The illusion rippled as Dalinar walked closer. A single person stood in front of the pavilion. He wasn’t wearing the same clothing as the soldiers, and wasn’t holding a weapon.
“We get down closer in a second, sir,” Sigzil said. “You should notice the person out front.”
“I see him,” Dalinar said, leaning forward.
Indeed, the image soon drew closer to the pavilion, and the figure became more distinct. An older man. Didn’t seem Tukari, or Alethi. Yes … he was probably Shin, which was what Wit had said Ishar would appear to be. An older Shin man with a white beard and pale skin. Tukar was named after Tuk, their word for the Herald Talenelat—but it wasn’t Taln who ruled them. Not now. It was a different Herald.
Ishar wore simple robes, deep blue. He spread his hands out to the sides, frost crystallizing on the stone around him, forming lines.
A glyph. The symbol for mystery, a question.
It seemed directed at Dalinar specifically. This was absolutely the right man. Dalinar didn’t need to consult the drawings that Wit had provided.
He heard a hiss from beside him, and glanced with surprise to see that Szeth had left his post by the entrance to the tent. He’d joined Dalinar, standing very close to the illusion.
“One of my…” Szeth stopped himself, likely remembering that he wore the image of an Alethi man. “Blood of my fathers,” he said instead, “that man is Shin?”
“Rather,” Dalinar said, “he is from the people who long ago settled Shinovar and became the Shin. The Heralds existed before our nationalities were formed.”
Szeth seemed transfixed, as if he’d never considered that one of the Heralds might be Shin. Dalinar understood; he’d seen many depictions of all ten Heralds, and they were usually all painted as Alethi. You had to search the masterworks of earlier ages to find depictions of the Heralds representing all the peoples of Roshar.
The illusion moved on from Ishar as the Windrunners finished their sweep of the area, bringing Stargyle higher, safely out of bowshot. The Lightweaving disintegrated.
“That’s all we saw, Brightlord,” Stargyle said. “I could show it again, if you want.”
“No need,” Dalinar said. “We’ve found him … and he’s waiting for me.”
“Waiting for you, sir?” Sigzil asked, glancing toward Lyn and Leyten.
“Yes,” Dalinar said. “Do another scouting mission, and report back on what you find. I want to consult with Jasnah first—but we’re going to go meet that man, Radiant Sigzil, and find out what he knows.”
I had my title and my rhythms stripped from me for daring insist they should not be killed, but should instead be reconditioned. Repurposed.
—Musings of El, on the first of the Final Ten Days
Jasnah leaned back in her chair, lit by spherelight. The spanreed report had just arrived; today’s conflict with the enemy armies had ended. The coalition forces had won. Emul was, essentially, now theirs.
She still ached from her part in earlier battles, though she’d sat this one out—Dalinar had been there, and they didn’t want to put both of them on the same battlefield at once. Regardless, this particular offensive being finished checked one thing off her list, but there was so much to do, still, with Urithiru in enemy hands.
Her house here in their command camp was far nicer than the one Dalinar had picked for himself. She’d chosen it not for the luxury, or for the space, but because it had a second floor. Locked away in a central room on the second level—sharing no walls with the outside, alone save for Wit’s company—she could finally let herself relax. If a Shardbearer broke in, or if a Skybreaker came through one of the upper windows, her fabrial traps would go off—sounding the alarm and giving her time to fight or escape into Shadesmar before she could be killed.
She had a boat waiting on the other side, as close to analogous to this location as Shadesmar would allow. She kept stores of Stormlight in the pockets of her dressing gown, which she now wore. She would never again be caught unaware. She would never again be left struggling in Shadesmar without proper resources, forced to spend weeks hunting a perpendicularity. It was only with these preparations that Jasnah felt safe enough to let herself become frustrated.
In her lifetime studying history, Jasnah had been guided by two principles. First, that she must cut through the biases of the historians in order to understand the past. Second, that only in understanding the past could she properly prepare for the future. She’d dedicated so much to this study. But a life’s work could be shaken when history got up and started talking to you.
She leafed through papers more valuable than the purest emerald, filled with her interviews with the Heralds Ash and Taln. Living history. People who had seen the events she’d read about. In essence, years of her life had been wasted. What good were her theories now? They were halfway-reliable re-creations of what might have happened, pieced together from fragments of different manuscripts.
Well, now she could simply ask. The Challenge of Stormhold? Oh, Ash had been there. King Iyalid had been drunk. The treaty of four nights? A delaying tactic intended to position the enemy for a betrayal. All those debates, and Jochi was right while Jasnah was wrong. Settled as easily as that.
Of course, there were things the Heralds didn’t know, things they wouldn’t say, or—in Taln’s case—things they couldn’t say. Jasnah flipped through the pages, trying to piece together anything from her more recent interviews that would help with the situation at Urithiru. Even the Heralds knew little of this Sibling, the secretive tower spren.
She needed to present this to the other Veristitalians, see what they could tease from it all. Yet the words of the Heralds cast doubt on her second guiding principle—that the past was the best gauge of the future. There was another way. The enemy could see what would happen in the future. That terrified her. In relying on the past, Jasnah saw the future through occluded glass from within a chasm, if at all. Odium had a prime spot atop the watchtower.
She sighed, and Wit unfolded himself from the chair snug in the corner on the other side of the room. He stretched, then wandered over and knelt beside her before taking her unclothed safehand and kissing the tip of the index finger.
At that, Jasnah felt a little thrill of mystery. She’d come to realize, early in her youth, that she didn’t approach relationships the same way everyone else seemed to. Her partners in the past had always complained that she was too cold, so academic. That had frustrated her. How was she to learn what others felt if she couldn’t ask them?
She didn’t have that problem with Wit. He presented an entire world of other problems, but he never was bothered by her questions. Even if he often dodged them.
“My dear,” he said, “you pay me no heed. Be careful not to give undue attention only to the ravings of the mad. I warn you, without proper affection, your Wit will wilt.”
She removed her hand from his grip and studied him. Keen eyes. A nose that was perhaps a bit too sharp. Most women, she suspected, would find him physically attractive. And indeed she appreciated his statuesque quality, with such interesting proportions and such an intense face. The nose humanized him, in her opinion, made him feel more real.
Curiously, he wasn’t Alethi, but he had transformed himself to look like one. She’d been able to tease that much from him. He was something more ancient. He’d laughed when she’d asked, and said the Alethi hadn’t existed when he’d been born, so he couldn’t have been credited the honor of being one of her gifted people.