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Gavilar Kholin was on the verge of immortality. He merely had to find the right Words. He walked a circle around the nine Honorblades, driven point-first into the stone ground. The air stank of burned flesh; he'd attended enough funeral pyres to know that scent intimately, though these bodies hadn't been burned after the fighting but during it. "They call it Aharietiam," he said, trailing around the Blades, letting his hand linger on each one. When he became a Herald, would his Blade become like these, imbued with power and lore? "The end of the world. Was it a lie?" Many who name it such believed what they said, the Stormfather replied. "And the owners of these?" he said, gesturing to the Blades. "What did the Heralds believe?" If they had been entirely truthful, the Stormfather said, then I would not be seeking a new champion. Gavilar nodded. "I swear to serve Honor and Roshar as its Herald. Better than these did." These words are not accepted, the Stormfather said. You will never find them at random, Gavilar. He would try nonetheless. In becoming the most powerful man in the world, Gavilar had often accomplished what others thought impossible. He rounded the ring of Blades again, alone with them in the shadow of monolithic stones. After dozens of visits to this vision, he could name each and every Blade by its associated Herald. The Stormfather, however, continued to be reticent to share information. No matter. He would have his prize. He ripped Jezrien's long, curved Blade from the stone and swung it, cutting the air. "Nohadon met and grew to know the Heralds." Yes, the Stormfather admitted. "They are in there, aren't they?" he said. "The correct Words are somewhere in The Way of Kings?" Yes. Gavilar had the entire book memorized—he'd taught himself to read years ago so he could search for secrets without revealing them to the women in his life. He tossed the Herald's Blade aside, letting it clang against the stone—which made the Stormfather hiss. Gavilar mentally chided himself. This was just a vision, and these fake Blades were nothing to him, but he needed the Stormfather to think him pious and worthy at least for now. He took up Chana's Blade. He was fond of this one, as its ornamentation bifurcated the blade with a slit down the center. That long gap would be highly impractical for a normal sword. Here it was a symbol that this Blade was something incredible. "Chanaranach was a soldier," he said, "and this is a soldier's Blade. Solid and straight, but with that little impossibility missing from the center." He held the Blade in front of him, examining its edge. "I feel I know them each so well. They are my colleagues, yet I could not pick them out of a crowd." Your colleagues? Do not get ahead of yourself, Gavilar. Find the Words. Those storming Words. The most important ones Gavilar would ever say. With them, he would become the Stormfather's champion—and, he had deduced, something more. Gavilar suspected he would be accepted into the Oathpact and ascend beyond mortality. He had not asked which Herald he would replace; it felt crass, and he did not want to appear crass before the Stormfather. He suspected, though, that he would replace Talenelat, the one who had not left his Blade. Gavilar stabbed the sword back into the stone. "Let us return." The vision ended immediately, and he was in the palace's second-floor study. Bookshelves, a quiet desk for reading, tapestries and carpets to dampen voices. Gavilar wore finery for the upcoming feast: regal robes more archaic than fashionable. Like his beard, the clothing stood out among the Alethi lighteyes. He wanted them to think of him as something ancient, beyond their petty games. |
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