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Ishu-son-God takes both hands off his Blade and clasps them behind his back as Szeth approaches — disarmingly human, white beard trimmed flat, hair tossed by the highland wind. *I'm pleased with the lessons you learned in the East,* he says. *You are hardened.* He confirms, in the old echo of the Voice from Szeth's childhood, that he was always in his head — that he set him east to learn to fight like a demigod, to become his champion. *Why?* Syl demands. *Where are the spren?* Ishu answers that Roshar needs a true god to weather what is coming; the spren rejected him, so he rejected them. Szeth hears the centuries-long answer he never quite let himself ask: that the silence of Shinovar was deliberate, engineered so the Voice could fill the void.

Nin stumbles forward and tries one last time. *Listen to the tones of Roshar, to the Wind.* Ishu calls him weak and says he will replace him after Szeth takes Jezrien's spot. From around the rock formations the six "dead" Honorbearers emerge — Moss, Pozen, Elid, and others — and help themselves to the Honorblades in the wagon. They drive the swords into nine slots cut in the cathedral-stone ring; the Blades stop where set, knowing how to modulate their edges. Nin adds his own and Sivi's. *Last time I was here,* he says, *there were nine.* Today there are nine again — the missing tenth waiting to form when Szeth becomes a Herald. Then Szeth sees the sixth figure: not the young Edgedancer he expected — that one is missing — but Neturo. His father. *Father?*

Kaladin protests that talk is what they came for; Ishu dismisses it. *Once Dalinar is dead, we will need an army to defeat both Odium and the greater storms.* He focuses, remembers, refocuses. *You must be humbled, Szeth. My Honorbearers will defeat you, together.* Kaladin objects; Szeth stops him. *I can do this part. I must talk to my father. I must.* The plan is whispered: Szeth will lose on purpose; Kaladin will use his audience with Ishar to argue Shinovar free. If Ishar releases the people, Szeth's quest is fulfilled — and the Fourth Ideal becomes available for the burst of power that might restore Ishar to himself. Szeth turns and faces the six.

Dalinar climbs the short flight to the tower rooftop alone, half an hour early, Nohadon's book in his hand. He remembers standing in the hole in the wall at Thaylen City thinking that book and its words would shield him; the words, he knows now, migrated long ago to his heart. The sky overhead is dark though no storm is forecast. Red lightning flashes inside the clouds without thunder. Standing tall on the rooftop is Taravangian — uncrooked now, in yellow robes the colour of gold, a simple golden crown — who greets him as *friend.* *Do not name me friend.* *The friendship was the lie.* *I wish that were so.* And then Taravangian opens a small perpendicularity at the side of the roof. A figure steps through wearing a Kholin uniform and carrying Oathbringer. Prominent nose. Lean build. Dark expression. Elhokar — no. *Grandfather. I've waited a great long time for this.*

Gav. Taravangian explains it conversationally: twenty years in the Spiritual Realm passed as an hour out here; the sleeping lump in Navani's arms was a flesh-doll he made, while the real boy lived. Dalinar tries to refuse to believe; the Stormfather confirms it from the threads of Connection — this is really him. Gavinor raises Oathbringer, levels it, and recites grievances in a voice that occasionally cracks back into the child he was: *I watched you beat my father senseless. I watched you kill your wife. I watched you burn that city. For twenty years, I remembered.* He claims Alethkar in his father's name and pledges to join Odium's coalition. *I will not fight my grandson,* Dalinar tells Taravangian. *Choose someone else.* *Or what?* Taravangian answers, eyes calm. *You cannot punch me into submission as you did Elhokar. This is my champion, chosen in accordance with our agreement.* And he closes the noose: *It won't actually be a fight. You will save Alethkar — and protect the cosmere from my influence — with one simple act: the murder of an innocent.*

Back at the Aharietiam ridge, Szeth does as he planned. He steps to Neturo empty-handed and is punched in the face hard enough to draw blood. *Father — please, let's—* The next punch sends him to the stone, and a kick follows, and the other five join in. He curls up on the ground and bleeds. *I yield,* he tries. *Please, I yield.* *No,* Ishu calls back. *You are not permitted to yield. This is over only when I say it is.*

Inside the throne room, Adolin runs. He weaves between the pillars at the walls, gets some cover, knocks the throne off its dais when Abidi charges him into it. *Without this hindrance I might have a chance,* he thinks of the peg. *Maybe I could have stood against a full Shardbearer who was new to his Plate.* He tries Windstance and his peg slips and his bad leg goes out from under him. *They said you were good,* Abidi mocks. *Was I really reawakened to fight one so pathetic?* Adolin needles back about how the Fused survived Taln's attack — *you ran, didn't you?* — and is rewarded with an overturned table to the shoulder.

But Abidi is in no hurry. He has the room; the deadline will give him the kingdom. Adolin understands it cold: he must end this fast. Then, suddenly, Zahel's lessons come up — fighting on shifting stones, fighting in rain, fighting on a narrow beam, all the practice he had grumbled at thinking he would never need. Something clicks. Adolin stops fighting against the peg and starts fighting with it, accounting for the slip, building it into his stance. *Bless him.* Abidi notices, grunts, offers a trade for the emperor's surrender; Adolin pretends to weigh it. As Abidi starts to reply, Adolin stumbles past a fallen table and scoops something up with his left hand. The Fused flows in with a direct strike — and Adolin lifts an ornate aluminum candelabra and meets the Shardblade with a clang inches from his face.