best defend the world if I could simply make the others do as they should!”
Nohadon nodded. “So why don’t you?”
“You didn’t.”
“I tried and failed. That led me to a different path.”
“You’re wise and thoughtful. I’m a warmonger, Nohadon. I’ve never accomplished anything without bloodshed.”
He heard them again. The tears of the dead. Evi. The children. Flames burning a city. He heard the fire roar in delight at the feast.
The merchant ignored them, busy trying to get the grain to balance. The weighted side was still heavier. Nohadon set a finger on the bowl with the grain and pushed down, making the sides even. “That will do, my friend.”
“But—” the merchant said.
“Give the excess to the children, please.”
“After all that haggling? You know I’d have donated some if you’d asked.”
“And miss the fun of negotiating?” Nohadon said. He borrowed the merchant’s pen, then crossed an item off his list. “There is satisfaction,” he said to Dalinar, “in creating a list of things you can actually accomplish, then removing them one at a time. As I said, a simple joy.”
“Unfortunately, I’m needed for bigger things than shopping.”
“Isn’t that always the problem? Tell me, my friend. You talk about your burdens and the difficulty of the decision. What is the cost of a principle?”
“The cost? There shouldn’t be a cost to being principled.”
“Oh? What if making the right decision created a spren who instantly blessed you with wealth, prosperity, and unending happiness? What then? Would you still have principles? Isn’t a principle about what you give up, not what you gain?”
“So it’s all negative?” Dalinar said. “Are you implying that nobody should have principles, because there’s no benefit to them?”
“Hardly,” Nohadon said. “But maybe you shouldn’t be looking for life to be easier because you choose to do something that is right! Personally, I think life is fair. It’s merely that often, you can’t immediately see what balances it.” He wagged the finger he’d used to tip the merchant’s scales. “If you’ll forgive a somewhat blatant metaphor. I’ve grown fond of them. You might say I wrote an entire book about them.”
“This … is different from the other visions,” Dalinar said. “What’s going on?”
The thumping from before returned. Dalinar spun, then charged out of the tent, determined to get a look at the thing. He saw it above the buildings, a stone creature with an angular face and red spots glowing deep in its rocky skull. Storms! And he had no weapon.
Nohadon stepped from the tent, holding his bag of grain. He looked up and smiled. The creature leaned down, then offered a large, skeletal hand. Nohadon touched it with its own, and the creature stilled.
“This is quite the nightmare you’ve created,” Nohadon said. “What does that thunderclast represent, I wonder?”
“Pain,” Dalinar said, backing away from the monster. “Tears. Burdens. I’m a lie, Nohadon. A hypocrite.”
“Sometimes, a hypocrite is nothing more than a man who is in the process of changing.”
Wait. Hadn’t Dalinar said that? Back when he’d felt stronger? More certain?
Other thumps sounded in the city. Hundreds of them. Creatures approaching from all sides, shadows in the sun.
“All things exist in three realms, Dalinar,” Nohadon said. “The Physical: what you are now. The Cognitive: what you see yourself as being. The Spiritual: the perfect you, the person beyond pain, and error, and uncertainty.”
Monsters of stone and horror surrounded him, heads cresting roofs, feet crushing buildings.
“You’ve said the oaths,” Nohadon called. “But do you understand the journey? Do you understand what it requires? You’ve forgotten one essential part, one thing that without which there can be no journey.”
The monsters slammed fists toward Dalinar, and he shouted.
“What is the most important step a man can take?”
Dalinar awoke, huddled in his bed in Urithiru, asleep in his clothing again. A mostly empty bottle of wine rested on the table. There was no storm. It hadn’t been a vision.
He buried his face in his hands, trembling. Something bloomed inside of him: a recollection. Not really a new memory—not one he’d completely forgotten. But it suddenly became as crisp as if he’d experienced it yesterday.
The night of Gavilar’s funeral.
Ashertmarn, the Heart of the Revel, is the final of the three great mindless Unmade. His gift to men is not prophecy or battle focus, but a lust for indulgence. Indeed, the great debauchery recorded from the court of Bayala in 480—which led to dynastic collapse—might be attributable to the influence of Ashertmarn.
—From Hessi’s Mythica, page 203
Navani Kholin had some practice holding a kingdom together.
During Gavilar’s last days, he had gone strange. Few knew how dark he’d grown, but they had seen the eccentricity. Jasnah had written about that, of course. Jasnah somehow found time to write about everything, from her father’s biography, to gender relations, to the importance of chull breeding cycles on the southern slopes of the Horneater Peaks.
Navani strode through the hallways of Urithiru, joined by a nice burly group of Bridge Four Windrunners. As Gavilar had grown more and more distracted, Navani herself had worked to keep squabbling lighteyes from sundering the kingdom. But that had been a different kind of danger from the one she faced today.