POV: vyre
Summary
Moash lies in a plush bed in Kholinar — recovered from the snows of Urithiru after the failed invasion, flown south, set down somewhere with constant singer-hum and constant stonework around him. He cannot see. The last image burned into his mind by the loss of his eyes is the queen of Urithiru in a halo of light, and behind her — he swears — Teft's Radiant spirit risen accusatory in the glow. *I killed Teft.* The god of all emotions had promised to take his pain in exchange for his service; that was why he had believed; that was why he had followed. He claws at his face. He begs his god to take his pain.
A different voice answers from beside the bed. Not the old one. *I don't do that any longer, Vyre.* The new Odium refuses to drain his followers' emotion. His predecessor was *a glutton*, the new god tells him, and that is not what a god of passion should be — a god of passion celebrates passion in his followers; he does not eat it out of them. Pain is the price they pay for doing what is right. If sacrifice were free of cost, everyone would do it; Vyre is not a monster, but a hero killing in agony where a monster would kill in glee.
He cannot give him his eyes back; the loss came from an act of *my adversary*. He can engage his mind instead. He gives Vyre a vision: glorious armies marching across a hundred worlds bringing order and peace, a thousand wrongs righted, kings cast down, the families of working people — like the families of those who run the caravans — repaid at last for the crimes committed against them. And beneath one banner, leading them, an immortal army's general in black Shardplate with red eyes. *The Blackthorn serves you?* *He may. Equal odds, depending on his choices in a few days. But if not him, another.*
The pitch lands where the previous god could no longer reach. This is what Moash had turned against his friends to bring about in the first place — a world in which men like the king of Alethkar would be brought to account by someone willing. *Why do you fight?* *Because nothing matters.* *Why did you fight?* *Because the king of Alethkar was a rat, who got good men killed. And nobody else would ever bring him to justice for his crimes.* *What you see*, the god tells him, *is every wrong being righted. Every wrong. If you follow me, you decide how, and who is rewarded.* Better than fighting for nothing. Better, Moash thinks, than feeling nothing.
He agrees. The god calls in a second voice — *He's yours; let's see if this works.* Hands strap him down in the dark; a cloth gags him; mallets pound spikes of crystallised light through his skull. He screams, but in defiance this time, not surrender. In rejection of the guilt: he was working for a better world; how dare they fight against him; how dare Kaladin claim to protect when he defends the highborn who murder; how dare Kaladin serve them.
When it is done — he is wrung out, sweating, ragged — he discovers what they have given him in place of his eyes. Not vision as he had it. Silhouettes of light. People as outlines, gemstones as glows, spren in plain view. Odium himself is a sun ten feet away. The woman beside him glows with a different rhythm of light. *That should work*, she says. *Look at his response. It's functioning. He can see Investiture.* *What have you done to me?* he whispers. *You have become a very specific kind of weapon*, the god answers. *Are you ready to serve again? To forge a better world?* He is. *I will do what must be done — because someone must.*