right time.”
I will arrange for you to be given gemstones with two of my children inside, she said. Odium searches for them. He watches me, certain I will make a mistake and reveal my true intentions. We are Connected, so my children appearing will draw his attention.
Good luck, human, when he does come. You are not protected from him as many on this world are. You have made deals that exempt you from such safety.
She faded from the mirror, and Taravangian hunched over, trembling as he continued to write.
I look forward to ruling the humans.
—Musings of El, on the first of the Final Ten Days
To Dalinar, the scent of smoke was inexorably tied to that of blood. He would have trouble counting how many times he’d performed this same long hike across a fresh battlefield. It had become a habit to perform a kind of autopsy of the fighting as he surveyed its aftermath. One could read the movements of troops by the way the dead had fallen.
Swaths of singers there indicated a line had broken and chaos had ruled. Human corpses bunched up against the wide river showed the enemy had used the waters—sluggish, since it had been a few days since the last storm—to push an entire company onto poor footing. Bodies stuck with arrows in the front indicated the first beats of the battle—and arrows in the back indicated the last ones, as soldiers broke and fled. He passed many corpses stuck with arrows bearing white “goosefeathers,” a kind of fletching the Horneaters had delivered in batches to aid the war effort.
Blood flowed across the field, seeking little rifts in the stone, places where rainwater had left its mark. The blood here was more orange than red, but the two mixed to make an unwholesome shade, the off-red of a rotting methi fruit.
The smoke hung heavy in the air. On a battlefield this far afield, you burned the dead right here—sending only the officers home, already made into statues by the Soulcasters. Singer and human bodies smelled the same when they burned, a scent that would always bother him because of a specific battlefield. A specific city. A burned-out scar that was the mark of his greatest failure, and his greatest shame.
Charnel groups moved through the dead today, solemnly cutting patches from uniforms, as each was supposed to have the man’s name inked on the back by the quartermaster scribe. Sometimes that didn’t happen. Or sometimes the writing was ruined in the fighting. Those families would go without closure for the rest of their lives. Knowing, but wondering anyway.
Hoping.
Walking among the dead, he couldn’t help but hear Taravangian’s terrible—yet hauntingly logical—voice. There was a way to see the war ended. All Dalinar had to do was stop fighting. He wasn’t ready yet, but the time might come. Every general knew there was a time to turn your sword point down and deliver it to your enemy with head bowed. Surrender was a valid tactic when your goal was the preservation of your people—at some point, continuing to fight worked contrary to that goal.
He could trust that the Fused were not intent on extinction. Odium, however … he could not trust. Something told Dalinar the ancient god of humankind, long abandoned, would not view this battlefield with the same regret Dalinar did.
He finished his grim survey, Szeth at his side as always. Several Azish generals, each newly decorated for their valor in this battle, also accompanied him. Along with two Emuli leaders, who were archers. Remarkably, the highest calling among the Emuli army was seen as archery. Dalinar knew his way around a bow, though he’d never considered it a particularly regal weapon, but here it was revered.
Dalinar walked a careful line for the local generals. He did not want them to see how much he reviled the deaths. A commander could not afford to revile the work in which he engaged. It did not make them bad men to be proud of their victory, or to enjoy tactics and strategy. Dalinar’s forces would not get far employing pacifists as field generals.
But storms … ever since he’d conquered the Thrill and sent it to be sunk deep in the ocean, he’d found himself loathing these smells, these sights. That was becoming his deepest secret: the Blackthorn had finally become what men had been accusing him of for years. A soldier who had lost the will to kill.
He looped around, leaving the dead behind, instead passing victorious companies feasting