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in their presence. For her entire life, she’d burned glyphwards speaking of these two, praying to the Almighty for their help. She used them in her vows, thought of them in her daily worship. Jasnah had abandoned her faith, and Dalinar … she wasn’t certain what he believed anymore. It was complicated. But Navani held to her hope for the Heralds and the Almighty. Hope that they had plans mere mortals could not understand. Seeing these two in such a state … it rocked her to the very core. Surely this was part of what the Almighty wanted to happen. Surely there was a reason for everything. Right? “Two gods,” Wit said, “delivered as requested.” “Ash,” Jasnah said. “During our last interview, you were telling me what you knew of my uncle’s abilities. The powers of a Bondsmith.” “I told you,” the woman snapped, “that I don’t know anything.” Considering how gently she treated Taln, one might not have expected such terse language from her. Navani, unfortunately, had come to accept it as normal. “What you told me was useful,” Jasnah said. “Kindly repeat it.” Dalinar walked over, curious. Jasnah held weekly meetings with the Heralds, trying to pry every bit of historical knowledge from their minds. She’d claimed the meetings were mostly fruitless, but Navani knew to hang on to the word “mostly” when coming from Jasnah. She could hide a great deal in the spaces between those letters. Ash sighed loudly, pacing. Not in thought as Dalinar had, but in a way reminiscent of a caged animal. “I didn’t know anything of what the Bondsmiths did. That was always Ishar’s purview. My father would occasionally discuss matters of deep Realmatic Theory with him—but I didn’t care for it. Why should I? Ishar had it in hand.” “He forged the Oathpact,” Jasnah said. “The … binding that made you immortal and trapped the Voidbringers in another realm of reality.” “Braize isn’t another realm of reality,” Ash said. “It’s a planet. You can see it in the sky, along with Ashyn—the Tranquiline Halls, you call it. But yeah, the Oathpact. He did that. We all simply went along with it.” She shrugged. Jasnah nodded, showing no sign of annoyance. “But the Oathpact no longer functions?” “It’s broken,” Ash said. “Done, shattered, upended. They killed my father a year ago. Permanently, somehow. We all felt it.” She looked directly at Navani, as if having seen the reverence in her eyes. The next words came with a sneer. “We can do nothing for you now. There is no more Oathpact.” “And do you think Dalinar,” Jasnah asked, “as a Bondsmith, could repair or replicate it somehow? Sealing the enemy away?” “Who knows?” Ash said. “It doesn’t work the same for you all as it did for us, when we had our swords. You’re limited, but sometimes you do things we couldn’t. At any rate, I never knew much about it.” “But there are some who know, aren’t there?” Jasnah said. “A group of people who have practice with Surgebinding? Who experimented with it, who
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know about Dalinar’s powers?” “Yeah,” Ash said. “The Shin,” Navani said, understanding Jasnah’s point. “They hold the Honorblades. Szeth says they trained with them, knew their abilities.…” “Scouts sent to Shinovar vanish,” Dalinar said. “Windrunner flybys prompt storms of arrows. They don’t want anything to do with us.” “For now,” Jasnah said, looking at Ash. “Right?” “They are … unpredictable,” the Herald said. “I eventually left them behind. They tried to kill me, but that I could take. It was when they started to worship me…” Ash crossed her arms, pulling them tight. “They had legends … prophecies about the coming of this Return. I didn’t believe it would ever happen. Didn’t want to believe.” “We need a stable region in Makabak, Uncle,” Jasnah said. “Because eventually, we’re going to have to deal with the Shin. And at the very least, we will want to find out what they know about Bondsmiths from centuries of holding an Honorblade and experimenting with powers like yours.” Dalinar turned to Navani. She nodded. There was something here. If they could find a way to seal the Fused away again … well, that could mean the end of the war. “You make an interesting point,” Dalinar said. “Excellent,” Jasnah said. “If we do bring a large offensive into Emul, then I will attend personally and join the war effort there.” “… You will?” Dalinar said. “And how … involved do you intend to be in the prosecution of the war?” “As involved as seems appropriate.” He sighed, and Navani knew what he was thinking. If Jasnah tried to join in wartime planning and strategy too forcefully, the highprinces wouldn’t like it. But Dalinar couldn’t complain, not after what he’d done. “We’ll deal with that if it becomes a problem, I suppose.” The Blackthorn turned toward the Herald. “Ash, tell me more of what you know about the Shin—specifically the ones among them who might know more about my powers.” The Fused have a second metal I find fascinating—a metal that conducts Stormlight. The implications for this in the creation of fabrials are astounding. The Fused use this metal in conjunction with a rudimentary fabrial—a simple gemstone, but without a spren trapped inside. How they pull Stormlight out of a Radiant and into this sphere remains baffling. My scholars think they must be employing an Investiture differential. If a gemstone is full of Stormlight—or, I assume, Voidlight—and that Light is removed quickly, it creates a pressure differential (or a kind of vacuum) in the gemstone. This remains merely a theory. —Lecture on fabrial mechanics presented by Navani Kholin to the coalition of monarchs, Urithiru, Jesevan, 1175 Kaladin stood on the edge of an Oathgate platform, overlooking the mountains. That frigid landscape of snow was an otherworldly sight. Before Urithiru, he’d seen snow on only a handful of occasions, in small patches at sunrise. Here the snow was thick and deep, pristine and pure white. Is Rock looking at a similar landscape right now? Kaladin wondered. Rock’s family, Skar, and Drehy had left nearly four weeks ago. They’d
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sent word a single time via spanreed, soon after their departure, noting that they’d arrived. He worried about Rock, and knew he’d never stop worrying. The details of the trip though … well, those weren’t Kaladin’s problems any longer. They were Sigzil’s. In a perfect world, Teft would have become companylord—but the older Windrunner had given Kaladin a tongue-lashing at the mere suggestion. Kaladin sighed and walked over to the Oathgate’s control building at the center of the plateau. Here, a scribe nodded to him. She had confirmed with the Oathgate on the Shattered Plains that it was safe to initiate a transfer. He did so, using the Sylblade in the lock on the wall of the small building. In a flash of light, he teleported to the Shattered Plains—and seconds later he was soaring via Lashing into the sky. The Windrunners weren’t making a fuss about him “stepping back.” They likely assumed he’d be moving on to become a strategic or logistics general. It happened to most battlefield commanders eventually. He hadn’t yet told them he planned to do something else—though he had to decide today what that would be. Dalinar still wanted him to become an ambassador. But could Kaladin really spend his days in political negotiations? No, he’d be as awkward as a horse in a uniform standing in a ballroom and trying not to step on women’s dresses. The idea was silly. But what would he do? He reached a good height, then soared in an invigorating loop, Lashing without conscious thought. His powers were becoming as intuitive as wiggling his fingers. Syl zipped alongside him, laughing as she met a couple of windspren. I’ll miss this, he thought, then immediately felt foolish. He wasn’t dying. He was retiring. He would still fly. To pretend otherwise was self-pity. Facing this change with dignity was difficult, but he would do it. He spotted something in the distance, and soared toward it. Navani’s flying platform was finally reaching the Plains. The front of the top deck was packed with faces, gawking at the landscape. Kaladin alighted on the deck, returning the salutes from the Windrunners left to guard the ship. “I’m sorry the trip took so long,” he told the gathering refugees. “At least it’s given us plenty of time to get things ready for you.” * * * “We’ve begun organizing the tower by neighborhoods,” Kaladin said an hour later as he led his parents through Urithiru’s deep hallways. He held aloft a large sapphire for light. “It’s difficult to keep a sense of community in here, with so many hallways looking alike. You can get turned around easily, start to feel like you’re living in a pit.” Lirin and Hesina followed, entranced by the multicolored strata in the walls, the high ceilings, the general majesty of an enormous tower carved completely from stone. “We originally organized the tower by princedom,” Kaladin continued. “Each of the Alethi highprinces was assigned a section of a given floor. Navani didn’t like how that turned out; we weren’t using as much of
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the rim of the tower—with its natural light—as she wanted. It often meant crowding large numbers of people into vast rooms that clearly hadn’t been designed as living spaces, since the highprinces wanted to keep their people close.” He ducked under a strange outcropping of stone in the hallway. Urithiru had numerous such oddities; this one was round, a stone tube crossing the center of the hallway. Perhaps it was ventilation? Why had it been put right where people walked? Many other features of the tower defied logic. Hallways dead-ended. Rooms were discovered with no way in save tiny holes to peek through. Small shafts were discovered plummeting down thirty or more stories. One might have called the arrangement mad, but even at its most baffling, hints of design—such as crystal veins running along the corners of rooms, or places where strata wove to form patterns reminiscent of glyphs set into the wall—made Kaladin think this place was purposeful and not haphazard. These oddities had been built for reasons they couldn’t yet fathom. His parents ducked under the obstruction. They’d left Kaladin’s brother with Laral’s children and their governess. She seemed to be recovering from the loss of her husband, though Kaladin thought he knew her well enough to see through the front. She truly seemed to have cared for the old blowhard, as had her children, a solemn pair of twins far too withdrawn for their young age. Under Jasnah’s new inheritance laws, Laral would gain the title of citylady, so she’d gone to be formally greeted by Jasnah. While the rest of the people received an orientation to the tower via Navani’s scribes, Kaladin wanted to show his parents where the people of Hearthstone would be housed. “You’re quiet,” Kaladin said to them. “I suppose this place can be stunning at first. I know I felt that way. Navani keeps saying we don’t know the half of what it can do.” “It is spectacular,” his mother said. “Though I’m a little more stunned to hear you referring to Brightness Navani Kholin by her first name. Isn’t she queen of this tower?” Kaladin shrugged. “I’ve grown more informal with them as I’ve gotten to know them.” “He’s lying,” Syl said in a conspiratorial tone from where she sat on Hesina’s shoulder. “He’s always talked like that. Kaladin called King Elhokar by his name for ages before becoming a Radiant.” “Disrespectful of lighteyed authority,” Hesina said, “and generally inclined to do whatever he wants, regardless of social class or traditions. Where in Roshar did he get it?” She glanced at Kaladin’s father, who stood by the wall inspecting the lines of strata. “I can’t possibly imagine,” Lirin said. “Bring that light closer, son. Look here, Hesina. These strata are green. That can’t be natural.” “Dear,” she said, “the fact that the wall is part of a tower roughly the size of a mountain didn’t clue you in to the fact that this place isn’t natural?” “It must have been Soulcast in this shape,” Lirin said, tapping the stone. “Is that jade?” Kaladin’s
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mother leaned in to inspect the green vein. “Iron,” she said. “Makes the stone turn that shade.” “Iron?” Syl said. “Iron is grey though, isn’t it?” “Yes,” Lirin said. “It should be copper that makes the rock green, shouldn’t it?” “You’d think that, wouldn’t you?” Hesina said. “I’m pretty sure that’s not how it works. In any case, maybe we should let Kal show us on to the prepared rooms. He’s obviously excited.” “How can you tell?” Syl asked. “I don’t think he ever gets excited. Not even when I tell him I have a fun surprise for him.” “Your surprises,” Kaladin said, “are never fun.” “I put a rat in his boot,” Syl whispered. “It took me forever. I can’t lift something so heavy, so I had to lead it with food.” “Why in the Stormfather’s name,” Lirin said, “would you put a rat in his boot?” “Because it fit so well!” Syl said. “How can you not see how great the idea was?” “Lirin surgically removed his sense of humor,” Hesina said. “Got good money for it on the open market too,” Lirin said. Hesina leaned in close to Syl. “He replaced it with a clock, which he uses to monitor exactly how much time everyone else wastes with their silly emotions.” Syl looked at her, smiling hesitantly—and Kaladin could tell she wasn’t quite certain it was a joke. When Hesina nodded encouragingly, Syl let out a genuine laugh. “Now, let’s not get ridiculous,” Lirin said. “I don’t need a clock to monitor how much time everyone wastes. It’s evident that number is nearly a hundred percent.” Kaladin leaned against the wall, feeling a familiar peace at their banter. Once, having them close again would have been nearly everything he wanted. Watching Lirin obsess. Hearing Hesina trying to get him to pay attention to the people around him. The fond way Lirin took the jokes, playing into them by being comically stern. It reminded Kaladin of days spent at the dinner table, or gathering medicinal herbs from the cultivated patches outside of town. He cherished those pastoral memories. Part of him wished he could simply be their little boy again—wished they didn’t have to intersect with his current life, where they would undoubtedly start hearing of the things he’d endured and done. The things that eventually had broken him. He turned and continued down the hallway. A steady light ahead told him they were approaching the outer wall. Molten sunlight, open and inviting. The cold Stormlight sphere in his hand represented power, but a secretive, angry sort. Inspect gem light, and you could see it shifting, storming, trying to break free. Sunlight represented something more free, more open. Kaladin entered a new hallway, where the strata lines on the walls turned downward in a fanning pattern—like lapping waves. Sunlight poured in through doorways on the right. Kaladin pointed as his parents caught up to him. “Each of these rooms on the right leads to a large balcony, extending all along the rim here. Laral will get that corner room, which
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is the largest, with a private balcony. I thought we’d reserve the ten here in the center and make them a meeting area. The rooms are connected, and some of the other neighborhoods have made their balcony section a large common space.” He continued forward, passing the rooms—which contained stacks of blankets, planks for making furniture, and sacks of grain. “We can put chairs in there and have a communal kitchen,” he said. “It’s easier than trying to find a way for everyone to cook on their own. Firewood—from the rockbud farms on the Plains—needs to be carted in through the Oathgate, so it’s on a strict ration. There’s a functioning well on this level not too far away though, so you won’t lack for water. “I’m not sure yet what everyone’s duties will be. As you probably noticed flying in, Dalinar has started large-scale farming operations out on the Shattered Plains. That might require relocation, but we also might be able to get things growing up here. That’s part of how I persuaded Dalinar to let me fetch everyone from Hearthstone—we have a lot of soldiers, but surprisingly few people who know their way around a lavis field during worming season.” “And those rooms?” Hesina asked, pointing down an inward hallway lined with openings. “Each is big enough for a family,” Kaladin said. “Those don’t have any natural light, I’m afraid, but there are two hundred of them—enough for everyone. I’m sorry I had to put you all the way up here on the sixth floor. That’s going to mean either waiting for lifts, or taking the stairs. It’s the only way I could find you a spot with balcony rooms. It’s still pretty low I guess—I feel bad for whoever has to eventually start living up in those high floors.” “It’s wonderful,” Hesina said. Kaladin waited for Lirin to say something, but he simply walked into one of the balcony rooms. He passed the supplies and stepped out onto the large balcony, glancing upward. He doesn’t like it, Kaladin thought. Of course Lirin would find something to complain about, even after being handed enviable quarters in the mythical city of the Epoch Kingdoms. Kaladin joined him, following his father’s gaze as Lirin turned and tried to look up at the tower, though the balcony above got in the way. “What’s at the top?” Lirin asked. “Meeting rooms for the Radiants,” Kaladin said. “There’s nothing on the very top—just a flat roof. The view is great though. I’ll show it to you sometime.” “Enough chatting!” Syl said. “Come on. Follow me!” She zipped off Hesina’s shoulder and darted through the rooms. When the humans didn’t immediately follow, she flew over, whirled around Hesina’s head, then shot back out. “Come on.” They followed, Kaladin trailing his parents as Syl led them through the several balcony rooms he imagined becoming a large meeting area, with a wonderful view out over the mountains. A little chilly, but a large fabrial hearth acting as the communal oven would help greatly. At the other end of
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the connected balcony chambers was a large suite of six rooms, with their own washrooms and a private balcony. It was the mirror of Laral’s at the other end. These two seemed to have been built for officers and their families, so Kaladin had reserved it for a special purpose. Syl led them through a front room, down a hallway past two closed doors, and into a main sitting room. “We spent all week getting it ready!” she said, darting around this chamber. The far wall had a set of stone shelves full of books. He’d spent a large chunk of his monthly stipend to acquire them. As a youth, he’d often felt bad for how few books his mother had. “I didn’t know there were so many books in the world,” Syl said. “Won’t they use up all the words? Seems like eventually you’d say everything that could be said!” She zipped over to a smaller side room. “There’s a space for the baby here, and I picked out the toys, because Kaladin would probably have bought him a spear or something dumb. Oh! And over here!” She whirled past them, into the hallway again. Kaladin’s parents followed, and he shadowed them. At Syl’s prompting, Lirin opened one of the doors in the hallway, revealing a fully stocked surgery room. Exam table. A glistening set of the finest instruments, including equipment Kaladin’s father had never been able to afford: scalpels, a device for listening to a patient’s heartbeat, a magnificent fabrial clock, a fabrial heating plate for boiling bandages or cleansing surgical tools. Kaladin’s father stepped into the room, while Hesina stood in the doorway, hand to her mouth in amazement, a shockspren—like shattering pieces of yellow light—adorning her. Lirin picked up several of the tools, one at a time, then began inspecting the various jars of ointment, powder, and medication Kaladin had stocked on the shelf. “I ordered in the best from Taravangian’s physicians,” Kaladin said. “You’ll need to have Mother read to you about some of these newer medications—they’re discovering some remarkable things at the hospitals in Kharbranth. They say they’ve found a way to infect people with a weak, easily overcome version of a disease—which leaves them immune for life to more harsh variants.” Lirin seemed … solemn. More than normal. Despite Hesina’s jokes, Lirin did laugh—he had emotions. Kaladin had seen them from him frequently. To have him respond to all of this with such quietude … He hates it, Kaladin thought. What did I do wrong? Oddly, Lirin sat and slumped in one of the nearby seats. “It is very nice, son,” he said softly. “But I don’t see the use of it anymore.” “What?” Kaladin asked. “Why?” “Because of what those Radiants can do,” Lirin said. “I saw them healing with a touch! A simple gesture from an Edgedancer can seal cuts, even regrow limbs. This is wonderful, son, but … but I don’t see a use for surgeons any longer.” Hesina leaned in to Kaladin. “He’s been moping about this the whole trip,” she
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whispered. “I’m not moping,” Lirin said. “To be sad about such a major revolution in healing would be not only callous, but selfish as well. It’s just…” Lirin took a deep breath. “I guess I’ll need to find something else to do.” Storms. Kaladin knew that exact emotion. That loss. That worry. That sudden feeling of becoming a burden. “Father,” Kaladin said, “we have fewer than fifty Edgedancers—and just three Truthwatchers. Those are the only orders that can heal.” Lirin looked up, cocking his head. “We brought over a dozen with us to save Hearthstone,” Kaladin said, “because Dalinar wanted to be certain our new flying platform didn’t fall to the enemy. Most of the time those Edgedancers are serving on the battlefront, healing soldiers. The few on duty in Urithiru can be used for only the most dire of wounds. “Plus their powers have limitations. They can’t do anything for old wounds, for example. We have a large clinic in the market staffed by ordinary surgeons, and it’s busy all hours of the day. You’re not obsolete. Trust me, you’re going to be very, very useful here.” Lirin regarded the room again, seeing it with new eyes. He grinned, then—possibly thinking he shouldn’t take joy in the idea that people would still need surgeons—stood up. “Well then! I suppose I should familiarize myself with this new equipment. Medications that can prevent diseases, you say? What an intriguing concept.” Kaladin’s mother gave him an embrace, then went into the other room to look over the books. Kaladin finally let himself relax, settling into a chair in the surgery room. Syl landed on his shoulder and took the form of a young woman in a full havah, with her hair pinned up in the Alethi fashion. She folded her arms and glared up at him expectantly. “What?” he asked. “You going to tell them?” she said. “Or do I have to?” “Now’s not the time.” “Why not?” He failed to come up with a good reason. She kept bullying him with her frustratingly insistent spren stare—she didn’t blink unless she pointedly decided to, so he’d never met anyone else who could glare quite like Syl. Once she’d even enlarged her eyes to disturbing proportions to deliver a particularly important point. Eventually Kaladin stood, causing her to streak off as a ribbon of light. “Father,” he said. “You need to know something.” Lirin turned from his study of the medications, and Hesina peeked her head into the room, curious. “I’m going to be leaving the military,” Kaladin said. “I need a break from the fighting, and Dalinar commanded it. So I thought maybe I would take the room beside Oroden’s. I … might need to find something different to do with my life.” Hesina raised her hand to her lips again. Lirin stopped dead, going pale, as if he’d seen a Voidbringer. Then his face burst with the widest grin Kaladin had ever seen on him. He strode over and seized Kaladin by the arms. “That’s what this is about, isn’t it?” Lirin said.
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“The surgery room, the supplies, that talk of the clinic. You’ve realized it. You finally understand that I’ve been right. You’re going to become a surgeon like we always dreamed!” “I…” That was the answer, of course. The one Kaladin had been purposely avoiding. He’d considered the ardents, he’d considered the generals, and he’d considered running away. The answer was in the face of his father, a face that a part of Kaladin dreaded. Deep down, Kaladin had known there was only one place he could go once the spear was taken from him. “Yes,” Kaladin said. “You’re right. You’ve always been right, Father. I guess … it’s time to continue my training.” The world becomes an increasingly dangerous place, and so I come to the crux of my argument. We cannot afford to keep secrets from one another any longer. The Thaylen artifabrians have private techniques relating to how they remove Stormlight from gems and create fabrials around extremely large stones. I beg the coalition and the good people of Thaylenah to acknowledge our collective need. I have taken the first step by opening my research to all scholars. I pray you will see the wisdom in doing the same. —Lecture on fabrial mechanics presented by Navani Kholin to the coalition of monarchs, Urithiru, Jesevan, 1175 “I’m sorry, Brightness,” Rushu said, holding up several schematics as they walked around the crystalline pillar deep within Urithiru. “Weeks of study, and I can’t find any other matches.” Navani sighed, pausing beside a particular section of the pillar. Four garnets stood out, the same construction used in the suppression fabrial. The layouts were too precise, too exact, to be a coincidence. It had seemed like a breakthrough, and she’d set Rushu and the others comparing all other known fabrials to the pillar, searching for any that seemed similar. That once-promising lead, unfortunately, had reached another dead end. “There’s another problem,” Rushu said. “Only one?” When the young ardent frowned, Navani waved for her to continue. “What is it?” “We inspected the suppression fabrial in Shadesmar, as you asked,” Rushu said. “Your theory is correct, it manifests a spren in Shadesmar as Soulcasters do. But on this side, there is no sign of that spren in the gemstones.” “What’s the problem, then?” Navani asked. “My theory is correct.” “Brightness, the spren that runs the suppression device … has been corrupted, very similar to…” “To Renarin’s spren,” Navani said. “Indeed. The spren refused to talk to us, but didn’t seem as insensate as the ones in Soulcasters. This reinforces your theory that ancient fabrials—things like the pumps, the Oathgates, and the Soulcasters—somehow imprisoned their spren in the Cognitive Realm. When we pressed it, the spren closed its eyes pointedly. It seems to be working with the enemy deliberately, which raises questions about your nephew’s spren. Dare we trust it?” “We have no reason to assume that one spren serving the enemy means all of its type do,” Navani said. “We should assume they each have individual loyalties, like humans.” She had to admit, however, that Renarin’s
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spren made her uncomfortable. Seeing the future? Well, she had already tied her mind in knots thinking about Glys. Instead, she tried to focus on the nature of this fabrial’s spren. You capture spren, the strange person had said to her via spanreed. You imprison them. Hundreds of them. You are a monster. You must stop. Weeks had passed without a quiver from the spanreed. Was it possible this person knew how to create fabrials the old way, which appeared to use sapient spren, locking them in the Cognitive Realm? Perhaps this method was preferable and more humane. The magnificent spren that controlled the Oathgates didn’t seem to begrudge their attachment to the devices, for example, and were fully capable of interacting. “For now, study this,” Navani said to Rushu, tapping her knuckles against the majestic gemstone pillar. “See if you can find a way to activate this specific group of garnets. In the past, the tower was protected from the Fused. Old writings agree on this fact. This part of the pillar must be why.” “Yes…” Rushu said. “A fine theory, and a fine suggestion. If we focus on this one piece of the pillar, which we know is a distinct fabrial, maybe we can activate it.” “Also try resetting the suppression fabrial we stole. It smothered Kaladin’s abilities, but let the Fused use their powers. There might be a way to reverse the device’s effects.” Rushu nodded in her absentminded way. Navani continued to stare up at the pillar, which sparkled with the light of a thousand facets. What was she missing? Why couldn’t she activate it? She handed the schematic to Rushu and began walking from the room. “We haven’t been giving enough thought to the tower’s security,” she said. “Clearly the ancients were worried about incursions by the Fused—and we experienced one already.” “The Oathgates are under constant guard now,” Rushu said, hurrying to keep up. “And authentication by two different orders of Radiants is required for activation. It seems unlikely the enemy could do what they did before.” “Yes, but what if they came in another way?” The spren she’d interviewed claimed that the Masked Ones—Fused with Lightweaving powers—couldn’t enter the tower. Its ancient protections had some lingering effects, like the changes in pressure or the warmth. Indeed, this seemed proven, as while Masked Ones sometimes slipped into human camps, they had never come to Urithiru. At least so far as Navani could tell. Perhaps they’d just been very careful. “The enemy,” Navani said to Rushu, “has abilities we can only guess at—and the powers we do know about are dangerous enough. Masked Ones could be among us and we’d never know it. You or I could be one of them right now.” “That … is a highly disturbing thought, Brightness,” Rushu said. “What could we possibly do? Other than fixing the tower’s defenses.” “Gather a team of our best abstract thinkers. Assign them the task of creating protocols to identify hidden Fused.” “Understood,” Rushu said. “Dali would be perfect for that. Oh, and Sebasinar, and…” She
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slowed, pulling out her notebook, oblivious to how she was standing in the middle of the corridor, forcing people to step around her. Navani smiled fondly, but left Rushu to her task, instead turning right and entering one of the ancient “library” rooms. When first studying the tower, they’d found dozens of gemstones in this room, all encoded with short messages from the ancient Knights Radiant. Over the months, the room had transformed from a dedicated study of those gemstones into a laboratory where Navani had organized her finest engineers. She had been around enough intelligent people to know they worked best in an encouraging environment where study and discovery were rewarded. Inside this room, concentrationspren moved like ripples in the sky, and a few logicspren—like little stormclouds—hovered in the air. Engineers worked on dozens of projects: some practical designs, others more fanciful. As soon as she stepped in, an excited young engineer scrambled up. “Brightness!” he said. “It’s working!” “That’s wonderful,” she said, struggling to remember his name. Young, bald, barely a beard to speak of. What project had he been on? He grabbed her by the arm and towed her to the side, ignoring propriety. She didn’t mind. It was a mark of pride to her that so many of the engineers forgot she was anything other than the person who funded their projects. She spotted Falilar at the worktable, and that jogged her memory. The young ardent was his nephew, Tomor, a darkeyed youth who wanted to follow his uncle’s path of scholarship. She’d assigned the two one of her more serious designs, a set of new lifts that worked on the same principle as the flying platform. “Brightness,” Falilar said, bowing to her. “The design requires a great deal more tweaking. I fear it’s going to require too much manpower to be efficient.” “But it’s working?” Navani said. “Yes!” Tomor said, bringing her a device shaped like a jewelry box, around six inches square, with a handle on one side. The handle—like the one you might use to pull open a drawer—held a trigger for the index finger on the inside. A button on the top was the box’s only other feature, except for a set of straps that she took for a wrist brace. Navani accepted the box and peeked in through the access panel. There were two separate fabrial constructions inside. One she recognized for a simple conjoining ruby, like those used in spanreeds. The other was more experimental, a practical application of the designs she’d given Tomor and Falilar: a device for redirecting force, and for quickly engaging or disengaging alignment with the conjoined fabrial. It wasn’t exactly the same method that kept the Fourth Bridge flying. It was more a cousin to that technology. “We decided to make the prototype an individual device,” Falilar said, “as you wanted something portable.” “Here!” Tomor said. “Let me get the workers ready!” He scrambled over to a couple of soldiers at the side of the room, assigned to run errands for the engineers. Tomor got them into
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position holding a rope, like they were about to engage in a tug-of-war—only instead of a rival team on the other end, their rope was attached to a different fabrial box on the floor. “Go ahead, Brightness!” Tomor said. “Point your box to the side, then conjoin the rubies!” Navani strapped the device to her wrist, then swung her arm around, pointing it to the side. Right now, the rubies weren’t conjoined, allowing the box to move freely. Once she pressed the button, however, the device snapped into conjoinment with the second box, the one on the floor attached to the rope. Next, she pulled the trigger with her index finger. This made the ruby flash brightly for the soldiers, who began pulling their rope. They moved their box along the floor, and the force was transferred across the space to Navani. And she was yanked—by the box and handle strapped to her wrist—steadily across the room. It was a common application of conjoined fabrials. The big difference here was not in the fact that force was being transferred, but the direction of the transfer. The men were pulling the box backward along the wall, moving steadily eastward. Navani was being pulled forward along the axis where she’d pointed her arm—a random direction south by southwest. She flashed the light to warn the soldiers, then disjoined the fabrials, so she stopped skidding. The men were ready for this, and prepared as she pointed her hand in a different direction. When she conjoined again and flashed the ruby for the men, they began pulling—and she moved that way instead. “It’s working wonderfully,” Navani said, skidding on her heels. “The ability to redirect the force in any direction—on the fly—is going to have huge practical applications.” “Yes, Brightness,” Falilar said, walking beside her, “I agree—but the manpower issue is a serious one. It already requires the work of hundreds to keep the Fourth Bridge in the air and moving. How many more can we spare?” Fortunately, that was the exact problem Navani had been trying to solve. This is working, she thought with excitement, turning off the fabrial, then having the men pull her in a third direction. Making the Fourth Bridge rise into the air had not been terribly difficult—the truly hard part had been getting it to move laterally after raising it into the air. The secret to making the Fourth Bridge fly—and to making this handheld device work—involved a rare metal called aluminum. It was what the Fused used for weapons that could block Shardblades, but the metal didn’t just interfere with Shardblades—it interfered with all kinds of Stormlight mechanics. Interactions with it during the expedition into Aimia earlier in the year had led Navani to order experiments, and Falilar himself had made the breakthrough. The trick was to use a specific fabrial cage, made from aluminum, around the conjoined rubies. The details were complicated, but with the proper caging, an artifabrian could make a conjoined ruby ignore motion made by the other along specific vectors or planes. So, in application,
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the Fourth Bridge could use two different dummy ships to move. One to go up and down, the other to go laterally. The complexities of that excited Navani and her engineers, and had led to the new device she now wore. She could move her arm in any direction she wanted, conjoin the fabrial, then direct force through it in a specific direction. Momentum and energy were conserved per natural conjoined fabrial mechanics. Her scientists had tested this a hundred different ways, and some applications quickly drained the fabrial—but they’d known about those from ancient experiments. Still, there were thoughts whirring in her head. There were ways they could use this to directly translate Stormlight energy into mechanical energy. And she’d been thinking of other ways to replace the manpower needs.… “Brightness?” Falilar said. “You seem concerned. I’m sorry if the device has more problems than you expected. It’s an early iteration.” “Falilar, you worry too much,” Navani said. “The device is amazing.” “But … the manpower problem…” Navani smiled. “Come with me.” * * * A short time later, Navani led Falilar into a section of the twentieth floor of the tower. Here she had another team working—though this one was made up of more laborers and fewer engineers. They’d located a strange shaft, one of many odd features of the tower. This one plummeted through the tower past its basements, eventually connecting to a cavern deep beneath. Though the original purpose of it baffled their surveyors and scientists, Navani had a plan for the shaft. It had involved setting up several steel weights here, each as heavy as three men, suspended on ropes. She nodded to the workers as they bowed, several holding up sphere lanterns for her and the ardents as they stepped up to the deep hole, which was a good six feet across. Navani peered over the side, and Falilar joined her, gripping the railing with nervous fingers. “How far down does it go?” he asked. “Far past the basement,” Navani said, holding up the box he had constructed. “Let’s say that, instead of men pulling a rope, we bolted the other half of this fabrial to one of these weights. Then we could connect the device’s trigger to these pulleys at the top—so that the trigger dropped the weight.” “You’d get your arm pulled off!” Falilar said. “You’d be yanked hard in whatever direction you’ve pointed the device.” “Resistance on the pulley line could modulate the initial force,” Navani said. “Maybe we could make it so the strength of the trigger pull determines how fast the line is let out—and how fast you are propelled.” “A clever application,” Falilar said, wiping his brow as he glanced at the dark shaft. “It doesn’t do anything about the manpower issue though. Someone has to get those weights back up here.” “Captain?” Navani asked the soldier leading the crew on this floor. “The windmills have been set up as requested,” the man said—he was missing an arm, the right sleeve of his uniform sewn up. Dalinar was always on
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the lookout for ways to keep his wounded officers involved in the important work of the war effort. “I’m told they’re rated for storms, though of course no device can be perfectly protected in a highstorm.” “What’s this?” Falilar asked. “Windmills inside steel casings,” Navani said, “with gemstones on the blades—each one conjoined with a ruby on the pulley system up above. The storm blows, and these five weights are ratcheted to the top, potential energy stored for later use.” “Ah…” Falilar said. “Brightness, I see.…” “Every few days,” Navani said, “the storms gift us an enormous outpouring of kinetic strength. Winds that level forests; lightning as bright as the sun.” She patted one of the ropes with the weights. “We simply need to find a way to store that energy. This could power a fleet of ships. Enough pulleys, weights, and windmills … and we could fly an air force around the world, all using the harnessed energy of the highstorms.” “How…” Falilar said, his eyes alight. “How do we make this happen, Brightness? What can I do?” “Testing,” she said, “and iterations. We need systems that can withstand the strain of repeated use. We need more flexibility, more streamlining. Your device here. Can you install a switching mechanism so we can move between fabrials on these five weights? A lift that could go up five times before needing to be recharged is far more useful than one that can go up only once.” “Yes…” he said. “And we could use the weight of people traveling back down to help recharge some of the weights.… Do you want us to make true lifts, or continue with the personal lift device, as Tomor designed? He’s excited by the idea.…” “Do both,” Navani suggested. “Let him continue on the single-person device, but suggest he shape it like a crossbow you point somewhere, rather than a box with a handle. Make it look interesting, and people will be more interested. One of the tricks of fabrial science.” “Yes … I see, Brightness.” She checked the clock she wore in the fabrial housing on her left arm. Storms. It was almost time for the meeting of monarchs. It wouldn’t do for her to be late after the number of times she’d chided Dalinar for ignoring his clock. “See where your imagination takes you,” she repeated to Falilar. “You’ve spent years building bridges to span chasms. Let’s learn how to span the sky.” “It will be done,” he said, taking the box. “This is genius, Brightness. Truly.” She smiled. They liked to say that, and she appreciated the sentiment. The truth was, she merely knew how to harness the genius of others—as she was hoping to harness the storm. * * * She arrived at the meeting with time to spare, fortunately. It was held in a chamber near the top of the tower, where Dalinar had made each monarch carry their own seat months ago. She remembered the tension of those initial meetings, each member speaking carefully—anxiously, as if a whitespine slumbered nearby. These days,
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the room was loud and full of chatter. She knew most of the ministers and functionaries by name, and asked after their families. She caught sight of Dalinar chatting amiably with Queen Fen and Kmakl. It was remarkable. In another time, a united coalition of Alethi, Veden, Thaylen, and Azish forces would have been the most incredible thing to have happened in generations. Unfortunately, it was only possible in response to greater marvels—and threats. Still, she couldn’t help feeling optimistic as she chatted. Right up until she turned around and came face-to-face with Taravangian. The kindly-looking old man had regrown his wispy beard and mustache—of a style that was reminiscent of old scholars from ancient paintings. One might easily imagine this robed figure as some guru sitting in a shrine, pontificating about the nature of storms and the souls of men. “Ah, Brightness,” he said. “I have yet to congratulate you on the success of your flying ship. I am eager to see the schematics once you feel comfortable sharing them.” Navani nodded. Gone was the feigned innocence, the pretended stupidity, that Taravangian had maintained for so long. A lesser man might have persisted stubbornly in his lies. To his credit, once the Assassin in White had joined Dalinar, Taravangian had dropped the act and immediately slipped into a new role: that of a political genius. “How go the troubles at home, Taravangian?” Navani asked. “We have reached agreements,” Taravangian said. “As I suspect you already know, Brightness. I have chosen my new heir from Veden stock, ratified by the highprinces, and made provisions for Kharbranth to go to my daughter. For now, the Vedens see the truth: We cannot squabble over details during an invasion.” “That is well,” she said, trying—and failing—to keep the coldness from her voice. “A pity we don’t have access to the military minds of the Veden elite, not to mention their best young soldiers. All sent to their graves in a pointless civil war mere months before the coming of the Everstorm.” “Do you think, Brightness,” Taravangian said, “that the Veden king would have accepted Dalinar’s proposals of unification? Do you really think that old Hanavanar—the paranoid man who spent years playing his own highprinces against one another—would ever have joined this coalition? His death might well have been the best thing that ever happened to Alethkar. Think on that, Brightness, before your accusations set the room aflame.” He was correct, unfortunately. It was unlikely the late king of Jah Keved would ever have listened to Dalinar—the Vedens had deep-seated grudges with the Blackthorn. The coalition’s early days had depended greatly upon the fact that Taravangian had joined it, bringing the might of a broken—but still formidable—Jah Keved. “It might be easier to accept your goodwill, Your Majesty,” Navani said, “if you hadn’t tried to undermine my husband by revealing sensitive information to the coalition.” Taravangian stepped close, and a part of Navani panicked. This man terrified her, she realized. Her instincts toward him were the same she might have toward an enemy soldier with a
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sword. Yet at the end of the day, a single man with a sword was no threat to kingdoms. This man had fooled the smartest people in the world. He had conned his way into Dalinar’s inner circle. He had played them for fools, all while seizing the throne of Jah Keved. And everyone had praised him. That was true danger. She forced herself not to shy away as he leaned in close; he didn’t seem to intend the maneuver to be threatening. He was shorter than she was, and had no physical presence with which to impose. Instead he spoke softly. “Everything I’ve done was in the name of protecting humankind. Every step I’ve taken, every ploy I’ve devised, every pain I’ve suffered. It was all done to protect our future. “I could point out that your own husbands—both of them—committed crimes that far outweigh mine. I ordered the murder of a handful of tyrants, but I burned no cities. Yes, the lighteyes of Jah Keved turned on one another once their king was dead, but I did not force them. Those deaths are not my burden. “All of this is immaterial, however. Because I would have burned villages to prevent what was coming. I would have sent the Vedens into chaos. No matter the cost, I would have paid it. Know this. If humankind survives the new storm, it will be because of the actions I took. I stand by them.” He stepped back, leaving her trembling. Something about his intensity, the confidence of his words, left her speechless. “I truly am impressed by your discoveries,” he said. “We all benefit from what you’ve accomplished. Perhaps in future years few will think to thank you, but I do so now.” He bowed to her, then walked over to take his seat, a lonely man who no longer brought attendants with him to these meetings. Dangerous, a part of her thought again. And incredible. Yes, most men would have denied the accusations. Taravangian had leaned into them, taken ownership of them. If mankind was truly fighting for its very survival, could any of them turn away the aid of the man who had expertly seized the throne of a kingdom far more powerful than his lowly city-state? She doubted Dalinar would have thought twice about Taravangian—even with the assassinations exposed—if not for one difficult question. Was Taravangian working for the enemy? They risked the future of the world itself on the answer. Navani found her seat as Noura—the head Azish vizier—called the meeting to order. She generally led the meetings these days; everyone responded well to her calm air of wisdom. The primary order of business was to discuss Dalinar’s proposal for making a large offensive into Emul, crushing the enemy troops there up against the god-priest of Tukar. Noura had him stand up to outline the proposal, though Jasnah’s scribes had sent detailed explanations to everyone in advance. Navani let her mind wander, her thoughts circling around the phantom spanreed author. You must stop making this new kind of fabrial.…
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Perhaps they meant the ones using aluminum? Soon enough Dalinar finished his proposal, opening the floor to discussion by the other monarchs. As expected, the young Azish Prime Aqasix was the first to respond. Yanagawn was looking more and more like an emperor each day, as the rest of his body was growing into the lanky height puberty had given him. He stood up, speaking for himself in the meeting—something he preferred to do, despite Azish custom. “We were delighted to receive this proposal, Dalinar,” the Prime said in excellent Alethi. He’d likely prepared this speech ahead of time, so he wouldn’t make mistakes. “And we thank Her Majesty Jasnah Kholin for her thorough written explanations of its merits. As you can likely guess, we needed no persuasion to accept this plan.” He gestured toward the Emuli prime, a man living—as most of the Alethi did—in exile. The coalition had promised him a restored Emul in the past, but had so far been unable to deliver. “The union of Makabaki states has discussed already, and we support this proposal wholeheartedly,” Yanagawn said. “It is bold and decisive. We will lend it our every resource.” No surprise there, Navani thought. But Taravangian will oppose it. The old schemer had always pushed them to invest more heavily into the fight on his borders. The Mink had been clear in his final report; he feared Taravangian’s actions were a ploy to get Dalinar to overextend into Alethkar. Additionally, Taravangian had historically taken the role of the more cautious, conservative one in the council, and as such, had good reason to oppose committing to Emul. The wildcard would be Queen Fen and the Thaylens. She wore a bright patterned skirt today, decidedly not of Vorin fashion, and the white ringlets of her eyebrows bounced as she looked from Jasnah to Dalinar, thoughtful. Most of the room seemed to be able to read how this would play out. Taravangian disagreeing, Azir supporting. So how would Fen— “If I may speak,” Taravangian said, standing. “I would like to applaud this bold and wonderful proposal. Jah Keved and Kharbranth support it wholeheartedly. I have asked my generals how we might best lend our aid, and we can deliver twenty thousand troops to march immediately through the Oathgates for deployment into Emul.” What? Navani thought. He supported the proposal? Storms. What had they missed? Why would he be so willing to pull troops away from his border now, after a year of insisting he couldn’t spare even a handful? He’d always used the ubiquity of his medical support to cloud his miserly troop deployments. Had he realized Dalinar wasn’t going to give an opportunity for betrayal? Was this something else? “We are grateful for your support, Taravangian,” Yanagawn said. “Dalinar, that is two for your proposal. Three with you, and four, assuming your niece is already persuaded. The only one we await is Her Majesty.” He turned to Fen. “Her Majesty,” Fen said, “is storming baffled. When’s the last time the lot of us all agreed on something?” “We all
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vote favor for lunching break,” Yanagawn said, smiling and deviating from his script. “Usually.” “Well, that’s the truth.” Fen leaned back in her seat. “You surprised me with this one, Dalinar. I knew you were tacking toward some goal, but I thought for sure you would insist on trying to recapture your homeland. This general you recovered, he changed your mind, didn’t he?” Dalinar nodded. “He would like me to move that Herdaz be granted a seat on our council.” “Herdaz is no more,” Fen said. “But I suppose the same could be said for Alethkar. I suggest that if his help proves useful in Emul, we grant such a request. For now, how do we proceed? I suspect an attack into Emul will provoke the enemy navy to finally come out and engage us, so I’ll need to plan for a blockade. Tukar has a long coast; that’s going to be a challenge. Stormblessed, I suppose we can count on Windrunner patrols to help warn us of…” Fen trailed off, twisting around toward the small group of Radiants at the side of the room. Each Radiant order usually sent at least one representative. Taravangian’s Dustbringer was there as usual, and Lift was likely somewhere, judging from the state of the snack table—though a few other Edgedancers were sitting at the rear as well. Normally Kaladin would be there, leaning against the wall, looming like a stormcloud. No longer. Instead Sigzil stepped forward, newly minted as companylord. It was an interesting move, elevating a foreigner—but it was a freedom Dalinar gained by no longer being directly tied to Alethkar. In this tower, ethnicity was secondary to Radiant bonds. Sigzil didn’t have the presence of his highmarshal; he always seemed too … fiddly to Navani. He cleared his throat, sounding uncomfortable in his new role. “You will have Windrunner support, Your Majesty. The enemy air troops might not want to fly in from Iri or Alethkar, as both routes would require them to traverse our lands. The Heavenly Ones might try to loop around and come in from the ocean. Plus, they’ve been employing Skybreakers frequently in the region—so we’ll need to contend with them.” “Good,” Fen said. “Where’s Stormblessed?” “Leave of absence, Your Majesty. He was wounded recently.” “What kind of wound can bring down a Windrunner?” Fen snapped. “Don’t you regrow body parts?” “Um, yes, Your Majesty. The highmarshal is recovering from a different kind of wound.” She grunted, looking over at Dalinar. “Well, the guilds of Thaylenah agree to this plan. If we retake Emul and Tukar, it will give us absolute dominance of the Southern Depths. You couldn’t ask for a better staging platform for eventually recovering Alethkar. You’re wise, Blackthorn, to delay striking for your homeland in favor of the tactically sound move.” “It was a difficult decision, Fen,” Navani said. “One we made only after exploring every other option.” And Taravangian agreeing to it has me worried. “It highlights another problem though,” Fen said. “We need more Windrunners. Kmakl has been raving about your flying fortress—I’ll have
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you know, I haven’t seen him this smitten since our first days courting. But the enemy has both Fused and Skybreakers, and you can’t protect a ship like that without air support. Stormfather help us if enemies in the air catch one of our ocean fleets unprotected.” “We’ve been working on a solution,” Dalinar promised. “It is a … difficult problem. Spren can be even more stubborn than men.” “Makes sense,” Fen said. “I’ve never met a wind or current that would change course because I shouted at them.” Someone cleared their throat, and Navani was surprised to see Sigzil stepping forward again. “I’ve been speaking with my spren, Your Majesty, and I might be able to offer a potential solution to this problem. I believe we should send an envoy to the honorspren.” Navani leaned forward in her seat. “What kind of envoy?” “The honorspren can be a … touchy group,” Sigzil explained. “Many are not as carefree as our initial interactions with them led us to believe. Among spren, they are some of the closest in spirit and intent to the god Honor. While obviously individuals will vary in personality, there is a general feeling of discontent—well, insult—among them regarding humans.” Sigzil surveyed the crowd, and could plainly see that many of them weren’t following him. He took a deep breath. “Here, let me say it this way. Pretend there was a kingdom you wanted to be our ally in this war. Except we betrayed them a few generations ago in a similar alliance. Would we be surprised that they refused to help us now?” Navani found herself nodding. “So, you’re saying we need to repair relations,” Fen said, “for something that happened thousands of years ago?” “Your Majesty,” Sigzil said, “with respect, the Recreance is ancient history to us—but to the spren it was only a few generations ago. The honorspren are upset; they feel their trust was betrayed. In their eyes, we never addressed what we did to them. For lack of a better term, their honor was offended.” Dalinar leaned forward in his seat. “Soldier, you’re saying they want us to go to them begging? If Odium claims this land, they’ll suffer as much as we will!” “I know that, sir,” Sigzil said. “You don’t have to persuade me. But again, think of a nation your ancestors offended, but whose resources you now need. Wouldn’t you at least send an envoy with an official apology?” He shrugged. “I can’t promise it will work, but my advice is that we try.” Navani nodded again. She’d usually ignored this man because he acted so much like … well, a scribe. The kind of nitpicky person who often created more work for others. She now recognized that was unfair. She had found wisdom in the efforts of scholars others thought to be too focused on details. It’s because he’s a man, she thought. And a soldier, not an ardent. He didn’t act like the other Windrunners, so she’d dismissed him. Not a good look, Navani, she thought at herself. For
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one who claims to be a patron of the thoughtful. “This man speaks wisdom,” she said to the others. “We have been presumptuous in regards to the spren.” “Can we send you, Radiant?” Fen asked Sigzil. “You seem to understand their mindset.” Sigzil grimaced. “That might be a bad idea. We Windrunners … we’re acting in defiance of honorspren law. We’d make the worst envoys, because of … well, they don’t much like Kaladin, to be honest. If one of us showed up at their fortress, they might try to arrest us. “My advice is to send a small but important contingent of other Radiants. Specifically, Radiants who have bonded spren whose relatives approve of what we’re doing. They can make arguments on our behalf.” “That rules me out,” Jasnah said. “The other inkspren are generally opposed to what Ivory did in bonding with me.” She glanced to Renarin, who sat at the rear of the room, behind his brother. He glanced up in a panic, his puzzle box frozen in his hands. “We probably,” Jasnah continued, “don’t want to send Renarin either. Considering his … special circumstances.” “An Edgedancer, then?” Dalinar said. “The cultivationspren have generally embraced our new order of Radiants. I believe some of those who bonded Radiants are regarded highly in Shadesmar.” True to Navani’s earlier guess, Lift emerged from underneath the table—though she hit her head climbing out, then glared at the table. The Reshi girl—well, teen—barely fit in spaces like that any longer, and seemed able to hit her elbows on every piece of furniture she passed. “I’ll go,” Lift said, then yawned. “I’m getting bored here.” “Perhaps … someone older,” Dalinar said. “Nah,” Lift said. “You need them all. They’re all good at the Edgedancing part. ’Sides, Wyndle is famous on the other side on account of him figuring out how chairs work. I didn’t believe it at first, ’cuz I never heard of him before he started bothering me. It’s true though. Spren are weird, so they like weird things, like silly little vine people.” The room fell silent, and Navani suspected that everyone was thinking along the same lines. They couldn’t send Lift to lead an envoy representing them. She was enthusiastic, yes, but … she was also … well … Lift. “You are excellent with healing,” Dalinar said to her, “among the best of your order. We need you here, and besides, we should send someone with practice as a diplomat.” “I could give it a try, sir,” said Godeke, a shorter Edgedancer who had once been an ardent. “I have some experience with these matters.” “Excellent,” Dalinar said. “Adolin and I should lead this envoy,” Shallan said. She seemed reluctant as she stood up. “Cryptics and honorspren don’t get along fantastically, but I’m a good choice regardless. Who better to represent us than a highprince and his Radiant wife?” “An excellent suggestion,” Dalinar said. “We can send one of the Truthwatchers—other than Renarin—and one Stoneward. With Godeke, that would give us four different Radiants and their spren, plus my own son.
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Radiant Sigzil, would that satisfy the honorspren?” He cocked his head, listening to something none of the rest of them could hear. “She thinks so, sir. It’s a good start, at least. She says to send gifts, and to ask for help. Honorspren have a difficult time turning away people in need. Apologize for the past, promise to do better, and explain how dire our situation is. That might work.” He paused. “It also wouldn’t hurt if the Stormfather were to speak on our behalf, sir.” “I’ll see if that can be arranged,” Dalinar said. “He can be difficult.” He turned to Shallan and Adolin. “You are both willing to lead this expedition? Shadesmar is dangerous.” “It’s really not that bad,” Adolin said. “Assuming we’re not being chased the entire time, I think it might be fun.” There’s something there, Navani thought, reading the boy’s excitement. He’s wanted to get back into Shadesmar for months now. But what of Shallan? She settled down in her seat, and while she nodded to Dalinar at his question, she seemed … reserved. Navani would have expected her to be excited as well; Shallan loved going new and strange places. Dalinar took their agreement, and the general lack of objections from the monarchs, as enough. It was set. An expedition into Shadesmar and a large military push into Emul—both plans unanimously agreed upon. Navani wasn’t certain what to think about how easily it had happened. It was nice to make headway; yet in her experience, a fair breeze one day was the herald of a tempest to come. * * * She didn’t get a chance to voice her concerns until much later in the night, when she managed to pull away from dinner with Fen and Kmakl. She tried to make time for the monarchs individually when she could, as Dalinar was so often off inspecting troops on one front line or the other. He didn’t intentionally ignore social responsibilities as Gavilar had done at the end—in Dalinar’s case, he simply didn’t notice. And with him, that was generally fine. People liked seeing him think like a soldier, and spoke with fondness—rather than insult—about his occasional social missteps. He was, despite having grown calmer over the years, still the Blackthorn. It would be wrong if he didn’t sometimes eat his dessert with his fingers or unthinkingly call someone “soldier” instead of using their royal title. Regardless, Navani took care to make certain everyone knew that they were appreciated. It was left mostly unsaid, but no one truly knew what Dalinar’s relationship was with the coalition. Merely another monarch, or something more? He controlled the Oathgates, and almost all the Radiants looked to him as their superior officer. Beyond that, many who had broken off from mainstream Vorinism were treating his autobiography as a religious text. Dalinar wasn’t highking in name, just monarch of Urithiru, but the other monarchs stepped delicately—still wondering if this coalition would eventually become an empire beneath the Blackthorn. Navani soothed worries, made oblique promises, and generally tried to keep everyone pointed
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in the right direction. It was exhausting work, so when she finally trailed into their rooms, she was glad to see that Dalinar had their heating fabrial warming the place with a toasty red light. He had unalon tea for her on the heating plate—very thoughtful, as he never brewed it for himself, finding it too sweet. She fetched a cup, then found him on the couch nearest the fabrial, staring at its light. His jacket was off, draped across a nearby chair, and he’d dismissed the servants—as he usually did, and often too frequently. She’d need to let them know—again—that he wasn’t offended by something they’d done. He merely liked to be alone. Fortunately, he’d made it clear that being alone didn’t include being away from her. He had a strange definition of the word sometimes. Indeed, he immediately made space for her as she sat down, letting her melt into the crook of his arm before the warm hearth. She undid the button on her safehand sleeve and gripped the warm cup in both hands. She’d grown comfortable with a glove these last few years, and found it increasingly annoying to have to wear something more formal to meetings. For a time, she simply enjoyed the warmth. Three sources of it. The first the warmth of the fabrial, the second the warmth of the tea, and the third the warmth of him against her back. The most welcome of them all. He rested his hand along her upper arm and would occasionally rub with one finger—as if wanting to constantly remind himself that she was there with him. “I used to think these fabrials were terrible,” he eventually said, “replacing the life of a fire with something so … cold. Warm, yes, but cold. Strange, how quickly I’ve come to enjoy them. No need to keep piling on logs. No worry about the flue clogging and smoke boiling out. It’s amazing how much removing a few background worries can free the mind.” “To think about Taravangian?” she guessed. “And how he supported the war proposal instead of objecting?” “You know me too well.” “I’m worried too,” she said, sipping her tea. “He was far too quick to offer troops. We’ll have to take them, you know. After spending months complaining he was withholding his armies, we can’t turn them away now.” “What is he planning?” Dalinar asked. “This is where I’m most likely to fail everyone, Navani. Sadeas outmaneuvered me, and I fear Taravangian is more crafty in every respect. When I tried to make initial moves to cut him out of the coalition, he’d already worked on the others to undermine any such attempt. He’s playing me, and doing it deftly, right beneath my nose.” “You don’t have to face him alone,” Navani said. “This isn’t only upon you.” “I know,” Dalinar said, his eyes seeming to glow as he stared at the bright ruby in the hearth. “I won’t ever suffer that feeling again, Navani. That moment of standing on the Shattered Plains watching Sadeas retreat. Of knowing
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that my faith in someone—my stupid naivety—had doomed the lives of thousands of men. I won’t be Taravangian’s pawn.” She reached up and cupped his chin in her hand. “You suffered betrayal by Sadeas because you saw the man as he should have been, if he’d risen above his own pettiness. Don’t lose that faith, Dalinar. It’s part of what makes you the man you have become.” “Taravangian is confident, Navani. If he’s working with the enemy, there’s a reason for it. He always has a reason.” “Wealth, renown. Vengeance maybe.” “No,” Dalinar said. “No, not him.” He closed his eyes. “When I … when I burned the Rift, I did it in anger. Children and innocents died because of my fury. I know that feeling; I could spot it. If Taravangian killed a child, he’d do it not for vengeance. Not for fury. Not for wealth or renown. But because he sincerely thought the child’s death was necessary.” “He would call it good, then?” “No. He would acknowledge it as evil, would say it stains his soul. He says … that’s the point of having a monarch. A man to wallow in blood, to be stained by it and destroyed by it, so that others might not suffer.” He opened his eyes and raised his hand to hold hers. “It’s similar, in a way, to how the ancient Radiants saw themselves. In the visions they said … they were the watchers at the rim. They trained in deadly arts to protect others from needing to do so. The same philosophy, less tarnished. He’s so close to being right, Navani. If I could only get through to him…” “I worry that instead he’ll change you, Dalinar,” she said. “Don’t listen too closely to what he says.” He nodded, and seemed to take that to heart. She rested her head against his chest, listening to his heartbeat. “I want you to stay here,” he said, “in the tower. Jasnah wants to deploy with us into Emul; she’s eager to prove she can lead in battle. With an offensive so large, I’ll be needed in person as well. Taravangian knows that; he must be planning a trap for us. Someone needs to be here in the tower, safe—to pull the rest of us out if something goes wrong.” Someone to lead the Alethi, in case Jasnah and I are killed in Taravangian’s trap, he left unsaid. She didn’t object. Yes, an Alethi woman would normally go to war to scribe for her husband. Yes, he was defying this in part because he wanted her safe. He was a little overprotective. She forgave him this. They would need a member of the royal family to stay in reserve, and besides, she was increasingly certain that the best thing she could do to help would involve unraveling the mysteries of this tower. “If you’re going to leave me,” she said, “then you’d best treat me well in the days leading up to your departure. So I remember you fondly and know that you love me.” “Is
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there ever a question of that?” She pulled back, then lightly ran her finger along his jaw. “A woman needs constant reminders. She needs to know that she has his heart, even when she cannot have his company.” “You have my heart always.” “And tonight specifically?” “And tonight,” he said, “specifically.” He leaned forward to kiss her, pulling her tight with those formidable arms of his. In this she encountered a fourth warmth to the night, more powerful than all the rest. THE END OF Part One Next, let the spren inspect your trap. The gemstone must not be fully infused, but also cannot be fully dun. Experiments have concluded that seventy percent of maximum Stormlight capacity works best. If you have done your work correctly, the spren will become fascinated by its soon-to-be prison. It will dance around the stone, peek at it, float around it. —Lecture on fabrial mechanics presented by Navani Kholin to the coalition of monarchs, Urithiru, Jesevan, 1175 “I told you we’d been spotted,” Syl said as Kaladin flared with Stormlight. Kaladin grunted in reply. Syl formed into a majestic silvery spear as he swept his hand outward—the weapon’s appearance forcing back the singers who had been searching for him. Kaladin pointedly avoided looking at his father, to not betray their relationship. Besides, he knew what he would see. Disappointment. So, nothing new. Refugees scrambled away in a panic, but the Fused no longer cared about them. The hulking figure turned toward Kaladin, arms folded, and smiled. I told you, Syl said in Kaladin’s mind. I’m going to keep reminding you until you acknowledge how intelligent I am. “This is a new variety,” Kaladin said, keeping his spear leveled at the Fused. “You ever seen one of these before?” No. Seems uglier than most though. Over the last year, new varieties of Fused had been appearing on the battlefields in a trickle. Kaladin was most familiar with the ones who could fly like Windrunners. Those were called the shanay-im, they’d learned; it roughly meant “Those Ones of the Heavens.” Other Fused could not fly; as with the Radiants, each type had their own set of powers. Jasnah posited there would be ten varieties, though Dalinar—offering no explanation of why he knew this—said there would be only nine. This variety marked the seventh Kaladin had fought. And, winds willing, the seventh he would kill. Kaladin raised his spear to challenge the Fused to single combat, an action that always worked with the Heavenly Ones. This Fused, however, waved for his companions to strike at Kaladin from all sides. Kaladin responded by Lashing himself upward. As he darted into the sky, Syl automatically lengthened her shape into a long lance ideal for striking at ground objects from the air. Stormlight churned inside Kaladin, daring him to move, to act, to fight. But he needed to be careful. There were civilians in the area, including several very dear to him. “Let’s see if we can draw them away,” Kaladin said. He Lashed himself downward at an angle so he swooped
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backward toward the ground. Unfortunately, the fog kept Kaladin from going too far or too high, lest he lose sight of his enemies. Be careful, Syl said. We don’t know what kinds of powers this new Fused might— The fog-shrouded figure in the near distance collapsed suddenly, and something shot out of the body—a small line of red-violet light like a spren. That line of light darted to Kaladin in the blink of an eye, then it expanded to re-form the shape of the Fused with a sound like stretching leather mixed with grinding stone. The Fused appeared in the air right in front of Kaladin. Before Kaladin could react, the Fused had grabbed him by the throat with one hand and by the front of the uniform with another. Syl yelped, fuzzing to mist—her lance form was far too unwieldy for such a close-quarters fight. The weight of the enormous Fused, with his stony carapace and thick muscles, dragged Kaladin out of the air and slammed him against the ground, flat on his back. The Fused’s constricting fingers cut off Kaladin’s airflow, but with Stormlight raging inside him, Kaladin didn’t need to breathe. Still, he grabbed the Fused’s hands to pry them free. Stormfather! The creature was strong. Moving his fingers was like trying to bend steel. Shrugging off the initial panic of being yanked out of the air, Kaladin gathered his wits and summoned Syl as a dagger. He sliced the Fused’s right hand, then his left, leaving the fingers dead. Those would heal—the Fused, like Radiants, used Light to repair their wounds. But with the creature’s fingers dead, Kaladin kicked free with a grunt. He Lashed himself upward again, soaring into the air. Before he could catch his breath, however, a red-violet light streaked through the fog below, looping about itself and zipping up behind Kaladin. A viselike arm grabbed him in an arm triangle from behind. A second later, a piercing pain stabbed Kaladin between the shoulders as the Fused knifed him in the neck. Kaladin screamed and felt his limbs go numb as his spinal cord was severed. His Stormlight rushed to heal the wound, but this Fused was plainly experienced at fighting Surgebinders, because he continued to plunge the knife into Kaladin’s neck time and time again, keeping him from recovering. “Kaladin!” Syl said, flitting around him. “Kaladin! What should I do?” She formed into a shield in his hand, but his limp fingers dropped her, and she returned to her spren form. The Fused’s moves were expert, precise as he hung on from behind—he didn’t seem to be able to fly when in humanoid shape, only as a ribbon of light. Kaladin felt hot breath on his cheek as the creature stabbed again and again. The part of Kaladin trained by his father considered the wound analytically. Severing of the spine. Repeated infliction of full paralysis. A clever way of dealing with an enemy who could heal. Kaladin’s Stormlight would run out quickly at this rate. The soldier in Kaladin worked more by instinct than
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deliberate thought, and noticed—despite spinning in the air, grappled by a terrible enemy—that he regained a single moment of mobility before each new stab. So as the tingling feeling rushed through his body, Kaladin bent forward, then slammed his head back into that of the Fused. A flash of pain and white light disrupted Kaladin’s sight. He twisted as he felt the Fused’s grip slacken, then drop. The creature seized Kaladin by his coat, hanging on—a mere shadow to Kaladin’s swimming vision. That was enough. Kaladin swept his hand at the thing’s neck, Syl forming as a side sword. Cut through the gemheart, the head, or the neck with a Blade, and—great powers notwithstanding—the Fused would die. Kaladin’s vision recovered enough to let him see a violet-red light burst from the chest of the Fused. He left a body behind each time his soul—or whatever—became a ribbon of red light. Kaladin’s Blade sliced the body’s head clean off, but the light had already escaped. Stormwinds. This thing seemed more spren than singer. The discarded body tumbled through the fog, and Kaladin followed it down, his wounds fully healing. He breathed in a second pouch of spheres as he landed beside the fallen corpse. Could he even kill this being? A Shardblade could cut spren, but that didn’t kill them. They re-formed eventually. Sweat poured down Kaladin’s face, his heart thundering inside him. Though Stormlight urged him to move, he stilled himself and watched the fog, searching for signs of the Fused. They’d gotten far enough from the city that he couldn’t see anyone else. Just shadowed hills. Empty. Storms. That was close. As close to death as he’d come in a long, long while. Made all the more alarming by how quickly and unexpectedly the Fused had taken him. There was a danger to feeling like he owned the winds and the sky, to knowing he could heal quickly. Kaladin turned around slowly, feeling the breeze on his skin. Carefully, he walked over to the lump that remained of the Fused. The corpse—or whatever it was—looked dried out and fragile, the colors faded, like the shell of a snail long dead. The flesh had turned into some kind of stone, porous and light. Kaladin picked up the decapitated head and pressed his thumb into the face, which crumbled like ash. The rest of the body followed on its own a few moments later, then even the carapace disintegrated. A line of violet-red light came streaking in from the side. Kaladin immediately launched himself upward, narrowly avoiding the grasp of the Fused that formed from the light beneath him. The creature, however, immediately dropped the new body and shot upward after Kaladin as a light. This time Kaladin dodged a little too slowly, and the creature—forming from the light—seized him by the leg. The Fused heaved upward, using his powerful upper-body strength to climb Kaladin’s uniform. By the time the Sylblade formed in Kaladin’s hands, the Fused had him in a powerful grip—legs wrapped around his torso, left hand grabbing Kaladin’s sword hand
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and holding it out to the side while he shoved his right forearm into Kaladin’s throat. That forced his head up, making it difficult to see the Fused, let alone get leverage against him. He didn’t need leverage, however. Grappling with a Windrunner was a dangerous prospect, for whatever Kaladin could touch, he could Lash. He poured Light into his enemy to Lash the creature away. The Light resisted, as it did when applied to Fused, but Kaladin had enough to push through the resistance. Kaladin Lashed himself in the other direction, and it soon felt like enormous hands were pulling the two of them apart. The Fused grunted, then said something in his own language. Kaladin dropped the Sylblade and focused on trying to push the enemy away. The Fused was glowing with Stormlight now; it rose off him like luminescent smoke. Finally the enemy’s grip slipped, then he shot away from Kaladin like an arrow from a Shardbow. A fraction of a second later, that relentless red-violet light darted from the chest and headed straight for Kaladin yet again. Kaladin narrowly avoided it, Lashing himself downward as the Fused formed and reached for him. After missing, the Fused fell through the mists, vanishing. Again Kaladin found himself low on Stormlight, his heart racing. He breathed in his third—of four—pouch of spheres. They’d learned to start wearing those sewn into the inside of their uniforms. Fused knew to try to cut away a Radiant’s sphere reserve. “Wow,” Syl said, hovering up beside Kaladin, naturally taking a position where she could watch behind him. “He’s good, isn’t he?” “It’s more than that,” Kaladin said, scanning the featureless fog. “He’s attacking with a different strategy than most. I haven’t done a lot of grappling.” Wrestling wasn’t often seen on the battlefield. At least not a disciplined one. Kaladin was practiced with formations, and was growing more confident with swordplay, but it had been years since he’d trained on how to escape a headlock. “Where is he?” Syl asked. “I don’t know,” Kaladin said. “But we don’t have to beat him. We only need to stay out of his grasp long enough for the others to arrive.” It took a few minutes of watching before Syl cried out. “There!” she said, forming a ribbon of light pointing the way toward what she’d seen. Kaladin didn’t wait for further explanation. He Lashed himself away through the fog. The Fused appeared, but grasped empty air as Kaladin dodged. The creature’s body fell as the line of light ejected again, but Kaladin began an erratic zigzag pattern, evading the Fused twice more. This creature used Voidlight to form new bodies somehow. Each one looked identical, with hair as a kind of clothing. He wasn’t being reborn each time—he was teleporting, but using the ribbon of light to transfer between locations. They’d met Fused that could fly, and others that had powers like Lightweavers. Perhaps this was the variety whose powers mirrored, in a way, the traveling abilities of Elsecallers. After the creature materialized the third time, he
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again briefly gave up the chase. He can teleport only three times before he needs to rest, Kaladin guessed. He attacked in a burst of three each time. So after that, his powers need to regenerate? Or … no, he probably needs to go somewhere and fetch more Voidlight. Indeed, a few minutes later, the red-violet light returned. Kaladin Lashed himself directly away from the light, picking up speed. Air became a roar around him, and by the fifth Lashing, he was fast enough that the red light couldn’t keep up, and dwindled behind. Not quite so dangerous if you can’t reach me, are you? Kaladin thought. The Fused evidently came to the same conclusion, the ribbon of light diving downward through the fog. Unfortunately, the Fused probably knew Kaladin intended to return to Hearthstone. So, instead of continuing, Kaladin flew down as well. He came to rest on a hilltop overgrown with lumpish rockbuds, their vines spilling out liberally in the humidity. The Fused stood at the bottom of the hill, looking up. Yes … that dark brown wrap he wore was hair, from the top of his head, wound long and tight around his body. He broke a carapace spur off his arm—a sharp and jagged weapon—and pointed it toward Kaladin. He had probably used one of those as a dagger when attacking Kaladin’s back. Both spur and hair seemed to imply he couldn’t take objects with him when teleporting—so he couldn’t keep Voidlight spheres on his person, but had to retreat to refill. Syl formed as a spear. “I’m ready,” Kaladin called. “Come at me.” “So you can run?” the Fused called in Alethi, his voice rough, like stones grinding together. “Watch for me from the corner of your eye, Windrunner. We’ll meet again soon.” He became a ribbon of red light—leaving another crumbling corpse as he disappeared into the fog. Kaladin sat down and let out a long breath, Stormlight puffing in front of him and mingling with the fog. That fog would burn away as the sun rose higher, but for now it still blanketed the land, making it feel eerie and forlorn. Like he had accidentally stepped into a dream. Kaladin was hit with a sudden wave of exhaustion. The dull sense of Stormlight running out, mixed with the usual deflation after a battle. And something more. Something increasingly common these days. His spear vanished and Syl reappeared, standing in the air in front of him. She’d taken to wearing a stylish dress, ankle-length and sleek, instead of the filmy girlish one. When he’d asked, she’d explained that Adolin had been advising her. Her long, blue-white hair faded to mist, and she didn’t wear a safehand sleeve. Why would she? She wasn’t human, let alone Vorin. “Well,” she said, hands on hips, “we showed him.” “He almost killed me twice.” “I didn’t say what we showed him.” She turned around, keeping watch in case this was a trick. “You all right?” “Yeah,” Kaladin said. “You look tired.” “You always say that.” “Because you always look tired,
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dummy.” He climbed to his feet. “I’ll be fine once I get moving.” “You—” “We are not going to argue about this again. I’m fine.” Indeed, he felt better when he got up and drew in a little more Stormlight. So what if the sleepless nights had returned? He’d survived on less sleep before. The slave Kaladin had been would have laughed himself silly to hear that this new Kaladin—lighteyed Shardbearer, a man who enjoyed luxurious housing and warm meals—was upset about a little lost sleep. “Come on,” he said. “If we were spotted on our way here—” “If?” “—because we were spotted, they’ll send more than just one Fused. Heavenly Ones will come for me, and that means the mission is in jeopardy. Let’s get back to the town.” She waited expectantly, her arms folded. “Fine,” Kaladin said. “You were right.” “And you should listen to me more.” “And I should listen to you more.” “And therefore you should get more sleep.” “Would that it were so easy,” Kaladin said, rising into the air. “Come on.” * * * Veil was growing increasingly upset that nobody had kidnapped her. She strolled through the warcamp market, in full disguise, idling by shops. She’d spent more than a month wearing a fake face out here, making exactly the right comments to exactly the right people. And still no kidnapping. She hadn’t even been mugged. What was the world coming to? I could punch us in the face, Radiant noted, if it would make you feel better. Levity, from Radiant? Veil smiled as she pretended to browse a fruit stand. If Radiant was cracking jokes, they really were getting desperate. Usually Radiant was as funny as … as … Usually Radiant is as lighthearted as a chasmfiend, Shallan offered, bleeding to the front of their personality. One with a particularly large emerald inside … Yes, that. Veil smiled at the warmth that came from Shallan, and even Radiant, who was coming to enjoy humor. This last year, the three of them had settled into a comfortable balance. They weren’t as separate as they’d been, and swapped personas easily. Things seemed to be going so well. That made Veil worry, of course. Were they going too well? Never mind that, for now. She moved on from the fruit stand. She’d spent this month in the warcamps wearing the face of a woman named Chanasha: a lowborn lighteyed merchant who had found modest success hiring out her chull teams to caravans crossing the Shattered Plains. They’d bribed the real woman to lend her face to Veil, and she now resided in a secure location. Veil turned a corner and strolled down another street. The Sadeas warcamp was much as she remembered it from her days living in these camps—though it was somehow even rougher. The road needed a good scraping; rockbud polyps caused nearby wagons to rattle and bump as they passed. Most of the stalls had a guard prominently stationed near the goods. This wasn’t the sort of place where you trusted the local soldiers
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to police for you. She passed more than a few luckmerches, selling glyphwards or other charms against the dangerous times. Stormwardens trying to sell lists of coming storms and their dates. She ignored these and moved on to a specific shop, one that carried sturdy boots and hiking shoes. That was what sold well in the warcamps these days. Many customers were travelers passing through. A quick survey of the other merchants would tell the same story. Rations that would keep for a long trip. Repair shops for wagons or carts. And, of course, anything that wasn’t reputable enough to have a place at Urithiru. There were also numerous slave pens. Nearly as many as there were brothels. Once the bulk of the civilians moved to Urithiru, all ten warcamps quickly became a seedy stopover for caravans. At Radiant’s prompting, Veil covertly checked over her shoulder for Adolin’s soldiers. They were well out of sight. Good. She did spot Pattern watching from a wall nearby, ready to report to Adolin if needed. All was in place, and their intelligence indicated her kidnapping should happen today. Maybe she needed to prod a little more. The shoe merchant finally approached her—a stout fellow who had a beard striped with white. With that contrast, Shallan had an urge to draw him, so Veil stepped back and let Shallan emerge to take a Memory of him for her collection. “Is there anything that interests you, Brightness?” he asked. Veil emerged again. “How quickly could you get a hundred pairs of these?” she asked, tapping one of the shoes with a reed Chanasha always carried in her pocket. “A hundred pairs?” the man asked, perking up. “Not long, Brightness. Four days, if my next shipment arrives on time.” “Excellent,” she said. “I have a special contact with old Kholin at his silly tower, and can unload a large number if you can get them to me. I’ll need a bulk discount, of course.” “Bulk discount?” the man said. She swiped her reed in the air. “Yes, naturally. If you want to use my contacts to sell to Urithiru, I’ll need to have the very best deal.” He rubbed at that beard of his. “You’re … Chanasha Hasareh, aren’t you? I’ve heard of you.” “Good. You’ll know I don’t play games.” She leaned in and poked him in the chest with her reed. “I’ve got a way past old Kholin’s tariffs, if we move quickly. Four days. Any way you can make it three?” “Perhaps,” he said. “But I am a law-abiding man, Brightness. Why … it would be illegal to avoid tariffs.” “Illegal only if we accept that Kholin has authority to demand these tariffs. Last I checked, he wasn’t our king. He can claim whatever he wants, but now that the storms have changed, the Heralds are going to show up and put him in his place. Mark my words.” Nice work, Radiant thought. That was well handled. Veil tapped the reed on the boots. “A hundred pairs. Three days. I’ll send a scribe to haggle
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details before the end of the day. Deal?” “Deal.” Chanasha wasn’t the smiling type, so Veil didn’t favor this merchant with one. She tucked her reed into her sleeve and gave him a curt nod before continuing through the market. You don’t think it was too blatant? Veil asked. That last part about Dalinar not being king felt over the top. Radiant wasn’t certain—subtlety wasn’t her strong suit—but Shallan approved. They needed to push harder, or she’d never get kidnapped. Even lingering near a dark alleyway—one she knew her marks frequented—drew no attention. Stifling a sigh, Veil made her way to a winehouse near the market. She’d been coming here for weeks now, and the owners knew her well. Intelligence said they, like the shoe merchant, belonged to the Sons of Honor, the group Veil was hunting. The serving girl brought Veil inside out of the cool weather to a small, out-of-the-way corner with its own table. Here she could drink in solitude and go over accounts. Accounts. Blah. She dug them out of her satchel and set them out on the table. The lengths they went to in the name of staying in character. They had to perfectly maintain the illusion, as the real Chanasha never let a day go by without reconciling her accounts. She seemed to find it relaxing. Fortunately, they had Shallan to handle this part; she had some practice with Sebarial’s accounts. Veil relaxed, letting Shallan take over. And actually, this wasn’t so bad. She did doodles along the sides of the margins as she worked, even if it wasn’t quite in character. Veil acted like it was imperative that they keep absolutely in character at all times, but Shallan knew they needed to relax a little, now and then. We could relax by visiting the gambling dens … Veil thought. Part of the reason they had to be so diligent was because these warcamps were a tempting playground for Veil. Gambling without concern for Vorin propriety? Bars that would serve whatever you wanted, no questions asked? The warcamps were a wonderful little storm away from Dalinar Kholin’s perfect seat of honesty. Urithiru was too full of Windrunners, men and women who would fall over themselves to make sure you didn’t bruise your elbow on a misplaced table. This place, though. Veil could get to like this place. So, maybe it was better that they stayed strictly in character. Shallan tried to focus on the accounts. She could do these numbers; she’d first trained on accounting when doing her father’s ledgers. That had begun before she … Before she … It might be time, Veil whispered. To remember, once and for all. Everything. No, it was not. But … Shallan retreated immediately. No, we can’t think of that. Take control. Veil sat back in the seat as her wine arrived. Fine. She took a long drink and tried to pretend to be doing ledgers. Honestly, she couldn’t feel anger at Shallan. She channeled it instead toward Ialai Sadeas. That woman couldn’t be content with running a little
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fiefdom here, making a profit off the caravans and keeping to herself. Oh no. She had to plan storming treason. And so Veil tried to do ledgers and pretend she liked it. She took another long drink. A short time later her brain started to feel fuzzy, and she almost drew in Stormlight to burn off the effect—but stopped. She hadn’t ordered anything particularly intoxicating. So if she was getting light-headed … She looked up, her eyes growing unfocused. They’d drugged the wine! Finally, she thought before slumping over in her seat. * * * “I don’t understand how hard it can be,” Syl was saying as she and Kaladin drew close to Hearthstone. “You humans sleep literally every day. You’ve been practicing it all your lives.” “You’d think that, wouldn’t you,” Kaladin said, landing with a light step right outside town. “Obviously I would, since I just said so,” she replied, sitting on his shoulder, watching behind them. Her words were lighthearted, but he sensed in her the same tension he felt, like the air itself was stretched and pulled tight. Watch for me from the corner of your eye, Windrunner. He felt a phantom pain from his neck, where the Fused had plunged his dagger into Kaladin’s spine over and over. “Even babies can sleep,” Syl said. “Only you could make something so simple into something extremely difficult.” “Yeah?” Kaladin asked. “And can you do it?” “Lie down. Pretend to be dead for a while. Get up. Easy. Oh, and since it’s you, I’ll add the mandatory last step: complain.” Kaladin strode toward the town. Syl would expect a response, but he didn’t feel like giving one. Not out of annoyance, but more … a kind of general fatigue. “Kaladin?” she asked. He’d felt a disconnect these last months. These last years … it was as if life for everyone continued, but Kaladin was separate from them, incapable of interacting. Like he was a painting hanging in a hallway, watching life stream past. “Fine,” Syl said. “I’ll do your part.” Her image fuzzed, and she became a perfect replica of Kaladin, sitting on his own shoulder. “Well well,” she said in a growling, low-pitched voice. “Grumble grumble. Get in line, men. Storming rain, ruining otherwise terrible weather. Also, I’m banning toes.” “Toes?” “People keep tripping!” she continued. “I can’t have you all hurting yourselves. So, no toes from now on. Next week we’ll try not having feet. Now, go off and get some food. Tomorrow we’re going to get up before dawn to practice scowling at one another.” “I’m not that bad,” Kaladin said, but couldn’t help smiling. “Also, your Kaladin voice sounds more like Teft.” She transformed back and sat primly—clearly pleased with herself. And he had to admit he felt more upbeat. Storms, he thought. Where would I be if I hadn’t found her? The answer was obvious. He’d be dead at the bottom of a chasm, having leaped into the darkness. As they approached Hearthstone, they found a scene of relative order. The refugees had been returned
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to a line, and the warform singers who had come with the Fused waited near Kaladin’s father and the new citylady, their weapons sheathed. Everyone seemed to understand that their next steps would depend greatly upon the results of Kaladin’s duel. He strode up and seized the air in front of him, the Sylspear forming as a majestic silver weapon. The singers drew their weapons, mostly swords. “You can fight a Radiant all on your own, if you’d like,” Kaladin said. “Alternatively, if you don’t feel like dying today, you can gather the singers in this town and retreat a half hour’s walk to the east. There’s a stormshelter out that way for people from the outer farms; I’m sure Abiajan can lead you to it. Stay inside until sunset.” The six soldiers rushed him. Kaladin sighed, drawing in a few more spheres’ worth of his Stormlight. The skirmish took about thirty seconds, and left one of the singers dead with her eyes burned out while the others retreated, their weapons shorn in half. Some would have seen bravery in this attack. For much of Alethi history, common soldiers had been encouraged to throw themselves at Shardbearers. Generals taught that the slightest chance of earning a Shard was worth the incredible risk. That was stupid enough, but Kaladin wouldn’t drop a Shard when killed. He was Radiant, and these soldiers knew it. From what he’d seen, the attitudes of the singer soldiers depended greatly upon the Fused they served. The fact that these had thrown their lives away so wantonly did not speak highly of their master. Fortunately, the remaining five listened to Abiajan and the other Hearthstone singers who—with some effort—persuaded them that despite fighting bravely, they were now defeated. A short time later, they all went trudging out through the quickly vanishing fog. Kaladin checked the sky again. Should be close now, he thought as he walked over to the checkpoint where his mother waited, a patterned kerchief over her shoulder-length unbraided hair. She gave Kaladin a side hug, holding little Oroden—who reached out his hands for Kaladin to take him. “You’re getting tall!” he said to the boy. “Gagadin!” the child said, then waved in the air, trying to catch Syl—who always chose to appear to Kaladin’s family. She did her usual trick, changing into the shapes of various animals and pouncing around in the air for the child. “So,” Kaladin’s mother said, “how is Lyn?” “Does that always have to be your first question?” “Mother’s prerogative,” Hesina said. “So?” “She broke up with him,” Syl said, shaped as a tiny glowing axehound. The words seemed odd coming from its mouth. “Right after our last visit.” “Oh, Kaladin,” his mother said, pulling him into another side hug. “How’s he taking it?” “He sulked for a good two weeks,” Syl said, “but I think he’s mostly over it.” “He’s right here,” Kaladin said. “And he doesn’t ever answer questions about his personal life,” Hesina said. “Forcing his poor mother to turn to other, more divine sources.” “See,” Syl said, now
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prancing around as a cremling. “She knows how to treat me. With the dignity and respect I deserve.” “Has he been disrespecting you again, Syl?” “It’s been at least a day since he mentioned how great I am.” “It’s demonstrably unfair that I have to deal with both of you at once,” Kaladin said. “Did that Herdazian general make it to town?” Hesina gestured toward a nearby building nestled between two homes, one of the wooden sheds for farming equipment. It didn’t appear terribly sturdy; some of the boards had been warped and blown loose by a recent storm. “I hid them in there once the fighting started,” Hesina explained. Kaladin handed Oroden to her, then started toward the shed. “Grab Laral and gather the townspeople. Something big is coming today, and I don’t want them to panic.” “Explain what you mean by ‘big,’ son.” “You’ll see,” he said. “Are you going to go talk to your father?” Kaladin hesitated, then glanced across the foggy field toward the refugees. Townspeople had started to drift out of their homes to see what all the ruckus was about. He couldn’t spot his father. “Where did he go?” “To check whether that parshman you sliced is actually dead.” “Of course he did,” Kaladin said with a sigh. “I’ll deal with Lirin later.” Inside the shed, several very touchy Herdazians pulled daggers on him as he opened the door. In response, he sucked in a little Stormlight, causing wisps of luminescent smoke to rise from his exposed skin. “By the Three Gods,” whispered one of them, a tall fellow with a ponytail. “It’s true. You’ve returned.” The reaction disturbed Kaladin. This man, as a freedom fighter in Herdaz, should have seen Radiants before now. In a perfect world, Dalinar’s coalition armies would have been supporting the Herdazian freedom effort for months now. Only, everyone had given up on Herdaz. The little country had seemed close to collapse, and Dalinar’s armies had been licking their wounds from the Battle of Thaylen Field. Then reports had trickled in of a resistance in Herdaz fighting back. Each report sounded like the Herdazians were nearly finished, and so resources were allocated to more winnable fronts. But each time, Herdaz stood strong, relentlessly harrying the enemy. Odium’s armies lost tens of thousands fighting in that small, strategically unimportant country. Though Herdaz had eventually fallen, the blood toll exacted on the enemy had been remarkably high. “Which of you is the Mink?” Kaladin asked, glowing Stormlight puffing out of his mouth as he spoke. The tall fellow gestured to the rear of the shed, to where a shadowed figure—shrouded in his cloak—had settled against the wall. Kaladin couldn’t make out his face beneath the hood. “I’m honored to meet the legend himself,” Kaladin said, stepping forward. “I’ve been told to extend you an official invitation to join the coalition army. We will do what we can for your country, but for now Brightlord Dalinar Kholin and Queen Jasnah Kholin are both very eager to meet the man who held against the enemy
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for so long.” The Mink didn’t move. He remained seated, his head bowed. Finally, one of his men moved over and shook the man’s shoulder. The cloak shifted and the body fell limp, exposing rolls of tarps assembled to appear like the figure of a person wearing the cloak. A dummy? What in the Stormfather’s unknown name? The soldiers seemed equally surprised, though the tall one merely sighed and gave Kaladin a resigned look. “He does this sometimes, Brightlord.” “Does what? Turns into rags?” “He sneaks away,” the man explained. “He likes to see if he can do it without us noticing.” One of the other men cursed in Herdazian as he searched behind nearby barrels, eventually uncovering one of the loose boards. It opened into the shadowed alley between buildings. “We’ll find him in town somewhere, I’m sure,” the man told Kaladin. “Give us a few minutes to hunt for him.” “One would think he’d avoid playing games,” Kaladin said, “considering the dangerous situation.” “You … don’t know our gancho, Brightlord,” the man said. “This is exactly how he treats dangerous situations.” “He is no like being caught,” another said, shaking his head. “When in danger, he is to vanish.” “And abandon his men?” Kaladin asked, aghast. “You don’t survive like the Mink has without learning to wiggle out of situations others could never escape,” the tall Herdazian said. “If we were in danger, he’d try to come back for us. If he couldn’t … well, we’re his guards. Any of us would give our lives so he could escape.” “Is no like he needs us a lot,” another said. “The Ganlos Riera herself couldn’t catch him!” “Well, locate him if you can, and pass along my message,” Kaladin said. “We need to be out of this town quickly. I have reason to suspect a larger force of Fused is on its way here.” The Herdazians saluted him, though that wasn’t necessary for a member of another country’s military. People did odd things around Radiants. “Well done!” Syl said as he left the shed. “You barely scowled when they called you Brightlord.” “I am what I am,” Kaladin said, hiking out past his mother, who was now conferring with Laral and Brightlord Roshone. Kaladin spotted his father organizing some of Roshone’s former soldiers, who were trying to corral the refugees. Judging by the smaller line, a few seemed to have run off. Lirin spotted Kaladin approaching, and his lips tightened. The surgeon was a shorter man—Kaladin got his height from his mother. Lirin stepped away from the group and wiped the sweat from his face and balding head with a handkerchief, then took off his spectacles, polishing them quietly as Kaladin stepped up. “Father,” Kaladin said. “I had hoped,” Lirin said softly, “that our message would inspire you to approach covertly.” “I tried,” Kaladin said. “But the Fused have set up posts all through the land, watching the sky. The fog unexpectedly cleared up near one of those, and I was exposed. I’d hoped they hadn’t seen me, but…” He shrugged.
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Lirin put his spectacles back on, and both men knew what he was thinking. Lirin had warned that if Kaladin kept visiting, he would bring death to Hearthstone. Today it had come to the singer who had attacked him. Lirin had covered the corpse with a shroud. “I’m a soldier, Father,” Kaladin said. “I fight for these people.” “Any idiot with hands can hold a spear. I trained your hands for something better.” “I—” Kaladin stopped himself and took a long, deep breath. He heard a distinctive thumping sound in the distance. Finally. “We can discuss this later,” Kaladin said. “Go pack up any supplies you want to take. Quickly. We need to leave.” “Leave?” Lirin said. “I’ve told you already. The townspeople need me. I’m not going to abandon them.” “I know,” Kaladin said, waving toward the sky. “What are you…” Lirin trailed off as an enormous dark shadow emerged from the fog, a vehicle of incredible size flying slowly through the air. To either side, two dozen Windrunners—glowing bright with Stormlight—soared in formation. It wasn’t a ship so much as a gigantic floating platform. Awespren formed around Lirin anyway, like rings of blue smoke. Well, the first time Kaladin had seen Navani make the platform float, he’d gaped too. It passed in front of the sun, casting Kaladin and his father into shade. “You’ve made it quite clear,” Kaladin said, “that you and Mother won’t abandon the people of Hearthstone. So I arranged to bring them with us.” Sylphrena felt the energy of the approaching highstorm like one might hear the sound of a distant musician walking ever closer. Calling out with friendly music. She zipped through the halls of Urithiru. She was invisible to almost everyone but those she chose—and today she chose the children. They never seemed suspicious of her. They always smiled when they saw her. They also rarely acted too respectful. Despite what she told Kaladin, she didn’t always want people to treat her like a little deity. Unfortunately, this early, there weren’t a lot of people—children or not—out in the tower. Kaladin was still asleep, but she liked that he slept a little better now. She heard noises from a particular doorway, so she went that direction, darting into the room to find Rock’s daughter cooking. The others called her Cord, but her real name—Hualinam’lunanaki’akilu—was much prettier. It was a poem about a wedding band. Cord deserved such a pretty name. She looked so different from the Alethi. More solid, a person who wouldn’t be blown over by a storm, as if she were made of bronze—a shade subtly reflected by her skin tone. And that beautiful red hair was different from Shallan’s. Cord’s was more rusty, darker and deeper; she wore it in a tail, tied with a ribbon. She saw Syl, of course; she had inherited her father’s blessing of being able to see all spren. She paused, head bowed, and touched one shoulder, then the other, then her forehead. She separated out the next slices of tuber she cut and set them
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in a neat pile on the counter: an offering for Syl. That was silly, since Syl didn’t eat. She turned into a tuber anyway and rolled around on the counter to say thanks. That music though. The storm. She could hardly contain herself. It was coming! She rolled off the counter and zipped over to examine Cord’s Shardplate stacked neatly in the corner. The young Horneater woman was never without it. She was the first of her people in … well, a very, very long time to have a Shard. It was pretty. Maybe Syl should have hated it, as she did Shardblades, but she didn’t. It was kind of a corpse—well, lots of corpses—but not as offensive. The difference, she supposed, was attitude. She could sense contentment, not pain, from the Plate. Cord began making noise with her pot, and Syl found herself darting that direction to watch what was being dumped into the water. Sometimes Syl felt like she had two brains. One was the responsible brain; it had driven her to defy the other honorspren and her father in seeking out Kaladin and forming a Radiant bond. This was the brain that she wanted to control her. It cared about important things: people, the fate of the world, figuring out what it truly meant to be of Honor. She had a different brain too. The brain that was fascinated by the world—the brain that acted like it belonged to a small child. A loud noise? Better go see what caused it! Music on the horizon? Dart back and forth, eager with anticipation! A strange cremling on the wall? Mimic its shape and crawl along to see what it feels like! Thoughts bombarded her. What did it feel like to be a tuber being cut? How long had it taken Rock and Song to come up with Cord’s name? Should Syl have a name that was a poem? Maybe they had a name for her among the Horneaters. Did they have names for every spren, or just important ones? On and on and on. She could deal with it. She always had. It wasn’t an honorspren thing though. The others weren’t like her, except maybe Rua. Puffs of steam rose from the cook pot, and Syl became the same shape: a puff of steam rising toward the ceiling. When that got boring—it took only a few seconds—she soared up into the air to listen to the music. The storm wasn’t near enough yet. She wouldn’t be able to see it. Still, she zipped out onto the balcony and flitted along the outside of the tower, searching for Kaladin’s room. The tower was dead. She barely remembered the place from before, when she’d bonded her old wonderful knight. He’d spent most of his life traveling to little villages, using her as a Shardblade to cut cisterns or aqueducts for the people. She remembered coming to Urithiru with him once … and the tower had been bright with lights.… A strange kind of light … She stopped in the air, realizing she’d
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flown up seventeen stories. Silly spren. Don’t let the child be in charge. She darted down and found Kaladin’s window, then squeezed through the shutters, which had just enough space between them for her to enter. In the dark room beyond, he slept. She didn’t need to come look to know that. She’d have felt if he’d woken. But … He has two brains too, she thought. A light brain and a dark brain. She wished she could understand him. He needed help. Maybe this new duty would be all he needed. She so profoundly hoped that it would. But she worried it wouldn’t be enough. He needed her help, and she couldn’t give it. She couldn’t understand. The storm! The storm was here. She slipped back outside, though the responsible brain managed to keep her attention. Kaladin. She needed to help Kaladin. Perhaps he would be satisfied as a surgeon, and it would be good for him to not have to kill anymore. However, there was a reason he’d had difficulties as a surgeon in the past. He would continue to have the dark brain. This wasn’t a solution. She needed a solution. She kept hold of that idea, not letting it evaporate like steam above a cauldron. She held to it even as the stormwall hit, washing around the base of the tower from the east. Hundreds of windspren flew before it in a multitude of shapes. She joined them, laughing and becoming like them. She loved her little cousins for their joy, their simple excitement. As always, small thoughts bombarded her as she flew between them, waving, smiling, changing shapes repeatedly from one moment to the next. Honorspren—all of the intelligent spren—were something new to Roshar. Well, new as in ten-thousand-years-old new. So … newer. How had the first honorspren—or cultivationspren, or inkspren, or peakspren, or any of the other intelligent ones—been created? Had they been shaped from raw Investiture by Honor himself? Had they grown out of these, their cousins? She felt so much kinship with them, though they were clearly different. Not as smart. Could she help them become smart? These were heavy thoughts when she just wanted to soar. The music, the cataclysm of the storm was … strangely peaceful. She often had trouble in a room full of talking people, whether they were humans or spren. She would be intrigued by every conversation, her attention diverted constantly. One might have thought the storm would be the same way, but it wasn’t loudness that bothered her—it was a diversity of loudnesses. The storm was a single voice. A majestic, powerful voice singing a song with its own harmonies. In here she could simply enjoy the song and relax, renewed. She sang with the thunder. She danced with the lightning. She became debris and let herself be pushed along. She zipped into the inmost, darkest part of the storm, and she became its heartbeat. Light-thunder. Light-thunder. Light-thunder. Then blackness took her. A fuller blackness than the absence of light. It was the split moment that her father
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could create. Time was a funny thing. It was always flowing along in the background like a river, but bring too much power to bear, and it warped. It slowed; it wanted to pause and take a look. Anytime too much power—too much Investiture, too much self—congregated, realms became porous and time behaved oddly. He didn’t need to make a face in the sky for her as he did for mortals. She could feel his attention like the sun’s own heat. CHILD. REBELLIOUS CHILD. YOU HAVE COME TO ME WISHING. “I want to understand him,” Syl said, revealing the thought she’d been holding—protecting—and sheltering. “Will you make me feel the darkness he does, so I can understand it? I can help him better if I know him better.” YOU GIVE TOO MUCH OF YOURSELF TO THAT HUMAN. “Isn’t that why we exist?” NO. YOU HAVE ALWAYS MISUNDERSTOOD THIS. YOU DO NOT EXIST FOR THEM. YOU EXIST FOR YOU. YOU EXIST TO CHOOSE. “And do you exist for you, Father?” she demanded, standing in blackness—insisting on holding her human form. She stared up at the deep eternity. “You never make choices. You merely blow as you always do.” I AM BUT THE STORM. YOU ARE MORE. “You avoid responsibility,” she said. “You claim you do only what a storm must, but then act like I’m somehow wrong for doing what I feel I must! You tell me I can make choices, then berate me when I make ones you do not like.” YOU REFUSE TO ADMIT THAT YOU ARE MORE THAN AN APPENDAGE TO A HUMAN. SPREN ONCE LET THEMSELVES BECOME CONSUMED BY THE NEEDS OF THE RADIANTS, AND THAT KILLED THEM. NOW, MANY OF MY CHILDREN HAVE FOLLOWED YOUR FOOLISH PATH, AND ARE IN GREAT DANGER. THIS IS OUR WORLD. IT BELONGS TO THE SPREN. “It belongs to everyone,” Syl said. “Spren, humans, even the singers. So we need to figure out how to live together.” THE ENEMY WILL NOT ALLOW IT. “The enemy is going to be defeated by Dalinar Kholin,” Syl said. “And so we need to have his champion ready.” YOU ARE SO CERTAIN THAT YOUR HUMAN IS THE CHAMPION, the Stormfather said. I DO NOT THINK THE WORLD WILL BEND TO YOUR WISHES. “Regardless, I need to understand him so I can help him,” Syl said. “Not because I’m going to be consumed by his desires, but because this is what I want to do. So I ask again. Will you make me capable of feeling what he does?” I CANNOT DO THIS THING, the Stormfather said. YOUR WISHES ARE NOT EVIL, SYLPHRENA, BUT THEY ARE DANGEROUS. “You cannot? Or you will not?” I HAVE THE POWER, BUT NOT THE ABILITY. The time between ended abruptly, dumping her back into the storm. Windspren spiraled around her, laughing and calling, mimicking the words, “You cannot, you cannot, you cannot!” Insufferable things. As bad as she was sometimes. Syl kept hold of the idea, cradling it, then let herself be otherwise distracted by the storm. She danced for its entire
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passing, though she couldn’t leave with it. She needed to stay within a few miles of Kaladin, or her Connection to the Physical Realm would start to fade and her mind would weaken. She enjoyed this time, an hour passing in moments. When the riddens finally approached, she stopped in eager anticipation, overjoyed. Up here in the mountains, the end of the storm made snow. By now, the storm had dropped all its crem-laced water, so the snow was white and pure. Each snowflake was so magnificent! She wished she could talk to objects like Shallan did, and hear each one’s story. She fell with the flakes, imitating them—and creating patterns unique to her. She could be herself, not only live for some human. The thing was, Kaladin wasn’t just some human. She’d picked him deliberately out of millions and millions. Her job was to help him. As powerful a duty as the Stormfather’s duty to drop water and crem to give life to Roshar. She soared back toward Urithiru, weaving between snowbanks, then shooting upward. This section to the west of the tower included deep valleys and frosted peaks. She dove through the former and crested the latter before looping around in circles outside the magnificent tower. She eventually reached the Bondsmith’s balcony. Dalinar was always awake for highstorms, regardless of the hour. She landed on his balcony, where he stood in the cold. The rock at his feet was slick with water; today the highstorm had been high enough to cover the lower stories of the tower. She’d never seen it get to the top, but she hoped it would someday. That would be different! She made herself visible to Dalinar, but he didn’t jump as humans sometimes did when she appeared. She didn’t understand why they did that—weren’t they used to spren fading in and out all the time around them? Humans were like storms, magnets for all kinds of spren. They seemed to find her more disturbing than a gloryspren. She supposed she’d take that as a compliment. “Did you enjoy your storm, Ancient Daughter?” Dalinar asked. “I enjoyed our storm,” she said. “Though Kaladin slept through the entire thing, the big lug.” “Good. He needs more rest.” She took a step toward Dalinar. “Thank you for what you did. In forcing him to change. He was stuck, doing what he felt he had to, but getting darker all the time.” “Every soldier reaches a point where he has to set down the sword. Part of a commander’s job is to watch for the signs.” “He’s different, isn’t he?” Syl said. “Worse, because his own mind fights against him.” “Different, yes,” Dalinar said, leaning on the railing next to her. “But who is to say what is worse or better? We each have our own Voidbringers to slay, Brightness Sylphrena. No man can judge another man’s heart or trials, for no man can truly know them.” “I want to try,” she said. “The Stormfather implied there was a way. Can you make me understand Kaladin’s emotions? Can you
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make me feel what he’s going through?” “I have no idea how to accomplish something like that,” Dalinar said. “He and I have a bond,” she said. “You should be able to use your powers to enhance that bond, strengthen it.” Dalinar clasped his hands on the stonework before him. He didn’t object to her request—he wasn’t the type to reject any idea out of hand. “What do you know of my powers?” Dalinar asked her. “Your abilities are what made the original Oathpact,” she said. “And they existed—and were named—long before the Knights Radiant were founded. A Bondsmith Connected the Heralds to Braize, made them immortal, and locked our enemies away. A Bondsmith bound other Surges and brought humans to Roshar, fleeing their dying world. A Bondsmith created—or at least discovered—the Nahel bond: the ability of spren and humans to join together into something better. You Connect things, Dalinar. Realms. Ideas. People.” He surveyed the frosted landscape, freshly painted with snow. She thought she knew his answer already, from the way he took a breath and set his jaw before speaking. “Even if I could do this,” he said, “it would not be right.” She became a small pile of leaves, disintegrating and stirring in the wind. “Then I’ll never be able to help him.” “You can help without knowing exactly what he’s feeling. You can be available for him to lean on.” “I try. Sometimes he doesn’t seem to want even me.” “That’s likely when he needs you most. We can never know another man’s heart, Brightness Sylphrena, but we all know what it is to live and have pain. That is the advice I’d have given to another. I do not know if it applies to you.” Syl looked upward, along the tower’s pointing finger, raised toward the sky. “I … had another knight once. We came here to the tower, when it was alive—though I don’t fully remember what that meant. I lost memories during the … pain.” “What pain?” Dalinar asked. “What pain does a spren feel?” “He died. My knight, Relador. He went to fight, despite his age. He shouldn’t have, and when he was killed, it hurt. I felt alone. So alone that I started to drift…” Dalinar nodded. “I suspect that Kaladin feels something similar, though from what I’ve been told about his ailment, it doesn’t have a specific cause. He will sometimes start to … drift, as you put it.” “The dark brain,” she said. “An apt designation.” Maybe I can already understand Kaladin, she thought. I had a dark brain of my own, for a while. She had to remember what that had been like. She realized that her responsible brain and her child’s brain aligned in trying hard to forget that part of her life. But Syl was in control, not either of those brains. And maybe, if she remembered how she’d felt during those old dark days, she could help Kaladin with his current dark days. “Thank you,” she said to Dalinar as a group of windspren passed. She regarded
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them, and for once didn’t particularly feel like giving chase. “I think you have helped.” Sja-anat had been named Taker of Secrets long ago by a scholar no one remembered. She liked the name. It implied action. She didn’t simply hear secrets; she took them. She made them hers. And she kept them. From the other Unmade. From the Fused. From Odium himself. She flowed through the Kholinar palace, existing between the Physical and Cognitive Realms. Like many of the Unmade, she belonged to neither one fully. Odium trapped them in a halfway existence. Some would manifest in various forms if they resided too long in one place, or if they were pulled through by strong emotions. Not her. Sometimes Fused, or even common singers, would notice her. They’d grow stiff, look over their shoulders. They’d glimpse a shadow, a brief darkness, quickly missed. Actually seeing her required reflected light. It was similar in Shadesmar. She experienced that realm at the same time as she experienced the Physical Realm, though both were shadowy to her. She dreamed that somewhere a place existed that was completely right for her and her children. For now, she would live here. She flowed up steps in one realm, but barely moved in the other. Space was not entirely equal between the realms—it wasn’t that she had a foot in each realm; more, she was like two entities that shared a mind. In Shadesmar, she floated above the ocean of beads, her essence rippling. In the Physical Realm, she passed among singers who worked in the palace. Sja-anat did not consider herself the most clever of the Unmade. Certainly she was one of the more intelligent, but that was not the same. Some of the Unmade—such as Nergaoul, sometimes called the Thrill—were practically mindless, more like emotion spren. Others—such as Ba-Ado-Mishram, who had granted forms to the singers during the False Desolation—were crafty and conniving. Sja-anat was a little like both. During the long millennia before this Return, she’d mostly slumbered. Without her bond to Odium she had trouble thinking. The Everstorm appearing in Shadesmar—long before it had emerged into the Physical Realm—had revitalized her. Had let her begin planning again. But she knew she was not as smart as Odium was. She could keep only a few secrets from him, and she had to choose carefully, clouding them behind other secrets that she gave away. You sacrificed some of your children so others could live. It was a law of nature. Humans didn’t understand it. But she did. She … He was coming. God of passion. God of hatred. God of all adopted spren. Sja-anat flowed into the hallway of the palace and met with two of her children, touched windspren. Humans called them “corrupted,” but she hated this term. She did not corrupt. She Enlightened them, showing them that a different path was possible. Did not the humans revere Transformation—the ability of all beings to become someone new, someone better—as a core ideal of their religion? Yet they grew angry when she let spren change?
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Her children darted away to do her bidding, then one of her greater children manifested. A glowing and shimmering light, constantly changing. One of her most precious creations. I will go, Mother, he said. To the tower, to this man Mraize, as you have promised. Odium will see you, she replied. Odium will try to unmake you. I know. But Odium must be distracted from you, as we discussed. I must find my own way, my own bond. Go then, she said. But do not bond this human because of what I said. I merely promised to send a child to investigate options. There are other possibilities there. Choose for yourself, not because I desire it. Thank you, Mother, he said. Thank you for my eyes. He left, following the others. Sja-anat regretted that the smaller two—the Enlightened windspren—were essentially distractions. Odium would see them for certain. Protect some children. Sacrifice others. A choice only a god could make. A god like Sja-anat. She rose up, taking the form of a woman of streaming black smoke with pure white eyes. Shadows and mist, Odium’s pure essence. If he were to know the deepest secret parts of her soul, he would not be surprised. For she had come from him. Unmade by his hand. But as with all children, she had become more. His presence came upon her like the sun piercing the clouds. Powerful, vibrant, smothering. Some Fused in the hallway noticed it and looked around, though the common singers weren’t attuned enough to hear Odium’s song—like a rhythm but more resonant. One of the three pure tones of Roshar. She didn’t fully understand the laws that bound him. They were ancient, and related to compacts between the Shards, the high gods of the cosmere. Odium wasn’t simply the mind that controlled the power: the Vessel. Nor was he merely that power alone: the Shard. He was both, and at times it seemed the power had desires that were counter to the purposes of the Vessel. Sja-anat, a voice—infused with the tone of Odium—said to her. What are these spren you have sent away? “Those that do your bidding,” she whispered, prostrating herself by pooling down onto the floor. “Those that watch. Those that hear.” Have you been speaking to the humans again? To … corrupt them with lies? That was the fabrication she and Odium played at currently. She pretended that she had contacted the Radiant Shallan, and a few others, working on his behalf—anticipating his desires. He pretended he didn’t know she had done it against his will. Both knew she wanted more freedom than he would allow. Both knew that she wanted to be a god unto herself. But he didn’t know for certain she was taking actions to undermine him, like when she’d saved Shallan and her companions from death in Kholinar a year ago. She had played that off as accidental, and he couldn’t prove otherwise. If Odium caught her in a verifiable lie, he would unmake her again. Steal her memory. Rip her to pieces. But
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in so doing, he would lose a useful tool. Hence the game. Where have you sent them? he asked. “To the tower, Lord. To watch the humans, as we’ve discussed. We must prepare for the Bondsmith’s next move.” I will prepare, he said. You focus too much on the tower. “I am eager for the invasion,” she said. “I will very much like to see my cousin again. Perhaps they can be awakened? Persuaded?” Odium had likely planned to send her on this mission, but her eagerness now gave him pause. He would follow her children and see that they were indeed going to the tower; that would reinforce his decision. The one she hoped he would make right now … You will not go to the tower, Odium said. He hated how she referred to the Sibling—the slumbering child of Honor and Cultivation—as her cousin. But we are about to make a ploy with the betrayal of the man Taravangian. You will watch him. “I would be of much more use in the tower,” she said. “Better that I—” You question? Do not question. “I will not question.” However, she felt a surging to the power that moved within him. The mind did not like being questioned, but the power … It liked questions. It liked arguments. It was passion. There was a weakness here. In the division between the Vessel and the Shard. “I will go wherever you demand,” she said, “my god.” Very well. He moved on to speak with the Nine. And Sja-anat planned her next steps. She had to pretend to sulk. Had to try to find a way out of going to Emul. She had to hope that she wasn’t successful. Odium suspected that she’d helped the Radiant Shallan. He was watching to see that she didn’t contact other Radiants. So she wouldn’t. Once he’d found her windspren, and unmade them to lose their minds and memories, he would hopefully be content—and not see the other child she’d sent. And Sja-anat herself? She would go with Taravangian and watch him as asked. And she would stay close. For Taravangian was a weapon. Taravangian had long suspected he would not get a funeral. The Diagram hadn’t indicated this specifically—but it hadn’t said otherwise. Besides, the farther they progressed, the less accurate the Diagram became. He had chosen this path, however, and knew it was not the sort that led to a peaceful death surrounded by family. This was the sort of path that led into the dark forest, full of perils. His goal had never been to emerge from the other side unscathed; it had always been to simply accomplish his goal before he was killed. And he had. His city, his family, his people—they would be safe. He had made a deal with the enemy that ensured Kharbranth would survive the coming destruction. That had always been his end. That alone. To tell himself otherwise was both foolish and dangerous. So it was that he arrived at this day: the day he sent his friends away.
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He’d had a fire built in his hearth, here in his rooms at Urithiru. A real hearth, with real wood, dancing with flamespren. His pyre. His friends gathered for the farewell. Recently they’d been spending more and more time away at Kharbranth, in order to make their eventual departure less suspicious. He’d made it seem as if they were needed to help rule that city now that Taravangian was focused on Jah Keved. But today … today they were all here. One last time. Adrotagia, of course, kept her composure as he hugged her. She’d always been the stronger one. Though Taravangian was moderately intelligent today, he was still overcome with emotion as they pulled apart. “Give my best to Savrahalidem and my grandchildren,” Taravangian said. “If they ask, tell them that I lost myself at the end and became insensate.” “Won’t that hurt Savri more?” Adrotagia asked. “To know that her father is trapped among enemies, senile and confused?” “No, that is not my girl,” he said. “You don’t know her as I do. Tell her I was singing when you last saw me. That will comfort her.” He squeezed Adrotagia’s wrists as she held to his. How lucky was he, to have had a friend for … storms, seventy-three years? “It shall be done, Vargo,” she said. “And the Diagram?” He’d promised her a final confirmation. Taravangian released her wrists, then walked to the window, passing Mrall—the enormous bodyguard was crying, bless him. Later today, Taravangian would leave for Azir with Dalinar and Jasnah. Soon afterward, Taravangian’s armies—acting on Odium’s orders—would betray their allies and switch sides. It was a death sentence for Taravangian, who would be left surrounded by his enemies. He was bringing an army just the right size to put Dalinar and the other monarchs at ease: large enough to convince them Taravangian was committed, but small enough to leave them certain they could capture him in the event of a betrayal. It was a calculated move on Odium’s part. What powerful monarch would leave himself so vulnerable? Feeling tired, Taravangian rested his weathered hands upon the stone windowsill of his tower room. He’d asked for a room where he could look southward, to where this had all begun with a request to the Nightwatcher. He now suspected that his boon had been chosen by someone more grand than that ancient spren. “The Diagram,” Taravangian said, “has served its purpose. We have protected Kharbranth. We have fulfilled the Diagram. “Both the book and the organization we named after it were merely tools. It is time to disband. Dismantle our secret hospitals; release our soldiers to the city guard. If there are any middling members you think know too much, give them a time-consuming ‘secret’ quest far from civilization. Danlan should be among the first of this group. “As for Delgo, Malata, and the others too useful to waste, I think they will accept the truth. We have achieved our goal. Kharbranth will be safe.” He peered down at his aged hands. Wrinkles like scars for each life
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he’d taken. “Tell them … there is nothing more pitiful than a tool that has outlived its usefulness. We will not simply invent something new for our organization to do. We must allow that which has served its purpose to die.” “That is all fine,” Mrall said, stepping forward, folding his arms and acting as if he hadn’t been crying a moment before. “But you are still our king. We won’t leave you.” “We will,” Adrotagia said softly. “But—” “Vargo has the Blackthorn’s suspicion,” Adrotagia said. “He will not be allowed to leave, not now. And if he did go, he would be hunted once the betrayal happens. We, on the other hand, can slip away—and then be ignored. Without him, Kharbranth will be safe.” “This was always the intent, Mrall,” Taravangian said, still staring out over the mountains. “I am the spire that draws the lightning. I am the bearer of our sins. Kharbranth can distance itself from me once our armies in Jah Keved turn against the Alethi. The Veden highprinces are eager and bloodthirsty; each has promises from the Fused. They will perpetuate the fight, believing that they will be favored once Odium’s forces win.” “You’re being thrown away!” Mrall said. “After all you’ve done, Odium casts you aside? At least go to Jah Keved.” Naturally, Mrall didn’t see. That was fine. These details weren’t in the Diagram—they were in uncharted territory now. “I am a diversion,” Taravangian explained. “I must go with the expeditionary force into Emul. Then, when Jah Keved turns, the Blackthorn will be so focused on me and the immediate threat to his soldiers that he will miss whatever Odium will be attempting in the meantime.” “It can’t be important enough to risk you,” Mrall said. Taravangian had his suspicions. Perhaps Odium’s ploy would be worth the cost, perhaps not. It didn’t matter. At the god’s orders, Taravangian had spent a year preparing Jah Keved to switch sides, promoting the people Odium wanted in place, moving troops into position. Now that he was done, Taravangian was useless. Worse, he was a potential weakness. And so, Taravangian would be given to the Alethi for execution, and his corpse would be burned without a proper funeral. The Alethi gave no honors to traitors. Acknowledging his fate hurt. Like a spear right through his gut. Odd, how much that should bother him. He’d be dead, so what did he care about a funeral? He turned from the window and gave Mrall a firm handshake—then an unexpected hug. He gave another to short, trustworthy Maben—the servant woman who had watched over him all this time. She handed him a small bundle of his favorite jams, all the way from Shinovar. Those were increasingly rare, now that trade into the strange country had cut off. The Diagram indicated it was likely one or more of the Unmade had set up there. “Too often,” Taravangian said to Maben, “those who write history focus on the generals and the scholars, to the detriment of the quiet workers who see everything done. The
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salvation of our people is as much your victory as mine.” He bowed and kissed her hand. Finally he turned to Dukar, the stormwarden who administered Taravangian’s intelligence tests each morning. His robe was as extravagant—and silly—as always. But the man’s loyalty remained solid as he held up his pack of tests. “I should stay with you, sire,” he said as the nearby hearth sparked, the logs shifting. “You will still need someone to test you each day.” “The tests are no longer relevant, Dukar,” Taravangian said gently. He held up a finger. “If you stay, you will be executed—or perhaps tortured to get information out of me. While I promised to do whatever was necessary to save our people, I will not go one step further. Not a single death more than needed. So, my final act as your king is to command you to leave.” Dukar bowed. “My king. My eternal king.” Taravangian looked back to Adrotagia and unfolded a piece of paper from his pocket. “For my daughter,” he said. “She will be queen of Kharbranth when this is through. Be certain she disavows me. This is the reason I’ve kept her clean. Guide her well, and do not trust Dova. Having met more of the other Heralds, I’m certain Battah is not as stable as she seems.” Adrotagia took his hand one last time, then patted him on the head as she’d done to annoy him in their childhood, once she had started growing taller than he. He smiled, then watched as the group slowly left—bowing one at a time. They closed the door, and he was alone. He took his copy of the Diagram, bound in leather. Despite years of hoping, he’d never been given another day like that one where he’d created this book. But that one day had been enough. Was it? a part of him whispered. You saved a single city. The best he could do. To hope for more was dangerous. He walked to the hearth and watched the dancing flamespren before dropping his copy of the Diagram into the fire. Dear Wanderer, I did receive your latest communication. Please forgive formality on my part, as we have not met in person. I feel new to this role, despite my years holding it. You will admit to my relative youth, I think. Radiant marched through a chamber deep beneath Urithiru, listening to the crashing sound of the waterworks and worrying about the mission Shallan had agreed to undertake. Volunteering to visit the honorspren? Traveling into Shadesmar? That positioned them to do as Mraize had tasked them. Again. Radiant did not like Mraize, and she certainly didn’t trust him. However, she would keep to the agreement: the will of two should be respected. Veil wished to participate in the Ghostbloods wholeheartedly. Shallan wanted to work with them long enough to find out what they knew. So Radiant would not go to Dalinar and Jasnah. The compact meant harmony, and harmony meant the ability to function. Mraize wants something out of this Restares person, Veil
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thought. I can feel it. We need to find out what that secret is, then use it. We can’t do that from here. A valid enough point. Radiant clasped her hands behind her back and continued her walk along the edge of the vast reservoir as her Lightweavers trained nearby. She had chosen to wear her vakama, the traditional Veden warrior’s clothing. It was similar to the Alethi takama, but the skirt was pleated instead of straight. She wore a loose matching coat with a tight vest and shirt beneath. The bright clothing featured vibrant blues embroidered over reds with gold woven between, and it had trim on the skirt. She’d noticed the Alethi doing double takes—both for the variegated colors, and because she wore what was traditionally a man’s outfit. But a warrior was who she was, and Jah Keved was her heritage. She would convey both. The room echoed with a low roar. Openings high in the walls on the other side of the reservoir let streams gush down and crash into the basin. The noise was distant enough to not disturb conversation, and the longer she practiced here, the more comforting she found the sound of rushing water. It was a natural thing, but contained, restrained. It seemed to represent humankind’s mastery over the elements. So we must master ourselves, Radiant thought—and Veil approved. Radiant was careful not to think poorly of Veil. Though their methods differed, they both existed to protect and help Shallan. Radiant respected Veil’s efforts there. She had accomplished things Radiant could not. Indeed, perhaps Veil could have been persuaded to talk to Dalinar and Jasnah. But Shallan … the idea frightened Shallan. That deep wound had surprised Radiant as it began to emerge this last year. Radiant was pleased with the improvement they’d made in working together, but this wound was impeding further progress. It seemed similar to what often happened with strength training. You eventually reached a plateau—and sometimes getting to new heights required more pain first. They’d get through this. It might seem like regression, but Radiant was certain this last knot of agony was the final answer. The final truth. Shallan was terrified that the ones she loved would turn on her when they found out the extent of her crimes. But she needed to confront her truths. Radiant would do what she could to help ease that burden. Today, that meant helping prepare for the mission into Shadesmar. Veil could fulfill Mraize’s demand and find this Restares person. Radiant would instead make certain the official side of their journey—speaking to the honorspren and pleading for them to join the war—was handled competently. She turned and inspected her Lightweavers. She brought them to this chamber under the tower because they didn’t like to train in the standard sparring halls. Though Radiant would have preferred them to associate with other soldiers, she had reluctantly agreed to find them a more private place. Their powers were … unusual, and could be distracting. Nearby, Beryl and Darcira—two of her newer Lightweavers—changed faces as they
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fought. Diversions, to put their opponent off guard. Curiously, when wearing new faces, both women attacked more recklessly. Many Lightweavers, when offered a part to play, threw themselves into it wholeheartedly. It didn’t seem they had the same mental crisis as Shallan, fortunately. They just liked acting, and sometimes took it too far. If given a helmet, they’d stand up and shout orders like a battle commander. Wearing the right face they’d argue politics, stand in front of a crowd, even lob insults at the mighty. But catch either of these two women alone, wearing her own face? They’d speak in muted voices and avoid crowds, seeking to curl up quietly and read. “Beryl, Darcira,” Radiant said, interrupting the women. “I like how you are learning to control your powers—but today’s task is to practice the sword. Try to watch your footwork more than your transformations. Darcira, when you wear a male face, you always lose your stance.” “Guess I feel more aggressive,” Darcira said, shrugging as her Lightweaving puffed away, revealing her normal features. “You must control the face rather than let it control you,” Radiant said. Inside she felt Shallan forming a wisecrack—the Three had their own trouble with that idea. “When you’re fighting, and you intend to distract someone, don’t let that distract you as well.” “But Radiant,” Beryl said, waving toward her side sword, “why do we even have to learn to fight? We’re spies. If we have to pick up our swords, haven’t we already lost?” “There may be times when you will need to pretend to be a soldier. In that case, using the sword could be part of your disguise. But yes, fighting is our last resort. I would have it be a viable last resort—if you need to break disguise and abandon your cover, I want you to survive and return to us.” The young woman thought on that. She was a few years older than Shallan, but a few years younger than how Radiant saw herself. Beryl claimed to have forgotten her real name, she’d lived so many different lives. Veil had found her after hearing rumors of a prostitute working in the warcamps whose face changed to match that of people her clients most loved. A hard life, but not an uncommon story for the Lightweavers. Half of Radiant’s band of twenty included the deserters Shallan had first recruited. Those men might not have forgotten their former lives, but there were certainly parts in the middle they’d rather not discuss. Beryl and Darcira took Radiant’s tips—which were really Adolin’s tips, drilled into her brain over many nights practicing—and returned to their sparring. “I couldn’t spot her Cryptic,” Radiant said as she walked away to inspect the others. “Mmm?” Pattern said, riding on her back, right below her collar. “Pattern? She usually rides on the inside of Beryl’s shirt, near her skin. Pattern doesn’t like to be seen.” “I’d prefer if you used the Cryptic’s other name,” Radiant said. “It’s confusing, otherwise.” After being pressured, each of the other Cryptics had picked individual
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names for the humans to use. “I don’t understand why,” he said. “Our names are already all different. I am Pattern. She is Pattern. Gaz has Pattern.” “Those … are the same words, Pattern.” “But they’re not,” he said. “Mmm. I could write the numbers for you.” “Humans can’t speak equations as intonations,” Radiant said. Like most of Shallan’s team, Beryl and Darcira already had their own spren—though they had yet to earn their swords. That meant they weren’t squires according to the Windrunner definition. Cryptics weren’t as uptight as honorspren, and didn’t wait as long to start bonds. Everyone in her team had one at this point, and newcomers got them quickly. So her team had begun using their own terminology. Shallan was the Master Lightweaver. The others were Agent Lightweavers. If someone new joined, they were called a squire during the short time before they acquired a spren. Together, they’d begun calling themselves the Unseen Court. Both Veil and Shallan loved the title … though Radiant had noticed more than a few eye rolls from Windrunners when it was mentioned. She completed her round of the room, the walking portion of which was shaped like a crescent. She looked over her twenty agents, and started deliberating on the true question at hand: Which ones should she take with her into Shadesmar? She and Adolin had agreed that the team should be small. Shallan and Adolin, along with three Radiants: Godeke the Edgedancer, Zu the Stoneward, and the Truthwatcher woman who preferred to be called by her nickname, the Stump. They’d bring some of Adolin’s soldiers as grooms and guards—and he’d choose men who hadn’t been on the mission to the warcamps, just in case. In addition they wanted three Lightweaver agents to Soulcast food, water, and other materials. It was a practical decision, and would also give some of Shallan’s people experience with Shadesmar. Radiant approved, but she had to deal with one discomforting problem. Did the Ghostbloods really have a spy among her agents? Veil emerged at this contemplation, and took control. She had to prepare for the possibility that one of the other Lightweavers might betray her if brought on this mission. There must be a spy, she thought, and it will be someone who was on the mission to the warcamps. Because whoever they are, they killed Ialai. Shallan agreed with this. Though Radiant, for some odd reason, seemed uncertain at that logic. Well, Veil needed to figure out who the most likely candidates were—then make certain they went on the mission to Shadesmar. What? Radiant thought. No, if we suspect them of being a spy, we should keep them far away. No, Veil replied. We keep them close. To better manipulate and watch them. That would be reckless. And what would you rather have, Radiant? Veil asked. An enemy you can see, watch, and maybe fight—or one you leave off somewhere, doing who knows what? That was more of a valid point. Veil surrendered control to Shallan, who knew the team the best. And as she
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strolled through the room—her hair bleeding to red—she found herself planning. How did she identify which agents were most likely to be a spy? She started by walking over to where Ishnah was sparring. The short woman’s straight black hair framed a face accented by bright red lip paint, and she wore an Alethi havah with a gloved hand instead of a sleeve. Ishnah was one of those who had earned her Blade. By Windrunner terms, she should be off gathering her own squires and making her own team—they seemed to assume everyone would want to follow their command structure. The Unseen Court, however, didn’t care for Windrunner methods. Instead, the Unseen Court would remain together. A balanced team, with roughly equal men and women, as all but one of her new recruits over the year had been female. Indeed, Shallan felt the Court was complete. Beryl had been with them for nearly three months now, and Shallan hadn’t felt a need to recruit anyone else. She wanted a tight-knit group. Hopefully other groups of Lightweavers would come to join the Radiants—but they would form their own teams. Ishnah had once wanted to join the Ghostbloods. Could the woman have found her way to Mraize? Would she have agreed to watch Shallan? It was possible, making Ishnah a prime suspect. That hurt Shallan to consider, to the point that she forced Radiant to take over again. What of Vathah? Radiant glanced toward him. The brutish former deserter was the most naturally talented Lightweaver. He often used his powers without recognizing it—even now as he sparred with Red, he’d made himself appear taller and more muscular. He had joined her under protest, and never quite seemed tamed by modern society. How much of a bribe would it take to coax him to spy on her? We’re going to have to be careful, Radiant, Shallan said from within. The Court could tear itself apart thinking like this. Somehow Radiant had to distrust them all while encouraging them to trust one another. “Ishnah,” Radiant said, “what do you think of the mission we’ve been given?” Ishnah dismissed her Shardblade and walked over. “Going into the dark, Brightness? That place offers opportunities. The ones who master it will get ahead quickly.” It was a pragmatic but ambitious attitude. Ishnah always saw opportunities. Her Cryptic tended to ride about on the ornament on the end of the central hairspike she used to keep her braids in place. Much smaller than Pattern, this one constantly made new designs on the surface of the pale white sphere. “Adolin and I have decided to bring a small group,” Radiant said. “The honorspren need to be met with a coalition of spren and Radiants, not an overwhelming group of Cryptics—particularly considering they don’t much care for them.” “From what I’ve heard,” Ishnah replied, “the honorspren don’t much like anyone.” “This is true,” Radiant said. “But Syl has told me that while they don’t trust Cryptics, honorspren don’t hate them like they do inkspren or highspren. I have decided to bring three
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Lightweavers along with me.” “Can I have one of the slots?” Ishnah said. “I want to see more of the spren world.” Mraize’s spy would volunteer for the mission, Veil noted. “I will consider it,” Radiant said. “If you were going to take two others, who would they be?” “Not sure,” Ishnah said. “The more experienced would be more useful, but the newer recruits could learn a lot—and we don’t expect this mission to be dangerous. I guess I’d ask around and see who wanted to go.” “A wise suggestion,” Radiant said. And a clear way to begin hunting the spy. Inside, Shallan squirmed again. She hated thinking about one of her friends being a traitor. Well, Radiant hoped it wasn’t Ishnah. The woman had survived the fall of Kholinar with admirable grit. She’d stared one of the worst disasters in modern history in the face and had not only weathered it, but had helped Kaladin’s squires rescue the crown prince. She would be a great advantage on this mission, but Radiant wasn’t certain—despite what Veil said—that they wanted to bring suspicious ones along. She made another quick circuit of her people, joined by Ishnah, and gauged their eagerness to go on the mission. Most were ambivalent. They wanted to prove themselves, but stories of Shadesmar disturbed them. In the end, she had a short list of the most eager. Ishnah, naturally. Vathah and Beryl, the former prostitute, and Stargyle, the male recruit she’d picked up before Beryl. A tall fellow who was talented at seeing into Shadesmar. These four were already among the most suspicious, Veil thought. Ishnah, who knows about the Ghostbloods. Vathah, who is always so quiet, so dark, hard to read. Beryl and Stargyle, our newest recruits—and therefore least known to me and the others. All had been on the mission to the warcamps. So, did she bring three of these four as Veil wanted, or leave them behind as Radiant wanted? Little as she wanted it right now, Shallan took control at the urging of the other two. She had to make the deciding vote. Strong. With Veil and Radiant supporting her, she found she could face this. She made her decision—she’d leave these four behind, and pick others who hadn’t been on the mission to the Shattered Plains. She started toward Ishnah to break the news to her, but felt something like nausea. A twisting of her insides. She hunched over, then tried to suppress it, embarrassed to so suddenly lose control. But then, appearing foolish in front of the others was a small price to pay for an opportunity. And really, if it made them underestimate her, then what harm was done? Veil could use that; she could use most anything. Veil cleared her throat and took a few deep breaths. “You all right, Brightness?” Ishnah asked, walking up. “Fine,” Veil said. “I’ve made my decision; you’ll be joining me in Shadesmar. Would you kindly go tell Vathah and Stargyle that I’d like them to join us as well? I’ll do as you suggested—one more
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practiced Lightweaver for the resource they offer, one newer agent to learn from the experience.” “Great,” Ishnah said. “That puts Red in charge during our absence, I suppose? And I assume you could come up with some Lightweaving exercises everyone else can perform while we’re gone.” “Perfect,” Veil said. Ishnah grinned as she hurried off. Yes, she did feel suspicious. And if Veil had chosen wrong? Well, she suspected the true spy would somehow end up on the mission anyway. Mraize would make certain of it. The compact, Shallan thought. Veil … we agreed … But this was important. Veil had to find out which one of them was the spy. She couldn’t let them stay behind and fester. We don’t even know if there is a spy, Radiant said. We can’t take too much of what Mraize says as truth. Well, they would see. Leaving your suspected spy behind, so they could run amok unwatched? They would poison her friends against her. Besides, once she unmasked the actual spy, Veil could use this knowledge against Mraize. She braced herself for anger from Radiant at breaking the compact. It did set a dangerous precedent, didn’t it? This is important to you, I see, Radiant thought. She felt strangely quiet. I change my vote, then. I agree to bring them with us. Veil found this odd. Was Radiant well? Just in case, Veil kept control. She stood tall, trying to appear puffed up like Radiant always acted—as if she wanted to be bigger than she was, some hulking monster in armor. Veil held full control all through the rest of the day. She almost let go—Shallan was pounding at her from the inside, and that kind of mental doublethink could really wear a woman down. However, Veil needed to see to the rest of the preparations. The mission would be leaving in mere days. Only when Veil stepped into her rooms—late into the evening—did she begin to relax her grip. However, on the floor inside the room she found a green feather. Mraize? It was a sign. Veil scanned the room, and her eyes landed on a dresser near the door to the bedroom. A green cloth peeked from one of the drawers. Holding an amethyst mark for light, she eased the drawer open. Inside she found a metal cube roughly the size of a person’s head. The note on it was in one of Mraize’s ciphers. “Mmm…” Pattern said from where he dimpled the skirt of her vakama. “What is it, Veil?” Damnation. She’d hoped to be able to fool Pattern into thinking she was Shallan, but of course he saw through her. “A note.” She showed it to him, holding the light near the text. “Can you break the cipher, or do I have to go dig out the notebook Mraize gave us?” “I memorized the patterns. It reads, ‘Spanreeds do not work between realms, but this will. Be very careful with it. It has a value beyond that of some kingdoms. Do not open it, or you risk destroying it.
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Once on your mission and in a secluded place, hold the cube and call my name. I will speak to you through it. Good hunting, little knife.’” Curious. She immediately glimpsed into Shadesmar, and found a sphere of light on the other side, glowing with a strange mother-of-pearl coloring. There was power inside the cube, but no Stormlight. Her attention back to the Physical Realm, she shook it and knocked on the sides. It seemed hollow, but she couldn’t find the slightest crack in it. Storms. How was she going to hide this from Adolin? Well, she’d have to find a way. She would make another trip into Shadesmar, but not by accident. Veil would go on her terms—and she would not spend this trip running. This time, she was the hunter. I have been fascinated to discover how much you’ve accomplished on Scadrial without me noticing your presence. How is it that you hide from Shards so well? Choosing an outfit for the day was a lot like fighting a duel. In both, instincts—rather than conscious decisions—were the key to victory. Adolin didn’t often fret about what to wear; nor did he plan each strike of the sword. He went with what felt right. The real trick in both cases was making the effort to build your instincts. You couldn’t parry a thrust with muscle memory if you hadn’t spent years practicing those maneuvers. And you couldn’t rely on your gut in fashion choices if you hadn’t already spent hours studying the folios. That said, once in a while your instincts locked up. Even he sometimes hesitated in a duel, uncertain. And similarly, some days he simply couldn’t decide upon the right jacket. Adolin stood in his underclothing as he held up the first jacket. Traditional: Kholin blue with white cuffs. Bold white embroidery, with his glyphs—the tall tower and a stylized version of his Blade—on the back. It made him easy to see in battle. It was also boring. He glanced at the trendy yellow jacket on his bed. He’d ordered that tailored after the fashions he’d seen in Kholinar. It didn’t fully button closed, and it had silver embroidery up the sides and covering the pocket and cuffs. Storms, it was bold. Daring. A bright yellow outfit? Most men couldn’t ever have pulled it off. Adolin could. Walk into a feast wearing something like this, and you would own everyone’s attention. Look confident, and at the next feast half the men would be trying to imitate you. He wasn’t going to a feast though. He was starting out on an important mission into Shadesmar. He began rifling through his bureau again. Shallan strolled in as he tossed three more jackets onto the bed. She wore Veil’s clothing—trousers, long loose jacket, a buttoned shirt. At his suggestion she’d replaced the white trousers and jacket with a more practical tan and blue ensemble. White wouldn’t travel well; she wanted something more rugged, something that wouldn’t show the dirt. Blue and tan matched her white hat, though he’d added a leather band
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around the base of the crown. Clothing notwithstanding, she wasn’t Veil today—not with the red hair. Plus, he could usually tell by the way she looked at him. It had been three days since she’d chosen her members for the team, but it was only today that they were finally ready to leave. Shallan leaned against the door, folding her arms and surveying his work. “You know,” she said, “a girl could get jealous over how much attention you give a choice like this.” “Jealous?” Adolin said. “Of jackets?” “Of the one you’re wearing them for.” “I doubt you have anything to worry about from a group of stuffy old honorspren.” “I don’t have anything to worry about regardless,” Shallan said. “But you’re not fussing today because of the honorspren. We won’t meet them for a few weeks at best.” “I’m not fussing. I’m strategizing.” He tossed another jacket onto the bed. No. Too outdated. “Don’t give me that look. Are we ready?” “Pattern’s run off to say goodbye to Wit for some reason,” she said. “Said it was very important—but I suspect that he’s misunderstood some joke Wit made. Other than waiting on him, everything is ready. We just need you.” Supplies were gathered, transportation secured, and traveling companions chosen. Adolin had packed for the trip quickly and efficiently, and his trunks were already loaded. Those choices had been easy. But today’s jacket … “So…” Shallan said. “Shall I tell them two more hours or three?” “I’ll be down in fifteen minutes,” he promised, checking the fabrial clock set in the leather bracer Aunt Navani had given him. Then he eyed Shallan. “Maybe thirty.” “I’ll tell them an hour,” Shallan said, with a grin. She trailed out, tossing her satchel over her shoulder. Adolin put his hands on his hips and surveyed his options. None of them were right. What was he looking for? Wait. Of course. He emerged from his room a few minutes later wearing a uniform he hadn’t put on in years. It was Kholin blue, still a military outfit, but cut for a more relaxed fit. Though not specifically trendy, it had a more stylized set of glyphs on the back and thicker cuffs and collar than a standard uniform. Many would have simply assumed it to be an ordinary Kholin uniform. Adolin had designed it himself four years earlier. He’d wanted to create something that would look sharp while satisfying his father’s requirements to be in uniform. The project had excited him for weeks; it had been his first—and only—real attempt at clothing design. The first day he’d worn it, Dalinar had chewed him out. So it had gone into the trunk, tucked away. Forgotten. Father probably still wouldn’t approve, but these days Dalinar didn’t approve of Adolin in general. So what was the harm? He replaced his arm bracer, strapped on his side sword, and entered the hallway. Then he hesitated. Shallan had given him an hour, and there was something else Adolin wanted to check off his list before leaving. So he turned the
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other direction and climbed the steps toward the sixth floor. * * * Adolin was surprised to find a line at the clinic. The sixth floor wasn’t particularly well populated, but news had apparently spread. None of the waiting patients seemed too unfortunate—children cradling scrapes, with hovering parents nearby. A line of women with coughs or aches. Anything serious would warrant the attention of an Edgedancer or a Truthwatcher. Some bowed to Adolin as he slipped into the front room, where Kaladin’s mother was greeting each patient and recording their symptoms. She smiled at Adolin, holding up two fingers, and waved him down the hallway beyond. Adolin went that direction. The first room he passed had the door cracked, revealing Kaladin’s father seeing a young man. A town girl stood next to him, reading aloud the notes Lirin’s wife had taken. The second room along the hallway was a similar—but empty—exam room. Adolin slipped in, and Kaladin entered a few minutes later, drying his hands on a cloth. It was odd to see him in simple brown trousers and a white buttoned shirt—in fact, had Adolin ever seen Kaladin out of uniform? Honestly … Adolin had assumed the man slept in the thing. Yet here he was, with sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his shoulder-length hair pulled back into a tail. Kaladin stopped when he saw Adolin. “You can go to your brother for healing, Adolin. I have real patients that need help.” Adolin ignored the comment and glanced out into the hallway, looking toward the waiting room. “You’re a popular fellow, bridgeboy.” “I’m convinced half of them are here to get a peek at me,” Kaladin said, with a sigh. He tied on a white surgeon’s apron. “I fear my notoriety could overshadow the clinic’s purpose.” Adolin chuckled. “Be careful. Now that I’ve vacated the position, you’re Alethkar’s most eligible bachelor. Shardbearer, Radiant, Landed, and single? I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that half the young ladies in the kingdom are suddenly coming down with headaches.…” He trailed off as he noticed Kaladin’s frown. “It’s already happened, hasn’t it!” Adolin said, pointing. “I … had wondered why so many lighteyed women suddenly needed medication,” he said. “I’d thought that maybe their personal surgeons had been recruited into the war.…” He glanced at Adolin, then blushed. “You can be deliciously naive sometimes, Kal,” Adolin said. “You need to use this angle. Work it.” “That would betray the ethics of the surgeon-patient relationship,” Kaladin said, closing the door—preventing Adolin from counting the suspiciously well-dressed young women in the waiting room. “Have you come to torment me, or is there an actual purpose behind this visit?” “I just wanted to check on you,” Adolin said. “See how retirement is going.” Kaladin shrugged. He walked over to begin arranging the medications and bandages on the shelf, where sphere lanterns glowed with a pure white light. Syl winked into existence beside Adolin’s head, forming from luminous mist, as if she were a Shardblade. “This is good for him,” she said, leaning in. “He’s actually relaxing
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for once.” “There aren’t many serious cases,” Kaladin said, his back to them. “It can be grueling with so many people in line, but … it isn’t as tense as I worried it would be.” “It’s working,” Syl continued, landing on Adolin’s shoulder. “His parents are always around, so he’s almost never alone. He still has nightmares, but I think he’s getting more sleep.” Adolin watched Kaladin fold bandages, then noticed how Kaladin glanced at the surgery knives laid out in a row. He shouldn’t keep them out like that, should he? Adolin made a sudden motion, standing up straight from where he’d been leaning against the door, his feet scraping the stone. Kaladin immediately reached for the knives, then glanced back, and—seeing nothing was wrong—relaxed. Adolin walked over and put his hand on Kaladin’s shoulder. “Hey,” he said. “It chases us all. Including me, Kal.” He fished in his pocket, then brought out a metal disc about an inch across. He held it toward Kaladin. “I dropped by to give you this.” “What is it?” Kaladin asked, taking the disc. One side was engraved with a picture of a divine figure in robes, while the other side bore the same figure in battle gear. Both were surrounded by strange foreign glyphs. It had been coated with some colored enamel at one point, but that had mostly worn off. “Zahel gave it to me when I finished my training with him,” Adolin said. “Says it’s from his homeland—they use these things as money. Weird, eh?” “Why don’t they use spheres?” “Maybe they don’t have enough gemstones? He’s from somewhere to the west. He doesn’t look like a foreigner though, so I’m guessing it must be Bavland.” “This side might be a Herald,” Kaladin said, squinting at the strange glyphs. “What does it say?” “‘War is the last option of the state that has failed,’” Adolin said, tapping the side with the divine robed figure. He pushed it to spin it in Kaladin’s fingers, showing the other side. “‘But it is better than having no options.’” “Huh,” Kaladin said. “Zahel told me,” Adolin said, “that he always considered himself a coward for training soldiers. He said that if he truly believed in stopping war, he’d walk away from the sword completely. Then he gave me the disc, and I knew he understood. In a perfect world, no one would have to train for battle. We don’t live in a perfect world.” “How does this relate to me?” Kaladin asked. “Well, there’s no shame in you taking time away from the sword. Maybe permanently. All the same, I know you enjoy it.” “I shouldn’t enjoy killing,” Kaladin said softly. “I shouldn’t even enjoy the fight. I should hate it like my father does.” “You can hate killing and enjoy the contest,” Adolin said. “Plus there are practical reasons to keep your skills up. Take these months to relax. When I return though, let’s find a chance to spar together again, all right? I want you to see what I see in duels. It’s not
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about hurting others. It’s about being your best.” “I … don’t know if I can ever think like you do,” Kaladin said. He wrapped his fist around the metal disc. “But thank you. I’ll keep the offer in mind.” Adolin clapped him on the shoulder, then glanced toward Syl. “I need to be off into Shadesmar. Any last tips for me?” “Be careful, Adolin,” she said, flitting up into the air. “My kind aren’t like highspren—we don’t look to laws, but to morality, as our guide.” “That’s good, isn’t it?” Adolin said. “It is … unless you happen to disagree with their interpretation of morality. My kind can be very difficult to persuade with logic, because for us … well, what we feel can often be more important to us than what we think. We’re spren of honor, but remember, honor is—even to us—what humans and spren define it to be. Particularly with our god dead.” Adolin nodded. “Right, then. Kal, don’t let anyone burn the tower down while I’m away.” “You should have been the surgeon, Adolin,” Kaladin said. “Not me. You care about people.” “Don’t be silly,” Adolin said, pulling open the door as he gestured at Kaladin’s work clothing. “I could never dress like that.” He left Kaladin with a wink. * * * Adolin strode out the front gate of Urithiru’s imposing tower and entered the chill air of the plateau. He was a full six minutes early. Handy, the way Aunt Navani’s device let him time himself—if everyone had clocks, he’d spend way less time waiting around at winehouses for his friends to arrive. The broad plain in front of him—too smooth to be natural—stretched like a roadway toward the mountain peaks in the distance. Ten perfectly circular platforms rose from the sides of the plateau, with ramps leading up to each. These Oathgates were portals to places around the world. Currently only four functioned: the ones to the Shattered Plains, Thaylenah, Jah Keved, and Azir. A group had gathered on the platform leading to the Shattered Plains, but they wouldn’t travel to that destination. This was just the gate where Adolin’s team would enter Shadesmar. His breath puffing before him, Adolin jogged over to the ramp, where his armorers were packing his Shardplate in its traveling chest, cushioned with straw. Though the stuff was as hard as stone, they always took the utmost care with it. There was a certain reverence due to a Shard. “It’s not going to make the transfer, Brightlord,” one armorer warned him. “When you go to Shadesmar, it will be left behind on the platform. It’s been tested on several suits already.” “My armor might act differently,” Adolin said. “I want to be sure. If it does fail to make the trip, send it along with Father and his expeditionary force. He’ll lend it to Fisk, to complement his Blade.” The armorers saluted. Nearby, a few other stragglers were hurrying up the slope to the Oathgate—including Shallan’s newest agent, a tall Alethi woman with excellent taste in dresses. She carried a
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pack over her shoulder, but … she wasn’t going on the trip, was she? “Beryl?” Adolin called to her as she passed. “Wasn’t Stargyle chosen to make this journey?” “Oh, Brightlord!” the darkeyed woman said. “Stargyle’s wife has come down with a sickness. He wants to stay with her, so we decided I should go instead.” Huh. He nodded absently as the woman hurried up the slope. Shallan had seemed very particular about whom she wanted to bring. Hopefully this hadn’t upset her plans. Well, nothing to do about it. He stepped over to a tall black horse standing at the ready. Gallant was surrounded by Adolin’s grooms, who were preparing to strap equipment to the horse’s back—including Adolin’s weapons and his trunk of clothing. The horse should have been loaded already. Adolin stepped up to the Ryshadium and stared into his watery blue eyes—which, if he looked closely, had a faint swirl of rainbow colors to them. The horse glanced at the pack straps the porters were affixing onto his back; they required stools to get high enough. “What?” Adolin asked. The horse blew out, then glared at the straps again. “You think because we’re royalty, we’re above doing a little labor?” Adolin pointed at the horse, meeting his eyes. “It’s like Father always says. Never be unwilling to do something you might ask another to do for you.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a palafruit. “Here.” The horse turned away. “Fine,” Adolin said. “I’ll have them saddle up one of the common horses instead. Leave you behind.” Gallant turned back to him, glaring. Then, reluctantly, the horse ate the palafruit and spat out the pit. Adolin rubbed him on the muzzle, then patted his neck. Nearby one of the grooms watched, baffled, until one of the others nudged him. “I talk to my sword too,” Adolin told them. “Funny thing is, she eventually talked back. Never be afraid to show a little respect to those you depend upon, friends.” The two grooms scuttled away as two workmen hitched Adolin’s armor boxes into place on one side of the horse. “Thank you,” Adolin said to Gallant. “For being with me. I know you’d rather be with Father.” The horse blew out, then reached his muzzle into Adolin’s hand. Ryshadium chose their riders; they were not broken or trained. They accepted you, or they did not—and it was very rare for one to allow two riders. Father loved his horse, he really did. But he was so busy with meetings these days, and Gallant seemed so forlorn. Abandoned, just a little. And well … Adolin had his own loss he was dealing with. So it had seemed a natural pairing, one that over the months had become more and more strong. The grooms finished with the armor trunks, and then hooked Adolin’s clothing trunk on the other side. That wasn’t nearly as heavy as the Plate, so to weight that side roughly equal, a worker approached with a long box. Adolin stopped him, wanting to do one last check.
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He knelt to undo the latches and peeked inside. “Storms,” a voice said. “Pardon, Brightlord, but how many swords do you need?” Adolin grinned up at Godeke the Edgedancer, who was leading his horse nearby. The slender man wore his hair cropped short, though he wasn’t technically an ardent any longer, and so didn’t need to shave it. Beyond him, Zu—the team’s Stoneward—was lifting her pack onto her back. The golden-haired woman continually complained about the cold, and huddled in a coat several sizes too large. “Well,” Adolin said to Godeke, “you can never have too many swords. Besides, no Shardblades can enter Shadesmar, so a man must be prepared.” “You’re wearing a sword.” “This?” Adolin said, patting his side sword. “Oh sure, this is better than nothing, but I’d hate to be caught with just it and no buckler. Besides, I’ve trained to duel mostly on longswords and greatswords.” He pulled his greatsword out of his arms box; the long weapon was intended to be used two-handed. It wasn’t as long as some Shardblades, of course, nor as wide. “I don’t … know how much dueling you’ll be doing, Brightlord.” “Obviously,” Adolin said. “That’s why I need these others.” He handed it to the groom. “Fix its scabbard to Gallant’s left shoulder, its guard in line with the saddle.” To Godeke, he continued, “See here, a hand-and-a-half sword for use with or without my shield. A nice swordstaff for horseback—I can screw in this piece to make it longer…” “I see.” “Here, this is an Emuli kusu,” Adolin said, holding up the long curved sword. “Great for slicing and cutting, especially when doing ride-by charges. Easier to withdraw the blade and better against someone unarmored. And here, I need this Veden house sword if we end up fighting against mail.…” “I should be—” “Don’t forget Shardbearers,” Adolin said, hefting a warhammer. It looked small, almost like a workman’s hammer with a longer handle—so tiny compared to the massive Shardbearers’ hammers wielded by men in Plate. He didn’t want to make Gallant haul one of those on their trip. “Need this if I end up being forced to crack some Plate—the swords will simply break, except maybe the house sword. Might be able to get that through a crack, once the armor is weakened.” “I really—” “And here, see this one?” He pulled out a unique triangular weapon, gripped at the base with a kind of handle instead of a true hilt. “Thaylen gtet. I’ve always wanted to train with one of these. Figured I might get some practice in.” Godeke waved to someone farther up the ramp, then hastily said farewell before hiking off, tugging his horse after him. Adolin grinned, then had the workers hang a few more weapons from the horse’s saddle. Gallant tapped his hooves with what seemed to be satisfaction, happier to be outfitted with proper weapons and not just luggage. The workers affixed the box with the rest in place. “You seem almost pleased,” Zu said, strolling over in her oversized coat. “To not be able
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to use Shardblades, I mean.” Adolin hadn’t spoken to the woman much; he hadn’t realized how good her Alethi was. Apparently her people had turned her out when her powers had first manifested several years ago—they hadn’t realized she was a Radiant, and had thought her cursed by some strange god whose name Adolin hadn’t recognized. The Iriali fought for the enemy now, but Dalinar didn’t turn away anyone who came asking for asylum—particularly if they’d said Radiant oaths. “Well,” Adolin said, “I wouldn’t say happy. A Shardblade is the superior weapon. No amount of specialization for the situation can make up for the ability to slice through your opponent’s weapons, armor, even body as if they were water. I love wielding mine in duels; there’s just a part of me that regrets that it makes other weapons obsolete.” “I disagree,” Zu said, summoning her Blade. “Why would you ever regret the existence of one of these?” It appeared in her hand upon her command, forming from mist. She preferred a slender Blade, even longer than his father’s, with a wicked curve to it. Adolin stood up, breathing heat into his hands as Merit began leading the pack animals up the ramp onto the Oathgate platform. Adolin glanced at Gallant; the horse clopped off to follow, needing no bridle or rope to guide him. Zu waved her sword overhead slowly in a kind of kata that caught the sun. It transformed in her hands, becoming smaller and shorter—like his side sword—then became straight, with a tip for thrusting. The fact that living Shardblades could change shapes explained a lot to Adolin. The ancient Shardblades—the dead ones that most Shardbearers used—were locked, apparently into the last shape they’d held. Most were massive things, not clunky—a Shardblade could never be clunky—but also not particularly well suited to most battlefield actions. They were light, yes, but the size could be unwieldy nonetheless. Modern Radiants preferred functional weapons when actually fighting. However, when they wanted to show off, they created something majestic and otherworldly—something that was less about practicality and more about awe. That indicated most Shardblades, his own included, had practical forms—but had been abandoned in their more showy styles. “I didn’t mean to imply there’s not art to a Shardblade,” Adolin told Zu. “I truly love Shardblade duels. I just love finding the best weapon for the job. And when that answer isn’t always the same sword, it’s more satisfying.” “You should become a Radiant,” she said. “Then your sword would always be the right weapon for the job.” “As if it were that easy,” Adolin said. “Just become a Radiant.” His equipment seen to, Adolin did a quick head count. Six of his soldiers were coming as guards and workers—darkeyed men specifically chosen because they had good heads on their shoulders. Adolin didn’t pick the best duelists; he chose men who could cook and do laundry in the field. Most importantly, he needed men who wouldn’t balk at oddities. Felt was the best of them, an older foreign man, one of Dalinar’s friends
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from the early days. He was steady and reliable, and had training as a scout. Merit was a groom, and Urad was an excellent hunter, should they need to forage. Adolin wasn’t certain how useful that would be in Shadesmar, but best to be prepared. Felt’s wife, Malli, worked in the quartermaster’s office, and was along to act as a scribe. No actual servants, though Shallan’s three Lightweavers did odd jobs for her. That left the three full Radiants. Godeke and Zu he’d already checked on. Asking around, Adolin found that their final Radiant—a Tashikki woman—had returned to the tower to check on something. So he idled near the ramp, waiting until he saw her crossing the plateau. The woman had to be in her seventies, with dark brown furrowed skin and silver hair. She was slender, but not frail. Adolin suspected from her firm step that she relied on Stormlight to strengthen her. Though he’d seen her wearing a Tashikki wrap in the tower before, today she wore rugged traveling clothing and a shawl over her hair, with a pack slung over one shoulder. As she approached, Adolin reached to help her carry it, but she tightened her fingers. She didn’t speak much Alethi, but most of the spren were able to speak several human languages. He wasn’t certain if it was an aspect of their nature, or if they simply lived so long that they ended up picking up multiple languages. Either way, the spren could translate if necessary, and Adolin really did want to bring a Truthwatcher. They had once been well-regarded by the honorspren. Though the woman’s name was Arshqqam, everyone called her the Stump—a nickname that Lift had spread, he believed. Arshqqam had mentioned she was fond of the name, and the way she strode—unbowed by age, insisting on carrying her own things—gave him an inkling of where the moniker had come from. With her arrival, the entire expedition was accounted for. A half dozen pack animals weren’t many for fifteen people. Normally he’d have expected that many animals for just the food, plus some wagons carrying stormbarrels that could be chained down to catch rainwater. Fortunately, this group had Shallan’s Lightweavers to provide food and water through Soulcasting. As Adolin crossed the platform, he passed the queen standing—as always—with Wit at her shoulder. She, Dalinar, and Taravangian were the only monarchs at the tower today, and they’d all come to see off the expedition. Jasnah was supervising Ishnah and Vathah, two of Shallan’s agents, determining for herself if they were capable. Adolin lingered as Vathah knelt beside a large block of obsidian. The glassy stone had been mined in Shadesmar and brought through for the test. Vathah’s hand sank into the block, and then the structure of the obsidian changed—in the blink of an eye, the rock transformed into grain. Kind of. What Vathah made was a large square lump of hardened lavis pulp, not individual seeds like some advanced Soulcasters could make. They could cut off chunks, cook it to mush. It wasn’t tasty, but
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it was hearty and healthy. Do they know? Adolin wondered. How much Jasnah sees them as tools? For centuries the Alethi Soulcasting devices—limited though they were—had given his kingdom an unparalleled edge in battle. Now, Lightweavers were Soulcasting and didn’t seem to suffer the same ill effects as users of the devices. Adolin could see deeper motives in the months Jasnah had spent training Shallan and her agents. Though Shallan wanted her team to become spies, Jasnah seemed to see their powers of illusion as a distant second to their ability to feed armies. Hopefully the cache of Soulcasting devices found in Aimia would relieve some of that pressure. Shallan watched from the near distance, sitting on a supply box, her expression unreadable. Though by far the most talented at illusions among her people, Shallan’s own abilities in Soulcasting had proven … erratic. Adolin had peeked in on her sessions to see only occasional lumps of grain. Other times, she accidentally created twisted things: flames, sometimes pools of blood, once a translucent crystal. Jasnah had finally, after eight months of work, officially released Shallan from her wardship. And Shallan truly had earned that release. She’d gone to lessons, memorized the works of scholars, and acted as the perfect ward. Though mastery of Soulcasting eluded her, she had improved over the year. Jasnah dismissed the two agents, who hastened to join the others. Adolin found himself growing anxious as everyone gathered around the small building at the center of the platform. Not that he had any reason. It was just that it had been months since he’d last visited Shadesmar. Dalinar stepped up to the group and waited for everyone to quiet. He would want to speak, of course. Adolin’s father could turn anything into an excuse for an inspirational speech. “I commend your bravery,” Dalinar said to the gathered people. “Know that you go representing not only me, but the entire coalition. With you go the hopes of millions. “The realm you traverse will be alien and at times hostile. Do not forget that it once held allies, and their fortresses welcomed men with open arms. Your task is to rekindle those ancient alliances, as we have re-formed the ancient bond between nations. Know that you take with you my utmost confidence.” Not bad, Adolin thought. At least it was short. Adolin’s six men cheered as expected. The Radiants applauded politely, which generally wasn’t the response that one of Dalinar’s rousing speeches received. He continued to treat them like soldiers, though most of the Radiants here today had never been in the military. Shallan was a country lighteyes and scholar turned spy; the Stump had run an orphanage; Godeke had been an ardent. So far as Adolin knew, Zu was the only one who had held anything resembling a weapon before saying her oaths. Jasnah said a few words, and so did Taravangian. Adolin listened with half an ear, wondering if Taravangian found it odd that the expedition wasn’t taking any Dustbringers. No one had spoken the reason, but it was obvious
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to Adolin. The Dustbringers didn’t serve Dalinar, at least not loyally enough for his taste. At the end of the speeches, the members of the expedition began squeezing into the small control building, leading the horses in as well. There might be some way to bring everyone on the platform into Shadesmar, but so far they’d been limited to people standing in the small control building. Adolin waved for Shallan to go in first without him. Jasnah, Taravangian, and Wit began to retreat across the platform with their attendants. Soon, Adolin and Dalinar stood facing one another, alone outside the building. A snort broke the air. Gallant had lingered, refusing the grooms who tried to coax him into the building with fruit. Dalinar broke his stern posture and patted the horse on the neck. “Thank you,” he said to Adolin, “for caring for him these last months. I don’t get much time for riding these days.” “We both know how busy you are, Father.” “That’s a new uniform,” Dalinar said to him. “Better than some you’ve been wearing lately.” “That’s amusing,” Adolin said. “Four years ago when I last wore this, you called it disgraceful.” Dalinar stiffened, lowering his hand from Gallant’s neck. Then he clasped his hands behind his back and stood tall. So storming tall. Sometimes Adolin’s father was more like a Soulcast statue than a person. “I guess … we’ve both become more lax over the years,” Dalinar said. “I think I’ve stayed the same person,” Adolin said. “I’m just more willing to let you be disappointed by that person.” “Son,” Dalinar said, “I’m not disappointed in you.” “Aren’t you? Can you say that truthfully, with an oath?” Dalinar fell silent. “I merely want you to be the best man you can be,” he finally said. “A better man than I was at your age. I know that’s the person you really are. And I want you to represent me well. Is that such a terrible thing?” “I don’t represent you anymore, Father. I’m a highprince. I represent myself. Is that such a terrible thing?” Dalinar sighed. “Don’t go down this road, son. Do not let my failings drive you to rebel against what you know is right, merely because it’s what I wish of you.” “I’m not—” Adolin made fists, trying to squeeze out his frustration. “I’m not simply rebelling, Father. I’m not fourteen anymore.” “No. When you were fourteen you looked up to me for some reason.” Dalinar glanced after the departing figures, growing small on the platform. “You see Taravangian out there? Do you know how he sees the world? Any cost, any price, is worth paying if what you want to achieve is—in the end—worthy. “Follow him, and you’ll be able to justify anything. Lying to your soldiers? Necessary, to get them to do their work. Gathering wealth? You need it to further your important goals. Killing innocents? All to forge a stronger nation.” He eyed Adolin. “Murdering a man in a back alley, then lying about it? Well, the world is better off without
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him. In fact, there are a lot of people this world could do without. Let’s start removing them quietly.…” Maybe I murdered Sadeas, Adolin thought. But at least I never killed anyone innocent. At least I didn’t burn my own wife to death. There it was. The seething knot deep inside him, the one Adolin didn’t dare touch lest it burn him. He knew Dalinar had been a different man then. A man not in his right mind, betrayed, consumed by the power of one of the Unmade. Besides, Dalinar hadn’t killed Adolin’s mother on purpose. One could know these things without feeling them. And this. Wasn’t. Something. You. Forgave. Adolin shoved that furious knot down and didn’t let it rule him, ignoring the angerspren at his feet. He said nothing to his father. He didn’t trust the anger, the frustration, and—yes—the shame churning within. If he opened his mouth, one of the three might come out, but he couldn’t say which. “You either believe as Taravangian does,” Dalinar said, “or you accept the better path: that your actions define you more than your intentions. That your goals and the journey used to attain them must align. I’m trying to stop you before you do some things you will truly, sincerely regret.” “And if I think the actions I’ve taken are worthy?” Adolin said. “Then perhaps we need to consider that my training of you in your youth was faulty. That is not surprising. I was not exactly the best of examples.” It’s about you again, Adolin thought. I can’t have an opinion or make choices—I’m only acting like this because of your influence. Kelek, Jezerezeh, and Heralds above! Adolin loved his father. Even now, with everything he’d learned about what Dalinar had done. Even with … that event. He loved his father. He loved that Dalinar tried so hard, and he had become someone far better than he’d once been. But Damnation. This last year, Adolin had begun to realize how difficult it could be to live around the man. “Maybe,” Adolin said, calming himself with effort. “Maybe—incredible though it may seem—there are more than two choices in life. I’m not you, but that doesn’t mean I’m Taravangian. Maybe I’m my own brand of wrong.” Dalinar rested his hand on Adolin’s shoulder. It should have been comforting, but Adolin couldn’t help but see it as a way to control the conversation. To put himself in the position of father, and Adolin squarely into his role as whining child. “Son,” Dalinar said, “I believe in you. Go, succeed on this mission. Convince the honorspren that we’re worthy of them. Prove to them that we have men waiting to take up the oaths and soar.” Adolin glanced at his father’s hand on his shoulder, then met the man’s eyes. There was something in those words … “You want me to become one of them, don’t you?” Adolin said. “Part of the purpose of this trip, in your eyes, is for me to become a Radiant!” “Your brother is worthy,” Dalinar said, “and your
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father—against his best efforts—has proven worthy. I’m sure you will prove yourself too.” As if I didn’t have enough burdens. Complaints died on Adolin’s lips—complaints that there were likely thousands of worthy people in the world and not all of them would be chosen. Complaints that he was fine with his life and didn’t need to live up to some spren’s ideals. Instead, Adolin simply bowed his head and nodded. Dalinar won the argument. The Blackthorn was unaccustomed to anything else. It wasn’t that Adolin agreed, but more that he didn’t know what to think, and that was the real problem. He couldn’t stand up to his father with maybes. Dalinar clapped him on the shoulder with his other hand and wished him farewell. Adolin walked Gallant into the chamber—highprince, leader of the expedition, and somehow still a little boy. It was crowded inside with the horses. These circular control buildings had a rotating inner wall, along with murals on the floor indicating various locations. Normally in order to initiate a swap, a Radiant used their Shardblade as a key to rotate the inner wall to the proper point. Today, Shallan did something different. At a nod from him, she summoned her Shardblade and fit it into the keyhole on the wall. Then she kept pushing, her sword melting out like a silvery puddle on the wall, the hilt flowing like liquid around her hand. She lifted her hand upward, moving the entire locking mechanism straight up. In a flash, they were thrown into Shadesmar. I have reached out to the others as you requested, and have received a variety of responses. Over the last week, Adolin had tasked his soldiers with making the transfer to Shadesmar several times. He’d even sent the horses in and out to make certain they wouldn’t panic. So most everyone was ready for what they saw. Nevertheless, they all—Adolin included—fell silent, struck by the incredible sights. The sky was black as midnight, only without stars. The sun seemed too distant, too frail, to properly light the place, though he wasn’t in darkness. He could easily see the small platform around them, which was the size of the control room. The sunlight illuminated the landscape, but strangely didn’t light the sky. The control room hadn’t come with them. Instead, two enormous spren stood in the air nearby: the attendants of this gateway, thirty or forty feet tall, one marble white and the other onyx. Adolin raised a hand toward them as he stepped across the platform. “Thank you, Ancient Ones!” he called. “It is done as the Stormfather requires,” the marble one replied, voice booming. “Our parent, the Sibling, has died. We will obey him instead.” Long ago, a mysterious spren named the Sibling had lived in Urithiru. It was now dead. Or sleeping. Or maybe that was the same thing. Spren answers about the Sibling contradicted one another. In any case, before dying, the Sibling had commanded these sentries to stop allowing people into Shadesmar. Many of the gatekeepers maintained this rule. However, a few had
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listened to the Stormfather’s request. They said that in the absence of other Bondsmiths, Dalinar and the Stormfather were worthy of obedience—even in contradiction of ancient orders. That was fortunate, for while Shallan could slip into Shadesmar using her powers, she couldn’t take anyone with her—and she couldn’t return on her own. Even Jasnah, whose powers supposedly allowed it, had trouble bringing herself back from Shadesmar. This platform was one of ten set upon tall pillars here, rising in a pattern similar to the one the Oathgates made in front of Urithiru. Adolin could see the other sentries hanging above them. Each pillar had a long spiraling ramp around it, leading down to the bead ocean far below. But the tower itself was far more majestic than any other sight. Adolin turned around, gazing up at the shimmering mountain of light and colors. The mother-of-pearl radiance didn’t exactly mimic the shape of the tower, but had a more crystalline feel to it. Except it wasn’t physical, but light. Radiant, resplendent, and brilliant. The tower was the same color the sky turned in Shadesmar when a highstorm was passing over Roshar. And the place was positively swarming with emotion spren on this side. They soared through it in great swarms, taking a variety of shapes—most distant enough that Adolin saw them only as small bits of color, though he knew they had strange shapes here. More organic, more beastly. They flew, crawled, and climbed across and through the tower’s shimmering light, making it look like a hive. It wasn’t until coming here that Adolin had realized just how many spren the humans of Urithiru attracted. Some of those could be dangerous on this side, but they’d been told the nature of the tower offered protection from that. Spren here were glutted on emotions, and were calmer. Everyone took a few minutes to absorb the stunning vista—the mountain of iridescent colors, the sentinels, the spren, and the long drop to the ocean below. Adolin finally tore his eyes away to do a quick recount of their numbers, as the Radiants had been joined by their personal spren. Pattern stood near Shallan; he was a tall figure in too-stiff robes with a changing symbol for a head. Adolin felt he could tell Pattern from the other Cryptics. There was a spring to Pattern’s step; he bounced when the other three Cryptics glided. Their symbols were also slightly … different. Adolin cocked his head, trying to decide why he should think that, as the symbols were always changing, never repeating that he could see. Yet the speed at which they changed, and the general feel of each one, was distinct. Zu—the closest Radiant to Adolin—leaped up and grabbed her tall spren in a hug. “Ha!” said the golden-haired Stoneward. “You’re a mountain on this side, Ua’pam!” Her spren’s skin appeared as if it were made of cracked rock, and it was glowing from within as if molten. Otherwise, he had generally humanlike features. Ua’pam wore fur-lined clothing on this side, like one might expect from one
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who lived high in the mountains. Adolin wasn’t certain how all that worked. Did spren get cold? Godeke was an Edgedancer, so his spren was a cultivationspren, a type Adolin had seen many times before: shaped roughly like a short woman, she was composed entirely of vines. Those vines wound tightly together into a face that had two crystals for eyes. Crystal hands, incredibly fine and delicate, emerged from the sleeves of her robe, and she had an aloof air as she looked around. The last spren was the oddest to Adolin. She seemed to be made entirely from mist, all save for the face, which hovered on the front of the head in the shape of a porcelain mask. That mask had a kind of twinkling reflection to it, always catching the light—in fact, he could have sworn that from some perspectives it was made of translucent crystal. The spren seemed to be female, or at least had a feminine figure and voice. This would be the spren of Arshqqam, the Truthwatcher. The spren wore a vest and trousers, both of which somehow floated and encapsulated the body made entirely of white fog. Her hands ended in gloves. Was it mist inside there, moving her fingers? “Do you like staring at me, human?” she asked with a delicate voice that tinkled like cracking glass. The mask’s lips didn’t move when she spoke. “We mistspren can choose our forms, you know. We usually choose a shape like a person, but we don’t need to. You seem so fascinated. Do you think me pretty, or do you think me a monster?” “I…” Adolin said. “Answer not,” Zu’s peakspren—Ua’pam—said with a grinding voice. “You. Tease not.” “I’m not teasing,” she replied. “Merely questioning. I like to know how minds think.” “A worthy enough goal,” Adolin said, searching around again. All of the Radiant spren were there, but where was she? Shallan caught his eyes and nodded toward the ramp down, so he hurried over, stopping at the top as he found a final spren sitting there waiting. She was another cultivationspren, with cordlike vines making up her face. But her vines were a dull brown and they pulled tighter—giving her features a sunken-in cast. Maya still wore the same dull brown rags. However, he saw hints of what they’d once been. Not robes as Godeke’s spren wore. This had been a uniform. Her most unnerving feature was her scratched-out eyes. It seemed as if someone had taken a knife to her face, except she hadn’t bled or been scarred by the cuts. She’d been erased. Ripped apart. Removed from existence. When she looked at Adolin, she seemed like a painting that had been vandalized. She sat huddled on the ramp. She didn’t speak; she never did—except one time over a year ago when she’d told him her name. She was his Shardblade. And, he hoped, his friend. “Mayalaran,” he said, holding out his hand toward her. She regarded the hand, then cocked her head. As if it were some strange alien object for which
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she could determine no use. Adolin moved down the ramp and lightly took her hand, then put it into his. The coiled cords of her skin had a firm, smooth texture. Like a good hogshide hilt. “Come on,” he said. “Let me introduce the others.” He tugged on her hand and she followed, standing up and wordlessly joining him on the top of the platform. “That’s Shallan,” Adolin said, pointing. “My wife. You remember her and Pattern, right? There’s Godeke—he was once an ardent. Arshqqam is our Truthwatcher; she used to take care of orphans. And Zu, she’s…” Adolin hesitated. “Zu, what did you used to do?” “Make trouble, mostly,” the Iriali woman said. She pulled off her thick coat, letting out a deep sigh. Underneath she wore a tight wrap around her upper torso, a little like a warrior’s sarashi. She had bronze skin that seemed metallic to Adolin, and her hair wasn’t like his own blond—it was too golden. Though his mother had been from Rira, near Iri, the two peoples were distinct. “Come on, Ua’pam!” she said. “Let’s see what’s at the bottom of this ramp!” “Be careful,” the peakspren said as Zu put her coat over her shoulder and strolled to the side of the ramp. “Well,” Adolin said to Maya, “that’s Zu. Those other six are Shallan’s Lightweavers and their spren. Here, meet my soldiers.…” As he pulled Maya over to introduce her to Felt, the mistspren walked over beside him. “There is no use talking to a deadeye,” the creature said with unmoving lips. “Do you not understand this? What about you makes you wish to talk to something that cannot understand you?” “She understands,” Adolin said. “You think that she does. This is curious.” Adolin ignored the odd spren, instead introducing Maya to his team. He’d told them to expect her, so they each bowed respectfully and didn’t stare at her strange eyes too much. Ledder even complimented her appearance as a Blade, saying he’d always admired her beauty. Maya took it all with her characteristic mute solemnity. She didn’t cock her head; she simply stood by Adolin, looking at whoever was speaking. She did understand. He’d felt her emotions through the sword; in fact, he felt like he’d always been able to sense her encouraging him. Shallan came over and took him by the arm. “We should be moving on,” she said. “See if the ship has arrived.” “Right, right,” he said. “Here, watch Maya a moment. I need to check on Gallant.” He hurried over to the horse, and by the time he arrived he already knew to expect some bad news. Humans in the Physical Realm were represented here as lights like floating candle flames. A group of them gathered near the horse and were interacting with some shimmering, glowing blue colors. To be certain, Adolin checked Gallant’s armor trunks. The Shardplate hadn’t made the trip. Adolin had hoped … well, it meant his armor wasn’t different from any of the others. It couldn’t be brought into Shadesmar. The lights on the
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other side were his armorers collecting the Plate, which would have dropped to the platform on the other side. “Ah well,” he said, unhooking the now-empty armor trunks. “Let’s get these off you.” Gallant blew out in a way that Adolin chose to interpret as sympathetic. Adolin redistributed the weight, then checked the weapons in Gallant’s sheaths—including the massive greatsword that had almost the bulk of a Shardblade. They started walking toward the ramp, but Adolin paused, cocking his head. When Gallant moved, he trailed a faint shadow of light. It was almost imperceptible. When the horse shook his head from side to side, there was a distinct impression of an afterimage the shape of the head, but glowing. “Didn’t expect you to be different here,” Adolin said to the horse. Gallant blew out again. His version of a shrug. Then he nibbled at Adolin’s coat pocket. Adolin chuckled and dug out the other fruit he’d hidden there—wrapped in a handkerchief, naturally. Wouldn’t do to stain his coat. He gave it to the horse with a pat on the neck. “Well, at least you won’t need to haul that Plate around.” It made Adolin feel exposed. No Blade, no Plate, and the Radiants would be limited—for while they brought plenty of infused gemstones, they couldn’t renew them. He called for the group to begin carefully making its way down the ramp. With the railing, it wasn’t too dangerous—but the walk was a long one. Urithiru was high in the mountains, and they needed to hike down to sea level. Strangely, Shallan told him they’d done measurements, and the path wasn’t nearly as long as it would be in the Physical Realm. Space wasn’t a one-to-one correlation in Shadesmar. Things seemed more compressed here, specifically in the vertical dimension. Isasik the mapmaker thought the place was incredible for reasons Adolin hadn’t been able to grasp, despite having it explained to him three times. At any rate, the hike would take several hours. They started out, and Shallan joined him, watching Maya walk with Gallant ahead. Adolin put his arm around his wife. “Do you think she was happy to see me? I hope she enjoys being around us. It has to be better than simply walking around on this side, haunting wherever I happen to be going.” “I’m sure she’s happy,” Shallan said. “You don’t … think I’m crazy, do you? To treat her as I do?” “I find it endearing,” Shallan said. “Even if you tease me about it?” “That’s how you know.” She smiled and stopped him, then went up on her tiptoes to kiss him. “I like the outfit too. You chose well.” “Thanks, I…” Adolin trailed off as someone else put their arm around him, then around Shallan. Adolin twisted his head to find Pattern standing behind them, giving both of them a hug. His clothing was stiff, like it was made out of glass, and his collar pressed uncomfortably against Adolin’s ear. “Mmm…” Pattern said. “I like having arms. If Maya does not speak, and you want to
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hear someone speak, I am very good at talking. I can say words about many kinds of things.” “Um, thanks?” Adolin said. “You are welcome. Should we not walk? On our feet? The ones I now have again? I do like my feet. They are befittingly perambulatory.” He held up his leg, and showed bare feet beneath his robe. Curious. Adolin had always assumed they didn’t have feet. Pattern moved off, humming delightedly to himself. * * * An hour later, Adolin could still see Urithiru shimmering above. A bonfire of colors and light, though oddly it didn’t cast shadows. Many sources of light in Shadesmar didn’t. And those that did sometimes cast them in the wrong direction. They ate field rations, continuing steadily downward in a spiral around the enormous pillar. Eventually he was able to pick out the ocean below. In Shadesmar, land and sea were reversed—so here, the continent was manifest as a vast ocean of beads. They’d find ground where rivers ran after highstorms or at the edges of the continent, where the oceans began in the real world. All things in Roshar manifested in Shadesmar. Most objects became beads, while living people and animals became little flames of light like the ones he’d seen above. They passed some of those as they walked, hovering off in the distance. Adolin assumed those were the guards who watched over the complex of tunnels and caverns beneath Urithiru. Indeed, there were more lights than he’d expected; Aunt Navani must have gotten her wish to have the caverns better guarded. Eventually those vanished above, and he was left with only the endless view of the ocean. It bent his mind to think about those beads. The souls of all the objects that made up the physical world. Churning and mixing together, forming waves and surging tides, each composed of small beads no wider than his index finger. He passed the time trying to get to know the members of his team. Zu liked to run off ahead, her spren often advising caution—and as often ignored. Zu had worked as a guide in the Reshi Isles for years, after fleeing there to find a place where people wouldn’t, as she put it, “keep making rules about how I should live.” She’d been glad to come on the mission and get away from the tower, which she considered stuffy. She admitted to some brief combat experience. Her spren didn’t speak much, and often in short sentences when he did, but Adolin liked the defensive implications of having a spren that was literally made of stone. As she ran off again to scout ahead, Adolin fell into line beside Godeke. The Edgedancer kept staring at the sky, grinning like a child with a new sword. “The works of the Almighty are wondrous,” he said. “To think, this beauty was always here with us. Look, are those a new kind of spren?” He pointed at some that drifted by in the air—they resembled chickens, with flapping wings and bulbous bodies. “I think those are gloryspren,”
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Adolin said. “Emotion spren are like this world’s animals. They get pulled through to our side when they sense some kind of strong emotion, and we see them in distorted ways.” “Amazing,” Godeke said. “Thank you for bringing me on this trip, Brightlord. Archinal has told me of this place at length, but I never thought I’d experience it. I will burn prayers of thanks tonight … if we have a fire, that is. I’m still not sure how all this works!” “You … continue to follow the Almighty then?” Adolin asked. “Vorinism and all that? Despite finding out that the Heralds betrayed us?” “The Heralds are not God, but His servants,” Godeke said. “Storms know, I’ve failed Him more than once myself.” He adopted a distant expression. “I don’t think we can blame them for eventually wearing out. Rather, I think about how remarkable it is that they worked for so long to keep us safe.” “And the fact that they confirmed the death of the Almighty?” “The death of Honor,” Godeke said. “One aspect of the Almighty.” He smiled. “It’s all right, Brightlord. I can understand someone questioning now, of all times. Remember though, the church taught that we are all aspects of the Almighty—that He lives in us. As He lived in the being called Honor, who was tasked with protecting men. “The Almighty cannot die. People can die. Heralds can die. Even Honor could die. But Honor, people, and Heralds will all live again—transformed, Soulcast through His power.” Godeke glanced back at his packhorse, which his spren was riding. Stuffed into the saddlebags and peeking out were several books. “I’m still learning. We all are. The Book of Endless Pages cannot be filled … though your father made a very nice addition to the text.” “You’re okay with a man writing then?” Adolin said, frowning. “Your father is not simply a man, Adolin,” Godeke said. “He—” “Your father is a holy man. As I was, before taking up this new role.” Godeke shook his head. “All my life I lived with a deformity—and then in an instant I was transformed and healed. I became what I’d always seen myself as being. Your father has undergone a more vibrant transformation. He is as divine as any ardent. “And … I must admit some of what he says makes sense. How can it be forbidden for a person to see the holy words of the Almighty, solely because that person is male? Makes me wonder whether we’ve misinterpreted all along. Whether we’ve been selfish, wanting to keep all this for ourselves. “I don’t accept the conclusions your father came to—but I’m glad people are talking about the church rather than merely going about their lives, assuming the ardents will take care of everything. Many people only thought of religion when it was time for one of their Elevations.” He grinned as another group of gloryspren sailed past. “I cannot wait to write of this to the others of my devotary. When they hear what wonders the Almighty has created here…”
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Adolin wasn’t certain it all made sense as Godeke explained, but at the same time it was nice to hear someone being so positive. He left Godeke to his excitement, and went to chat with Arshqqam, translated by her spren. She felt much as he had on his first time in Shadesmar. Overwhelmed. “I used to think my life made sense,” the woman said through the spren. “I used to think I knew how it would end. I didn’t want to leave Tashikk. There my life was hard, but it was clear.” “Why did you leave, then?” She studied him with a piercing gaze, unwavering. “How could I stay? I still don’t know why I was chosen. A woman at the end of her life? But if a child could answer the call, then I certainly could find no excuse.” The child she referenced was Lift—who had recruited this woman, along with several others, over the past year. The teen seemed to have a knack for locating others who were manifesting powers. “What do you think of her?” Adolin asked. “Lift? She acts strange sometimes, even for a Radiant.” Arshqqam grimaced, lips drawn to a distasteful line. “She is what I needed, though I knew it not. And I would not have you tell her of my fondness for her, please. She needs a firm hand.” That was fondness? “Stump,” Arshqqam said through her spren, seeming wistful. “That is what the children called me. A nickname. The only other person who ever gave me a term of endearment was my father. The children see me as a person, when so many others have trouble. So the Stump I am. A glorious title, to come from children.” What an odd woman. But there was a calm solidity to her, and Adolin was glad to have her along. Once the conversation fell off, Adolin moved to walk with Shallan. They again went over the plans that Jasnah had drawn up for them. Working with the support of the collected monarchs, she’d left Adolin what seemed like an entire book’s worth of instructions. Fortunately, he felt he could execute them. He might not be able to grasp why the shape of Shadesmar was so fascinating to a mapmaker, but acting as a dignitary and an emissary? He’d been trained for this role since his youth. The basic plan was to present the honorspren with gifts along with written requests to begin relations. Nothing too pushy. An essay written by Jasnah, another written by Dalinar with Queen Fen’s advisement, and a third from the Azish imperial court. Adolin was to request admittance to the honorspren fortress, stay a few days to get them used to the idea of talking to humans, then leave with a promise that they’d speak more in the future. Some of the Windrunner spren thought this would be enough, but Syl—in a rare appearance when Kaladin wasn’t around—had come to him the day before. “I worry that this isn’t going to work, Adolin,” she’d said. “I don’t think they’ll even let you
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in. They aren’t like honorspren used to be. They’re afraid and they’re angry. I’m glad you want to try, but … be prepared for disappointment. And don’t let them try to blame you for what Radiants did before.” Ua’pam spotted the ship first. He waved to Adolin, then pointed over the side of the railing toward the rolling beads that were now only a hundred or so feet below. There, docked at the small patch of ground at the base of the pillar, was a flat ship. A barge. The front portion had a small raised deck, from which to steer its flying mandras. There was no sign of cabins or a hold—far less luxurious than the vessels they’d taken the last time. Of course, he wouldn’t care to repeat much about that particular experience. He’d gladly take a barge if it meant a peaceful voyage instead. “My cousin,” Ua’pam said, pointing to a figure on the barge waving a light. “Like him!” “I’ll try.” “You will!” Ua’pam said. “Another peakspren?” Adolin asked, squinting. “Yes!” “We saw some of those on our last trip,” Adolin said. “They left us stranded at Celebrant.” “Kasiden peakspren, from the east? They are fools! Forget them.” “You have … different nationalities?” “Obviously! Silly man. You will learn.” The creature clapped Adolin on the back with a firm strength. Though his stone hand was warm to the touch, it wasn’t hot like Adolin might have expected from the glowing light coming from the cracks. They made the last few rotations around the column before—at long last—arriving at sea level. There was a little stone building built up against the pillar underneath the ramp here, though scouts sent into Shadesmar had reported it empty. Adolin sent two men to search it anyway, then walked forward to meet Ua’pam’s cousin. He was bald, like other peakspren Adolin had met—though they tended to have more cracks on the head than on other parts of the body. He wore a hat not unlike the one Veil favored. He replaced that after bowing to them. “Welcome, human prince!” he said with an affable voice. “You will present payment!” Adolin held up a small bag of glowing spheres. “How long do you think it will take to get to the southern bank?” “Two weeks, perhaps,” he said, waving for Adolin’s men to lead the horses onto the long barge, which was around forty feet wide and a hundred feet long. A few other peakspren worked on board, moving boxes to make room for the newcomers. “Easy sailing lately. Few ships. You will be happy and relaxed!” “Few ships?” “Fused to the east,” the peakspren captain said, pointing. “Strange things in Shinovar. Honorspren acting uppity. Nobody wants to travel.” They’d tried to find a spren captain who would sail them straight to Lasting Integrity, the honorspren stronghold. Unfortunately, their options were limited—and all the spren they’d spoken to refused. They said that the honorspren didn’t like ships to sail too close. Most agreed that the safest path for Adolin’s group was to sail almost
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directly south until they hit land. From there, they could caravan southwest—along the Tukari coastline in the real world—until they reached Lasting Integrity. Adolin walked Gallant aboard, then set to unhooking the animal’s burdens. It wasn’t long before everyone was settled and looking happy to be done with the hike. He’d thought that going downhill the entire way would make it easy, but his calves ached and his knees hurt from the unnatural motion of stepping constantly on a slope. He’d noticed some of the Radiants using Stormlight to keep their energy up, but he hadn’t complained. Though their Stormlight resources couldn’t be renewed, the smaller spheres would start running out even before the ocean trip was over. The real reserves—the ones they needed to preserve—were all larger gemstones that would keep their Light much longer. Ua’pam joined his cousin in unhooking the ropes from the dock and helping the crew prepare the barge for sailing. This included harnessing up four very large mandras—long flying spren with several sets of filmy, undulating wings—that had been hovering about lazily on leashes. As soon as the mandras were hooked to the vessel, it rose a little higher in the beads. With that they were off—Adolin’s soldiers making camp on the barge deck, where they began arranging boxes to form walls and using tarps to make a kind of shelter. The barge didn’t move quickly, but there was a relaxing rhythm to the way it rolled over the beads. The previous ships had cut through them with great crashes. Here the sound of the beads was more peaceful, a quiet clicking. Adolin helped Shallan settle her things, including several trunks full of supplies—and she gracefully refrained from joking about how many more trunks Adolin had brought than her. It didn’t seem the boat would be moving quickly enough to require them to lash things down, so once her trunks were piled, he brushed his hands off—then paused, noticing his wife. She knelt in front of one of the trunks, which she’d opened to inspect. Her eyes were wide. “What?” he asked. She shook her head. “Nothing. Just some of my paints spilling. That’s going to be a mess to clean.” She shut the lid with a sigh, shaking her head as he offered to help. “No, I can do it.” Well, Adolin didn’t want to rest while his men were working. So he walked over to Gallant, who deserved a brushing after carting Adolin’s things down that ramp. He set to work, enjoying the familiar motions of the grooming. Gallant kept glancing at Adolin’s luggage, where he’d hidden some fruit. “Not yet,” Adolin said. The horse blew out in annoyance, then looked at Adolin’s brush. “Yes,” Adolin replied. “I brought all three. You think I’d bring seven different swords but forget your brushes?” The horse made a kind of clicking sound with his mouth, something Sureblood had never done. Adolin wasn’t certain how to interpret it. Mirth? “I’ll give you the fruit,” Adolin promised, continuing to brush, “but only after…” He trailed off as he
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noticed Maya standing nearby. He’d settled her near the others earlier, but she’d apparently decided not to stay there. Adolin continued brushing. She watched for a time. Then she tentatively held out her palm. Adolin handed her the brush and she stared at it. She seemed so baffled that he figured he must have misunderstood what she wanted. Then she started brushing the horse as he had. From the top down the side, with the same exact motion Adolin had used. Adolin chuckled. “You have to brush more than one section, Maya, or he’ll get annoyed.” He showed her, brushing along Gallant’s flank in the direction of the hair growth. Long, slow, careful strokes. She soon got the hang of it, and Adolin stepped back to get a drink. He found two of the peakspren sailors watching him. “Your deadeye,” one said, scratching at his stone head with a sound of rock on rock. “I’ve never seen one trained so well.” “She’s not trained,” Adolin said. “She wanted to help, so I showed her how.” One sailor looked to the other, then shook his head. They said something in a language Adolin didn’t understand, but they seemed unnerved by Maya, giving her a wide berth as they continued about their duties. Adolin sipped from his canteen, watching as the pillar retreated. He could barely make out the glow of the tower city far above, dwindling as they moved. I’ll do my part, Father, Adolin thought. I’ll give them your letters, but I’ll do more. I’ll find a way to persuade them to help us. And I’ll do it my way. The trick, of course, was to discover what his way was in the first place. * * * Shallan knelt before her trunk as everyone else unpacked and Adolin brushed his horse. She tried not to panic. She failed. So she settled for seeming like she wasn’t panicking. While packing her things, she’d taken a Memory of Mraize’s communication cube, packed away in her trunk. With her uncanny abilities, she could picture it precisely where she’d placed it. She’d wanted to be extra careful, but she hadn’t thought the Memory would be relevant so quickly. Because the cube had been moved. Not just shifted in among her things; it had been picked up and rotated. The face that had been up when she’d packed had a few faint scratches on it. That face was now to the side. An imperceptible difference; someone without her abilities would never have noticed. Someone had moved the cube. Somehow, between packing and arriving on the barge, someone had rifled through her things and used the cube. She could come to only one conclusion. The spy was indeed on this mission—and they were using this very device to report to Mraize. Much as you indicate, there is a division among the other Shards I would not have anticipated. Kaladin pulled the bandage snug on the boy’s ankle. “Next time, Adin,” he said, “take the steps one at a time.” The youth nodded solemnly. He was perhaps twelve
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or thirteen. “One at a time. Until I get my spren.” “Oh? Your spren?” “I’m gonna be a Windrunner,” the boy said. “Then I’ll float down steps.” “That’s what it means to be a Radiant, is it?” Kaladin asked, standing. “Floating.” “That, and you can stick your friends to the walls if they argue with you,” he said. “A Windrunner told me.” “Let me guess. Short fellow. Herdazian. Big smile?” “Yup.” “Well, until then,” Kaladin said, “I need you to keep your weight off that foot.” He looked to the father, standing nearby, his trousers marked with potter’s crem. “That means a crutch if he has to walk somewhere. Come back and see me in a week; his progress will let us know for certain it didn’t fracture.” The father helped his son with a thankful murmur. As they left, Kaladin dutifully washed his hands in the exam room’s basin. He’d picked up his father’s mannerisms in that regard. Wisdom of the Heralds, it was said. He’d met some of those Heralds now, and they didn’t seem so wise to him, but whatever. It felt strange to be wearing a white surgeon’s apron. Lirin had always wanted one of these; he’d said white clothing made people calm. The traveling butchers or barbers—men who often did surgery or tooth work in small towns—tended to be dirty and bloody. Seeing a surgeon wearing white instantly proclaimed, “This isn’t that sort of place.” He sent Hawin—the town girl who was reading for him today—to fetch the next patient. He dried his hands. Then, standing in the center of the small exam room, he released a long breath. “Are you happy?” Syl asked, flitting into the room from the one next door, where she’d been watching his father work. “I’m not sure,” Kaladin said. “I worry about the rest of them out there, going into battle without me. But it’s good to do something, Syl. Something that helps, but doesn’t wring me out like an old washrag.” Near the end of his time as a Windrunner, he’d found even simple sparring to be emotionally taxing. Daily activities, like assigning duties, had required so much effort that they’d left him with a pounding headache. He couldn’t explain why. This work—rememorizing medical texts, seeing patients, dealing with difficult parents or lighteyes—should have been worse. It wasn’t. Busy, but not overwhelmed, Kaladin never saw anyone who was hurt too badly—those went for Regrowth. So while there was tension to his work, there wasn’t immediacy. Was he happy? He wasn’t sad. For now, he’d accept “not sad.” Hawin led in the next patient, then excused herself to run to the privy. This patient was an older man with a patchwork beard and a friendly face. Kaladin recognized him; Mil never had been able to grow that beard out like he wanted. While the clinic drew mostly from the people who had lived in Hearthstone, his little town had sprouted significantly in the last few years. Most of the refugees hadn’t been Herdazian, but Alethi from villages closer to the border.
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So while Kaladin felt he should know all of his patients, many were strangers. It was good to see Mil again. He’d always been less mean to Kaladin’s family than some others. The old man was complaining of persistent headaches. And indeed, the same painspren from earlier in the day wiggled back up from the floor. After ruling out the easy causes—dehydration, lack of sleep—Kaladin had him describe where the pain generally originated from, and whether the headaches affected his vision. “Hawin,” Kaladin said, “read me the list of migraine prodromes please. You’ll find them at the divider between head and neck…” He trailed off, remembering his reader had left. A moment later though, a different voice said, “Um, prodromes. Right … Uh, just a sec.” He looked toward the reading desk to find Syl laboriously lifting pages and flipping them over. She didn’t have much strength in the Physical Realm, but ignoring gravity—walking up into the air to tow the page by its corner—helped, and the book wasn’t far from the appropriate page. She found it and landed on the large tome, kneeling to read the words one at a time. “Neck stiffness,” she said. “Um … conster … cons—” “Constipation,” Kaladin said. She giggled, then kept reading. “Mood changes, cravings, thirst, um, I think that says frequent need to pee. Storms. Stuff goes out of you, and it’s bad. Stuff doesn’t go out of you and it’s bad. How do you live like this?” He ignored that, chatting with Mil about his pains. He suggested visiting the Edgedancers for Regrowth—but Mil’s pains had been around for months, so it was unlikely that they could do anything. Fortunately, there were medicines that could help, and—with Jasnah capable of Soulcasting a wide range of substances—they had access to rare medications. Though Kaladin and the queen didn’t often see eye to eye, it said a great deal about her that she was willing to take time to make medicine. Kaladin gave Mil a requisition chit to get some from the medical quartermaster, and told him to spend a month recording each and every headache, with signs he’d noticed of it coming on. It wasn’t much, but Mil grinned ear to ear. Often people just wanted to know they weren’t fools or weaklings for coming in. They wanted to know their pains were real, and that there was something—even something small—they could do about the problem. Simple affirmation could be worth more than medication. He waved farewell to Mil, grateful that—despite several lifetimes’ worth of tragedy squeezed into the years between then and now—much of his surgeon’s training remained. He walked over to Syl, who had settled down with her legs over the side of the book. Today she was wearing something akin to what his mother often wore: an unassuming skirt and a buttoned blouse, faintly Thaylen in style. “So,” he said, “when did you learn to read?” “Last week.” “You learned to read in a week.” “It’s not as hard as it seemed at first. I figured you’d need someone to read
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for you, as a surgeon. I think I might be able to become surgery tools too. I mean, not a scalpel since, you know, I don’t actually cut flesh. But your father was using a little hammer the other day…” “For testing reflexes,” Kaladin said. “It’s best with a cloth wrap on the front, or rubber. Can you become things other than metal? I’d love to not have to share the stethoscope with Father.” Another expensive tool that Taravangian’s surgeons had provided for them upon request. “I don’t know,” she said. “I feel like … I feel like there is a lot to explore with our powers, Kaladin. Things that in the past maybe they didn’t have the time or resources to think about. Because they were always fighting.” He nodded, thoughtful. Syl got a far-off look in her eyes, and when she noticed him watching, she plastered a smile on her face. That struck him as fake; she seemed to be trying a little too hard today. Or maybe he was projecting. He stretched, then stepped out and peeked into the waiting room. Only a handful of people remained today. So Kaladin had time for a short break. He walked along the hallway into the family room, which had a door out onto the communal balcony. As he’d hoped when they’d come here, that wide balcony now served as a general-purpose meeting place for the people of Hearthstone, like a town square. Laundry flapped on lines to one side. Children ran and played. People sat and chatted. Kaladin trailed out to the edge of the balcony. Below he could see Dalinar’s armies gathering for the trip to Azir. He forced himself to look and to acknowledge he wasn’t going with them. A figure in blue streaked by, soaring through the air. Leyten must have seen Kaladin, because a short time later a larger group of Windrunners hovered up near the balcony. Most everyone stopped their activities, children running to the balcony’s edge. As one, the Windrunners saluted. The Bridge Four salute; though most had never been in Bridge Four and didn’t use the salute to one another, they always gave it to him and other members of the original Windrunners. He returned the Bridge Four salute to them all, tapping his wrists together. The fifty-odd Windrunners turned and streaked back down. Below, light flashed in a circle around the Oathgate, making an entire battalion of troops vanish. They’d learned that how much Stormlight was expended for a transfer depended on the Radiant operating the device—the more experienced the Radiant, the less Stormlight required. Jasnah was probably operating today; she could do things with her powers that were well beyond the rest of them. Though she didn’t show it off, she’d plainly sworn the Fourth Ideal. The one Kaladin would never reach. “They’re all going away,” Syl said softly, landing on his shoulder. “Not all of them,” Kaladin said. “Around twenty will stay to guard the tower.” “But none of our friends.” It was true. All the former members of Bridge Four
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were going with Dalinar. Maybe Rlain would stay behind, and work on the fields? Though he often chose to go with the Windrunner support staff, to help out there, with Dabbid and a few squire hopefuls. Watching them all fly off, it was impossible not to feel so very alone. Remember the peace you have felt this last week, Kaladin thought. Don’t be sorry for yourself. Be excited for the new path forward you’re making. The thoughts didn’t work; it still hurt to see them all leave. Hurt to know Shallan and Adolin had gone off to Shadesmar without him. He had his parents and his new brother, and he appreciated that. But the men and women of Bridge Four had become equally important to him. That part of his life was over. Best not to dwell on it. Kaladin returned to the exam room. Hawin was waiting, so he sent her for the next patient. He settled into a rhythm, seeing patients, occasionally sticking his head into the next exam room to ask his father for advice on a diagnosis or remedy. He dealt with an unusual number of coughs. Apparently there was something moving through the tower—a sickness that left people with mucus in their lungs and an overall feeling of aches. He’d never encountered anything like it. His father had been tracking it though, and said that Kharbranthian surgeons reported it wasn’t deadly. A plague from the West that, when all was said and done, didn’t live up to its reputation. The sickness barely attracted any plaguespren—though there didn’t seem to be many around the tower to attract, so that would be part of it. He recommended lots of rest, fluids, and handwashing. The day stretched long, and the patients slowed to a trickle. One woman stood out to him. She was a refugee, and while getting treated for her coughs, she asked if Kaladin had seen her uncle. She’d heard of someone matching his description arriving in Hearthstone immediately before the evacuation. Kaladin had her wait and went looking for his father. Lirin’s exam room was empty, but Hesina’s voice rose from the waiting room, so Kaladin walked out to ask her about the refugee’s uncle. Right before he arrived, Kaladin heard a familiar voice that made him freeze in place. “—always been like this,” the gruff voice said. “Been clean for … what, six months now? Storm me. Six months. That’s something. Can’t stand the battle though, not any longer. It’s gotten inside me, see. Itches at my brain.” Kaladin burst into the waiting room to find Teft chatting with his mother. The older man was out of uniform, wearing common trousers and shirt, his grey beard trimmed. Not as short as an ardent’s beard, but not distinctively long either. There was no sign of his spren, Phendorana, though she generally preferred to hide from sight. “Teft?” Kaladin said. “You were mobilized. Why aren’t you with everyone else?” “Can’t go,” Teft said. “Too much wrong with my brain. Went and spoke to the Blackthorn, and he said
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it would be a good idea for me to step down.” “You … Teft, you’re doing better. You have no reason to step down from duty.” Teft shrugged. “Felt like it was time. Got a bit of a cough too. And an ache in my knee, even when there aren’t storms. War’s for young kids, not old dried-up pieces of bark.” Hesina cocked her head, seeming confused—but Syl landed on Kaladin’s shoulder and gasped at seeing Teft, then clapped excitedly. “Rock is gone,” Teft said, “and Moash … Moash is worse than gone. Sigzil needs to lead the rest of them, without me being baggage to bother him. You and I were the start of this though. Figure we ought to stick together.” “Teft,” Kaladin said softer, stepping forward. “You can’t follow me here.” Teft lifted his chin, defiant. “I order you to go back to duty,” Kaladin said. “Oh? Orders? You ain’t got knots on your shoulder now, lad. You can’t order me to do anything.” He sat down in a waiting room chair, folding his arms. “I feel sick. Not right in the head. Nobody can argue that ain’t so.” Kaladin looked to his mother, feeling helpless. She shrugged. “You shouldn’t force someone into war, Kaladin. Not unless you want to be like Amaram.” “You’re taking Teft’s side?” Kaladin asked. “Lad,” Teft said softly, “you ain’t the only one with a mind full of horrors. You ain’t the only one whose hands shake now and then, thinking of it all. I need a rest too. That’s Kelek’s own truth.” He was exaggerating. Kaladin knew he was. The man—while prone to addictive and self-destructive behavior—was not battle shocked. That wasn’t something you could easily prove, however. Especially when the man in question was as obstinate as Teft. Teft unfolded his arms, then folded them again, as if to make the gesture more firmly. His clothing was neat and clean, but there was always something a little frayed about Teft. You got the sense that the uniform never quite fit him, as if Teft was half a size between standard measurements. That said, he was—to his core—a military man. If there was one thing a good sergeant knew, it was to never let your officer go into an unknown situation alone. Who knew what trouble a lighteyes would get into without his common sense tagging along? Teft took ideas like that to heart. And Kaladin knew, meeting Teft’s eyes, that the man was never going to budge. “Fine,” Kaladin said. Teft leaped to his feet, gave Kaladin’s mother a little salute, then fell into step behind Kaladin as they walked toward the exam room. “So, what are we doing?” Teft asked. “You said you wanted a diagnosis,” Kaladin said, stopping outside the door. “Nah. Know I’m crazy already. You going to poke at me until I snap? Skip that part. What are we doing today? Binding wounds?” Kaladin gave him a level stare. Teft just stared back, stubborn as a storm. Well, Kaladin had trained them all as surgeon’s assistants, with knowledge
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of basic field medicine. He could do worse than Teft as an aide. It didn’t seem like he had a choice either way. That should have frustrated him. Instead he found himself feeling warm. They weren’t all gone. “Thank you, Teft,” he whispered. “You shouldn’t have given up so much. But … thank you.” Teft nodded. “There is a refugee woman here looking for her uncle,” Kaladin said. “Shall we see if we can track him down for her?” Endowment at least responded to my overtures, though I have not been able to locate Invention again following our initial contact. Radiant did not want to be in control at the moment. As the second day of their voyage dawned—or, well, occurred, since the sun didn’t move in Shadesmar—Shallan retreated entirely. Spending the last day feigning an upbeat attitude had left her exhausted. Unfortunately, after Veil’s stunt in seizing control a few days back—violating the compact—neither wanted her to be in charge. So it rested on Radiant to rise, do her exercises, and then try to figure out something to do with her day. Adolin’s soldiers busied themselves tidying the camp space on the barge, then doing the multitude of other things—like sharpening weapons or oiling armor—that military men used to pass the time. Zu was chatting with the other peakspren, Arshqqam was reading, and Adolin was caring for his swords. Radiant set Beryl and Ishnah to recording observations about Shadesmar, and assigned Vathah to see if the peakspren sailors needed any help. And what to do with herself? Find the spy, Shallan whispered deep inside. We need to find out which one is the spy. I am ill-equipped for espionage, Radiant thought. She walked the perimeter of the deck, observing the Radiant spren. Four different varieties, each unique. Perhaps you can do drawings for now, until we decide to let Veil finish her punishment. Finding the spy isn’t something we need to do immediately, after all. But Shallan didn’t emerge. Sometimes this was how it was; they couldn’t always choose which of them would be in control. But Shallan’s growing tension … that was worrisome. You’re still troubled by how Veil violated our compact, aren’t you? Radiant asked. We’re supposed to be getting better, not worse, Shallan thought. Everyone makes mistakes. Everyone slips. Not you, Shallan thought. You have never seized control like that. Radiant felt an immediate stab of guilt. But there was nothing to be done about that; best to move forward. Radiant took a seat on the deck near the railing, then flipped through Ialai’s book as she listened to the churning beads. Together, the Three had figured out most everything in the book. The place names were locations beyond the various expanses in Shadesmar—worlds beyond the edge of the map. Pattern had confirmed this by chatting with a few other spren who had met travelers from these places. Another section of the book contained Ialai’s conjectures and information about the leader of the Ghostbloods, the mysterious Thaidakar. Whoever this was, Radiant thought—from the context of what was written—that
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he must be someone from one of those far-off worlds. There was a final clue in the book, one that Radiant found most curious. Ialai had discovered that the Ghostbloods were obsessed with a specific spren named Ba-Ado-Mishram. That was a name from myth, one of the Unmade. It had been this spren who had taken over for Odium following the Final Desolation; she had granted the singers forms of power. By capturing Ba-Ado-Mishram—locking her in a gemstone—humankind had stolen the minds of the singers in ancient times. They knew this from the brief—but poignant—messages left by the ancient Radiants before they abandoned Urithiru. By cross-referencing those with musings in Ialai’s book, Radiant began to get a picture of what had happened so many centuries ago. She was increasingly certain Mraize was hunting the gemstone that held Ba-Ado-Mishram. He’d likely thought he would find it at Urithiru; but if it had been there, then the Midnight Mother—who had controlled the place for centuries—surely would have found it and rescued her ally. He also wants to transport Stormlight offworld, Shallan thought, emerging. I believe he was honest in that point. So perhaps these two are related? Perhaps Ba-Ado-Mishram can help him in this quest? You’d do better at connecting these ideas than I will, Radiant thought to her. Why don’t you take control? Is that what this is? Shallan demanded. You’re trying to trick me? Go find the spy. It is not my area of expertise, Shallan. Fine, she thought. It’s time to let Veil out then. I vote to end her punishment. Radiant subsided, and Veil surprisingly found herself in control. It had been four days now since she’d taken over and invited the three most questionable Lightweavers to join the expedition. She leaped to her feet, looking around the barge. It felt good to be in charge again, particularly in this place of mystery and secrets. Shadesmar. The bead ocean, a black sky, strange spren, and infinite questions to investigate. It was … It was the perfect place for Shallan. Find the spy, Shallan said. Veil hesitated, then sat back down and pointedly dug through Shallan’s satchel. She got out a charcoal pencil and flipped to an empty page, then began to draw. What are you doing? Shallan demanded. You’re a terrible artist. “I know,” Veil whispered. “And you hate watching me try.” She made a crude attempt at drawing Ua’pam, the peakspren, as he thumped past. The result was cringeworthy. Why? Shallan asked. “I’m sorry,” Veil said, “for violating the compact. I needed to get those three on the mission so I could watch them. But I should have persuaded you two first.” So go investigate. “Radiant is right,” Veil said. “That can wait.” It was painful for her to admit, but something was more important. She continued her terrible drawing. We’re not going to let you retreat and hide, Radiant thought—and Veil could feel her relief in discovering the two of them agreed on this. Something is wrong, Shallan. Something bigger than what Veil did. Something that’s affecting all
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of us, making us erratic. “I used to think you kept secrets from Adolin because you were like me and enjoyed the thrill of being part of the Ghostbloods,” Veil said. “I was wrong. There’s something more, isn’t there? Why do you keep lying? What is going on?” I … Shallan said. I … The dark thing stirred inside her. Formless, the personality that could be. The dark thing that represented Shallan’s fears, compounded. Veil had her flaws. She was a drunkard and had trouble with scope and perspective. She represented a whole host of attributes Shallan wanted, but knew she shouldn’t. Yet at her core, Veil had a singular purpose: She’d been created to protect Shallan. And she would send herself to Damnation before she let that Formless thing take her place. She gripped her pencil and started drawing Adolin. Really, really poorly. I don’t care, Shallan thought. Veil gave him a unibrow. Veil … Veil drew him with crossed eyes. That’s going too far. Veil put him in an ugly coat. And cut-off, knee-length trousers. “Fine!” Shallan said, ripping the page out of the sketchbook and wadding it up. “You win. Insufferable woman.” She settled back against the barge’s railing and took a deep breath. Then, as the other two insisted, she let herself relax. It really … really was all right. Yes, someone had used the communication cube to call Mraize. Yes, someone had invaded her things. Yes, one of her friends was undoubtedly a spy. But she could handle the problem. She could get through this. But they had two weeks of travel ahead of them. So today, she could relax. Because she was on a barge full of spren, and they were all so fascinating. Storms, how had she let herself retreat at a time like this? And for Veil to give up so willingly … I’m sorry, Veil thought. I’ll do better. And we can work on the spy another time. Right, then. Shallan pointedly ripped up the sketch of Adolin and stuffed the pieces in her satchel, then gripped her charcoal pencil and allowed herself to just draw. * * * Adolin found her five hours later, still sitting on the deck, her back to the railing, sketching furiously. He’d brought her food—warm curry and lavis, from the smell of it. That would be some of the last “real” food they’d have for a while. A part of her acknowledged the way the scents made her stomach growl. But for the moment, she remained mesmerized as she worked on her sketches of the peakspren. It felt so good to let go and draw. To not worry about a mission, or her own psychosis, or even about Adolin. To become so wrapped up in the art that nothing else mattered. There was an infinite sensation to creation, as if time smeared like paint on a canvas. Mutable. Changeable. When she finally drifted out of it to the scent of sweet curry and the sight of Adolin smiling as he sat down beside her, she felt worlds
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better. More whole. More herself than she’d been in months. “Thanks,” she said, handing him the sketchbook and taking the food. She leaned against him as she began to eat, watching Arshqqam and her mistspren pass—Shallan needed to do a sketch of that strange spren at some point. “Have you made any progress on that book of Ialai’s?” Adolin asked. “I’ve figured out nearly the entire thing,” Shallan said. “It’s filled with conjectures, though, and not much substance. The Ghostbloods seem to be searching for Ba-Ado-Mishram, one of the Unmade. But I can’t determine for certain what they intend to do once they find her.” Adolin grunted. “And the spy? Among our numbers?” “Still working on it,” she said. “But I’d rather not talk about that today. I need some time to mull it over.” She took another bite, feeling his chest against her back. “You’re tense, Adolin. Aren’t we supposed to be able to relax, this part of the trip?” “I’m worried about the mission.” “Because of what Syl said? About the honorspren being unlikely to listen?” He nodded. “If they turn us away, they turn us away,” she said. “But you can’t blame yourself for things that haven’t happened yet. Storms, who knows what will change between now and the time we arrive.” “I suppose,” he said. She took a spoonful of lavis and felt the individual grains with her tongue, plump and saturated with sweet curry making a mush in her mouth—gross, but wonderful. Pattern always talked about how strange humans were, surviving off the things they destroyed. “When I left my homeland,” she said to Adolin, “I thought I knew what I was heading into. But I had no idea what would happen to me. Where I’d end up.” “You had a pretty good idea,” Adolin said. “You set out to be Jasnah’s ward, and you managed it.” “I set out to rob her,” Shallan said softly. She felt Adolin shift, looking toward her. “My family was impoverished, threatened by creditors, my father dead. We thought maybe I could rob that heretic Alethi woman, steal her Soulcaster—then we could use it to become rich again.” She braced herself for the criticism. The shock. Instead, Adolin laughed. Bless him, he laughed. “Shallan, that is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard!” “Isn’t it though?” she said, twisting and grinning at him. “Robbing Jasnah.” “Yes.” “Robbing Jasnah.” “I know!” He eyed her, then his grin broadened. “She’s never mentioned this, so I bet you did it, didn’t you? At least, you fooled her for a little while?” Storms, I love this man, she thought. For his humor, his brightness, his genuine goodness. With that smile, brighter than the cold Shadesmar sun, she became Shallan. Deeply and fully. “I totally did,” she whispered to him. “I swapped it for a fake one, and almost escaped. Except, you know, she’s Jasnah.” “Yes, the big flaw in your plan. You’d probably have managed it against a normal person.” “Well, the Soulcaster was always a dummy, so I was doomed from the start. Even
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if it had been real … I had this overinflated idea of how great a thief I could be. It’s funny to remember I had those same silly inclinations before Veil.” “Shallan,” he said. “You don’t need to feel insecure any longer. The mission in the warcamps? You executed that perfectly.” “Until someone else executed Ialai. Perfectly.” She looked at him, then smiled. “Don’t worry. I don’t struggle with feelings of insecurity any longer.” “Good.” “I’d say I’m pretty good at them.” “Shallan…” She grinned again, letting him know she was feeling all right despite the comment. He stared into her eyes, then grinned himself. And somehow she knew what was coming. “Well, I’d say you’re a pretty good thief…” he began. “Oh, don’t you dare.” “… because you stole my heart.” She groaned, leaning her head back. “You dared.” “What? You’re the only one who can make bad jokes?” “My jokes are not bad. They’re incredible. And they take a ton of work to create on the spot for the exact perfect situation.” “A ton of work. To create on the spot. As if you don’t prepare them ahead of time?” “Never.” “Yeah? I’ve noticed you often seem to have one ready when you meet someone.” “Well, of course. That kind of joke is a great greeting. They’re supposed to be hilarious.” He frowned. “As in,” she added, “not goodbyelarious.” He stared at her. Then he went a little cross-eyed. Ha! Veil thought. HA! “Oh dear,” Shallan said. “Did I break you?” “But … ‘hilarious’ doesn’t start with a ‘hi’ sound.… It doesn’t make sense.…” “It was a stealth joke,” Shallan said. “Hiding in plain sight, like a Lightweaver. That’s what makes it genius.” “Genius? Shallan, that was awful.” “You’re full of awe,” she said. “Got it.” She smiled and snuggled against him, relaxing as she set down her bowl and took her sketchbook from him. She would finish her meal after she drew a little more. The moment demanded it. Adolin put his arm around her and watched, then whistled softly. “Those sketches are really good, Shallan. Even for you. Have you done any others?” Feeling warm, she turned the page to show off the cultivationspren she’d drawn. “I’d like to find both male and female subjects for each variety of spren. There might not be time for it on this trip, but it occurred to me that no one, at least not in the modern era, has ever done a natural history of the Radiant spren.” “This is wonderful,” he said. “And thank you. For helping me relax. You’re right—I can’t know what is coming. The entire situation could change by the time we reach the honorspren. I’ll try to remember that.” He wrapped his arm loosely around her, the skin of his hand brushing her face. “Anything I can help you with?” “Help me get the clothing correct?” she asked, turning back to the peakspren page. “I feel like this garment pinned to the shoulder isn’t hanging right in the picture.…” They moved on to light topics. A
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piece of Shallan felt like she should be doing something more important, but Veil whispered a promise. They’d worry about the spy on the next day. Work on something else for a while. Then approach the problem fresh. You told Adolin about robbing Jasnah, Radiant said. Well done. It wasn’t so bad, was it? No. It hadn’t been. But that was the least of her crimes. Others were darker, hidden deeply—so deeply she honestly couldn’t remember them. And didn’t want to. Eventually, the strange mistspren drifted near. The creature’s free-form shape seemed like it would be difficult to capture in a sketch. Like steam, somehow trapped into a humanoid shape, contained by clothing and that strange mask. She flipped to a new page and began drawing, but the spren—who had introduced herself as Dreaming-though-Awake—peeked at the sketchbook. “Oh,” she said. “It is just me?” “What did you expect?” Adolin asked. “She mentioned the Unmade earlier,” Dreaming-though-Awake said. “I thought she might be drawing them.” Shallan paused, lifting her pencil. “Do you know anything of the Unmade?” “Hardly anything,” the spren said. “What do you want to know?” “What happened to Ba-Ado-Mishram?” Shallan asked, eager. “What was she like? How did she Connect to the singers, and how did trapping her cause them to become parshmen?” “Excellent questions,” the spren said. “And…” Adolin prompted. “I told you, I know hardly anything,” she replied. “I find the questions fascinating. What you wonder tells me so much.” She began to move off. “Seriously?” Shallan said. “You don’t know anything about Ba-Ado-Mishram.” “I was not alive when she was free,” the spren said. “If you wish to know more, ask the Heralds. I have heard several were there for her binding. Nalan. Kelek. Find them; ask them.” She walked off, more drifting than stepping, though she did have legs and feet. “That one makes me uncomfortable,” Adolin said. “Yeah,” Shallan said, setting aside the sketchbook and picking up her bowl of food—now cold, but still tasty. “But that’s comforting, in a way. Spren should be alien, should have their own ways of thinking and talking. I like that Dreaming-though-Awake is a little weird.” “You simply like the company,” Adolin said. She smiled, but the words the spren had said lingered with her. Heralds were there. And the Heralds were a major focus of the Sons of Honor—whose leader Mraize has sent me to hunt. It was all connected. She had to figure out how to unravel it all. Without unraveling herself. Whimsy was not terribly useful, and Mercy worries me. I do think that Valor is reasonable, and suggest you approach her again. It has been too long, in her estimation, since your last conversation. “I’m sorry, Brightlord,” the ardent said as she walked through the room, picking up cushions from the floor and stacking them in her arms. “I do know the man you’re searching for, but he’s not here anymore.” “You discharged him?” Kaladin asked, walking at her side. “No, Brightlord. Not exactly.” She handed the stack of cushions to him, clearly expecting him
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to hold them as she walked to the next row and began gathering those. Kaladin followed, balancing the stack of pillows. He and Teft were still trying to track down the refugee woman’s missing uncle. His name was Noril, and Kaladin’s father remembered the man. Not surprising, considering Lirin’s near-superhuman ability to recall people and faces. Noril, who had lost an arm sometime in the past, had arrived in Hearthstone on the same day Kaladin had brought the flying ship. Noril had displayed signs of severe shock, so Lirin had taken extra care of him, making sure the man was on the airship for the flight to Urithiru. After the ship arrived, things got chaotic. Overwhelmed by the number of refugees and their ailments, Lirin had sent Noril to the ardents. So, that was where Kaladin and Teft had come today. It felt odd to be spending so much time personally looking for one man when there were many patients to see. Coming here wasn’t particularly effective triage. Unfortunately, that was a part of being a surgeon that Kaladin had never mastered. Giving up on one to save two others? Sure, it was great in principle. But doing it hurt. Kaladin walked alongside the ardent while Teft leaned against the wall near the entrance to the room. It was otherwise empty, though some kind of training or teaching had plainly been going on earlier, judging by the rows of cushions. “If you didn’t let Noril go,” Kaladin said, “what happened to him?” “We sent him on,” the ardent explained. She was holding so many cushions, he couldn’t see her through them. “My devotary cares for physical ailments. We help rehabilitate those who have lost limbs, eyes, or their hearing in battle. He had only one arm, yes, but his wounds ran deeper.” There were three cushions left on the floor, and when she tried to bend to pick them up, her stack teetered. So Kaladin held out his hand for her stack. Then he held out his other hand as well. “You can’t carry them all,” she said. “Let’s…” She trailed off as she saw what Kaladin had done. The stack he’d originally been holding—now Lashed upward just enough—remained floating in the air beside him. “Oh,” she said, then inspected him more closely. “Oh! You’re Brightlord Stormblessed!” Kaladin nudged the floating stack of cushions so they lazily floated over toward the far wall—where other unused cushions were piled—then took her stack. The ardent quickly grabbed the last three, blushing as she walked him over to the wall. “I had no idea who you were! I’m sorry, Radiant.” “It’s fine,” Kaladin said. “Don’t make anything of it, please.” As if being lighteyed wasn’t bad enough. “Well, the man you want,” she said, “we couldn’t help him. We … did try to keep him rather than sending him on. We knew he was in bad shape, after all. But…” “Bad shape?” Kaladin asked. “Oh yes,” she said. “Last week we caught him trying to hang himself. The surgeon who sent him here warned us
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to watch for it, fortunately, so we saved him. Then we sent him on to the Devotary of Mercy. They care for those who … have trouble with their minds.” “You knew he might be a danger to himself,” Teft said, walking up, “and you didn’t send him there immediately?” “We … no,” she said. “We didn’t.” “Irresponsible,” Teft said. “My father knew and sent him here first,” Kaladin reminded Teft. “I’m sure the ardents did what they could.” “Go to level four, Brightlord,” she said. “Right near the center, along Northbeam and not quite to the Aladar Princedom.” He set down the last of the cushions and nodded to Teft, and the two of them began the hike. Everything in Urithiru was a hike, especially on the lower floors. Shallan always knew her way around just by the strata on the walls, which waved in colorful lines as different layers of rock had been cut through to make the tunnel. Kaladin considered himself good with directions, but he had to use the painted lines on the floor to get anywhere. “Still can’t believe how much of this place hasn’t been explored,” Teft said as they walked. “I suspect by now most of it has been explored,” Kaladin said. “Brightness Navani’s teams have mapped all the lower levels, and done walk-throughs of all the upper ones.” “Walk-throughs, yes,” Teft said, eyeing a dark corridor. “But explored? You might walk the woods every day and never see one out of a hundred things in there watching you.” As they struck inward, they saw fewer people. The lit areas—lined with Stormlight lanterns locked tight and bolted to the walls—dwindled behind, and they needed handheld spheres for light. There was a certain eeriness to these inner sections of the tower. Most everyone lived and worked on the rim. The only times they would strike inward would be to visit the atrium or one of the first-floor markets. He’d noted people taking long walks all the way around the rim to one of the lit corridors rather than cutting through the darker center. Storms, he’d found himself doing the same thing. There was still space on the rim of the fifth and sixth floors, so why had this monastery chosen such an inward section? He was glad when they eventually reached a section of hallway that had permanent lanterns again. Paint on the floor indicated they were approaching Aladar’s princedom. A right turn at a large intersection with glyphs on the floor led them to the monastery—marked by a large wooden door blocking the way forward, painted with a glyphpair in the shape of the Vorin sword, indicating a religious building. “Building” was, of course, a stretch. Generally for a small complex like this, people would find an area with a grouping of different-sized rooms and hallways and divide them off with a few doors at key entry points. Someone was monitoring the door, for it swung open as they approached, revealing a younger male ardent. “Brightlord,” the man said, bowing. He squinted at Teft, trying
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to pick out his eye color. Then he bowed again. “Brightlord.” Teft grumbled at that. These days, after being Radiant for as long as they had, their eyes rarely faded anymore. And there was no stopping him from complaining about being a lighteyes. Unlike Kaladin, who had gotten over it ages ago. “If you have come to commission prayers or burn glyphwards, I would direct you toward the Devotary of Kelek, a little farther outward from here,” the ardent said, polishing a pair of spectacles and squinting at Kaladin. “We don’t take prayer commissions here.” “Pardon,” Kaladin said. “But we’re not wanting prayers. Did you receive a patient recently who was missing an arm? His family is looking for him, and we’re helping track him down.” “Can’t reveal patient information,” the man said in a bored tone, putting on his spectacles—then cursing softly and pulling them off again and rubbing them on his shirt, trying to get a spot he’d apparently missed. “I’d need the authorization of at least a highlord of the third dahn. Otherwise, speak to Sister Yara for normal visitation requests. I have a form somewhere for your wife to fill out.” Teft glanced at Kaladin. “You do it,” Kaladin said. “Syl’s out for her morning flight, and she’ll snap at me if I call her back early.” Teft sighed and reached his hands out, making a silvery Shardspear appear. The Stormlight in the three nearest lanterns went out, streaming into him, setting his eyes aglow. A luminescent mist began to rise from his skin. Even his beard seemed to shine, and his clothing—once so pedestrian—rippled as he rose into the air about a foot. The ardent stopped polishing his spectacles. He squinted at Teft, as if forgetting what was in his hands. “Oh. Brightlord Radiant,” he said, then bowed reverently first to Teft, then to Kaladin—though the man didn’t seem to recognize Kaladin. “Brightlord Radiant. I will see to your request.” Kaladin didn’t much care for the reverence people showed them. People who had once spat after hearing someone speak of the “Lost Radiants” had turned around quickly when their highprince and their queen had each become one. It made Kaladin wonder how quickly these people might turn on them, if reverence suddenly became unfashionable. That said, there were perks. Particularly with the ardents, who had quickly pointed out that Vorinism had always been closely aligned with the Knights Radiant. This one let them in now, absently tucking his spectacles in his robe’s breast pocket. He led them to a records room, stacked with ledgers and paper, and asked one of the ardents inside to watch the door while he saw to their “esteemed guests.” There wasn’t much enthusiasm in his tone, but he didn’t seem the enthusiastic type. “One arm…” the ardent said, searching a ledger near the door. “Name is Noril,” Teft said. “Doesn’t seem he’d have any reason to go by a false one.” “He’s here, Brightlord,” the ardent said, leaning in close and pointing at words on the page. He patted at his robe’s
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lower pockets, as if searching for his spectacles. “He told us he has no living relatives though. Maybe it’s a different person. Ah, and he’s on watch for suicide, Brightlords. One unsuccessful attempt. A profoundly disturbed man.” “Show us to him,” Kaladin said. The ardent finally found his spectacles, but just started wiping them again. He led the way out of the records room and down a dark corridor lit by infrequently placed lanterns. Kaladin followed, raising a sphere to give the place more light. As if it weren’t bad enough to be trapped deep in the tower, away from light and wind. Did they have to make it so dim as well? He couldn’t help but be reminded of his days in prison, following that time he’d helped Adolin in the arena. Kaladin had been locked up on dozens of occasions, but that one had felt the worst. Sitting in there fuming, stewing, festering. Feeling that the winds and the open sky had been stolen from him … Dark times. Ones he’d rather not remember. They passed door after door alongside the corridor, each marked by a numeric glyph. He saw not a few gloomspren around. The doors had small windows in them, but Kaladin assumed the dark cells beyond were unused—at least until he heard a voice muttering from one of them. At that, he stopped and held up his sphere, looking in. A woman sat in the featureless cell, her back to a bare wall, rocking back and forth as she muttered something unintelligible. “How many of these rooms have people in them?” Kaladin asked. “Hm? Oh, most of them,” the ardent said. “We’re a little understaffed, to be honest, Brightlord. We took in patients from most all the princedoms when we consolidated here. If you could bring the matter to the queen’s attention…” “You lock them in here?” Teft demanded. “In the dark?” “Many of the mentally deficient react poorly to overstimulation,” the ardent said. “We work hard to give them quiet, calm places to live, free of bright lights.” “How do you know?” Kaladin asked, striding after the ardent. “The therapy is prescribed by some of the best thinkers among the ardentia.” “But how do you know?” Kaladin said. “Do any of them get better? Have you tried multiple theories and compared them? Have you tested different cures or remedies on different patient populations?” “There are no cures for mental ailments, Brightlord,” the ardent said. “Even the Edgedancers can’t do anything for them, unless their state is related to a recent brain trauma.” He stopped beside a specific door scratched with the glyph for twenty-nine. “With all due respect, Brightlord, you should leave medical issues to those trained in them.” He rapped on the door with his knuckles. “This is him.” “Open the door,” Kaladin said. “Brightlord, he might be dangerous.” “Has he ever attacked anyone?” Kaladin asked. “Has he hurt anyone other than himself?” “No,” the ardent said, “but the insane can be unpredictable. You could be harmed.” “Lad,” Teft said, “you could stick us with
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a hundred swords, and we’d just complain that our outfits got ruined. Open the storming door.” “Oh. Um, all right.” He fished in his pocket, came out with his spectacles, then fished in the other one until he found a ring of keys. He held the keys close to his nose one by one to see the glyphs on them, then finally unlocked the door. Kaladin stepped in, his sapphire broam revealing a figure who lay huddled on the floor by the wall. There was some straw for a bed beside the other wall, but the man wasn’t using it. “Can’t give him blankets or sheets,” the ardent explained, peeking in. “Might try to strangle himself.” “Noril?” Kaladin asked, hesitant. “Noril, are you awake?” The man didn’t say anything, though he did stir. Kaladin stepped closer, noting the sewn-up sleeve. The man was missing his entire left arm. The room didn’t smell too bad, all things considered, so at least the ardents kept him clean. The clothing was barely shorts and a thin shirt. “Noril,” Kaladin said, kneeling. “Your niece, Cressa, is looking for you. You aren’t alone. You have family.” “Tell her I’m dead,” the man whispered. “Please.” “She’s worried about you,” Kaladin said. The man grunted, continuing to lie on the floor, facing the wall. Storms. I know that feeling, Kaladin thought. I’ve been there. He looked around the silent chamber cut off from the sunlight and wind. This was so, so wrong. “Can you stand?” he asked Noril. “I won’t force you to go talk to her. I merely want to take you somewhere else.” Noril didn’t reply. Kaladin leaned closer. “I know how you feel. Dark, like there’s never been light in the world. Like everything in you is a void, and you wish you could just feel something. Anything. Pain would at least tell you you’re alive. Instead you feel nothing. And you wonder, how can a man breathe, but already be dead?” Noril turned his head, looking at Kaladin and blinking eyes red from lack of sleep. He wore a rough beard, unkempt. “Come with me and talk,” Kaladin said. “That’s all you have to do. Afterward, if you want me to tell your niece that you’re dead, I will. You can come back here and rot. But if you don’t come now, I’m going to keep annoying you. I’m good at it. Trust me; I learned from the best.” Kaladin stood up and offered a hand. Noril took it and let Kaladin haul him to his feet. They walked toward the door. “What is this?” the ardent said. “You can’t let him out. He’s in our charge! We have to care for…” He trailed off as Kaladin fixed him with a stare. Storms. Anyone would turn suicidal if kept in here too long. “Lad,” Teft said, pulling the ardent gently out of the way, “I wouldn’t confront Brightlord Stormblessed right now. Not if you value keeping all your bits attached to you.” Kaladin led Noril out of the monastery and straight toward the rim of
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the tower. Teft joined him, and the ardent—Kaladin hadn’t asked his name—trailed along behind. He didn’t go running for help, fortunately, but he clearly wasn’t willing to let them just leave with a patient either. Noril walked quietly, and Kaladin let him adjust to the idea of being out of his cell. “Kelek’s breath,” Teft muttered to Kaladin. “I was too harsh on that lady ardent. I chewed her out for keeping Noril instead of sending him to the experts—but if that’s what the experts were going to do, I see why she’d hesitate.” Kaladin nodded. Soon after, Syl came zipping through the corridor. “There you are,” she said. “Honorspren can feel where their knight is,” Kaladin said. “So you don’t need to act surprised at finding me.” Syl gave an exaggerated eye roll, and he swore she made her eyes bigger for emphasis. “What are we doing?” she said, landing on his shoulder and sitting primly with her legs crossed and her hands on her knees. “Actually, I don’t care. I need to tell you something. Aladar’s axehounds had puppies. I had no idea how much I needed to see puppies until I flew by them this morning. They are the grossest things on the planet, Kaladin. They’re somehow so gross that they’re cute. So cute I could have died! Except I can’t, because I’m an eternal sliver of God himself, and we have standards about things like that.” “Well, glad you’re feeling better.” “Yeah,” she said. “Me too.” She pointed toward Noril. “You found him, I see. Taking him to his niece?” “Not yet,” Kaladin said. He led Noril past a large corridor where people flowed in both directions. Across that, at long last, they stepped onto a balcony. A larger communal one, like the one by his clinic. Noril stopped in the archway, his eyes watering as he looked up at the sky. Teft took him by the arm and led him out a little farther, to where some chairs were set beside the railing, overlooking the mountains. Kaladin stepped up to the railing, and didn’t say anything at first. Noril finally spoke. “Is she all right? My niece?” “She’s worried about you,” Kaladin said, turning and settling into one of the seats. “My father—the surgeon you met in Hearthstone—says that you had a rough time of things before he met you.” The man nodded, his stare hollow. He’d lost his family in a brutal way, Lirin had said, while being unable to help. “For some of us,” Kaladin said, “it piles up bit by little bit. Until we realize we’re drowning. I thought I had it bad, but I suppose I wouldn’t trade places with you. Getting hit all at once like that…” Noril shrugged. “Nightmares?” Teft asked. “Yeah,” he said. “I can’t remember the details. Maybe that’s some mercy from the Almighty.” He took a deep breath, tipping his head back to see the sky. “I don’t deserve mercy. I don’t deserve anything.” “You just want to stop existing,” Kaladin said. “You don’t want to actually kill
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yourself, not on most days. But you figure it sure would be convenient if you weren’t around anymore.” “Better for everyone to not have to deal with me,” Noril said. Syl landed again on Kaladin’s shoulder and leaned forward, watching Noril with an intense expression. “It wouldn’t be, you know,” Kaladin said. “Better for everyone, if you vanished. Your niece loves you. Your return would make her life better.” “I can’t feel that way,” Noril said. “I know. That’s why you need someone to tell it to you. You need someone to talk to, Noril, when the darkness is strong. Someone to remind you the world hasn’t always been this way; that it won’t always be this way.” “How do you … know this?” Noril asked. “I’ve felt it,” Kaladin said. “Feel it most days.” Noril turned toward Teft. “A man can’t hate himself because of what he’s done or not done,” Teft said. “I used to. Still try to sometimes, but I keep reminding myself that’s the easy path. It isn’t what they would have wanted of me, you know?” “Yeah,” Noril said, sitting back. He still had that haunted cast to his eyes, but he at least seemed to be breathing more deeply. “Thank you. For bringing me out of that place. For talking to me.” Kaladin glanced at the ardent, who hovered behind them. Teft kept Noril talking—not about anything important, just where he was from. Apparently he’d lost his arm years ago, in a different event than when he’d lost his family. The more he talked, the better he seemed to feel. Not cured, by any means. But better. Kaladin rose and approached the ardent, who had settled down on a stone bench that was part of the balcony. The man had put on his spectacles, and was staring at Noril. “He’s talking,” the ardent said. “We haven’t been able to get more than a grunt out of him.” “That’s not surprising,” Kaladin said. “When you’re like him, it’s hard to feel like doing anything—even talking. Storms … when it’s bad for me, I think I want anything but someone to talk to. I’m wrong though. While you can’t force it, having someone to talk to usually helps. You should be letting him meet with others who feel like he does.” “That’s not in the book of treatments,” the ardent said. “It says we should keep lunatics away from each other. Talking together would make them feed off one another’s melancholy.” “I could see that happening,” Kaladin said. “But do you really know for certain? Have you tried it?” “No,” the ardent said. Seeming embarrassed, he glanced away from Kaladin. “I know you’re angry at us, Brightlord. But we do what we can. Most people, they want to ignore men like him. They shove them off to the ardents. You might think us callous, but we’re the only ones who care. Who try.” “I don’t think you’re callous,” Kaladin said. “I think you’re simply approaching this wrong. In surgery, we know that a man in shock should be
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repositioned so that his feet are up, his head down. But someone who has a wound to the back or neck should never be moved, not until we determine the extent of the damage. Different ailments, different wounds, can require severely different treatments. Tell me, what treatments do you give a person with melancholia?” “We…” The ardent swallowed. “Keep them away from anything that might aggravate or disturb them. Keep them clean. Let them be in peace.” “And someone with aggressive tendencies?” Kaladin asked. “The same,” the ardent admitted. “Battle shock? Seeing hallucinations?” “You know my answer already, Brightlord.” “Someone needs to do better for these people,” Kaladin said. “Someone needs to talk to them, try different treatments, see what they think works. What actually helps.” Storms, he sounded like his father. “We need to study their responses, use an empirical approach to treatment instead of just assuming someone who has suffered mental trauma is permanently broken.” “That all sounds great, Brightlord,” the ardent said. “But do you realize how much of a fight it would be to change the minds of the head ardents? Do you realize how much money and time it would cost to do what you’re suggesting? We don’t have the resources for that.” He looked to Noril, who had tipped his head back, his eyes closed, feeling the sunlight on his skin. Syl had landed on the chair beside him and was studying him as one might a grand painting. Kaladin felt a stirring deep within him. He’d worried that working with his father wouldn’t be truly fulfilling. He’d worried that he wouldn’t be able to protect people, as his oaths drove him to do. That he would make an inferior surgeon. But if there was one thing he understood that most ardents and surgeons—even his father—did not, it was this. “Release this man to my care,” Kaladin said. “And warn your superiors I will be coming for others. The ardents can complain all the way to Brightness Navani if they want. They’ll get the same answer from her that I’m giving you now: We’re going to try something new.” The deaths of both Devotion and Dominion trouble me greatly, as I had not realized this immense power we held was something that could be broken in such a way. On my world, the power always gathered and sought a new Vessel. The fourth day of the trip, Shallan was truly enjoying herself. The closest they’d come to danger was when they’d spotted a pair of Fused soaring past in the distance three days ago. The humans had quickly scrambled into their hiding place—the tarp stretched between two piles of goods at the rear of the barge—but they needn’t have worried. The Fused hadn’t deviated in the barge’s direction. Other than that one event, she’d been able to spend her time in carefree drawing. Except, of course, when the Cryptics found her. They loved to watch her draw. Currently, all four of them—Pattern, plus the three bonded to her agents—surrounded her. As a group, they hummed and
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buzzed and bounced up and down, watching as she tried to sketch Ua’pam standing on the high deck of the barge. She’d grown accustomed to Pattern’s presence. She was fond of it, in fact—she enjoyed the way he’d hum when he heard something he knew was untrue, or the way he’d pipe up with questions about the most mundane of human activities. But when all four crowded around, Shallan’s serenity started building toward panic instead. She’d almost forgotten how frightened she’d been when his strange symbol-headed figure had begun appearing in her drawings. She remembered now, though. Fleeing through the hallways of Kharbranth, her sanity unraveling as she sketched the hallway behind her, filled with Cryptics. She’d been peeking into Shadesmar. Her unconscious mind had begun to perceive spren as they appeared in the Cognitive Realm. The same tension twisted her insides now, making her pencil lines sharp and stark. She tried to suppress the feeling. There was no reason for her to feel like she needed to run, scramble, scream. Her lines were too dark, too rigid, to properly capture the Memory of Ua’pam standing with one foot up on the railing, looking like an explorer setting out for adventure. She tried to make herself relax, drawing a fanciful image of sunlight streaming around him. That, however, made the four Cryptics start humming in excitement. “Could you all step back and give me more room?” Shallan asked the creatures. They didn’t cock their heads like humans might have, but she could sense confusion in the way their patterns sped up. Then, as if one, all four took exactly one step backward. They then proceeded to lean in even closer. Shallan sighed, and as she kept drawing, she got Ua’pam’s arm wrong. Spren were hard, because they didn’t quite have human proportions. The Cryptics started humming with excitement. “That’s not a lie!” Shallan said, reaching for her eraser. “It’s a mistake, you nitwits.” “Mmmm…” Ornament said. Beryl’s Cryptic had a fine pattern, delicate like lace, and a squeaky voice. “Nitwit! I am a nitwit. Mmmm.” “A nitwit is a stupid person or spren,” Pattern explained. “But she said it in an endearing way!” “Stupidly endearing!” Mosaic said. She was Vathah’s Cryptic, and her pattern had sharp lines to it. She often included rapid fast sections that waved like the women’s script. “Contradiction! Wonderful and blessed contradiction of nonsense and human complication to be alive!” Motif, Ishnah’s Cryptic, simply made a bunch of clicking noises in rapid succession. His Alethi was not good, so he preferred to speak in the Cryptic language. The others began rapidly clicking to one another, and in the overlapping cacophony, she lost track of Pattern. For a moment they were all just a clump of alien creatures, huddled together with their patterns almost touching. The nearby sound of beads slapping against one another seemed the chatter of hundreds of Cryptics. Thousands of them. Watching her. Always watching her … Radiant came to her rescue. Radiant, who had trained to ignore the chaos of battle, with its distracting sounds
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and constant yelling. When she took over, she brought with her a stability. She couldn’t draw, so she tucked away the pad. She excused herself from the Cryptics and made her way to the stern of the barge, where she watched the rolling beads until Shallan recovered and emerged. “Thank you,” she said as Radiant withdrew. Shallan listened to the peaceful rolling of the beads, endlessly surging. Perhaps it wasn’t just the Cryptics that were bothering her. And after several days on the barge spent drawing, it was time to dive into the problem of finding the spy. She took a deep breath, and submitted to Veil. No, Veil said. … No? You said we could look for the spy today, Shallan said. We are. You. With my help. Is this, Shallan asked, penance because you broke the compact? In a way. I want to coach you through a little espionage. I don’t need to know it, she thought. I have you. Humor me, kid. I need this. Shallan sighed, but agreed. They couldn’t share skills, as evidenced by Veil’s drawing abilities. She knew espionage, Radiant could use a sword, and Shallan had their Lightweaving ability. And their sense of humor. Oh please, Radiant thought. “So how do we start?” Shallan asked. We need to test each of the three subjects, Veil said, and plant a— Wait, Radiant thought. Shouldn’t we first make absolutely certain the communication device couldn’t have been moved another way? If we’re using that as evidence that the spy is along on this mission? Shallan ground her teeth. Veil sighed softly. But both agreed that Radiant was, unfortunately, correct. So Shallan strolled to the large tent they’d set up on the deck of the barge, using boxes and tarps. It was more like a large cave. While they didn’t need shelter from the elements in Shadesmar, it made them feel comfortable. Shallan ducked inside and went to the nook, made from boxes, that she shared with Adolin. She’d left the trunk unguarded—after all, she did want to catch the person doing this. She didn’t want to hover about the place and make it obvious what she knew. For now, she unlocked the trunk and checked on the device. It hadn’t been moved again, so far as she could tell. But she didn’t trust the trunk’s lock. Tyn had been able to pick most locks—and beyond that, in the Physical Realm at least, spren could slip through openings like a keyhole. She’d seen Syl do it, not to mention Pattern. She closed the trunk and—checking to make sure no one could see her around the corner in the box-walled nook—she tipped the trunk to one side, then the other. When she looked inside, the device had barely moved. She had it packed tightly enough between books and art materials that it couldn’t have flipped on its own. Satisfied? she asked. Yes, Radiant said. It couldn’t have shifted faces without being removed from the trunk. Agreed, Veil said. And we didn’t do it, right? Radiant asked pointedly. It was a
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discomforting question. They weren’t always aware of what one of them did when another was in control. Often these days they worked together, giving up control by conscious choice, helping one another. But there were worse days. Shallan couldn’t remember all the things Veil had done during that day she’d seized control, for example. I didn’t move it, Veil said. I promise. I didn’t either, Radiant said. “Nor did I,” Shallan whispered. And she knew it to be true. None of the Three had moved it, though she worried about Formless. Could part of her mind be betraying her? She didn’t think that piece was even aware, or real, yet. It wasn’t us, Veil said. I know this, Shallan. You have to trust it. She did. And that was what had disturbed her so much upon seeing the device moved. It was concrete proof that someone among her staff was lying to her. All right, Veil said. I’ve gone over the places the trunk was out of our sight … and it’s not good. There were a ton of opportunities when it was alone back in Urithiru. We’re not going to get anywhere trying to discover who had access to it, particularly not from this barge. “I still wish you’d do this part yourself,” Shallan whispered to her. Tough. Go back out, and we’ll get started. As she strode out, however, Pattern intercepted her. He walked up, his fingers laced before him. “Mmm…” he said. “I am sorry for earlier. For their overexcitement. The others do not have as much experience with humans.” “They have their Radiants,” Shallan noted. “Yes. That is not humans. That is one human each.” “You only have me.” “No! Before you, I studied humans. I talked about them much. I am very famous.” “Famous?” “Very famous.” His pattern sped up. “Cryptics do not often go into the cities of other spren. We are not liked. I went. I watched humans in Shadesmar, as we had planned to find humans to bond again. The other Cryptics were impressed by my bravery.” “Yes, very brave,” Shallan said. “We humans are known to bite.” “Ha ha. Yes, bite. And break your oaths and murder your spren. Ha ha.” Shallan winced. True, those were the actions of other Radiants. Not Radiants from her generation. At least none of the noble ones, like Kaladin or Dalinar. Nearby, in the center of the deck, the other three Cryptics were chatting with their heads together in a huddle. “Do you think it strange,” Shallan asked, “that Cryptics would end up with the Lightweavers, the order of Radiants with the most artists? You, who cannot lie—and who are basically walking numerical equations?” “We can lie,” Pattern said. “We are simply bad at it in general. It is not odd to end up with you. We like you in the way that a person likes new foods or new places. Besides, art is math.” “No it’s not,” Shallan said, offended. “Art and math are basically opposites.” “Mmm. No. All things are math. Art especially is math.
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You are math.” “If so, I’m the type with a misplaced number hidden so deep in the equation, I can never find it—but always calculate out wrong.” She left Pattern then, strolling across the deck of the barge, passing several peakspren with molten light shining out through the cracks in their skin. High overhead, clouds had formed—the familiar ones of this place that pointed toward the distant sun like a roadway. Those clouds didn’t seem to move according to ordinary weather patterns, but appeared and disappeared as the barge moved. Was it something to do with the angle at which they were being seen? All right, Veil, she thought. What do we do? There are several ways to uncover a spy, Veil thought. We’re in a fortunate position, since we know they communicated directly with Mraize recently—and will likely do so again. We also have three specific suspects, a manageable number. We’re going to try two different methods of finding the spy. The first is to catch them in a lie or a past misdeed, then push them until they grow uncomfortable and admit to us more than they intended. Everyone has a guilty conscience about something. “Radiant doesn’t,” Shallan noted. Don’t be so sure, Veil replied. But if this method doesn’t work, we’ll try something else—something that takes longer, but is more likely to work. We will find a way to feed each suspect a different tidbit of false information: a tidbit they will in turn feed to Mraize. Depending on which piece of information is leaked, we’ll know who did the leaking, and identify our spy. That’s quite clever, Radiant noted. Well, it’s more standard than clever, Veil admitted. This is a time-tested method, and our biggest problem in using it is that I’m certain Mraize is aware of it. So we’re going to have to be very subtle—and it might not work, as it requires Mraize to not only be told this information, but to not be suspicious of it, and to relate it back to us. Fortunately, we have a long trip ahead of us, and so if neither of these methods works, we can try something else. Point is, today, trying this will be good practice for Shallan. “I don’t need practice,” she whispered. “I have you.” But Veil was being stubborn, so Shallan wandered across the deck to where Ishnah was helping Ua’pam and Unativi—his cousin, who ran the barge—as they manifested goods. This was how almost everything—from clothing to building supplies—was created in Shadesmar. Spren didn’t quarry stone or spin threads; they took the souls of objects from the physical world, then “manifested” them. The term referred to making the object’s bead on this side instead reflect its physical nature. Ua’pam held up a bead, inspecting it. Shallan could sense the souls of things by touching beads, though Veil had more trouble, and Radiant couldn’t do it at all. Spren also varied in skill in this area, and true ability to manifest was somewhat rare. Ua’pam pressed the bead against the deck, then held up
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a diamond chip—shining with Stormlight—in his other hand. He drew in the Light much as a Radiant would, breathing it into his lungs. She’d heard that this would invigorate spren, making them feel alert and awake—they could feed on Light, even if they didn’t need it to survive. Today, Ua’pam immediately used this Stormlight to manifest the bead. The hand with the soul pressed against the deck began to glow, then something blossomed underneath it. He stood up as an ornate wooden table emerged beneath his hand, growing like a plant at a highly accelerated speed. “So fine!” his cousin—Unativi—said, clapping his hands. It sounded like rocks striking one another. “We are lucky! A grand table.” Ua’pam, shoulders slumping from exhaustion, nodded and dropped the drained sphere to the side for Ishnah to catch. Spren didn’t care much for the value of most gemstones; it was the Light that interested them. The bead that had been the table’s soul had vanished, replaced by the object. Interestingly, so far as Veil knew, the real table in the physical world would be unaffected by this process. Shallan focused her attention on Ishnah, who was now trying to sketch the transformation process. Shallan had told the former thief to practice her art skills so she could better imitate lighteyed women. “You are surprised by how nice this table is,” Ishnah said to Unativi. She reached out to touch the table. “You didn’t know what would be created before this moment?” “No,” Unativi said. “Understand. I find furniture. I know it is furniture. But how nice?” The peakspren spread his hands in a display of ignorance. “We must work more today,” Ua’pam explained. “Stormlight in gems runs out, but manifestations last long. Many months without reinfusion, if done by one with skill.” He slapped the table. “I have skill.” “So you make as much cargo as you can,” Ishnah said, gesturing to the many chairs, tables, and other articles of furniture surrounding them, “before the Stormlight we gave you runs out. Then you can sell what you created.” “Yes!” Unativi said. “Also, cousin will do the hard work. He is better.” “You have skill,” Ua’pam said. “You have more.” Unativi shook his head. “Skill I need. Instead you go chasing humans. Losing your mind. Going to fight?” “Odium comes,” Ua’pam said, softly. “Odium will come here. We must fight.” “We can run.” “We cannot.” The two stared at one another, and Shallan took some mental notes to add to her natural history. Too often humans—even some spren—regarded all spren as basically the same in personality and temperament. That was wrong. They might not be as fractured as the many nations of men, but they were not a monoculture. Keep focused, Veil thought. The book you want to write is exciting, but we should make some progress on the spy today before getting distracted again. Each of the three Lightweavers was suspicious in their own way, Beryl most so currently. That said, Ishnah had worked with actual thieves in the past, and she was the only agent
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