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the floor while other arms reached up to grab your mouth and neck. The living humans struggled with wide eyes. Some of those phantom hands had long knifelike carapace fingernails. One at a time, they slit the throats of the captives. Venli looked away, sick to her stomach. She had to walk through blood to follow Raboniel toward the center of the room—and the monolith of crystal that stood here. The wide pillar was made of a thousand different gems. Other than the tunnel they had emerged from, only one exit led from this circular chamber: a larger, well-lit corridor with tile murals on the walls and ceiling. “I hope your slumber is peaceful, Sibling,” Raboniel said, resting a hand upon the imposing pillar. “You shall not awake, at least not as yourself.” Voidlight—glowing violet on black—surged along Raboniel’s arm. She’d said she would need time to accomplish her task: corrupting the pillar and fully activating the tower’s defenses, but in a way that muted Radiants, not Fused. Please, Venli thought to the Rhythm of the Lost, let it happen without more killing. * * * “Can’t believe how dead this place is,” Teft said as they passed through the winehouse. “I’d guess a lot of the patrons were soldiers,” Kaladin said, gesturing toward Adolin’s corner booth. It felt strange to visit without him and Shallan. In fact, it felt strange to be going out anywhere without those two. Kaladin tried to remember the last time he’d gone out for fun without Adolin forcing him. Skar’s wedding? Yes, Lyn had made him go right before their breakup. That had been the last time he’d gone out with Bridge Four. Blood of my fathers, he thought, sliding into the booth. I really have been withdrawing from them. From everyone. Except Adolin, who wouldn’t stand for it. Half the reason Kaladin had begun courting Lyn was due to Adolin and Syl conspiring against him. Storming man. Storming spren. Bless them both. Though the relationship hadn’t worked out, he could now see that they’d both grown because of it. Teft went to fetch drinks. Orange for both of them. As Kaladin settled into the seat, he noted some of the scratched-in sketches Shallan had done with a knife on the tabletop. One was a rather unflattering picture of him in oversized boots. When Teft returned, Kaladin eagerly took a long drink from his mug. Teft just stared at his. “What happens if I get some red?” “Tonight? Probably nothing. But you’ll get it next time.” “And then I’ll get some violet,” Teft said. “Then something clear. Then…” He sighed, then took a sip of the orange. “This is storming unfair, you realize.” Kaladin held out his cup. Teft clicked his against it. “To unfairness,” Kaladin said. “Storming straight,” Teft said, then downed his entire mug at once in an impressive display. Syl darted in a short time later. The place wasn’t busy, but there were some people about. Relaxing into their seats, complaining jovial complaints, laughing ornery laughs, all of it lubricated by a little
alcohol. That stopped when Rlain stepped in behind Syl. Kaladin winced at how obvious it was. The people of the tower knew about Rlain—he was nearly as famous as Kaladin—but … well, Kaladin heard what they said about him. The “savage” that Dalinar had somehow “tamed.” Many treated Rlain like some dark unknown quantity that should be locked away. Others, ostensibly more charitable, spoke of Rlain as some noble warrior, a mystical representative of a lost people. Both groups shared a similar problem. They saw only their own strange ideal of what he should be. A controversy, a curiosity, or a symbol. Not who he was. Though Rlain seemed not to notice the way the winehouse grew quiet, Kaladin knew that was a front. The listener always noticed. Still, he crossed the room with a ready smile—he often exaggerated his facial expressions around humans, to try to put them at ease. “Teft,” he said, taking a seat. He looked to Kaladin. “Sir.” “Just Kaladin now,” Kaladin replied as Syl flew up to settle onto his shoulder. “You might not be in command anymore,” Rlain said with a slight cadence to his words, “but you’re still the captain of Bridge Four.” “What did you think all that time, Rlain?” Teft asked. “Carrying bridges against your own kind?” “Didn’t think a ton at first,” Rlain said, trying to flag down a passing server. She jumped, then quickly moved in the other direction to tug on the arm of a more experienced server. Rlain sighed, then turned back to Teft. “I was in Damnation, same as the rest of you. I wasn’t thinking about spying; I was thinking about surviving. Or about how to get a message to Eshonai—she was our general.” His demeanor changed, as did his tone, the cadence to his words becoming slower. “The first time I almost died,” he said, “I realized that the archers would have no idea—from a distance—who I was. They couldn’t see my pattern. It had been discussed what we’d do if the humans ever started using parshmen for runs, and we’d decided we had to drop them, same as humans. Then there I was, staring at my friends, knowing they would do their best to kill me.…” “That’s terrible,” Syl said, causing Teft and Rlain to glance at her. Apparently she’d decided to let them see her. “That’s so terrible.…” “It was war,” Rlain said. “Is that an excuse?” she asked. “An explanation,” Teft said. “One used to explain too much,” Syl said, wrapping her arms around herself and growing smaller than usual. “It’s war, you say. Nothing to be done about it. You act like it’s as inevitable as the sun and storms. But it’s not. You don’t have to kill each other.” Kaladin shared a glance with Teft and Rlain, the latter humming to a mournful cadence. She wasn’t wrong. Most everyone would agree. Unfortunately, when you got down to the bloody details, it wasn’t so simple. It was the same problem Kaladin had always had with his father. Lirin said you couldn’t fight
without perpetuating the system, eventually causing the common people to suffer more than if you’d refused. Kaladin found fault in that reasoning, but hadn’t been able to explain it to Lirin. And so he doubted he could explain it to a piece of divinity—a literal embodiment of hope and honor. He could just do his best to change what he could. That started with himself. “Rlain,” Kaladin said. “I don’t think I’ve ever apologized for what we did in desecrating the bodies of the fallen listeners to make armor.” “No,” Rlain said. “I don’t think you ever did, sir.” “I apologize now. For the pain we caused you. I don’t know if there was anything else we could have done, but…” “The sentiment means a lot to me, Kal,” Rlain said. “It does.” They sat in silence for a short time. “So…” Teft eventually said. “Dabbid.” “I saw him yesterday,” Rlain said. “He stopped by the fields, but didn’t do much work. Wandered around a bit, helped when I asked him to run an errand. Then he faded away.” “And you couldn’t find him today?” Teft asked. “No, but the tower is a big place.” Rlain turned around, glancing toward something Kaladin couldn’t see. “Bad day to get lost though…” “What do you mean?” Teft asked, frowning. “The Everstorm?” Rlain said. “Right. You can’t hear the rhythms. You can’t feel when it passes.” Kaladin had forgotten again. Storms, being up here in the tower felt like being blind. Losing a sense you’d always had—in this case the ability to glance at the sky and know if a storm was happening. Teft grunted, finally getting one of the servers to come over so he could order some red for Rlain. “How worried should we be about Dabbid?” Rlain asked. “I don’t know,” Kaladin said. “Lopen always looked after him. I want Dabbid to join the program Teft and I are setting up. To help people like him. Like us.” “You think it will get him talking?” Rlain asked. “At any rate, I think listening to the others could help him.” “Don’t take this wrong, sir,” Rlain said. “But … has it helped you?” “Well, I don’t know that…” Kaladin looked down at the table. Had it? Had talking to Noril helped? “He’s been avoiding joining in,” Teft said. “I haven’t,” Kaladin snapped. “I’ve been busy.” Teft gave him a flat stare. Storming sergeants. They always heard the things you weren’t saying. “I need to get the program up and running first,” Kaladin said. “Find all the men who’ve been tucked away in dark rooms, and get them help. Then I can rest.” “Pardon, sir,” Rlain said, “but don’t you need it as much as they do? Maybe it would be restful to participate.” Kaladin turned away, and found Syl—on his shoulder—glaring as hard as Teft. She’d even given herself a little Bridge Four uniform … and was he wrong, or was it more blue than the rest of her body? As their bond deepened and she entered this realm more strongly, the variety,
detail, and hues of her forms were improving. Maybe they were right. Maybe he should take part more in the meetings with the battle-shocked men. He just wasn’t sure he deserved to divert resources or time from them. Kaladin still had a family. He had support. He wasn’t locked away in darkness. How could he worry about himself when others needed him? His friends weren’t going to relent on this, he could tell. All three of them, bullying him together. “Fine,” Kaladin said. “I’ll join the next meeting. I was thinking about it anyway.” They acted like he was avoiding getting help. But he’d stepped down as Dalinar demanded. He’d started working as a surgeon. And he had to admit it was helping. Being with his family, talking to his parents, knowing he was wanted and needed … that helped more. This project though, finding those who were like him, alleviating their suffering … that would help the most. Strength before weakness. He was coming to understand that part of his first oath. He had discovered weakness in himself, but that wasn’t something to be ashamed of. Because of that weakness, he could help in ways nobody else could. Syl glowed a little brighter on his shoulder as he acknowledged that, and he felt a warmth within. His own darkness hadn’t gone away, of course. He continued to have nightmares. And the other day when a soldier had handed Kaladin his spear, it had … Well, it had made him panic. That reaction reminded him of how he’d refused to hold a spear when first training Bridge Four in the chasms. His illness stretched all the way back to before that time. He’d never treated it—he’d merely kept heaping on the stress, the pain, the problems. If this went well, maybe he wouldn’t ever have to pick up the spear again. And maybe he’d be fine with that. He smiled at Rlain. “It has been helping,” he said. “I think … I think I might be putting myself back together, for the first time in my life.” * * * Venli could see the exact moment when the tower broke. Raboniel stood, her hands on the pillar, glowing fiercely with Voidlight. The pillar, in turn, began glowing with its own light: a vivid white, tinged faintly green-blue. This light that seemed to transcend the type of gemstones in the pillar. The tower was resisting. An alarm sounded from the corridor; the invasion had been noticed. Raboniel didn’t move, though Venli pulled back against the wall—trying not to step on corpses—as a hundred stormforms pushed out into the corridor. Shouting humans, clashes of metal, cracks of sound. Any moment now, the Radiants would arrive and shear through the Regals and Deepest Ones like a flash of lightning on a dark night. Still Raboniel worked, calmly humming to a rhythm that Venli did not know. Then finally it happened: the Voidlight moved from Raboniel into the pillar. It infused a small section of the majestic construction, crawling into an embedded grouping of garnets. Raboniel
stumbled away and Venli managed to dash over and catch her, keeping her from tumbling to the ground. Raboniel sagged, her eyes drooping, and Venli held her tight, attuned to the Rhythm of the Terrors. Cries continued in the hallway outside. “Is it done?” Venli asked softly. Raboniel nodded, then righted herself and spoke to the rest of the singers gathered in the tunnel leading to the caverns. “The tower is not fully corrupted, but I have achieved my initial goal. The tower’s defenses have been activated and inverted to our favor. The Radiants will be unable to fight. Go. Give the signal to the shanay-im. Seize the city.” However, though you think not as a mortal, you are their kin. The power of Odium’s Shard is more dangerous than the mind behind it. Particularly since any Investiture seems to gain a will of its own when not controlled. Teft dropped limp, as if he’d suddenly lost motor functions, his head thumping against the table and his arm flopping to the side, pushing his empty mug off it to crash to the floor. Kaladin felt a striking moment of disorientation. A feeling of oppression on his mind, like a dark force trying to smother him. He gasped, then gritted his teeth. Not now. He would not let his treasonous mind overwhelm him now! His friend was in trouble. Kaladin pushed through the melancholy and was on Teft in a second, loosening the man’s collar, pressing fingers to his carotid artery. Good pulse, Kaladin thought. No arrhythmia I can sense, and no obvious signs of abrasion on the body. He pulled back an eyelid with his thumb. Dilated eyes. Trembling, shaking, sightless. “Storms!” Rlain said, scrambling out of the booth and standing up. People from nearby tables leaped up in shock, then began crowding to see what was happening, shockspren like breaking triangles appearing around them. “Kaladin?” Rlain asked. “What’s wrong with him?” Kaladin felt it again, the oppressive sense of gloom and darkness. It felt more external than normal, but he’d learned—these last few months—that his battle shock could take many forms. He was getting to where he could confront it. But later. Not now. “Have the people stand back,” Kaladin said to Rlain, his voice calm. Not because he felt calm, but because of his father’s training. A calm surgeon inspired trust. “Give us some air. He’s breathing and his pulse is good.” “Is he going to be all right?” Rlain held out his hands to get the people to back away. His voice had fallen into a thick Parshendi accent—which in this case meant a heavy rhythm as if he were singing. Kaladin held Teft’s hand, watching for signs of epileptic motion. “I think it might be a seizure,” Kaladin said, feeling inside Teft’s mouth. “Some firemoss addicts have them during withdrawal.” “He hasn’t touched the stuff in months.” So he says, Kaladin thought. Teft had lied before. He had tells, though, and he usually came clean to Kaladin. He’s not clamping his jaw. No danger to his tongue. Still
best to keep him facing sideways, in case of vomit. And he was trembling, the muscles of his arms spasming faintly. “Might be a kind of aftereffect,” Kaladin said. “Some addicts feel them for years.” Not seizures though. “If it’s not that, then…” “What?” Rlain asked as the winehouse owner pushed through the crowd to see what was happening. “Stroke,” Kaladin said, making the decision. He got underneath Teft and rolled his limp form up onto his shoulders, then stood with a grunt. “There isn’t much I can do here, but we have some anticoagulants at the clinic. If it is a stroke, those sometimes help.” Rlain moved to take one of Teft’s arms. “The Edgedancers maybe? They have that clinic in the market nearby.” Kaladin felt stupid. Of course. That was a far better option. He nodded. “I’ll help you carry,” Rlain said. “I can Lash him,” Kaladin said, reaching for Stormlight. The Light oddly resisted for a moment, then streamed into him from the spheres in his pocket. He came alive with power. It churned in his veins, urging him to use it. To act. To run. “I’ll make a hole,” Rlain said. He shoved his way through the crowd, opening up a path for Kaladin. Kaladin commanded the Light into Teft, to Lash him upward in order to make him lighter. And it didn’t work. * * * “Yes, I recognize him,” Red said. Navani nodded in thanks, encouraging the tall Lightweaver to continue. He wore darkeyed worker’s clothing—brown trousers, a buttoned shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, and some bright suspenders. Thaylen sailor fashion had been making its mark on Urithiru. She was holding her interrogation on the fifth floor, not far from where the laboratory had been destroyed. She’d ordered the prisoner placed in an adjoining small room, accompanied by several guards. Red had been the first to respond among the Radiants she’d sent for. “His name’s Dabbid,” Red explained, peeking into the room with the prisoner. “Doesn’t talk. I don’t think he’s right in the head. Well, pardon, most Windrunners ain’t right in the head. They act like some kind of cult to Stormblessed, Brightness, pardon that, but they do that. This one’s extra odd though. I think he was one of the old ones, from Bridge Four. Gaz could tell you. He’s got a history with them.” “Do you see a spren?” Navani asked. Red’s eyes unfocused, and he seemed to be staring into the distance. He had light violet eyes now, though he’d been a darkeyes before joining the Lightweavers. Like others of his order, he could peer into Shadesmar. “Don’t think so,” he said. “That’s not a terribly encouraging answer, Radiant.” “This tower makes things hard,” he said. “In Shadesmar, this place glows like Nomon’s own backside. That interferes. But I’m pretty sure I’d be able to see an honorspren. Same for one of the other Radiant spren.” She peeked into the interrogation room. This Windrunner—or whatever he was—sat at a small table, legs in chains, watched over by two of
Navani’s soldiers. When he glanced at Navani, he had that same wild cast as before. His hands were free, so he raised them toward her. One of the soldiers reached to stop him, but wasn’t fast enough to prevent the captive from tapping his wrists together. The Windrunner salute. He made the gesture again and again as the soldiers tried to settle him. “Leave him alone,” Navani said, stepping into the room. The soldiers backed off, and the young man continued tapping his wrists together, frantic. Then he pointed at the wall. What? Was he actually mute? He pointed more fervently. Navani turned. No, he wasn’t pointing at the wall, but at the sphere in the lantern hanging there, lighting the room. Next, he made a writing motion, frantic. I think he wants me to contact the spren, she thought. He’d been delivering a new ruby when they’d caught him. Navani fished it out of her glove, and the prisoner grew more animated, pointing at it. “Kalami?” Navani said into the other room. The scribe poked her head in, and Navani handed her the ruby. The woman took it and retreated to set up the spanreed equipment. “Red says you don’t speak,” Navani said to the man. He looked down. Then he shook his head. “Perhaps you should reconsider,” Navani said. “Do you realize the trouble you’re in? It’s a spren that has been talking to you, is that right?” The man hung his head farther. Then he nodded. “You realize it could be one of the Unmade,” Navani said. “A Voidspren. The enemy.” The man looked up sharply. Then he shook his head. “Brightness!” Kalami shouted from the other room. “Brightness, you need to see this!” Frowning, Navani strode into the larger chamber outside the interrogation room where Kalami—along with several of her wards—had set up the spanreed. It was scribbling on its own as Navani glanced at the text. Fool human. We are under attack. The enemy is already inside the tower. Quickly! You must do exactly as I say, or we are all doomed. It stopped writing, and Navani seized the pen, turned the ruby, and wrote back. Who are you? she demanded. I am the Sibling, the pen wrote in a quick script. I am the spren of this tower The enemy They are They are doing something to me This is bad You need to infuse— Red the Lightweaver—who had been standing near the door—suddenly collapsed to the floor. * * * The failure of his powers was so unexpected that Kaladin stumbled. He’d started to take a step, fully anticipating Teft’s limp body would grow lighter. When it didn’t, he was thrown off balance. He tried again, focusing. Again nothing. Storms, Kaladin thought. Something was deeply wrong with him. The last time something like this had happened, he’d been dangerously close to violating his oaths and killing Syl. “Syl?” he asked, scanning the room. She’d been flying around over near the bar, hadn’t she? “Syl!” No response. “Phendorana?” Kaladin asked, naming Teft’s honorspren. “This would be
a great time to show yourself to me!” Nothing. The winehouse had grown quiet, many of them staring at Kaladin as he steamed with Stormlight. “Kal?” Rlain called from the doorway. Kaladin shifted Teft on his shoulders, then strode after Rlain. Stormlight didn’t seem to give one much additional raw strength, but it did steady the limbs, repairing the muscles if they began to tear beneath strain. So he could bear Teft at a brisk jog, even without Lashing him. He gripped the body in a secure medic’s carry—a skill he’d learned on the battlefield. “Something’s wrong,” Kaladin said to Rlain as they reached the door. “More than whatever happened to Teft.” “I know,” Rlain said. “I didn’t notice it at first, but the rhythms are going crazy. I can faintly hear new ones in the distance. I don’t much like them. They sound like the rhythms I hear during an Everstorm.” “Is that one still blowing outside?” “It just ended,” Rlain said. Together they took the most direct route toward the Edgedancer clinic at the center of the market. Unfortunately, a number of people had crowded here, and that slowed Kaladin and Rlain’s progress. They eventually shoved through to the front, calls of “Brightlord Stormblessed” making people turn around. At the center of the mess though, they found something horrifying: two Edgedancers lying on the ground. An ordinary non-Radiant nurse was yelling at people to give them space. Kaladin left Teft with Rlain and scrambled over to kneel before one of the unconscious Radiants, a vaguely familiar Edgedancer woman, short, with dyed hair. “What happened?” he asked the nurse, who seemed to recognize Kaladin immediately. “They both suddenly dropped, Brightlord! I’m afraid Lorain hit her head; there’s bleeding. I evacuated the clinic immediately, in case the unconsciousness was caused by leaking dazewater.” “Quick thinking,” Kaladin said. The Edgedancers seemed more deeply unconscious than Teft. No quivering eyes. No muscle spasms. “Have you ever seen anything like it?” the nurse asked. “Something similar just happened to my friend. Another Radiant.” “Not you though?” I always live, Kaladin thought, a bitter thought echoing from long ago. So I can keep suffering. He pushed that aside. “The best thing I can think of to do is go to my father. He’s the most experienced surgeon I know. Treat these for shock and bandage that head wound. I’ll send you word if I discover anything.” The nurse nodded and Kaladin left her, helping Rlain lift Teft as they pushed through the crowd. “Why don’t you Lash him again?” Rlain said. “I can’t. My Lashings don’t seem to work.” “What, just on Teft?” Rlain asked. “Or at all?” Storms, that was a stupid thing to have not checked. Kaladin set down Teft’s legs and took his sphere pouch from his pocket, kneeling as he tried to infuse the ground. It didn’t work. He frowned, then tried a different Lashing—the type that made things stick to other objects. Not a gravitational Lashing, but a Full Lashing. The one Lopen loved to use to stick people to walls.
That Full Lashing worked. When he touched his boot to that patch of stone, it stuck in place. He reclaimed the Light without any problems. So … Adhesion worked but Gravitation didn’t? “I have no idea what is going on,” Kaladin said to Rlain. “This can’t be a coincidence,” Rlain said. “You losing some of your powers? Three Radiants all fainting? People don’t have strokes in groups, do they?” “No,” Kaladin said as the two of them began jogging, carrying Teft between them. “There’s more, Rlain. I feel something pressing against my mind. I thought it was my illness. But if you say you can hear something odd…” What did it mean? Was this … this like the fabrial the Fused had used on him in Hearthstone? It felt eerily similar in many ways. They headed toward the grand staircase. It was wide and tall, and led up the first ten floors. It would be a faster climb than using the lifts. However, as they neared the steps, a scream echoed from one of the nearby tunnels. Kaladin and Rlain froze at the intersection. Sphere lanterns lined the tunnels here, and the strata spiraled, making it seem as if—in looking down a tunnel—you were looking at the inside of a nut threaded for a screw. An agitated group was forming at the other side. “I’ll check,” Rlain said. “You keep going with Teft?” Kaladin nodded, not wanting to speak and waste Stormlight. He took Teft toward the steps as Rlain jogged off. The people Kaladin passed didn’t seem to sense anything wrong; they only looked curiously at Kaladin and his burden. Some saluted, others bowed, but Radiants were common enough in these halls that most simply stepped aside. He was halfway up the first flight of the grand staircase when Rlain came running up at a sprint. People gave way for him, even made superstitious gestures when they saw him. “Thank the storms I can wear warform around you people now,” he said, reaching Kaladin. He was puffing from the run, but didn’t seem exhausted. “I’d hate to try to make that run in dullform. Someone found a Stoneward unconscious in the hallway. Something is striking at the Radiants specifically. One of the Unmade?” “It feels like that fabrial I found in Hearthstone,” Kaladin said. “But it’s obviously on a much grander scale, and more powerful, if it’s knocking out Radiants. The one I faced must have been some kind of prototype.” “What do we do?” “My mother has my spanreed to Dalinar’s scribes, so the clinic is probably still our best course for now.” The other flights passed in a flash, though Rlain had drawn three different exhaustionspren—like jets of dust—by the time they reached the sixth floor. He waved Kaladin ahead. They’d meet up at the clinic. Kaladin sucked in another breath of Stormlight and redoubled his efforts, dashing through the hallway, Teft across his shoulders. He shoved past the people waiting outside the clinic—that was another oddity, since it was after hours—and pushed through the door. The waiting room
was lit with spheres and crowded with worried people. When Kaladin’s mother saw him, she immediately began clearing room for him to pass. “Lirin!” she shouted. “Another one!” Kaladin jogged down the hall to the first exam room, where a Radiant—in an Aladar uniform—lay on the exam table. He recognized her. Another Stoneward. Lirin looked up from examining her pupils. “Sudden unconsciousness?” he asked. “I thought it might be a stroke at first,” Kaladin said, carefully unslinging Teft and settling him on the floor. A quick check told Kaladin that his friend was still breathing, and his heartbeat was still regular, though his face was spasming. As if he was dreaming. “We found others too,” Kaladin said. “Different orders. All unconscious.” “I have two of this one’s squires in the other room,” Lirin said, nodding to the prone Stoneward. “Her friends and family hauled her up here in a big mess. I don’t know what it’s going to take to get people not to move an injured person. Fortunately, this doesn’t seem to be a neck injury.” “It’s striking only Radiants,” Kaladin said. “Not you though?” “Something’s happening to me,” Kaladin said, feeling exhaustion hit him now that his Stormlight was running out. “My powers are inhibited and…” He trailed off as he felt something new tugging on him. New, but familiar at the same time. Syl? he thought, throwing himself to his feet, sweat spraying from his skin. “Syl!” he shouted. “Son, a surgeon must be calm during—” “Storm off with the lectures for once, Father!” Kaladin shouted. “Syl!” … here … He felt her voice. He tried to concentrate on that feeling, and he sensed something tugging on his soul. It was as if … as if someone was using his mind like a proffered arm to help them climb out of a pit. Syl exploded into sight in front of him in the shape of a small woman, growling softly, her teeth clenched. “Are you all right?” he asked. “I don’t know! I was in the winehouse, and then … Teft! What’s wrong?” “We don’t know,” Kaladin said. “Do you see Phendorana?” “No. Not anywhere. My mind feels cloudy. Is this what it feels like to be sleepy? I think I’m sleepy.” She scrunched up her face. “I hate it.” Rlain arrived, huffing, trailed by Kaladin’s mother, who peeked around him, appearing worried. “Kal,” Rlain said. “I passed people in the hall who were shouting warnings. There are Fused in the tower. It’s another raid.” “Why haven’t we heard about this via spanreed?” Kaladin asked. “They don’t work,” his mother said. “We tried to write to Brightness Navani the moment these Radiants arrived. You activate the reed, but nothing happens. It just falls over.” Kaladin felt cold. He pushed past Rlain and walked down the hall to the living room of his family’s quarters. It had a window out into the evening sky. The sun had set, though fading sunlight painted the sky, so he could see the hundreds of flying figures—trailing long clothing and infused with Voidlight—descending upon
the tower. “You were wrong, Rlain,” Kaladin said. “It’s not a raid. This is an invasion.” * * * Several of the women clustered around Red, who was breathing, but unconscious. Navani let the others deal with the Lightweaver. She reread the lines the phantom spren had written. The Sibling. The third Bondsmith spren. Not dead after all, not even asleep. But why spend over a year saying nothing? Why let everyone think you were dead? Navani picked up the pen, which had fallen to the paper. Twisting the gemstone did nothing; the fabrial was lifeless. The enemy, the Sibling had written. They are doing something to me.… Navani rushed to her spanreed satchel, which was usually watched by one of her scribes’ wards. It had leather sheaths for each reed, positioned in a row so that the ruby was visible through a slit in the leather. A dozen of her most important spanreeds. None of them were blinking. Indeed, the two she pulled out gave no response when she twisted the rubies. They were as dead as the one on the table. She glanced at Red lying on the floor. Kalami was checking his eyes; she was an officer’s daughter, and had been taught field medicine. She’d already sent one of the girls to run for an Edgedancer. An attack. With no spanreeds to communicate? Storms, it would be chaos. Navani stood up. If it was going to be chaos, then someone had to fight it. “Soldiers, I need you in here! Spanreeds aren’t working. Who is the fastest runner among you?” The scribes gaped at her, and all three of her soldiers—the ones who had been watching the captive in the other chamber—stepped in. The men looked at one another, then one of the soldiers raised his hand. “I’m probably fastest, Brightness.” “All right,” Navani said, dashing to the table and pulling out a sheet of paper. “I need you to run to the first floor—use the stairs, not the lifts—and get to the scouting office near the second sector. You know it, the place where we’re organizing the mapping of the Plains? Good. Have them mobilize every runner they have. “They are to send someone to each of the tower’s seven garrisons with a copy of this message. Every remaining runner, and all the scribes in the office, are to meet me on the second floor at the maps room. It’s the largest secure place I can think of right now.” “Um, yes, Brightness.” “Warn them to move quickly!” Navani said. “I have reason to believe that a dangerous attack is coming.” She scribbled some instructions on the paper—commanding the seven garrisons to deploy according to one of the predefined plans, then adding her current authentication phrase. She ripped off the paper and thrust it at the soldier, who took off at a dash. Then she wrote it again and sent it with her second-fastest man—telling him to use a different route. Once he was off, she sent the last soldier to the Windrunners. There should be about twenty
of them—four full knights and their squires—remaining in the tower. “But Brightness,” the guard said, taking the note she handed him, “you’ll be unguarded.” “I’ll manage,” she said. “Go!” He hesitated, perhaps trying to determine if Dalinar would be angrier at him for abandoning Navani or for disobeying her. Finally he dashed away. Storms, she thought, looking at the fallen Red. What if they can do to other Radiants what they did to Red? How did they pick him out? She got a sick feeling in her stomach, a premonition. What if whatever had happened to him hadn’t been targeted, but was instead a side effect of whatever was happening to the spanreeds? “Gather our things,” she said to the scribes. “We’re moving to the map room.” “Red—” Kalami began. “We have to leave him. Leave a note saying where we went.” She stepped into the smaller room. The prisoner, Dabbid, had pulled off his chair, and was now huddled on the floor. The manacles on his legs clanked as he shifted. “The spren of the tower spoke to you,” Navani said to him. “It had you place the spanreed gem for me. How did you know what to do?” The man only looked at the floor. “Listen to me,” Navani said—keeping her distance just in case, but also trying to make her voice sound calm, reassuring. “I’m not angry at you; I understand why you did what you did, but something terrible is happening, and spanreeds aren’t working. I need to know how to contact the spren.” The man stared at her, wide eyed. Storms, she wasn’t sure he was capable of understanding. Something was clearly wrong with him. The man moved, the chains clanking, and Navani jumped despite herself. He didn’t move toward her though. He shifted and stood, then reached out to touch the wall. He rested his hand against the stone there, which was marked by strata lines. And … and a vein of crystal? Navani moved closer. Yes, running through the strata was a fine garnet vein. She’d noted similar veins; in some rooms they were nearly invisible, perfectly mimicking the waving strata. In others they stood out starkly, straight and bold, running from floor to ceiling. “The spren of the tower,” Navani said. “She talked to you through these veins of garnet?” The captive nodded. “Thank you,” Navani said. He tapped his wrists together. Bridge Four. Navani tossed him the key to his manacles. “We’re going to the map room on the second floor. We must move quickly. Join us, if you wish.” She hurried back to the others. There was a vein of garnet in the map room. She’d see what she could do with it once she arrived. * * * Kaladin stared at his surgery knives. Syl couldn’t form a Shardblade. Something was wrong with his powers; he wasn’t certain that Stormlight would even heal him any longer. However, that wasn’t what made him stop and stare at the knives. Six little pieces of steel in a row. The scalpel of a surgeon
was a very different thing from a soldier’s knife. A surgeon’s knife could be a subtle thing, meant to cause as little harm as possible. A delicate contradiction. Like Kaladin himself. He reached out to touch one of them, and his hand didn’t shake as he’d feared it would. The knife—glowing in the spherelight as if it were aflame—was cold to his touch. A part of him had expected it to be angry, but this tool didn’t care how he used it. It had been designed to heal, but could kill as efficiently. Like Kaladin himself. Outside the surgery room, people screamed amid writhing fearspren. The Fused were landing on the balconies of this level, and the cries of the terrified echoed through the halls of Urithiru. Kaladin had sent Rlain to hide in the living quarters of the clinic—he didn’t know how the Fused would react to finding a listener here, wearing an Alethi uniform. Kaladin delayed. He should go hide too. Wait it out. That was what his father wanted. Instead, Kaladin’s fingers wrapped around the knife, and he turned toward the screams. He was needed. Life before death. This was what he did. Yet as he walked toward the door, he found himself laden by a terrible weight. His feet were as if in chains, and his clothing could have been made of lead. He reached the doorway, and found himself panting in a cold sweat. It had been going so well. He felt so tired all of a sudden. Why couldn’t he just rest for a little while? No. He had to march out there and fight. He was Kaladin Stormblessed. They were depending on him. They needed him. He’d had a short leave. But now … now he needed to … What if one of them dies because they were expecting your help, but you’ve frozen up again. What if they died like Tien? What if he froze like when Elhokar died? What if … What if … “Kaladin?” Syl’s voice shook him awake. He found himself sitting beside the surgery room doorway, his back up against the wall, clutching the knife in front of him and trembling. “Kaladin?” Syl asked again. She stepped forward on the floor. “I went to warn Queen Navani, as you asked. But I couldn’t get too far away from you, for some reason. I found some messengers though, and they said that they had orders from the queen—so she seems to know about the invasion already.” He nodded. “Kaladin, they’re everywhere,” Syl said. “The messenger said a big force came up from the caverns and took the heart pillar room. The enemy has the Oathgates running. They’re bringing in troops, and … Kaladin, what’s wrong with you?” “Cold sweats,” he muttered. “Emotional detachment. Insensibility, accompanied by hyper-recall of traumatic moments.” Someone shouted out on the balcony and he jumped, brandishing the knife. “Severe anxiety…” Footsteps in the hallway made Kaladin grip the knife harder in a sweaty hand. No Fused appeared, however. It was just his father carrying a bloodred sphere
for light. He halted upon seeing Kaladin, then moved with exaggerated calmness, smiling in a friendly way. Storms. If his father put on that face, things really were bad. “Put down the knife, son,” Lirin said softly. “It’s all right. You aren’t needed.” “I’m well, Father,” Kaladin said. “I just … wasn’t quite ready to take up the fight so soon. That’s it.” “Put down the knife and we’ll plan.” “I need to resist.” “Resist what?” Lirin said. “Together Laral, your mother, and I got our people into their rooms. The invading parshmen aren’t here to kill; nobody was hurt except for that fool Jam, who found a spear somehow.” “Has the queen surrendered?” Kaladin asked. Lirin didn’t reply, though his eyes were still on the knife. “No,” Syl said. “At least, she was sending out orders. But Kaladin … they can’t fight for long. There are Fused among the enemy, and Regals, and … and almost every Shardbearer is out in the field. Every Surgebinder in the tower has been knocked unconscious.” Kaladin took his father by the arm. “There’s one left,” he said, then hauled himself to his feet. “Kal!” Lirin said, anger peeking through his calm surgeon’s mask. “Don’t be a fool. There’s no point in playing the hero.” “I’m not playing anything,” Kaladin said. “This is who I am.” “So you’ll go fight, like this?” Lirin demanded. “Overwhelmed by diaphoresis and hand tremors, barely able to stay on your feet!” Kaladin gritted his teeth and started along the hall toward the front door of the clinic. Syl landed on his shoulder, but didn’t insist he stop. “You said that Jam had a spear,” Kaladin said. “Do you know what happened to it?” “Storms, son, listen to me,” Lirin said, grabbing him from behind. “There is no battle for you here! The tower has fallen. You go out there, and you throw away any advantage you had. Storms, you won’t only get yourself killed—you’ll get us killed.” Kaladin stopped in place. “That’s right,” his father said. “What do you think they’ll do to the family of the Radiant who attacked them? You’d probably kill a few before you died. Stormfather knows, you’re good at breaking things. Then they’ll come and string me up. Do you want to see that happen to me? To your mother? To your baby brother?” “Storm you,” Kaladin whispered. Lirin didn’t care about saving himself; he was not so selfish as that. But he was a surgeon. He knew the vital spots in which to stick a knife. Shouts came from deeper within Urithiru—the voices of singers, with rhythms. They’d landed Fused here on the sixth floor, but others were boiling up from below. Kelek’s breath … Dalinar had taken the reserves to the battle in Emul. There were seven garrisons left in the tower, but each was severely undermanned, populated mostly with those men who were off rotation, enjoying leave. Five thousand men, max. Everyone had assumed the large numbers of Radiants would be able to prevent another raid on the tower.… Kaladin sagged
against the wall. “We … we need to find a way to contact Dalinar and Jasnah. The spanreeds aren’t working?” “None of them,” Lirin said. “No fabrials at all.” “How are they using the Oathgates?” Kaladin asked, settling down on the floor of the hallway. “Maybe it’s the Skybreakers,” Syl said. “But … I don’t know, Kaladin. Something is very wrong with our bond. When I flew down just one floor, I found myself growing distant. Forgetful. Normally I can go miles away before that happens.” “We can plan,” Lirin said. “We can think of some way to contact the Blackthorn. There are other ways to fight, son.” “Perhaps,” Kaladin said. He met his father’s eyes. “But you would say anything to keep me from going out there, wouldn’t you?” Lirin held his eyes and said nothing. I’m really not in any shape to go to battle, Kaladin thought. And … and if they have the Oathgates … Lirin calmly took the knife from Kaladin’s hands. He let it go. His father helped him to his feet and led him to the back rooms, where a village girl was with Oroden, keeping him quiet with toys. Kaladin’s mother entered a short time later, hairs escaping her bun and blood on her skirt. Not hers. Probably Jam’s. She went to hug Lirin while Kaladin sat staring at the floor. Urithiru might continue to fight, but he knew that it had lost the battle long ago. Like Kaladin himself. My instincts say that the power of Odium is not being controlled well. The Vessel will be adapted to the power’s will. And after this long, if Odium is still seeking to destroy, then it is because of the power. By the time Navani neared the map room, the area was already a bustle of activity. The runners had done their jobs, and she found checkpoints in place in the hallways, attended by guards, with anticipationspren streaming overhead. The soldiers at each one waved her through with visible relief. The map room was lit by a large number of diamond spheres. A smattering of officers in Kholin blue stood with some functionaries. Roion—the youngest highprince, and the only one in the tower currently—had gathered them around the tables. Here, maps of the lower levels had been unrolled and weighted at the corners. Captains mostly, she thought, reading the shoulder knots of her command staff. One battalionlord. Men who had been here on leave. Various runners, both male and female, hovered at the perimeters of the chamber. “Do we have word of Commander Lyon?” Navani asked as she strode in. “We’d best have the head of the Tower Guard here.” “He’s fallen unconscious, Brightness,” said one of the men. “He had a spren choose him last month.…” “Storms,” Navani said, stepping up to the table as several men made room for her. “It’s true then? Every Radiant in the tower?” “As far as we can tell, Brightness,” one of the men said. “There are enemy troops on every floor, Brightness,” said an older man, the battalionlord.
“Stormform Regals, mostly. Pouring in through the basement. But there are Heavenly Ones landing on balconies all up and down the lower levels.” “Damnation,” she muttered. The enemy had the library rooms then. And the pillar. Was that where the Sibling resided? She glanced at the battalionlord again. A lean, balding man with close-cropped hair, a thick neck despite his age, and a powerfully intense stare. He … She did a double take. Darkeyed? Dalinar had made good on his decision to begin promoting based on merit, not eye shade, but there still weren’t many darkeyed officers. Strangely, some darkeyes seemed to consider the change as unnatural as some of the more high-minded lighteyes did. “Your name, Battalionlord?” she asked. “Teofil,” he said. “Ninth Kholin Division, infantry. We just came in off the lines in southern Alethkar. I put my men at the stairwell here.” He pointed at the map. “But … Brightness, they got the drop on us, and there aren’t many of our troops in the tower. First floor was halfway overrun by the time we mobilized.” “We can’t fight Fused,” said another man, young and nervous, his hand shaking as he pointed at a map of the sixth floor. “They’re trapping us from both above and below. There’s no way to hold them. They heal when cut, and they can strike from above. Without Radiants, we’re doomed. There’s no—” “Calm down,” Navani said. “Brightlord Teofil is right to have…” Navani paused. He was a darkeyes, not a brightlord. What did you call a battalionlord who wasn’t a lighteyes? “Er, Battalionlord Teofil is correct. We need to plug the stairwells. The shanay-im’s ability to fly won’t matter in such tight quarters. With proper barricades, it won’t even matter that they can heal. We can try to hold the second through fifth floors.” “Brightness,” another man said. “We can try—but there are dozens of stairwells, and not a lot of materials for barricades.” “Then we’d best start small,” she said. “Have all our troops retreat to this level; we’ll try to hold the second and third floors.” “And if they just fly down the outside and come in the windows on this floor?” the nervous young man asked. “We barricade ourselves in here tight,” Navani said. “Storms. The Soulcasters—” “—don’t work, like the other fabrials.” Damnation. “We have garrison stores?” she asked, hopeful. “I’ve sent men to recover them,” Teofil said, pointing at a map of the third floor. “Dumps are here and here.” “With those, we can hold for weeks,” Navani said. “Plenty of time for my husband to return with our forces.” The officers looked at one another. Her scribes, clustered near the doorway, stood quietly. After her furious rush to get here—often pushing through confused crowds—it felt unnerving to be in such silence. She almost felt as if the entire tower were bearing down on top of her. “Brightness,” Teofil said. “They pushed straight for the plateau outside. They have the Oathgates—and are working them somehow, though other fabrials aren’t functioning. Singers will soon flood this tower. But
disregarding that, I don’t think barricades would be a prudent strategy. “Yes, I plugged the stairwells to slow them, but they have stormforms, and I have reports of Fused who can move through stone. They’ll blast and burn away what we put in front of them. If you want us to hold, we’ll hold as long as we can—but I want to make certain you understand the situation fully. In case you want to consider a different plan.” Halls above. She pressed her hands against the table, forcing order upon her thoughts. Don’t feel like you need to decide everything, she told herself. You’re not a general. “Advice?” she asked. “Surrender is distasteful,” Teofil said, “but might be our best option. My soldiers are brave, and I vouch for them—but they cannot stand for long against Regals and Fused. Can you think of any way to restore the Radiants?” She eyed the maps. “I suspect whatever the enemy did to the Radiants has to do with a specific construction of garnets in the crystal pillar. If we can retake that room, I might be able to reverse all this. I can’t guarantee anything, but it’s my best guess and probably our best hope.” “That would mean reclaiming part of the first floor,” Teofil said. “We’d have to push down the stairs into the basement…” Nearby, other officers shuffled and muttered at that idea. Teofil met Navani’s eyes and nodded. He didn’t advise standing in a hopeless fight against a superior enemy. But if she could offer a chance of success, even with a difficult gamble, that was different. “That will be bloody,” a soldier said. “We’ll have to advance on the position of enemy Surgebinders.” “And if we fail, we’ll have given up most of our ground,” said another man. “This is basically an in-for-all maneuver. Either we seize the basement, or … that’s it.” Navani looked over the maps again, determined to think this through, though each minute she debated would make their task that much more difficult. Teofil is right, she decided. This tower is too porous to hold for long against an enemy with powers. Trying to hold these center rooms wouldn’t work. The enemy would be electrocuting men in large batches, breaking formations, terrifying her troops. She had to strike before everyone in the tower started feeling like that frightened captain. Before the enemy momentum grew too large to overcome. They had one hope. Move now. “Do it,” she ordered. “Throw everything we have into recovering that pillar in the basement.” Again the room fell silent. Then Teofil barked, “You heard the queen! Shuanor, Gavri, grab your men from the upper floors! Withdraw, leaving only a harrying force to cover the retreat. Radathavian, you command that. Withdraw slowly, making those Heavenly Ones bleed as they have to advance on you. Fused might heal, but they still hurt. “The rest of you, pull your men to the foot of the grand staircase. We’ll muster there, then make our push! We will carve a hole to the basement steps, then
fight down and clear a path for the queen. By the blood of our fathers!” They scrambled into motion, the various lesser officers calling for runners to deliver orders. Navani didn’t miss their delayed response. They’d moved only after hearing the command from Teofil. These soldiers would fall over themselves to do her bidding when it came to peacetime requests, but during a fight … Navani glanced at Teofil, who leaned in next to her and spoke in a soft voice. “Pardon them, Brightness,” he said. “They likely don’t much like following a woman’s orders. Masculine arts and all that.” “And you?” she asked. “I figure the Blackthorn has studied every military text known to man,” he said. “And we could do worse for a general than the person who likely read ’em to him. Particularly if she’s willing to listen to a little sense. That’s more than I can say for some highlords I’ve followed.” “Thank you,” she said. “What we needed most was for someone to make the decision,” he said. “Before you came, they were all balking at doing what I wanted. Storming fools. Almost anyone worth his Stormlight is on the front lines somewhere, Brightness.” He glanced at the others as they sent runners with orders. Then he spoke even softer to Navani. “We’ve got some solid troops mixed among them here, but many of these are Roion’s men. Best I could tell, there was a single Shardbearer in the tower who wasn’t a Radiant. Tshadr, a Thaylen man. “His rooms were on the fourth floor. I sent a runner, but she returned just before you arrived. Those Heavenly Ones went straight for him, Brightness. Must have known exactly where his quarters were. The enemy has his Plate now; may the Almighty accept his soul to the eternal battlefield.” Navani breathed out. Taravangian must have told the enemy where to find the Shardbearer. “There might be one other Shard we could take,” Teofil said, gesturing toward a spot on the third-floor map. “A black Blade. Speaks to people when they come close…” “The assassin in that cell is a Lightweaving,” Navani whispered. “We sent the real man with my husband in secret, and he took the sword with him.” “Damnation,” Teofil muttered. “What are our chances, Battalionlord?” she asked. “Our actual chances, in your estimation?” “Brightness,” he said, “I’ve tried fielding regular troops against Regals. It doesn’t go well—and it will be worse here. Normally these close quarters would benefit us fighting defensively. But in corridors we’re limited to small clashes of squads. And if their squads can throw lightning…” “I came to the same conclusion,” she said. “Do you think this order of mine foolish?” He slowly shook his head. “Brightness, if there’s a chance to turn this tide right now, I think we need to take it. We lose the tower, and … well, it will be a disaster for the war. If there is even a possibility you can wake the Radiants, I’ll risk everyone we have on that chance.” “Try this push, then,” she
said. “But if it doesn’t work … I need to know how the enemy is treating the people on the upper floors as we withdraw the troops. Think you can have a scout find that out for me?” He nodded, and she read understanding in his expression. Fused usually occupied rather than destroyed. Honestly, they generally treated the cities they took better than her fellow Alethi might have during a squabble between highprinces. As much as she hated it, surrender was an option. As long as she was sure the enemy wasn’t intending to make a slaughter of this attack. They’d tried something like this once before, but then it had been only a raid—intended to slow down the Alethi reinforcements and to steal the Honorblade. She had a worse feeling about today’s attack. They seemed to know about the Sibling—and how to disrupt the tower’s defenses. “I’m going to try something with the tower’s fabrials,” Navani said. “It might help us. Take command, see our plan put into action. Bring me anything of significance before you make a decision, please. Assuming you’re still willing to take orders from a woman.” “Brightness,” he said, “before my promotion, I spent years taking orders from every fuzz-faced teenage lieutenant who decided to make a name for himself on the Shattered Plains. Trust me when I say I consider this to be an honor.” He saluted her, then turned and began barking further orders. As he did, Navani noted the Bridge Four man named Dabbid slinking into the room. People didn’t give him much more than a quick glance. The way he walked, with his eyes down, cringing when someone brushed past, was reminiscent of a servant, or … well, of how parshmen used to be. Invisible, to an extent. It was good to know he had arrived in case what she was about to try didn’t work. Navani walked up to the vein of crystal on the wall. It was more obvious in this room—a line of red garnet slicing the wall in half, interrupting the natural pattern of the strata. Navani rested her hand against it. “I know you can hear, Sibling,” Navani said softly. “Dabbid told me you could—but it was clear to me anyway. You knew where to place those rubies, and you knew when I’d lost one. You’ve been listening in on us the entire time, haven’t you? Spying? How else would you know that I’m the one who leads the fabrial scholars in the tower?” As she finished speaking, she noted something: a small twinkle of light, like a starspren, moving up through the line of crystal. She forced herself to keep her fingers in place as it touched her skin. I can hear you, a voice said in her mind—quiet, like a whisper. She couldn’t tell if it was male or female. It seemed pitched between the two. Though I do not see all that you assume I do. Regardless, Dabbid should not have spoken of this. “Be glad he did,” Navani whispered. “I want to help.” You
are a slaver, the Sibling said. “Am I better than a Fused?” The Sibling didn’t respond at first. I’m not sure, they said. I have avoided your kind. You were supposed to think I was dead. Everyone was supposed to think I was dead. “I’m glad you’re not. You said you were the soul of the tower. Can you restore its functions?” No, the voice said. I really was asleep. Until … a Bondsmith. I felt a Bondsmith. But the tower is not functional, and I have not the Light to restart it. “If that is true, then how have they done what they have to the Radiants?” I … They have corrupted me. A little part of me. They used their Light to activate defenses I could not. “Is what they did related to that construction of garnets in your crystal pillar?” You know too much, the Sibling said. It makes me uncomfortable. You know and do things that weren’t possible before. “They were possible, they simply weren’t known,” Navani said. “That is the nature of science.” What you do is dangerous and evil, the Sibling said. Those ancient Radiants gave up their oaths because they worried they had too much power—and you have gone far beyond them. “I am willing to listen to you,” Navani said. “Willing to change. But if the Fused take the tower, corrupt it…” The … Lady of Pains is here, the Sibling said, voice growing softer. More frightened? It sounded like a child’s voice, Navani decided. “I don’t know who that is,” Navani said. She is bad. Terrible. Few Fused are as … frightening to me as she is. She’s trying to change me. So far, she changed only the portion of me that suppresses Surgebinding, reversing it so it affects Radiants instead of Fused. But she intends to go further. Much further. “Is there a way to rescue our Radiants other than recovering the pillar?” No, the Sibling said. Get to the pillar, and we could reverse the effects. But otherwise … no. Those highly Invested might not be as strongly affected. Unmade, for example, were sometimes able to push through my suppression. Radiants of the high oaths might be able to access their powers. And Honor’s Truest Surge, the Surge of Binding and Oaths, could still work. “What can I do to help?” Navani said. “We’re mounting an assault to try to recapture the pillar heart. Is there something else I could try? Earlier you told me I needed to infuse something—but were cut off before you could finish.” The Lady of Pains is returning, the Sibling said. I think … I think she’s going to change me. My mind might alter. I might not care. “Do you care now?” Navani asked, urgent. Yes. The voice seemed very small. “Tell me what to do.” Long ago, before I banished men from these halls, my last Bondsmith made me something. A method of protecting me from the dangers I saw in men. He thought it would help me trust again. It did not. But
it might stop the Fused from corrupting me further. “Please,” Navani said. “Let me help. Please.” You cannot be trusted. “Let me show you that I can.” I … You will need Stormlight, Navani Kholin. A great deal of Stormlight. Of course, I admit this is a small quibble. A difference of semantics more than anything. Venli wasn’t required to fight unless she was attacked. A part of her wanted to go up above and look for Leshwi, who would have arrived by now with the other Heavenly Ones. But no, that was foolish. Even if being near Leshwi would help make sense of all this. Leshwi seemed to see so much more clearly than other Fused. Regardless, as their troops marched up the steps to assault the first floors of the tower city, Venli stayed with Raboniel in the basement. The Lady of Wishes didn’t seem terribly nervous about the invasion. She strolled along the wide hallway here, inspecting its murals. Venli stayed at her side as directed, and realized the reason she’d been brought along. Raboniel wanted a servant at hand. “Does this strike you as a particularly human form of decoration, Last Listener?” Raboniel asked her, speaking to Craving as she stood with her hands before her, fingertips touching the large mural, this portion of which depicted Cultivation in the shape of a tree. “I … I don’t know humans well enough to say, Ancient One.” Sounds echoed from the stairwell at the opposite end of this hallway from the pillar room. Screams. Calls of horror. Clashes of weapon against weapon. By now the shanay-im would have arrived by air, delivering some of the most terrible and capable Fused to the sixth floor. “To me it seems obvious,” Raboniel said. “Humans never use what is around them to its fullest. They always impose their will far too strongly. Though the shells of beasts and the colors of stone would offer striking variety for creating complex murals, the humans ignored natural materials. Instead they painted each square, then affixed it to this wall. “One of the singers of old, creating a similar work of art, would have divided the bits of shell into a spectrum of colors. They would have asked themself what kind of mural would naturally be suggested by the pieces they had obtained. Their mural would have used no paint, and would have lasted millennia longer than this one. See how the colors here fade.” A hulking form darkened the other end of the hallway, near the stairwell. The Pursuer looked like a dark scar of black and red upon the light stone. As he moved forward, Venli found herself trembling. Surely this was the most dangerous Fused in all the army. “I have your leave,” the Pursuer said to Raboniel, “to find this Windrunner and kill him?” “Him alone,” Raboniel said. “If he is here. There’s a good chance one of his skill went with the others to Azir.” “If he is not here, he will return to try to liberate the tower,” the Pursuer said.
“It is in his nature.” He turned, looking upward through the stone. “The Radiants we capture are dangerous. They have skill beyond what we anticipated, considering the newness of their bonds. We should behead them, each and every one.” “No,” Raboniel said. “I will need them. Your orders are the same as what I told the others: Kill only those who resist. Gather the fallen Radiants for me. On my orders, you are to show … restraint.” The Pursuer hummed—loudly and forcefully—to Craving. “You, who were once banished for recklessly endangering our kind in your attempts to exterminate humankind? You, Lady of Wishes, ask for restraint?” Raboniel smiled and hummed softly another rhythm that Venli had never heard. Something brand new. Something incredible. Dark, dangerous, predatory, and beautiful. It implied destruction, but a quiet and deadly destruction. Odium had granted this femalen her own rhythms. No, Venli thought, the Pursuer is not the most dangerous of them. “I care not for a single battle,” Raboniel said. “We will end this war, Pursuer. Forever. We have spent far, far too long in an endless cycle. I will break it—and once I am finished in this tower, there will be no turning back, ever. You will help in this, and you will start by collecting the fallen Radiants and delivering them to me.” “I may kill the one, when I find him?” he repeated. “You relieve the Nine’s prohibition upon me?” “Yes,” Raboniel said. “You may claim your prize and keep your custom, Pursuer. I take responsibility for this order.” He hummed to Destruction and stalked off. “If Stormblessed is here in the tower, he’ll be helpless when you find him, Pursuer!” Venli called. “You would murder an enemy who cannot resist you?” “Tradition is more important than honor, foolish one,” the Pursuer called back to Derision. “I must kill those who have killed me. I have always killed those who have killed me.” He transformed into a ribbon of red light, leaving behind a lifeless husk, and shot out into the stairwell so he could fly to the upper levels. Timbre pulsed uncertainly in Venli’s chest. Yes … she was right. The Pursuer did have a madness to him. It wasn’t as obvious as in the other Fused—the ones who would grin and refuse to speak, their eyes seeming to stare without seeing. It was there nonetheless. Perhaps this Pursuer had lived so long that his traditions had taken control of his reason. He was like a spren, existing more than living. Timbre pulsed at that. She didn’t think she existed without living, and Venli was forced to apologize. Still, she worried that all the Fused were like him. Maybe not mad—maybe that was the wrong word for it, and disrespectful to people who were themselves mad. The Fused instead seemed more like people who had lived so long thinking one way that they had come to accept their opinions as the natural state of things. Venli had been like that once. “So telling,” Raboniel said to Thoughtfulness, still regarding the murals. “Humans
take as their own everything they see. Yet they do not understand that by holding so tightly, they cause the very thing they desired to crumble. They truly are children of Honor.” Raboniel turned from the mural and strolled farther down the hallway, approaching an intersection where doors opened on either side. These led into chambers with tables, bookshelves, stacks of paper. Venli followed Raboniel into one of them, then hurried—at a wave of her fingers, a gesture Venli’s translation powers interpreted—to fetch a cup of wine from the station at the side of the room. Venli passed huddled scholars and monks, sitting on the floor by the wall beneath the watchful eyes of a few Regal stormforms. The poor humans were surrounded by fearspren, though Venli had to remind herself that no human could ever be completely trusted. They didn’t have forms. A human might wear the robes of their priesthood, but could secretly have trained as a warrior. It was part of what made humans so duplicitous. No rhythms to hum to, just facial features easy to fake. No forms to indicate their duty. Just clothing that could be changed as easily as a lie required it. Timbre pulsed. Well, of course I’m different, Venli thought. Even if she did lie by humming the wrong rhythms at times. And wear a form that didn’t express the spren she truly followed. Timbre pulsed in satisfaction. Don’t make this harder than it already is, Venli thought, hastening to Raboniel. I’m not here to help the humans. I can barely help my own kind. She delivered Raboniel’s wine as the tall Fused was inspecting a contraption of metal and gemstones. A human fabrial delivered by one of the Deepest Ones. “What should we make of this?” the Deepest One asked to Craving. “I have never seen its like before. How can the humans have discovered things we never knew about?” “They have always been clever,” Raboniel said to Derision. “We merely left them alone too long this time. Go and interrogate the scholars. I would find out who leads their studies here.” The Fused glanced upward. “The conquest will happen easily,” Raboniel said to Conceit. “By now, the shanay-im have used Vyre to activate the Oathgate, bringing our troops. Let us stay focused while they work.” “Yes, Lady of Wishes,” the Deepest One said, gliding off. Raboniel absently took the cup from Venli’s hands. She turned the fabrial over in her hand, and hummed softly to … to Subservience? She’s impressed, Venli realized. And she’s keeping most of the scholars alive—along with the Radiants. She wants something from this tower. “You don’t care about the conquest,” Venli guessed, speaking to Craving. “You aren’t here to further the war or to dominate the humans. You’re here because of these things. The fabrials humans are creating.” Raboniel hummed to Command. “Yes, Leshwi does pick the best, doesn’t she?” She held out the fabrial, letting the light catch it. “Do you know what the humans gain by being so forceful? By reaching to seize before they
are ready? Yes, their works crumble. Yes, their nations collapse from within. Yes, they end up squabbling, and fighting, and killing one another. “But in the moment, they are the sprinter who outpaces the steady runner. In the moment, they create wonders. One cannot fault their audacity. Their imagination. Surely you’ve noticed that the Fused have a problem. We think along the same old, familiar pathways. We don’t create because we assume we’ve already created what we need to. We are immortal, and so think nothing can ever surprise us—and that makes us complacent.” Venli hummed to Abashment, realizing she’d been thinking that same thing. “That is the reason this war is eternal,” Raboniel said. “They cannot hold or exploit that which they create, but we cannot stretch far enough to come up with anything new. If we truly want an end, it will take a partnership.” “I do not think the Alethi will partner with you,” Venli said. “Like the Iriali have.” “They can be guided,” Raboniel said. She glanced at Venli, then smiled again, humming her new rhythm. Her individual dangerous rhythm. “If there is one thing I can guarantee you about humankind, Last Listener, it is this: Provide them with a sword, and they will find a way to impale themselves upon it.” * * * The stench of burned flesh assaulted Navani as she entered the ground floor of Urithiru. She hoped that most of the civilians had been able to flee to the upper floors, for what she saw now seemed nothing short of Damnation itself. The large foyer in front of the grand staircase was empty save for a few scattered corpses. Burned. Human. The thick, pungent scent made her want to retch. Red lights flashed in the near hallways, and cracks of thunder echoed off the stone. Loud, sharp, and unnatural. One shouldn’t be able to hear thunder in these hallways, buried beneath a million tons of stone and a ten-minute walk to the perimeter. Between the peals of thunder, Navani was certain she heard distant moans and cries. Her kingdom had become a war zone. What scout reports she received spoke of fragmented squads of soldiers desperately holding out before nightmares moving in quick roving bands. They thought the singers were securing points of strategic value, but their information was too disjointed to get a full picture of the enemy’s plans. Storms … they’d become so dependent on spanreeds. It felt downright primitive to lack knowledge of enemy movements. Navani moved through the foyer, urging her band of scholars, ardents, and engineers to follow. They balked, remaining in a cluster on the wide steps. She glanced back and saw many staring in horror at the burned corpses on the ground. Right. Few of her current attendants had ever been subjected to real battlefields. They had worked the warcamps, had designed bridges and flying platforms, but they weren’t the types who saw corpses in anything other than a sanitized funeral service. Navani remembered being like that. Before Gavilar. He’d always promised that a unified Alethkar
would be a wonderful blessing to all the people of the land. With him around, it always had been easier to rationalize the price in blood. Regardless of their feelings, they had to keep moving. They’d given Battalionlord Teofil an hour to gather his assault force and send some initial sallies to clear the landing. During that time Navani had gathered as much Stormlight as she could. Her attendants carried the spheres and gemstones in large bags. The wait had let Navani send for two specific women. They stood near the center of the huddle of attendants: Thaylen scholars from Queen Fen’s court who were visiting the tower to listen to Navani’s lectures. They’d come to her command post willingly, probably believing that Navani had sent for them because she wanted to protect them during the invasion. Their panicked glances now showed they were beginning to question those assumptions. A soldier stood guarding the way through a particular hallway. Navani hurried in that direction, leaving her attendants behind for now. She entered a large open hall that in times past they’d used as a meeting place. Some five hundred soldiers crowded the corners and a couple of side corridors. Not fully out of sight, but obscured enough for their purpose. Other than the numerous crossbowmen among them, the items of most interest were two large metal pillars on wheels. Teofil noticed her and stepped over. “Brightness,” he said. “I’d be more comfortable if you waited closer to the steps.” “Objection noted,” Navani said. “How does it look?” “I’ve gathered our best veterans,” he said. “This will be bloody work, but I think we have a chance. The enemy is relying on the Regals to seize the ground floor. I keep reminding the men that as frightening as the enemy powers are, the ones using them have only a year of training.” The human advantage had so far been their experience. Parshmen newly awakened from their lives of slavery were no replacement for battle-hardened troops. This advantage was slowly being worn away as enemy troops gained more and more practical combat experience. An exhausted messenger dashed into the room from the hallway directly across from Navani—the hallway leading toward the steps to the basement. The messenger nodded to Teofil before moving to the side and putting her hands on her knees, breathing in deep gasps. Teofil gestured for Navani to retreat, and she moved to the mouth of the corridor. She didn’t retreat farther than that, so Teofil stoically walked over and handed her some wax and pointed at his ears. Then he fell into position, sword out, with one group of soldiers. A controlled retreat was difficult enough, but what they were trying here—a fake rout leading to an ambush—was even trickier. You had to bait the enemy into thinking you were fleeing, and that involved turning your backs on them. A trickle of human soldiers soon came running into the room, and their panic seemed real to Navani. It probably was. The line between a feint and a true collapse of
morale was thin as a sheet of paper. The trickle of soldiers became a flood. Fleeing men, chased by flashes of light and thunder that made Navani hastily stuff her ears with the wax. She spared a moment of grief for the slowest of the fleeing soldiers, who sold this ruse with their lives, dying in a bright flash of lightning. The chasing Regals soon charged into the room: wicked-looking singers with pointed carapace and glowing red eyes. Teofil waited longer than Navani would have to give the order to loose—he wanted as many Regals in the room as possible. The pause was long enough that the first of the enemies had time to stop, then raise arms crackling with electric energy. Navani braced herself as they released flashes of light toward the waiting soldiers. Those flashes, however, struck the carefully placed metal pillars, which drew the lightning like tall trees might in an open field. Teofil gave the order with a raised piece of red cloth—though Navani barely saw it, as she was blinking blinded eyes. Crossbows loosed in wave after deadly wave, cutting down the Regals—who didn’t have the same power to heal themselves that the Fused possessed. “Hoist those lightning rods!” Teofil shouted, his voice sounding muted to her ears. “Move, men! Stay away from blood on the ground. We push for the basement!” As quickly as that, the “rout” reversed, and human troops piled into the hallway to chase the remaining Regals. Teofil left her with a salute. He set out on a near-impossible task: to push down a long stairwell into the basement, harried by Regals and Fused. If Navani wasn’t able to get to him after he reached the pillar, he was to destroy the construction of garnets that suppressed Radiant powers. The Sibling indicated this would be effective at restoring the Radiants. In the meantime, Navani’s job was to activate the Sibling’s fail-safe. She hurried to collect her scribes, hoping they wouldn’t balk too much at climbing over the corpses. * * * Kaladin ducked into a room, carrying an armful of blankets. He didn’t recognize the young family inside—father, mother, two toddlers—so they had to be refugees who had fled to Hearthstone. The young family had done much to make this small, windowless room their own. Both walls were covered in Herdazian sand paintings, and the floor was painted in a large and intricate glyph. Kaladin didn’t like the way they cringed as he entered, the children whimpering. If you don’t want people to cringe when they see you, he thought, act less like a ruffian and more like a surgeon. He never had possessed his father’s gentle grace, that unassuming way that wasn’t weak, but also rarely seemed threatening. “Sorry,” Kaladin said, shutting the door behind him. “I know you were expecting my father. You wanted blankets?” “Yes,” the wife said, rising and taking them from him. “Thank you. It cold.” “I know,” Kaladin said. “Something’s wrong with the tower, so heating fabrials aren’t working.” The man said something in Herdazian. Syl, sitting
on Kaladin’s shoulder, whispered the interpretation—but the woman translated right afterward anyway. “Dark ones in the corridors,” the woman said. “They … are staying?” “We don’t know yet,” Kaladin said. “For now, it’s best to remain in your rooms. Here, I brought water and some rations. Soulcast, I’m afraid. We’ll send someone around tomorrow to gather chamber pots, if it comes to that.” He slung his pack onto his shoulder after getting out the food and water. Then he slipped back out into the corridor. He had three more rooms to visit before meeting up with his father. “What time is it?” he asked Syl. “Late,” she said. “A few hours to dawn.” Kaladin had been working to deliver blankets and water for a good hour or so. He knew that fighting was still going on far below, that Navani was holding out. The enemy, however, had quickly secured this floor, leaving guards and pushing downward to press against the Alethi defenders. So while the tower wasn’t yet lost, Kaladin’s floor felt quiet. Syl turned around and lifted into the air, shimmering and becoming formless like a cloud. “I keep seeing things, Kaladin. Streaks of red. Voidspren I think, patrolling the halls.” “You can see them even if they’re invisible to humans, right?” She nodded. “But they can see me too. My cognitive aspect.” A part of him wanted to ask further. Why, for instance, could Rock always see her? Was he somehow part spren? Lift seemed to be able to do it too, though she wouldn’t speak about it. So was she part Horneater? The other Edgedancers didn’t have the ability. The questions wouldn’t form on his lips. He was distracted, and honestly he was exhausted. He let the thoughts slip away as he moved to the next room on his list. These ones would probably be extra frightened, having not heard anything since— “Kaladin,” Syl hissed. He stopped immediately, then looked up, noting a stormform Regal walking down the hallway with a sphere lantern in one hand, a sword on his hip. “You there,” he said, speaking with a rhythm, but otherwise no hint of an accent. “Why are you out of your rooms?” “I’m a surgeon,” Kaladin said. “I was told by one of the Fused that I could check on our people. I’m delivering food and water.” The singer sized him up, then waved for him to open his pack and show what was inside. Kaladin obliged, and didn’t look toward Syl, who was doing her windspren act—flitting about and pretending she didn’t belong with a Radiant—just in case. The singer inspected the rations, then studied Kaladin. Looking at my arms, my chest, Kaladin thought. Wondering why a surgeon is built like a soldier. At least his brands were covered by his long hair. “Return to your rooms,” the man said. “The others will be frightened,” Kaladin said. “You could have hysterical people on your hands—chaos that would interfere with your troops.” “And how often did you check on the parshmen of your village, when they were frightened?”
the singer asked. “When they were forced into dark rooms, locked away and ignored? Did you spare any concern for them, surgeon?” Kaladin bit off a response. This wasn’t the kind of taunt where the speaker wanted an answer. Instead he looked down. The singer, in turn, stepped forward and snapped his hand at Kaladin to strike him. Kaladin moved without thinking, raising his hand to catch the singer’s wrist before it connected. He felt a small jolt of something when he touched the carapace-backed hand. The singer grinned. “A surgeon, you say?” “You’ve never heard of a battlefield medic?” Kaladin said. “I’ve trained with the men, so I can handle myself. But you can ask anyone in this town if I’m the surgeon’s son, and they’ll confirm it.” The singer shoved at Kaladin’s hand, trying to throw him off balance, but Kaladin’s stance was solid. He met the red eyes, and saw the smile in them. The eagerness. This creature wanted a fight. Likely he was angry he’d been posted to something as boring as patrolling halls on what was to have been a daring and dangerous mission. He’d love nothing more than to have an excuse for a little excitement. Kaladin’s grip tightened on the man’s hand. His heartbeat sped up, and he found himself reaching for the Stormlight at his belt. Draw in a breath, suck it in, end this farce. Enemies were invading the tower, and he was delivering blankets? He held those red eyes with his own. He heard his heart thundering. Then he forced himself to look away and let the singer shove him into the wall, then trip him with a sweep to his legs. The creature loomed over him, and Kaladin kept his eyes down. You learned to do that, when you were a slave. The creature snorted and stomped away without another word, leaving Kaladin. He felt tense, alert, like he often did before a battle—his fatigue washed away. He wanted to act. Instead he continued on his way, delivering comfort to the people of Hearthstone. In truth, it would be a combination of a Vessel’s craftiness and the power’s Intent that we should fear most. Navani and her timid attendants soon left the broad hallway scattered with corpses and entered a series of corridors with darkened lanterns on the walls. The broken latches bespoke thieves with crowbars getting at the spheres inside. For some people, no nightmare was terrible enough—no war bloody enough—to discourage some creative personal enrichment. The sounds of screams and echoes of thunder faded. Navani felt as if she were entering the mythical centerbeat—the heart of a highstorm spoken of by some poor wanderers trapped within its winds. A moment when for reasons inexplicable, the wind stopped and all became still. She eventually reached the place where the Sibling had told her to go—a specific intersection among these twisting corridors. Though no part of the first level went completely unused, this area was among the least trafficked. The corridors here made a maze of frustrating design, and they used
the small rooms for various storage dumps. “Now what?” asked Elthebar, the stormwarden. Navani wasn’t particularly happy to have the tall man along; he looked silly with his pointed beard and his mysterious robes. But he’d been in the map room with them, and forbidding him hadn’t seemed right when she needed every mind she could get. “Search this area,” Navani said to the others. “See if you can find a vein of garnet on the walls. It might be small and hidden among the changing colors of the strata.” They did as she requested. Dabbid, the mute bridgeman, started searching the floor instead of the walls—working with his sphere enclosed entirely in his hand so it gave almost no light. “Cover up your spheres and lanterns,” Navani said to the others. The command drew expressions that ranged between confused and horrified, but Navani led the way, closing the shield on her lantern. The others obeyed one at a time, plunging the room into darkness. Light from a distant corridor flashed red in a sequence—only with no thunder. A few people’s hands glowed softly from the spheres inside, backlighting veins and bones. “There,” Navani said, picking out a faint twinkling on the floor near one of the walls. They clustered around it, investigating the spark of garnet light in a hidden vein of crystal. “What is it?” Isabi asked. “What kind of spren?” The light started moving through the vein, across the floor, then down the corridor. Navani ignored the questions, following the spark until it moved up a wall. Here it followed the curving strata into a specific room, rounding the stone and slipping through the gap between door and doorway. Venan had keys, fortunately. Inside, they had to step over rolled rugs to find the spark of light at the rear. Navani brushed her fingers against it and found a small bulge in the wall. A gemstone, she realized. Connected to the line of crystal. It’s embedded in here so deeply, it’s difficult to see. Seemed to be a topaz. Hadn’t there been a similar gemstone embedded into the wall of that room where they’d found the model of the tower? Infuse the topaz, the Sibling’s voice said in her mind. You can do this without Radiants? I have seen you perform such marvels. “I need several small topazes,” Navani said to her scholars. “No larger than three kivs each.” Her team scrambled; they kept gemstones of all sizes on hand for their experiments, and one soon brought forth a small case of infused topazes. Navani instructed her and several others to take the gemstones in tweezers and present them to the topaz set into the wall. An infused gemstone touched to an uninfused one could be made to lend some of its Stormlight—assuming they were the same variety, and the uninfused gemstone was much larger than the infused ones. It worked a little like a pressure differential. A large empty vessel would take Stormlight from small full vessels. It was a slow process, especially when the gemstone you wanted
to infuse was relatively small—limiting the potential size differential. She moved up next to Ulvlk and Vrandl, the two Thaylen scholars. Both were artifabrians of a very secretive guild. “Almighty send we can make this work in time,” Navani said as thunder echoed behind them. “So that is why you brought us,” Vrandl said. She was a short woman who preferred havahs to traditional Thaylen dress. She wore her eyebrows in tight curls. “The tower is invaded, your men are dying, and you see an opportunity to pry trade secrets from our fingers?” “The world is ending,” Navani countered, “and our greatest advantage—this tower, with its ability to instantly move troops from one end of Roshar to the other—is threatened. Is this really the time to hoard trade secrets, Brightness?” The two women didn’t reply. “You’d watch it burn?” Navani said, feeling exhausted—and snappish. “You’d actually let Urithiru fall rather than share what you know? If we lose the Oathgates permanently, that’s it for the war. That’s it for your homeland.” Again they remained silent. “Fine,” Navani said. “I hope when you die—knowing your homeland is doomed, your families enslaved, your queen executed—you feel satisfied knowing that at least you maintained a slight market advantage.” Navani pushed to the front of the group, where her scholars were coaxing Stormlight into the wall gem bit by bit. Often a fabrial needed to fill a certain percentage before it activated—but the more this one drew in Stormlight, the slower the drain would occur. Footsteps scraped the stone behind her, and Navani turned to see Ulvlk—junior of the two Thaylen scholars—standing behind her. “We use sound,” she whispered. “If you can make the gemstone vibrate at a certain frequency, it will draw in Stormlight regardless of the size of gems placed next to it.” “Frequency…” Navani said. “How did you discover this?” “Traditions,” she whispered. “Passed down for centuries.” “Create a vibration…” Navani said. “You use drilled holes? No … that would require Stormlight to be already infused. Tuning forks?” “Yes,” Ulvlk explained. “We touch the tuning fork against the full gemstone, making it vibrate, then can lead a line of Stormlight out to the empty one. After that, it will siphon, like liquid.” “Do you have the equipment here, now?” Navani asked. “I…” “Of course you do,” Navani said. “When I sent runners to fetch you, you thought I was going to evacuate you. You’d have grabbed anything of value in your rooms.” The young Thaylen woman fished in her pocket, pulling out a metal tuning fork. “You will be expelled from the guild!” Vrandl snapped from behind, angerspren pooling beneath her. “This is a ploy!” “It’s no ploy,” Navani assured the nervous young woman. “Honestly, we were close to a breakthrough using the weapons the Fused have—which are able to drain Stormlight out of a person. All you’ve done here is potentially save this tower from invaders.” Navani tried the method, hitting the tuning fork, then touching one of the infused gemstones. Indeed, as she pulled it away from the stone and toward
the gemstone on the wall, it trailed a small stream of Stormlight. Like how Light behaved when a Radiant was sucking it in. That did the trick, infusing the wall gemstone in seconds. The Sibling had explained what was coming, but Navani still jumped when—upon being infused—the fabrial made the entire wall shake. It parted at the center; it had been a hidden door all along—locked by a fabrial that in the old days probably only a Radiant could have activated. They quickly uncovered their lanterns and spheres, revealing a small circular chamber with a pedestal in the center. Set into that was a large sapphire, uninfused. “Quickly,” Navani said to the others, “let’s get to work.” * * * Kaladin slung his pack over his shoulder, then slipped out of the room of another frightened family. This one, like those before, had asked him for news, for information, for promises. Was it going to be all right? Would the other Radiants rise as he had? When would the Bondsmith return? He wished he had answers. He felt so blind. He’d grown accustomed to being in the thick of everything important—privy to not only the plans of important people, but their worries and their fears as well. He followed Syl, who darted into the hallway. The hour was late, and Kaladin had to fight off a bout of grogginess, despite the shakes and thumps in the stone. Distant explosions from far below, so powerful they had to be the acts of Regals or Fused. Somewhere in the tower, men fought. But up here on the sixth floor, they cowered. The place dripped with the silence of a thousand frightened people. He reached an intersection, fighting off his fatigue. He was supposed to get back to the clinic and meet up with his father, but Syl was flitting around another way—she clearly wanted his attention. They had decided to keep her distant from him in case a Voidspren noticed her. He followed her down the left fork, through a doorway that led out onto the large, patio-like balcony near his quarters. Though many of these balconies were being used as community spots, this one was empty tonight—save for one figure standing near the edge. The carapace jutting out through holes in the uniform made Rlain distinctive, even in silhouette. “Hey,” Kaladin said, stepping up to him. Syl settled on the banister, glowing softly. Kaladin found it eerie to stare out in the darkness of night, overlooking an endless landscape of mountains and clouds—shimmering green from the final moon. “More troops,” Rlain said, nodding toward the plateau below—where another formation of singers was moving toward the tower’s front gates. “They march like human armies, not like listener warpairs.” “I thought you were going to stay hidden in the clinic.” “This will be an occupation, Kal,” Rlain said, voice tinged by a mournful rhythm. “We won’t be recovering Urithiru tonight—or anytime soon. So where does that leave me?” “You’re not one of them.” “Am I one of you?” “You’ll always be a member of Bridge
Four.” “That’s not what I meant.” Rlain turned toward him, green moonlight shining against his carapace and skin. “If I try to hide among the humans, I will be courting disaster. Assuming I could somehow stay out of sight, someone is going to reveal me to the Fused. Someone will think I’m a spy for the enemy, and after that … well, it’s going to be very difficult to explain why I didn’t walk out and embrace their occupation.” Kaladin wanted to object. But storms, he was worried about a similar thing happening to him. One mention that he’d been a Radiant—that the surgeon’s son was Kaladin Stormblessed, Windrunner—and … well, who knew what would happen? “So what do you do?” Syl asked from the railing. “Go to them,” Rlain said. “Pretend I’m not a listener, just an ordinary parshman who never managed to escape—and didn’t know what I should do. It might work. Either that, or maybe I can hide among them, pretend I’ve always been with them. Merely another face in their forces.” “And if they take you out into the Everstorm?” Kaladin asked. “Demand you take a Regal form—or worse, give yourself up to the soul of a Fused?” “Then I’ll have to find a way to escape, won’t I?” Rlain said. “This has been coming, Kal. I think I’ve always known I would have to face them. I could make a home here if I wanted. I know that, and I’ll always be grateful to you and the others for making a place for me. “At the same time, I can’t ignore what was done to my people at the hands of human empires. I won’t be fully comfortable here. Not while I wonder if there are other listeners out there who survived the Everstorm. Not while I wonder if there’s more I could be doing to stop the disaster.” Kaladin took a deep breath, though part of him was tearing inside. “Another farewell then.” “A temporary one, I hope,” Rlain said. Then, looking somewhat awkward, he held out his hands and gave Kaladin an embrace. Rlain had never seemed fond of that human custom, but Kaladin was glad for the gesture. “Thank you,” Rlain said, pulling back. “For trusting me to make this decision.” “That’s what you said you wanted, all those months ago,” Kaladin said. “When I promised I’d listen.” “To be trusted and acknowledged,” Rlain said. “I keep my oaths, Rlain. Especially to friends.” “I’m not going to join them, Kal. I am a spy. That is my training—as best my kind could offer. I’ll find a way to help from the inside. Remember that the first people Odium destroyed when he returned were not human, but listener.” “Bridge Four,” Kaladin said. “Life before death,” Rlain returned. Then he slipped away toward the interior of the tower. Syl remained seated on the banister. Kaladin leaned against the stone, waiting for a cheerful line from Syl. When others tried to console him with laughs, it often struck him as false, unnecessary. But from her … well,
she helped pull him out of the deep waters. “They’re all going to leave, aren’t they?” she whispered instead. “Moash, Rock, now Rlain … every one of them. They’re going to leave. Or … or worse…” She looked at Kaladin, uncharacteristically solemn. “They’ll all go away, and then there will be nothingness.” “Syl,” Kaladin said. “You shouldn’t say things like that.” “It’s true though,” she said. “Isn’t it?” “I won’t leave you.” “Like you almost did?” she said softly. “My old knight … he didn’t want to leave.… It’s not his fault. He was mortal though. Everyone dies. Except me.” “Syl?” Kaladin said. “What’s wrong? Is whatever they did to the tower affecting you?” She was silent for a time, staring out over the green clouds. “Yes, of course,” she said. “I’m sorry. That’s not what you needed, is it? I can be perky. I can be happy. See?” She launched into the air, becoming a line of light that zipped around his head. “I didn’t mean—” Kaladin said. “Don’t be such a worrier,” she cut in. “Can’t you take a joke these days, Kaladin? Come on. We need to get back to the clinic.” She zipped off, and—confused, worried, but most of all just exhausted—he followed. * * * Navani watched as her people worked, infusing the gemstone at the center of the small chamber. They had borrowed a second tuning fork from the Thaylen scholars, doubling their speed. Such a simple tool. She and Rushu had theorized for hours about the process the Thaylen artifabrians were using—guessing everything from hidden Radiants to intricate machinery that mimicked water osmosis methods, which followed similar scientific principles to Light infusion. In the end, their actual method was far, far humbler. Wasn’t that often how it turned out? Science seemed easy in retrospect. Why hadn’t the ancients figured out you could intentionally trap a spren in a gemstone? Why hadn’t they discovered that a split gemstone would be paired? Add a little aluminum for the cage, and you could do incredible things. With this knowledge, people four thousand years ago could have had flying ships as easily as Navani’s people. True, the hundreds of tiny leaps that led to advances were not as intuitive as they seemed. Regardless, it left Navani wondering. What wonders could she create if she knew the next few leaps that would appear simple to her descendants? What marvelous creations did she brush past each day, lying in pieces, waiting to be combined? More thunder sounded; she hoped that the continued noise was a good sign for Teofil and his men. Move faster, she willed the Stormlight. Unfortunately, something was odd about this gemstone. Though the new Thaylen method did indeed transfer Stormlight quickly, the strange fabrial seemed to be drinking far too much in. They’d emptied most of the spheres they’d brought, and still the sapphire barely glowed. They seemed to be injecting Light not just into the gemstone, but into the entire network of gemstones and crystal veins. Was it actually a fabrial? Navani didn’t recognize the cage,
though it did have metal wire running around it. And why did it have a glass globe, the size of her fist, set off to the side in its own nook and attached to the gemstone by wires? As her scholars worked, emptying one gemstone after the other, Navani brushed the back of her freehand fingers against a vein of garnet in the wall. You must move quickly, the Sibling said in her mind. “We are going as fast as we can,” Navani whispered. “Are my soldiers still alive?” I cannot see them, the Sibling said. My vision is limited, in ways that are confusing to me, as it was not always so. But I think the soldiers you sent are close. I can hear shouts nearby the crystal heart of the tower. Navani closed her eyes, hoping the Almighty would accept a whispered prayer, as she had no glyphward to burn. Hurry, the Sibling said. Hurry. She glanced toward the pile of gemstones. Fortunately, the Thaylen method could move Stormlight between different types of polestone. “We are trying. Do you know why spren prefer different kinds of gemstones?” Because they are different, the Sibling said. Why do humans prefer one kind of food to another? “Yet foods dyed different colors—but with the same taste—are often equally acceptable to us.” Navani nodded to a small pile of emeralds. “Many gemstones are identical, at least by their structure. We think they might even have the same basic chemical composition.” Color is like flavor to spren, the Sibling said. It is part of the soul of a thing. Curious. You must move quickly, the Sibling repeated. The Lady of Pains has the Surge of Transformation and dangerous knowledge. She will infuse my entire heart—the pillar—in the proper order, using her Voidlight. In so doing, she would corrupt me and leave me … leave me as one of the Unmade.… “And what we do here will defend you?” Navani whispered. Yes. It will erect a barrier, preventing anyone—human, Unmade, or singer—from reaching me. “That would stop Teofil too,” Navani said. “From breaking the construction that is blocking our Radiants.” Teofil is doomed, the Sibling said. You must hurry. Navani, they have activated the Oathgate again. Fresh enemy troops have arrived. “How are they working it? They have Skybreakers, but they should be as limited as our Radiants, right?” They brought a human with one of the Honorblades. Moash. The murderer. Navani felt her anger rising. There was, unfortunately, little more she could do. Quickly. Please. Quickly … The Sibling seemed to hesitate. Wait. Something has happened. The Lady of Pains has stopped. * * * Venli witnessed the last push of the human soldiers. She stood at the base of the steps—which were of an odd sort. The stairwell up to the ground floor was a large column of open space. Steps wound around the outside wall of the cylinder. They looked so narrow and uncertain, hanging as they did with a cavity of open space up the center. It was pure madness to attempt
to fight down such steep and uncertain footing while harried by Fused and Regals. Yet the humans made a valiant run of it. They locked shields and moved together with a precision that Venli’s sister had always admired. While listeners would fight as warpairs, in tune with one another and the rhythms of Roshar, humans seemed to have their own kind of symbiosis—forged from hours upon hours spent training. A canopy of shields protected against Heavenly Ones, who hovered about the formation, trying to stab with their lances—but indoors, they didn’t have proper room to maneuver. Before beginning their assault, the humans had poured barrels of water into the breach here—and it had rained upon the stormform Regals below. Their powers reacted poorly around water, something Venli had always found somewhat ironic. The descent was so dramatic that Venli sent for Raboniel, interrupting the Fused’s work with the pillar. Raboniel marched out and looked up with shock at how close the humans were. “Quickly,” she snapped at the nearby stormforms. “Up those steps! Engage the soldiers directly!” They obeyed, but with their powers dampened by the water, they were no match for the troops. The humans stabbed them dead or forced them off the sides of the steps, pushing ever downward, rounding the circular wall, grimly stepping over the bodies of their fallen comrades and maintaining a front line that was three men wide. “Amazing,” Raboniel whispered. The humans fought like a great-shelled beast—a winding, relentless chasmfiend, all armor and teeth. Raboniel waved for the rest of the Deepest Ones to join the fight—but even these proved ineffective. They had disrupted the formation a few times early on, shoving their hands out of walls to push men, or reaching out from the side to grab ankles. These soldiers, however, quickly adapted. The men closest to the wall now marched with swords out, watching for Deepest Ones. More than one disembodied arm dropped to the ground near Venli, joining the fallen men and Regals who had lost their footing. Standing there beside an increasingly angry Raboniel, Venli thought the humans might make it. Led by a grizzled older soldier—and reduced from hundreds to just fifty—they barreled stubbornly onward. Venli found herself cheering them silently, Timbre exulting to the Rhythm of Hope. She cared little for the humans as a whole, but it was impossible to watch such a display of tenacity without being impressed. This was why her people had dwindled, nearly vanished, during their years at war with the humans. It wasn’t entirely the human access to Shards, or their incredible resources. It was the way they, individually weaker than any listener, worked together. They had no forms, but compensated with training, sacrificing individuality until they were practically spren—having become so good at a single thing, they could never change to another purpose. They rounded the next loop, only twenty feet from the ground, while Raboniel began shouting for more Deepest Ones. Then a red line of light zipped down from above. The Pursuer had arrived. He materialized in the very center
of the formation of humans, swinging out with arms bearing sharpened carapace. The formation shattered as the men frantically tried to reorient to this new foe—but of course the Pursuer zipped back into the air. He left behind a dummy, a fake carapace version of himself. The humans began stabbing it repeatedly as the real Pursuer appeared with a crash among another segment of the line. As quickly as that, the tide changed. The Heavenly Ones found holes in the shield wall to begin stabbing individual humans. The Deepest Ones used the confusion to grab sword arms or trip soldiers. A small group of humans, led by the older veteran, tried to surge forward and dash the rest of the way—but the Regals near Venli had toweled dry, and they managed to unleash a collective bolt of lightning that destroyed the steps in a wide gap right in front of the men. The human leader, and the men closest to him, dropped with the rubble to die. The rest began a frantic attempt at retreat. It ended quickly. Raboniel changed her rhythm to one of Relief, then strode back into the mural-lined corridor toward the pillar. Unwilling to watch the final slaughter, Venli turned and scurried alongside her. The sounds of bodies falling—the din of armor against stone—chased them all the way. * * * It is done, the Sibling whispered to Navani. Your men have fallen. “Are you certain?” Navani asked. “What do you see?” I used to be able to watch the entire tower. Now … I see just patches. A small portion of the sixth floor. A room on the fourth floor, with a cage in it. The place nearest the Lady of Pains. She returns. She will kill me now. The large gemstone her people had been working on—finally primed with Stormlight—began glowing brightly. The light inside it started to shift and dance, furious. Then it drained away, vanishing. Navani felt a spike of alarm, until the Sibling spoke into her mind. It worked. Melishi … I have hated you … but now I bless you. It worked. I am safe, for now. Navani let out a relieved breath. If they reach the gemstone you just infused, the Sibling said, they could corrupt me through it. You will need to destroy it. “Will that break the shield?” Navani forced out. No. It will weaken the shield, but that is better than the alternative. You cannot defend this place. Your soldiers on the steps have fallen. She breathed out, and would remember to burn a prayer for the fallen when she could. But if Teofil had been killed … then the tower was captured. Navani’s only course was to surrender. She would have to hope that the barrier would last long enough either for Dalinar to reach them, or for Navani to find a way to free the Radiants. Assuming she wasn’t killed. The Fused did not often slaughter indiscriminately, but there were reports of them executing high-ranking lighteyes. That depended on the Fused who led the individual forces,
and how much the people resisted. “Shatter that sapphire,” she said to her scholars. “Destroy the entire fabrial, cage included, and that glass globe. Send people to both the map room and the information vault to burn our maps of the tower. The rest of you, join me. We must find a way to deliver a formal surrender without being killed before we can make our intentions known.” * * * Raboniel approached the pillar again with some eagerness. Venli stood nearby as the Fused reached up to touch a specific set of gemstones that were embedded in the construction, then began infusing those with Voidlight. As soon as she’d begun, though, she hesitated. “Something curious is happening here. There is Stormlight in the system. That shouldn’t be possible; the Sibling cannot create it.” “I thought that Stormlight was what the Radiants, and their fabrials, always used,” Venli said. “The tower is something else.” She glanced at Venli, noting her confusion—and unlike many Fused, she chose to explain. “The Sibling—the tower, Urithiru—is the child of Honor and Cultivation, created to fight Odium. The place runs on the Sibling’s Light, a mixture of the essences of its parents. Stormlight alone shouldn’t be able to work the tower’s core systems. Stormlight, to the Sibling, is incomplete. Like a key missing several of its teeth.” “And with Voidlight, you’re using a key … with no teeth?” Venli asked. “I’m not using a key at all. I’m breaking the lock.” Raboniel put her hands on the pillar, infusing another specific gemstone. “The Sibling is insensate, completely unaware that we are here. That I can determine. I can corrupt them, awaken them to serve us. Just as I expected. But also, there is Stormlight. I feel it, a large amount. Perhaps … it’s simply the power they’re using to work the pumps, or the lifts. Not true parts of the Sibling; systems added later, attached to the construction. Those could take Stormlight alone.…” Raboniel stopped and stepped back, humming to Craving—a rhythm to indicate confusion or a question. And then a wave of blue light began to expand from the pillar. She stumbled away, and Venli joined her, dashing out into the corridor—where the blue light stopped and seemed to solidify, blocking the way. Raboniel stepped forward and rested a hand on it. “Solid,” she said. “And powered by Stormlight, judging by the tone…” Venli anticipated anger. This shield, whatever it was, clearly thwarted whatever the Lady of Wishes was doing. Instead she seemed fascinated. “Remarkable, truly remarkable,” Raboniel said, tapping the shield with her knife. It clicked like glass when touched. “This is incredible.” “Does it ruin our plans?” Venli asked. “Absolutely.” “And … you don’t mind?” “Of course not. This is going to be so interesting to crack open. I was right. The answers, the way to end the war, must be here.” A shimmer of red lightning moved across the ground up the hallway. Venli had seen this before—a spren like lightning running along a surface. Indeed, it materialized into the shape of a
small human—not a singer, but a human, with odd eyes and hair that waved in an unseen wind. Ulim. The first Voidspren she’d ever met, all those years ago. “Lady of Wishes,” he said, performing a flowery bow. “We have located the Blackthorn’s wife, queen of this tower.” “Oh?” Raboniel asked. “Where was she hiding?” “A Deepest One—the Caller of Springs—found her near a strange fabrial that is now unfortunately destroyed. The Caller summoned a force and captured Queen Blackthorn, who has come peacefully. She is now asking to speak with whomever was leading our assault. Shall I have her killed?” “Don’t be wasteful, Ulim,” Raboniel said. “The Blackthorn’s wife will make a very useful pawn. I would have thought better of you.” “Normally I would be nothing but eager for a new toy,” Ulim said. “But this woman is dangerous and crafty. Reports say she’s the one who created the flying machine that raided Alethkar last month.” “Then we certainly won’t kill her,” Raboniel said. “She could be seen as a symbol to the people of this tower…” Ulim said. Then the small spren cocked his head, looking at the shield covering the doorway. “What’s that?” “You only just noticed it?” Venli asked. Ulim glanced at her, then turned away, pretending to ignore her. What did he think of Venli now, all these years later? He’d made such promises to her. Was he embarrassed that she’d lived, knowing what a liar he was? “It is a puzzle,” Raboniel said. “Come. I would meet this queen of the tower.” * * * Navani composed herself, standing with hands clasped before her, surrounded by singer soldiers. Though the effects of fatigue made her want to droop, she kept her head high. She wished she had chosen a formal havah today, instead of this simple work dress with a gloved hand, but that couldn’t be helped. A queen was a queen, regardless of what she wore. She kept her expression calm, though she wasn’t certain whether she was awaiting imprisonment or death. They had immediately separated her from the others, naturally, and had taken her arm sheath with its fabrials. She wished she could burn a prayer to the Almighty that her scholars would be kept safe. The only reason to surrender was to protect them and the others of the tower. In this, the Fused had been wise. They’d made it clear time and time again that they didn’t slaughter populations who surrendered. You always knew you had an out. All you had to do was submit. It was the same lesson that Gavilar and Navani herself had taught many, many years ago. Cities that had joined the unified Alethkar had prospered. Of course, with Gavilar and Dalinar involved, there had always been an explicit addition to that lesson. Fail to submit, and you would be sent the Blackthorn. With those memories haunting her, it was difficult to evoke any sense of outrage as the enemy soldiers led her down the steps. How could Navani feel outrage at having done to her what
she’d willingly done to others? It was the enormous flaw in Gavilar’s reasoning. If their strength justified their rule of Alethkar, then what happened when someone stronger came along? It was a system that ensured there would always be war, a constant clash for rule. She was able to use such high-minded philosophical thoughts to distract her up until she saw the first bodies. They lay slumped against the wall, in the crook of the steps, men in Roion uniforms. Men with too-young faces, slaughtered as they’d tried to push for the crystal pillar. Men she’d sent to their deaths. Navani steeled herself, but had to walk through their blood to proceed. Vorin teachings abhorred gambling, and Navani had often been proud that she avoided such games of chance. Yet she gambled with lives, didn’t she? The blood was pervasive, dribbling down steps, threatening to make her slip. One of her captors placed a strong hand under her arm, as they marched her around and around, passing breaks in the wooden railing where the fighting had grown intense. At the bottom she found a pile of corpses, including some in Kholin uniforms. Poor Teofil and his men. It seemed they’d almost made it, judging by the fact that a Heavenly One had to fly Navani over a break in the steps where a few last corpses slumped—bespeaking their final moments. Thank you, Teofil, she thought. And all of you. If the tower had a chance, it came because these men had bought her time. Even if they hadn’t reached the pillar, they had done something remarkable. She would remember that sacrifice. At the base of the steps, she was marched through the hallway with the murals. As she walked, she found herself proud of how much of a fight they’d put up. Not only Teofil and the soldiers, but the entire tower. Yes, it had taken less than half a day for the Fused to conquer all of Urithiru, but considering Navani’s lack of Radiants and Shards, it was remarkable to have lasted that long. She felt particularly satisfied with their efforts when she saw the glowing blue light at the end of the hallway, blocking off the way to the pillar room. Odd, that she should feel most a queen in the moments before the position was taken from her. The soldiers steered her into the larger of the two library rooms, where a tall femalen Fused stood in light armor, looking over papers from one of the many stacks in the room. Navani’s most precious engineering and design secrets. The Fused had a strange hairstyle, with carapace covering nearly her entire head, save for a topknot-style bundle of thick orange singer hair. The way the guards presented Navani made it clear that this was the leader. The Fused continued to read, barely acknowledging Navani. “I am ready to discuss terms of surrender,” Navani finally said. A lithe Regal stepped to the femalen’s side. “Raboniel, Lady of Wishes, is not to be directly addressed by—” She was interrupted by the Fused
saying something. Whatever it was, the Regal didn’t seem to have expected it, for when she spoke again her voice cadence had changed markedly. “The Lady says, ‘She comes to me as a queen, though she will leave without the title. For now she may speak when she wishes, as befitting her rank.’” “Then let me offer surrender,” Navani said. “My soldiers have been instructed to turn in their arms, should you approach with the proper sign given—proof that we’ve reached an accord.” “I will require your Radiants,” the Fused—Raboniel—said through her interpreter. “You will release a proclamation: Anyone harboring a Radiant is subject to harsh punishment. We will search the tower to bring all of them under our care. Your soldiers and officers will be disarmed but spared. “Your people may continue living in the tower under our laws. All lighteyes—including you—will be made of equal status to darkeyes. You are humans, nothing more, nothing less. The will of a singer must be obeyed immediately, and humans may not carry weapons. Otherwise, I am content to let them continue their occupations—and even engage in trade, a privilege not extended to most humans in Alethkar.” “I can’t give up the Knights Radiant to execution,” Navani said. “Then we will kill them all as they lie unconscious,” the Fused said. “And once finished, we will approach you with less lenient terms of surrender. Conversely, we can make an accommodation now, and perhaps your Radiants will live. I cannot promise I won’t change my mind, but I don’t intend to execute them. We simply need to be certain they are properly restrained.” “They’re unconscious. How much more restraint do they need?” Raboniel didn’t reply. She flipped through the pages. “I agree to these terms,” Navani said. “The tower is yours. If your people approach my men with a white flag bearing a circle painted black, they will surrender.” Several Regals went running with the news, and Navani wished them the wind’s own speed. “What have you done with my scholars? And the soldiers down here in these rooms?” “Some are dead,” Raboniel said through the interpreter. “But not many.” Navani closed her eyes. Some? Which of her friends had been killed in this incursion? Was she foolhardy, for resisting as long as she had? No. Not if it bought us time to put the shield up. She knew very little about the Sibling and this tower, but at least now she had a chance. Only by working with the enemy, pretending to be docile and controlled, would she find opportunity to restore the Radiants. “You drew these?” Raboniel asked through her interpreter, turning around the pages. They were indeed some of Navani’s sketches—more airships, of a more practical design, now that they better understood the mechanics of flight. They were signed by her seal. “Yes,” Navani said. The Fused read through them further. Then, remarkably, she spoke in Alethi—heavily accented, but understandable. “Is it common for human queens of this era to be engineers?” This startled her attendant Regal, who seemed to not have
known this Lady of Wishes could speak Alethi. Or perhaps she was surprised to hear one so high speak to a human. “I have unusual hobbies,” Navani said. Raboniel folded the sheet of paper and finally met Navani’s eyes. “They are remarkable. I would like to hire you.” “… Hire me?” Navani asked, taken aback. “You are no longer a queen, but you are obviously a talented engineer. I am told the scholars of this tower respect you. So, I would hire you to work on fabrial projects for me. I assure you, being in my employ will be a far more rewarding job than carrying water or washing clothing.” What game is this? Navani thought. Surely this Fused didn’t actually expect Navani to design fabrials for the enemy? “Carrying water or washing clothing is fine work,” Navani said. “I’ve done both before in my life. Neither will involve giving secrets to an enemy who, I’m afraid, will inevitably use them to kill and conquer my people.” “True,” Raboniel said. “You are not prideful. I respect that. But consider my offer before rejecting it. If you are close to me, you would have a much easier time tracking what I’m doing, spying on my projects. You will also have greater opportunity to sneak information out to your husband, in hope of an eventual rescue. I know many things about Stormlight and Voidlight that you do not. Pay attention, and I suspect you’d learn more from me than you’d give up.” Navani felt her mouth go dry, searching the Fused’s red eyes, glowing faintly from her corrupted soul. Storms. Raboniel said it all so calmly. This creature was ancient, thousands of years old. What secrets must her mind hold.… Careful, Navani thought to herself. If she’s thousands of years old, she has had thousands of years to practice manipulating people. “I will consider the offer,” Navani said. “Refer to me as ‘Ancient One’ or ‘Lady of Wishes,’” Raboniel said, “as you no longer have the rank to ignore my title. I will put you with your scholars. Discuss it together, then inform me of your decision.” The soldiers led Navani away. And just like that, she had lost another throne. Regardless, please make yourself known to me when you travel my lands. It is distressing that you think you need to move in the shadows. By the time they heard confirmation that the queen had surrendered, sunlight was beginning to stream through the windows of the clinic. Kaladin and his family had spent the entire night seeing patients. Twenty hours, a full day, without sleep. Even the exhaustionspren near Kaladin seemed tired, swirling slowly, lethargic. The messenger woman sat down at their table in the clinic, bleary eyed and wearing a disheveled uniform, as she accepted a cup of cold tea from Kaladin’s father. “The queen attempted a final push to restore the Radiants,” the woman said. “I don’t know what that entailed—only that the soldiers involved are dead now. I’ve been running messages to the neighborhoods on the sixth floor. But yes,
in answer to your question, I’ve seen Queen Navani and the head of the Fused army together. She confirmed the surrender to me. We are to live under singer law, and not resist.” “Stormwinds,” Kaladin whispered. “I never realized how blind I’d feel without spanreeds.” It had taken hours for any sort of factual information to filter up to the sixth floor. “So we’re supposed to go right back to living under their rule?” Kaladin’s mother said from her seat at the table. “It wasn’t so bad,” Lirin said. “The highlords won’t like it, but it won’t matter much for the rest of us.” “Fabrials don’t work,” Hesina said. “We can’t heat our rooms, not to mention our food. The water pumps will have halted. This tower won’t remain livable for long.” “The Fused use their powers,” Lirin replied. “Maybe if we infuse the fabrials with Voidlight, they’ll work.” “Pardon, Brightlord,” the scout said, “but that … feels wrong for many reasons.” Kaladin had started rummaging in the cupboard for something to eat, so he didn’t see his father’s reaction at being called “Brightlord.” He could guess though. It was an odd situation anyway, considering that Lirin’s eyes hadn’t changed, he’d simply been adopted into Kaladin’s house. Rank was becoming a jumbled mess these days. “Kaladin, son,” Hesina said, “why don’t you go lie down?” “Why?” he said, getting out a stack of flatbread, then counting how many pieces they had. “You’ve been prowling about like a caged animal,” she said. “No I haven’t.” “Son…” she said, in a calm—but infuriatingly wise—voice. He set down the bread and felt at his brow, which was cold from sweat. He took a deep breath, then turned around to face them, his father leaning against the wall, his mother at the table with the messenger woman. She had white and grey hair, but was young enough that it seemed premature, and had a pair of white gloves tucked into her belt. An Alethi master-servant doing double duty as a messenger. “You’re all taking this too calmly,” Kaladin said, tossing up his hands. “Don’t you realize what this means? They control the tower. They control the Oathgates. That is it. The war is over.” “Brightlord Dalinar still has the bulk of the Radiants with him,” Alili, the messenger, said. “And our armies were mostly deployed around the world.” “And now they’re all isolated!” Kaladin said. “We can’t fight a war on multiple fronts without the Oathgates. And what if the enemy can repeat whatever they did here? What if they start making Radiant powers go away on every battlefield?” That quieted her. Kaladin tried to imagine what the war would be like without Windrunners or Edgedancers. Already, the battlefields were starting to look very little like the ones he’d known during his days as a spearman. Fewer large-scale formations maneuvering against other blocks of men. Those were too easy to disrupt from above, or by other types of Fused. Men spent their days in protected camps, making only sudden surges to claim ground and shove away
the enemy. Battles stretched on for months, instead of occurring in decisive engagements. Nobody quite knew how to fight a war like this—well, nobody on their side, at least. “I keep waiting,” Kaladin said, wiping his brow again, “for the thunder to hit. The lightning struck last night. We saw the flash, and need to brace ourselves for the shock wave.…” “Brightlord,” Alili said, “pardon, but … maybe you could help the other Radiants? To do whatever you did?” “What did I do?” “That’s what I’m asking,” she said. “Again, pardon, but Brightlord Stormblessed … you’re the sole Radiant I’ve seen in the tower who is still standing. Whatever the enemy did, it knocked out all the others. Every single one. Except you.” He thought of Teft, lying on the slab in the other room. They’d spooned broth into his mouth, and he had taken it, stirring and muttering softly between mouthfuls. The long night weighed on Kaladin. He did need rest. Probably should have taken it hours ago. But he worried about his patients, the men suffering from battle shock. Before all this had happened, he’d gotten them rooms on the fourth floor, among the men who had lost arms or legs in the war, and who now did work maintaining gear for other soldiers. Kaladin’s patients had been making real progress. He could imagine exactly how they felt now though, living through another horror as the battle—so frequently a source of nightmares to them—found them again. They must be beside themselves. Not just them, Kaladin thought, wiping his brow again with his hand. The messenger woman rose and stretched, then bowed and moved on her way to continue delivering the news. Before she reached the front door, however, Syl zipped in from underneath it, twirled around in a few circles, then zipped back out. “Enemy soldier,” Kaladin said under his breath to his parents, “coming this way.” Indeed, as the messenger left, a singer wearing a sleek Regal form peeked in to check on Kaladin and his parents. The singer lingered only a short time before turning away. There weren’t enough of them yet to guard each and every home. Kaladin suspected that as more and more singers moved into the tower, he and his family wouldn’t be able to speak as openly as they’d been doing so far this morning. “We should get some sleep,” Lirin said to Kaladin. “The other townspeople—” Kaladin began. “Laral and I will visit them,” Hesina said, rising. “I got some sleep earlier.” “But—” “Son,” Lirin said. “If the Radiants are in comas, that means no Edgedancers—and no Regrowth. You and I need sleep, because we’re going to become very busy men over the next few days. There’s an entire tower full of frightened people, and likely as not a few hotheaded soldiers will take it upon themselves to make trouble despite the queen’s orders. They’re all going to need two rested surgeons.” Hesina gave her husband a fond touch on the cheek with her safehand, then a kiss. She pulled a handkerchief from
her pocket and gave it to Kaladin as he found himself yet again wiping his brow. Then she left to go visit Laral—who had seen the messenger before them and already knew the situation. Kaladin reluctantly joined his father and walked down the long hallway past the patient rooms toward the family’s living quarters. “What if I’m one of those hotheads?” Kaladin asked. “What if I can’t live with this?” Lirin stopped in the hallway. “I thought we’d discussed this already, son.” “You think I can ignore the fact that the enemy has conquered my home?” Kaladin said. “You think you can just turn me into a good, well-behaved slave like—” “Like me?” Lirin asked with a sigh. His eyes flicked up, likely noting the brands on Kaladin’s forehead, mostly covered by his hair. “What would have happened, son, if instead of trying so hard to escape all those years, you’d instead proven yourself to your masters? What if you’d shown them you could heal instead of kill? How much misery would you have saved the world if you’d used your talents instead of your fists?” “You’re telling me to be a good slave and do what I’m told.” “I’m telling you to think!” his father snapped. “I’m telling you that if you want to change the world, you have to stop being part of the problem!” Lirin calmed himself with obvious difficulty, making fists and breathing in deeply. “Son, think about what all those years spent fighting did to you. How they broke you.” Kaladin looked away, not trusting himself to answer. “Now,” Lirin said, “think about these last few weeks. How good it felt to be helping for once.” “There is more than one way to help.” “And your nightmares?” Lirin asked. “The cold sweats? The times where your mind numbs? Was that caused by my kind of help, or your kind? Son, our mandate is to find those who are hurt, then see them cared for. We can do that even if the enemy has conquered us.” In a way, Kaladin could understand what his father said. “Your words make sense up here,” Kaladin said, tapping his head. “But not down here.” He slapped his breast. “That’s always been your problem, son. Letting your heart override your head.” “My head can’t be trusted sometimes,” Kaladin said. “Can you blame me? Besides, isn’t the entire reason we became surgeons because of the heart? Because we care?” “We need both heart and mind,” Lirin said. “The heart might provide the purpose, but the head provides the method, the path. Passion is nothing without a plan. Wanting something doesn’t make it happen. “I can acknowledge—have to acknowledge—that you accomplished great things serving Dalinar Kholin. But with the Radiants down and most of the king’s surgeons on the battlefield, we are what stands between the people of this tower and deathspren. You acknowledge that you don’t think right sometimes? Then trust me. Trust my thoughts.” Kaladin grimaced, but nodded. It was true that his thoughts had proven—time after time—that they couldn’t be trusted.
Besides, what did he think he was going to do? Fight a war against the invaders all by himself? After Navani had surrendered? Before retiring, they checked on the unconscious people in the patient rooms. The Stoneward was completely out cold, less responsive than Teft, though Lirin was able to get her to take soup by spooning it to her lips. Kaladin studied her—checking her eyes, her heart rate, her temperature. Then he moved over to Teft. The bearded Windrunner shifted, his eyes closed, and when Kaladin put broth to his lips he took it far more eagerly. His hands twitched, and though Kaladin couldn’t make out anything he was saying, he kept muttering under his breath. He’s a Windrunner, of the same oath as me, Kaladin thought. I’m awake when the others fell. Teft is close to being awake. Was there a connection? Whatever fabrial the enemy was using to do this, perhaps it didn’t work as well on Windrunners. He needed to see the other Radiants and compare them. There had been around two dozen other Windrunners in the tower. His status as a surgeon should let him visit them and check their vitals. Storms. His father was correct. Kaladin could accomplish far more by backing down than he could by fighting. Syl came zipping into the room a short time later. Lirin noticed her too, so she’d made herself visible to him. “Syl,” Kaladin said, “will you check again to see if you can spot Teft’s spren? He seems like he’s coming closer to waking, so she might be becoming more visible.” “No time,” Syl said, turning into the shape of a young woman with a sword strapped to her waist, wearing a scout’s uniform. She halted in the air, standing as if on an invisible platform. “They’re coming.” “Another Regal coming to check in on us?” Kaladin said. “Worse,” Syl said. “A group of soldiers, led by a different Regal, is searching each residence, methodically heading this direction. They’re hunting for something.” “Or someone,” Kaladin said. “They’ve heard that Stormblessed is awake.” “Don’t jump to conclusions, son,” Lirin said. “If they were searching for you specifically, they’d have come straight here. I’ll go see what this is about. If they are looking for you, escape out the window and we’ll decide what to do later.” Kaladin withdrew into the family room, which had doors to their bedrooms—including the small closet where little Oroden was sleeping in his crib. Kaladin didn’t go to his bedroom though. He cracked the door into the hallway, and was able to hear voices when his father opened the door at the far front of the clinic. Unfortunately, he couldn’t hear what they were saying. He nodded to Syl, who risked zipping out to get closer and overhear. Before she could return, the voices drew nearer. Kaladin made out the Regal by the rhythm of his speech. “… don’t care if you’re a surgeon, darkeyes,” the soldier said. “I have the queen’s sealed writ here, and its instructions supersede what you might have been
told by messengers. All Radiants are to be taken into custody.” “These are my patients,” Lirin said. “They were entrusted to my care. Please; they’re no danger to you like this.” “Your queen accepted these terms,” the Regal replied. “Complain to her.” Kaladin peeked out the door into the hallway. A Regal led five ordinary warform singers. Their larger figures appeared cramped in the stone corridor as they walked to the two patient rooms. So they weren’t after him, not specifically. They were searching for fallen Radiants. Indeed, the Regal gestured his attendants toward the first exam room. Two moved out soon after, carrying the fallen Stoneward between them. They shoved Lirin aside as they carted her off down the hallway. Syl came zipping back to Kaladin, agitated as she moved into the room with him. “They don’t seem to know about you. Only that the surgeon has a couple of fallen Radiants.” Kaladin nodded, though he’d grown tense. “I can care for these far better than you can,” Lirin said. “Removing them like this could be dangerous to their health, even deadly.” “Why would we care?” the Regal said, both tone and rhythm sounding amused. Two of his soldiers took the Stoneward’s squires, one each, and hauled them out of the second exam room. “I think we should throw them all off the tower and rid ourselves of a huge problem. The Fused want us to collect them though. Guess they want to have the fun of killing these themselves.” He’s posturing, Kaladin thought. The Fused wouldn’t go to the effort of taking the Radiants captive only to kill them. Would they? Did it matter? They were going to take Teft. The Regal moved into the first exam room, and Kaladin’s father followed, making more objections. Kaladin stood with one hand on the wall, one hand on the door, breathing deeply. Wind surged through the window behind, brushing past him, bearing with it two twisting windspren that moved as lines of light. A hundred objections held him. His father’s arguments. His soul in fragments. The knowledge that he was probably too tired to be making decisions. The fact that the queen had decided it was best to end hostilities. So many reasons to stay where he was. But one reason to move. They were going to take Teft. Kaladin pulled open the door and stepped into the hallway, feeling the inevitable shift of a boulder perched on the top of a slope. Just. Beginning. To tip. “Kaladin…” Syl said, landing on his shoulder. “It was a nice dream, wasn’t it, Syl?” he asked. “That we could escape? Find peace at long last?” “Such a wonderful dream,” she whispered. “You ready for this?” he asked. She nodded, and he stepped into the doorway of the exam room. Two enemy soldiers remained in the room: one warform and the stormform Regal. The Regal had helped get Teft up onto the regular soldier’s shoulders. Lirin looked straight at Kaladin, then shook his head urgently, his eyes going wide. “You will put him down,” Kaladin
said to the singers. “And leave quietly. Send one of the Fused to get him, if they’re so insistent.” The two froze, and the Regal sized him up. “Go back to bed, boy,” he eventually said. “You don’t want to try my patience today.” Lirin dashed forward, trying to push Kaladin out of the room. With a quick pivot to the side, Kaladin sent his father tumbling into the hall—and hopefully out of danger. He stepped back into the doorway. “Why not go for reinforcements?” Kaladin said to the two singers. Almost more a plea than a request. “Don’t press this issue right now.” The Regal gestured for his companion to set Teft back onto the exam table, and for a moment Kaladin thought they might actually do what he said. Then the Regal unhooked the axe from its sheath at his side. “No!” Lirin said from behind. “Don’t do this!” In response, Kaladin drew in a breath of Stormlight. His body came alight with the inner storm, and wisps of luminescent smoke began to curl from his skin. That gave the two singers pause, until the warform pointed. “That’s him, Brightlord! The one the Pursuer is searching for! He matches the description exactly!” The Regal grinned. “You’re going to make me very rich, human.” Dark red lightning crackled across his skin. The warform shied away, hitting the counter and causing surgery implements to clink against one another. Lirin grabbed Kaladin from behind. Kaladin stood quietly on that precipice. Balanced. The Regal leaped forward, swinging his axe. And Kaladin stepped off the edge. He shook free of his father’s grip and shoved him backward with one hand, then caught the Regal’s arm with his other before the axe could fall. Kaladin braced himself for the jolt of energy that shot through him at touching a stormform—he’d fought these before. It stunned him for a moment nonetheless, so he wasn’t ready to guard as the Regal cuffed him across the face, ripping his cheek with the barbed carapace on the back of his hand. Stormlight would heal that. Kaladin got his other hand up, preventing another punch while continuing to hold back the axe. The two struggled for a moment, then Kaladin managed to get the advantage, tipping their center of balance forward so he could twist and ram his shoulder into the Regal. Storms it hurt. That carapace was no joke. Still, the maneuver put his opponent momentarily off balance, so Kaladin was able to control the fight, spinning his enemy around and slamming the creature’s hand into the corner of an exam table. A resounding snap split the air, and the carapace on the hand cracked. The Regal hissed in pain and dropped the axe. But then he pivoted hard and rammed his side into Kaladin’s chest, shoving him against the counter. Kaladin’s father was shouting, but the warform—instead of helping—remained by the opposite wall. He didn’t seem eager to attack a Radiant. Without Stormlight, Kaladin wouldn’t have been able to withstand the constant jolts of energy from the stormform’s touch.
As it was, he was able to hold on—not letting the enemy force him back too much—until the Regal tried another punch. At the windup, Kaladin hooked his leg around the foot of his opponent, then sent them both to the ground. He landed with a grunt and tried to roll into position to choke his opponent unconscious. If the fight ended without bloodshed, perhaps his father would forgive him. Unfortunately, Kaladin hadn’t done a lot of wrestling. He knew enough to keep himself from being pinned easily, but the Regal was stronger than he was, and that carapace kept jabbing in surprising places and interfering with his holds. The Regal leveraged his superior weight and strength, twisting Kaladin around with a grunt. Then—with Kaladin pinned beneath him—the creature began pummeling him in the face with his good fist, the one that hadn’t cracked. Kaladin breathed in a gasp of Stormlight, draining the spheres on the counter. He brought his fist up and slammed it into the back of the hand that had cracked earlier. His enemy flinched, and Kaladin was able to kick free, throwing the Regal off—though both slammed into the counters in the tight confines as he did so. Kaladin scrambled to find his feet so he could attack his enemy from above—but the Regal began to glow red. The hairs on Kaladin’s arms stood up, and he had a fraction of a second to duck to the side as a flash of light—and an earsplitting crack—filled the room. He hit the ground, blinded and deafened, the sharp scent of a lightning strike filling his nostrils. Strange and distinctive, it was a scent he associated with rainfall. Kaladin didn’t think he’d been struck directly—stormforms had trouble aiming their lightning—but it took a moment for Kaladin’s Stormlight to heal his ears and restore his vision. A shadow moved over him, swinging its axe down. Kaladin twisted to the side just in time. The axe clanged against the ground. I’m sorry, Father, Kaladin thought, reaching for the scalpel in his boot. As the axe fell again, Kaladin let it bite him in the left shoulder, praying his Stormlight would hold. He rammed the scalpel into the side of the Regal’s knee, directly between bits of carapace. The Regal screamed and stumbled. Kaladin’s shoulder hurt like Damnation, but he pushed through the pain and leaped to his feet. His Stormlight ran out as he rushed his enemy, toppling them again—but this time Kaladin fell with more care and dropped on top of the Regal. With the momentum of the fall, he rammed his scalpel into the creature’s neck, right above its carapace gorget. The knife wasn’t intended for battle, but it was sharpened to exactness. Kaladin twisted it and swiftly cut the carotid artery, then threw himself up. He stumbled back against the counter, covered in sweat, panting, his hearing not fully healed from the blast. The Regal thrashed on the floor, and orange blood … Well, Kaladin turned away. Some sights were sickening even for a surgeon. Even for a soldier,
he corrected. You’re no surgeon. He looked across the room at the singer who huddled beside the far wall. He’d watched, stunned, and hadn’t intervened. “Haven’t been in many fights, have you?” Kaladin asked, hoarse. The singer jumped, his eyes wide. He was in warform, so he appeared fearsome, but his expression told another story. That of a person who wanted to be anywhere else, a person horrified by the brutality of the fight. Storms … He hadn’t considered that singers might feel battle shock too. “Go,” Kaladin said, then winced as the dying Regal’s leg thumped against the wall with a frantic, panicked sound. Bleeding out always seemed to happen too quickly to your friends, and not quickly enough to those you killed. The singer stared at him, haunted, and Kaladin realized the malen might also have been deafened by the lightning. Kaladin pointed, mouthing the word. “Go!” The singer scrambled away, leaving wet orange footprints from the dying singer’s blood. Kaladin pulled himself over to the opposite counter, where a few spheres still glowed. He drew those in and healed the rest of his wounds. He should have kept another pouch on him. This had been coming. He searched out the doorway, and found his father on the floor where Kaladin had shoved him, lit by morning light coming in through the distant window. “You all right?” Kaladin asked him. “Did that blast hurt you?” Lirin stood up, staring past Kaladin. Into the room, square at the dying Regal. In the other room, Oroden had started crying. Then Lirin, overcoming his shock, scrambled into the room to try to help the dying singer. Father is fine, Kaladin thought. The thunder of stormform lightning blasts—at least those made by a single individual—wasn’t as bad as that of real lightning. As long as you were sheltered, as his father had been, you wouldn’t suffer permanent hearing loss. Kaladin tiredly glanced to Syl, who sat on the counter with her hands in her lap. Her eyes were closed, her head turned away from the dying Regal as Lirin tried to stanch the blood flow. Kaladin had killed dozens, perhaps hundreds of them during this war—though he’d tried to focus his attention on the Fused. He’d told himself that those fights were more meaningful, but the truth was that he hated killing common soldiers. They never seemed to have much of a chance against him. Yet each Fused he killed meant something even worse. A noncombatant would be sacrificed to give that Fused new life, so each one of them Kaladin killed meant taking the life of some housewife or craftsman. He moved over to Teft, Kaladin’s glowing body illuminating the man, unconscious on the table. Kaladin spared a momentary worry for the Stoneward who had been taken. Could he somehow rescue her too? Don’t be a fool, Kaladin. You barely saved Teft. In fact, you might not have saved him yet. Deal with the current problems before creating new ones. Nearby, Lirin gave up, lowering his head and slumping in place as he
knelt before the body. It had stopped moving, finally. “We’ll need to hide,” Kaladin said to his father. “I’ll fetch Mother.” He surveyed his bloody clothing. “Perhaps you should do that, actually.” “How dare you!” Lirin whispered, his voice hoarse. Kaladin hesitated, shocked. “How dare you kill in this place!” Lirin shouted, turning on Kaladin, angerspren pooling at his feet. “My sanctuary. The place where we heal! What is wrong with you?” “They were going to take Teft,” Kaladin said. “Kill him.” “You don’t know that!” Lirin said. He stared at his bloodied hands. “You … You just…” He took a deep breath. “The Fused are probably gathering the Radiants to keep them in one location, and watch to see that none of them wake up!” “You don’t know that,” Kaladin said. “I wasn’t going to let them take him. He’s my friend.” “Is that it, or did you just want an excuse?” Lirin’s hands trembled as he tried to wipe the blood onto his trousers. When he looked back at Kaladin, something seemed to have broken in him, tears on his cheeks. Storms, he seemed exhausted. “Heralds above…” Lirin whispered. “They really did kill my boy, didn’t they? What have they done to you?” Kaladin’s smidgen of Stormlight ran out. Damnation, he was so tired. “I’ve tried to tell you. Your boy died years ago.” Lirin stared at the floor, wet with blood. “Go. They’ll come for you now.” “You need to go into hiding with me,” Kaladin said. “They’ll know you’re my—” “We’re not going anywhere with you,” Lirin snapped. “Don’t play the sixth fool, Father,” Kaladin said. “You can’t let them take you after this.” “I can and will!” Lirin shouted, standing up. “Because I will take responsibility for what I’ve done! I will work within whatever confines I must in order to protect people! I have taken oaths not to harm!” He grimaced, sickened. “Oh, Almighty. You murdered a man inside my home.” “It wasn’t murder,” Kaladin said. Lirin didn’t respond. “It wasn’t murder.” Lirin sank to the floor. “Just … go,” he said, his voice growing soft again. The grief in it, the disappointment, was far worse than the anger had been. “I will … find a way to get the rest of us out of this. That singer saw me trying to make you stop. They won’t harm a surgeon who didn’t fight. But you, they’ll kill.” Kaladin hesitated. Could he really leave them here? “Storms…” Lirin whispered. “Storms, my son has become a monster.…” Kaladin steeled himself, then slipped into the back room and recovered an extra pouch of spheres he kept there. Then he returned to the exam room, trying—and failing—to avoid the blood. He lifted Teft with a grunt, putting him in a medic’s carry across his back. “I’ve taken oaths too, Father,” he said. “I’m sorry I’m not the man you wanted me to be. But if I were a monster, I would never have let that other soldier go.” He left, running for the uninhabited center of the sixth floor as
shouts in the singer tongue began to sound behind him. THE END OF Part Two Vyre was unchained. Moash, the man he’d once been, had lived his entire life chained up and never known it. Oh, he’d recognized the bonds the lighteyes used on him. He’d experienced their tyranny both directly and indirectly—most painfully in the deaths of those he loved, left locked away in their dungeons. But he hadn’t recognized the truer chains. The ones that bound his soul, constraining him to mere mortality, when he could always have been so much more. Vyre threw his Shardblade with a wide, overhand throw. Sunlight flashed along the spinning blade as it soared across the quarry and then clanged against a large rock before bouncing free, tearing a gash in the ground, then finally coming to a rest wedged in the stone. “I … still don’t understand what you’re doing, Vyre,” Khen said to Confusion. Warform suited her. It always had. “That weapon was not meant to be thrown.” They worked together in the quarry—which had been created by mining through the crem many feet down to reach marble—outside of Kholinar. As usual, his small band of singers went where he did, and started working—quietly—as he did. Moments earlier, Vyre had been cutting stones out with this Blade. Now, his attention had turned inward. Toward chains, and bindings, and prisons unseen. He gestured, and the distant Shardblade vanished to mist. Yet it took him ten heartbeats to summon it again. “I saw Prince Adolin throw his Blade,” Vyre said. “Three months ago, on the battlefield in northern Jah Keved. He is no Radiant, yet his Blade responds to him as if he were one.…” “Maybe it was just a lucky throw.” Vyre threw his Blade again. It clanged uselessly off his target. He narrowed his eyes, then dismissed it into a puff of mist. “No,” Vyre said. “He must be able to change the balance to allow for this maneuver. And it returned to him faster than ten heartbeats, even accounting for the accelerated pulse of battle.” Vyre waited until the weapon appeared in his grip. This was an ancient weapon, one of the mighty Honorblades. Yet it was inferior. It couldn’t change shape, and cost far more Stormlight to use, often crusting his clothing with frost when he used it too quickly. He didn’t feel anger at his Blade’s inferiority. Or humiliation. The lack of those emotions let him consider the situation clearly, fueling his curiosity, his determination. This was what it was like to be unchained. To be freed from captivity. To never again feel guilt. He strode through the quarry. A thousand clinks of metal on stone surrounded him, like the dancing feet of cremlings. An overcast sky and a calm wind chilled his skin as he picked a new section of the quarry in which to work. He began slicing at the wall to cut free another large block of the precious marble. “Vyre,” Khen said. To Determination. Curious. What did she want that made her so afraid? “I
… I am leaving.” “Very well,” Vyre said, working. “You’re … not angry?” “I can’t be angry,” he said, truthfully. “Nor can I feel disappointment.” After all these months together, she still didn’t understand—because she rushed to explain, worried he’d be upset, despite what he’d said. “I don’t want to go on these raids and fight anymore, Vyre. I feel like I woke up to life, and then immediately started killing. I want to see what it is like to live. Really live. With my own mind, my own Passions.” “Very well,” Vyre said. She hummed to Reconciliation. “You are chained, Khen,” Vyre explained. “You haven’t given your negative emotions to him. Your insecurities. Your fears. Your pain. I was like you for many years.” He narrowed his eyes, turning and looking to the west. Toward him. “Then I took the chains off and saw what I could truly become.” She hummed to … was that Curiosity? Yes, he thought it was. “What?” Vyre asked. “You say you’re unburdened, Vyre,” she said. “That you don’t care anymore. But you keep hunting him. The Windrunner.” At the mention of Kaladin, Moash felt a hint of old, painful emotions—though Odium quickly sucked them away. “Kaladin is a friend,” Moash said. “It is important to me that he find his freedom. Go your way, Khen. If you become unchained in the future, seek me out. You are a capable warrior, and I would fight beside you again.” Vyre heaved a rock onto his right shoulder and began hauling it out of the quarry. The others remained in place, working. Vyre enjoyed hauling rocks. Simple work was best to pass the time. It reminded him of days spent walking with caravans. Except this was better, because it tired out his body, but left him capable of thinking on his curious state. His new state. Large stone settled on his shoulder, he hiked steadily up the path toward Kholinar. The marble was heavy, but not so much that he needed Stormlight or supernatural help. That would defeat the purpose. For a time, he walked, happy with his status. And he thought about Kaladin. Poor Kaladin. There was freedom available for his old friend. Two freedoms, in fact. But he doubted Kaladin would ever accept the same freedom as Vyre, so he offered the other one. The sweet peace of nonexistence. Khen was correct in questioning Vyre. So many things that had once been important didn’t bother him any longer, so why did Kaladin tease at him, draw his attention? Why did Kaladin always make the old emotions churn again, if briefly? There was one chain still holding to him, Vyre admitted. That of his friend. I have to be right, Vyre thought. And he has to be wrong. Kaladin had to acknowledge that Vyre was right. Until he did … Until he did, that last chain would remain. Vyre eventually reached Kholinar and passed through the gates. The city had well and truly settled into its new existence. The peoples intermixed, though singers were properly given deference.
They were models of behavior the humans needed to learn to follow. When disputes happened, the singers forced men to be fair to one another. After all, when the parents came home, it was their duty to remove privileges if they found a mess. Humankind had been given millennia to prove they could self-govern properly, and they had failed. People stared at him. He wasn’t wearing his uniform, and he’d covered his Bridge Four shoulder tattoo with elbow-length sleeves. He was not distinctive. Yet he was. For they knew him; they whispered of him. Vyre. He Who Quiets. He who hauls rocks. Vyre soon reached a building site near the District of Colors. Here, workers were constructing special housing for some of the Deepest Ones. Each brand of Fused had its particularities. These liked to have homes without floors, so they could touch the natural stone ground with their unshod feet. They could move through other materials too, so long as they were solid, but they liked the feeling of uncut stone underfoot, stretching to the heart of Roshar. So Vyre’s marble would be used for the walls. Vyre hadn’t been asked to help with this job. If negative emotions could rule him, he suspected he’d have been annoyed at their neglect. Hard labor in the city? Not telling him was like hiding sweets from a child. Fortunately, he’d found out about it a few days ago, and had started cutting his own rocks and hauling them. Vyre set his block of marble down by the masons’ station, where they were honing them. Then he helped unload a cart that had pulled in from the other quarry, full to the brim. One stone at a time. Heave, haul, drop. It was excellent work. Difficult, grueling. He was so lost in the effort that when the chull carts were all empty, he dusted his hands off—and was surprised to find himself virtually alone. When had the masons and other workers left? It wasn’t yet midday. “Where is everyone?” he asked the chull keeper, who was quickly gathering his beasts to take them to their pen. “Everstorm tonight, Brightlord. We were given a half day off, in celebration.” “I’m not a brightlord,” Vyre said, checking the sky—though, as he now recalled, the storm wouldn’t arrive for many more hours. But it was likely approaching Urithiru right now. The armies were preparing to attack. Well, he’d been told to stay back from that fight, so he looked at the chull keeper. “How much more stone do you need?” “Well, um, Bright … er, Lord Silencer? Sir? Um. Yes, we need about double what we have now. There’s a pile at the second quarry, but we have chulls and carts to—” “We shouldn’t let the chulls have all the fun,” Vyre said, turning and walking along the road toward the city gates. Before Vyre reached the gates, however, he was taken into a vision. He materialized on a vast field of golden light. Odium was there, a hundred feet tall, seated on a throne. In the
guise of a mighty Fused, majestic like a king should be. Vyre walked closer and knelt. “You can take me without a storm now, Lord?” OUR CONNECTION GROWS STRONGER, Odium said. I HAVEN’T NEEDED A STORM TO BRING YOU INTO A VISION FOR MONTHS NOW, VYRE. I USUALLY DO IT FOR TRADITION’S SAKE. That made sense. Vyre waited for further instructions. I’VE NOTICED YOU WALKING FREELY ABOUT IN STORMS ON PREVIOUS DAYS, VYRE, Odium said, his voice like thunder. YOU HAVE GIVEN ME YOUR WORST EMOTIONS, BUT YOU SHOULD MAINTAIN A SENSE OF SELF-PRESERVATION. FEAR OF MY MAJESTY. WHY ARE YOU NOT WARY OF THE LIGHTNING? “You won’t strike me down,” Vyre said. HOW DO YOU KNOW THIS? “I haven’t finished what I’m supposed to do,” Vyre said. “I still have a truth to prove.” INTERESTING, Odium said. YOU RESPOND TO MY GIFT IN SUCH AN ODD WAY. YOU ARE BECOMING SOMETHING I HAVE NEVER BEFORE CREATED, VYRE. “Some people say I’ve become your avatar,” Vyre said. “That you act through me, control me.” Odium laughed. AS IF I WOULD GIVE SUCH POWER TO A MORTAL. NO, VYRE, YOU ARE UNIQUELY YOURSELF. SO INTERESTING. “I am unchained.” AND YET, YOU THINK SO OFTEN OF KALADIN. “I am … mostly unchained.” Odium leaned forward, lightning crackling across his carapaced body. I NEED YOU AT URITHIRU. WE CANNOT MAKE THE OATHGATES WORK, AND SO I NEED YOU TO TRANSPORT THE GROUND FORCES. I SUSPECT YOUR SWORD WILL STILL FUNCTION. “I will go right away,” Vyre said. “But I thought you didn’t want me there.” I WORRY ABOUT THE EFFECT yOUR FRIEND HAS ON YOU. THE WINDRUNNER. “You needn’t worry. Those emotions belong to you now.” INDEED. Odium leaned closer. YOUR FRIEND IS A PROBLEM TO ME—A BIGGER PROBLEM THAN I HAD ASSUMED. I HAVE FORESEEN THAT HE WILL CONTINUE TO BE ONE. That was not surprising. Kaladin was a problem to many. HE HAS LEFT THE BATTLE, WHICH I HADN’T THOUGHT HIM CAPABLE OF DOING, Odium said. STRANGELY, THIS WILL MAKE HIM FAR MORE DANGEROUS IN THE FUTURE. UNLESS WE ACT. BUT I CANNOT STRIKE HIM DOWN DIRECTLY. NOT UNLESS HE PUTS HIMSELF INTO MY HANDS. “Kaladin can’t be killed,” Vyre said. He knew it, sure as he knew the sun was hot, and that it circled Roshar forever. NOT EVEN BY YOU? “Especially not by me.” I DO NOT THINK THAT IS TRUE, VYRE, THOUGH I UNDERSTAND WHY YOU THINK IT SO. I FEEL YOUR PASSIONS, AS THEY ARE MINE. I UNDERSTAND YOU. Vyre remained kneeling. I WOULD CLAIM THIS ONE, AS I HAVE CLAIMED YOU, Odium said. And Vyre would see him dead first. A mercy. CAN YOU THINK OF A WAY TO HURT HIM? Odium asked. DRIVE HIM TOWARD ME? “Isolate him. Take away his friends.” HE WILL SOON BE ALONE. “Then make him afraid. Make him dread. Break him.” HOW? Vyre looked up, across the endless field of golden stone. “How do you bring me here?” THIS IS NOT A PLACE, BUT A WARPING OF THE REALMS. A VISION. “Could
you show me anything?” YES. “Could you show him anything?” I HAVEN’T THE CONNECTION TO HIM. Odium considered, humming softly to a rhythm. I SEE A WAY. THERE ARE HOLES IN HIS SOUL. SOMEONE COULD GET IN. SOMEONE WHO KNOWS HIM, SOMEONE CONNECTED TO HIM. SOMEONE WHO FEELS AS HE DOES. “I will do it.” PERHAPS. YOU COULD INFLUENCE HIM IN SMALL WAYS ONLY. PERHAPS EACH NIGHT, WHEN HE SLUMBERS … HE THINKS OF YOU STILL, AND THERE IS MORE. A CONNECTION BECAUSE OF YOUR PAST, YOUR SHARED DREAMS. ANY BOND SUCH AS THAT CAN BE MANIPULATED. WILL THIS BE ENOUGH? IF WE SHOW HIM VISIONS, WILL THAT BREAK HIM? “It will be a start. I can bring him to the brink. Get him to step up to the ledge.” THEN WHAT? “Then we find a way to make him jump,” Moash said softly. As Lift hung from the ceiling—dangling precariously from a rope with one hand, reaching out with the other toward the basket—she was forced to acknowledge that stealing food just didn’t give her the same thrill it once had. She continued to pretend because she didn’t want her life to change. She hated change. Stealing people’s food was basically her thing. She’d been doing it for years, and she did get a thrill when she saw their starvin’ faces. They’d turn away, then when they looked back, their chouta wrap would be gone. Or they’d lift the cover on their meal, and find the plate empty. After that came the most sublime moment of cross-eyed panic and confusion. But then they’d smile and look to see where she was. They didn’t see her, of course. She was way too good at hidin’. But they’d look, and they seemed fond. You weren’t supposed to be fond when someone stole from you. Ruined the entire experience. Then there was this. She stretched a little farther, fingers brushing the basket.… There. She snatched the handle. She stuffed the handle between her teeth, scuttled up the rope, then vanished into the hidden labyrinth of small tunnels that latticed the ceilings and walls of Urithiru. Up here Wyndle waited, coiled up on himself and making a face out of vines and crystal. “Oh!” he said. “A full basket! Let’s see what he left you this time!” “Ain’t nobody leaving me nothin’,” Lift snapped. “I stole it, unfair and square. Also hush. Someone might hear.” “They can’t hear me, mistress. I am—” “I can hear you. So hush, whineyspren.” She crept down the tunnel. There was an Everstorm going on right now, and she wanted to be safe at her nest. The things felt creepy in ways that the other Radiants didn’t seem to notice. And even though everything seemed normal in the tower, she couldn’t help noticing the strange sensation that everything was wrong. She felt that every time though. So today, she just pushed the basket ahead of her as she crawled through the small tunnel. The next intersection was a tight squeeze, but she could make herself slick with Stormlight, so she
got through. Two turns and a straight crawl later, they entered a small intersection where she’d left a sphere for light. The roof of the tunnel was a little higher here, letting her settle with her back against the stone wall so she could inspect her prize. Wyndle came in on the ceiling, taking the shape of a growing vine that crept across the stone. He formed a face again right above her as she rifled through the basket. Flatbread … some curry … sugared mashed beans … a little jar of jam with a cute face drawn on top above the Horneater symbol for “love.” Lift glanced up at the ceiling and the blinking vine face hanging from it. “Fine,” she admitted. “Maybe he left it out for me.” “Maybe?” “Starvin’ stupid Horneater boy,” Lift grumbled, slathering jam on the flatbread. “His dad knew how to make it appear like an accident, leavin’ stuff out so I could take it. Let me stormin’ pretend.” She stuffed the bread into her mouth. Damnation. It was good. Only made the experience more humiliating. “I don’t see the problem, mistress,” Wyndle said. “That’s ’cuz you’re a dummyspren,” she said, then stuffed the rest of the flatbread into her mouth, talking around it. “Dodnoif lifhf anyfunf inftor lif.” “I do too like fun in my life!” he said. “Last month, with the help of some human children, I displayed the most beautiful art installation of chairs. The other cultivationspren thought it quite majestic. They complimented the stools in particular.” Lift sighed, leaning back, slumping there. Too annoyed to even make a good stool joke. She wasn’t really angry. Wasn’t really sad. Just … blarglegorf. Supremely blarglegorf. Storms. The wrap she wore underneath her shirt was itchy today. “Come on,” she said, grabbing the basket and sphere, then moving on through the tower’s innards. “Is it really so bad?” Wyndle said, following. “Gift likes you. That is why he leaves things out for you.” “I’m not supposed to be liked,” Lift snapped. “I’m a shadow. A dangerous and unknown shadow, moving mysteriously from place to place, never seen. Always feared.” “A … shadow.” “Yes, a starvin’ shadow, all right?” She had to squeeze through the next tunnel too. Stupid, stupid, stupid. “This tower, it’s like a big ol’ corpse. And I’m like blood, sneaking around through its veins.” “Why would a corpse have blood in its veins?” “Fine. It’s not dead. It’s sleepin’ and we are its stormin’ blood. All right?” “I should think,” Wyndle said, “these air vents are much more like intestines. So the allegory would make you more akin to … um … well, feces I guess.” “Wyndle?” she said, pulling through. “Yes, mistress?” “Maybe stop tryin’ to help with my deevy metaphors.” “Yes, all right.” “Storming lamespren,” she muttered, finally reaching a section of larger air vents. She did like this tower. There were a lot of places to hide and to explore. Up here in this network of stone ventilation shafts, she found the occasional mink or other scavenger, but it
was actually her domain. The adults were too big, and the other children too frightened. Plus she could glow—when properly fed—and her awesomeness could get her through tight squeezes. A year ago, there hadn’t been nearly as many of those as there were now. Stupid, stupid, stupid. They eventually reached her nest, a large opening where four tall ventilation shafts met. Here she’d piled up blankets, food stores, and some treasures. One of Dalinar’s knives she was absolutely sure he hadn’t wanted her to steal. Some interesting shells. An old flute that Wyndle said looked strange. They were near a well where she could get all the water she wanted—but far enough away from people that she could talk freely. Her previous nest had let her listen in on the echoes of people nearby—but they’d also been able to hear her. She’d heard them talking about the echoing. The spirit of the tower, they’d called her. That had been nifty at first, but then they’d started leaving stuff out for her, like she was the stormin’ Nightwatcher. And she’d started feeling guilty. You can’t be taking stuff from people who don’t have much. That was the first rule of not being a total-and-utter-useless-piece-of-chull-dung. She munched on more of the “stolen” food from her basket, then sighed and got up. She stepped up to a side wall, putting her back to the stone. “Come on,” she said. “Do it.” Wyndle moved up the wall. As always, he left a trail of vines behind him. They would crumble and decay soon after, but could be used to mark something for a short time. He moved across the wall atop her head, then she turned around and marked the line with a more permanent one out of chalk. “That’s almost a full inch since last time,” she said. “I’m sorry, mistress.” She flopped down in her nest of blankets, wanting to curl up and cry. “I’ll stop eating,” she said. “That’ll stunt my growth.” “You?” Wyndle said. “Stop eating.” Storming spren. She pulled off her shirt, redid the wrap tighter—although it pinched her skin—then replaced her shirt. After that, she lay and stared up at the marks on the wall, which showed the progress of her height over the last year. “Mistress,” Wyndle said, curling up like an eel and raising a vine head beside her. He was getting better at making faces, and this one was one of her favorites—it had vines that looked like little mustaches. “Don’t you think it’s time you told me what exactly it was you asked the Nightwatcher?” “Doesn’t matter,” she said. “It was all lies. The boon. The promises. Lies, lies, lies.” “I have met the Nightwatcher,” Wyndle said. “She does not … think the same way the rest of us do. Cultivation created her to be apart, separated from humankind, un-Connected. Mortal perception of the Nightwatcher does not influence her like it does other spren. Mother wanted a daughter whose shape and personality would grow organically. “This makes the Nightwatcher less … well, human … than a
spren like me. Still, I don’t believe her capable of lying. It isn’t something she could conceive of, I believe.” “She’s not the liar,” Lift said, closing her eyes. Storms. She’d made the wrap too tight. She could barely breathe. “It’s the other one. The one with a dress like leaves, merging into the underbrush. Hair like twigs. Skin the color of deep brown stone.” “So you did see Cultivation herself. Both you and Dalinar … Mother has been intervening far more than we assumed, but behind a cloud of subterfuge. She uses tales of the Old Magic to distract, and to make it less obvious the specific ones she is drawing to her.…” Lift shrugged. “I had suspected it was true. Your … situation is unique. Why, seeing into the Cognitive Realm—even a little—is an uncommon feature in a human! And turning food into Light. Why … if Mother is involved … perhaps this isn’t Stormlight you use at all. Hmm … You realize how special you are, Lift.” “I didn’t want to be special.” “Says the girl who was comparing herself so dramatically to a shadow earlier.” “I just wanted what I asked for.” “Which was?” Wyndle asked. “Not important now.” “I rather think it is.” “I asked not to change,” Lift whispered, opening her eyes. “I said, when everything else is going wrong, I want to be the same. I want to stay me. Not become someone else.” “Those are the exact words?” Wyndle asked. “Best I can remember.” “Hmm…” Wyndle said, snuggling down into his vines. “I believe that is too vague.” “I wasn’t! I told her. Make me so I don’t grow up.” “That is not what you said, mistress. And if I might be so bold—having spent a great deal of time around you—you are not an easy person to understand.” “I asked not to change! So why am I changing?” “You’re still you. Merely a bigger version.” She squeezed her eyes shut again. “Mistress,” Wyndle said. “Lift. Will you tell me why this bothers you so much? Everyone grows. Everyone changes.” “But I’m … I’m her little girl.” “Whose little girl?” he asked gently. “Your mother’s?” Lift nodded. Stupid. It sounded stupid and she was stupid. Mother was dead. That was that. Why hadn’t she said the correct words? Why hadn’t Cultivation just understood? Cultivation was supposed to be some sort of starvin’ god. It was her fault if a little girl came and begged for a promise, and the god deliberately misinterpreted and … And Lift liked who she was. Who she had been. She wouldn’t be the same when she got older. Crawl through dark tunnels? Sure. Fight against Fused? Eh, why not. But feel your own body changing you into someone else, and not be able to stop it? Every human being lived with a terrible terror, and they all ignored it. Their own bodies mutated, and elongated, and started bleeding, and became all wrong. Nobody talked about it? Nobody was scared of it? What was wrong with them? The last time
things felt right, Lift thought, I was with her. Before she got sick. And I was her little girl. If she saw me now, she wouldn’t recognize me. A few strange spren, like faces mocking her, faded in nearby. Wyndle slowly wrapped his vines around her. Gentle, like an embrace. Though others could barely feel the touch of their spren, Wyndle felt solid to her. He wasn’t warm. But … it was comforting when he rested his vine head on her shoulder. For once he didn’t ruin the sentiment by saying something dumb. And then he perked up in a suspicious-like way. Lift wiped her eyes. “What?” she demanded. “I don’t know,” Wyndle said. “Something just happened. In the tower. I feel … a darkness resting on me like a blanket. I think I felt the tower stir.” “You said the tower’s spren was dead.” “Dead spren can stir, Lift,” Wyndle said. “Something is wrong. Something is very wrong.” Lift grabbed a large piece of flatbread and stuffed it in her mouth. Then she scurried through the tunnels, Wyndle following. She tried to use Stormlight to make her body slick to get through a particularly tight squeeze, but it didn’t work. She frowned, tried again, then finally forced herself through without it. What on Roshar? She came out above an empty room at the perimeter of the tower. She dropped from the opening in the ceiling, then trotted to the window. It was nearing evening, and the Everstorm had passed. Nothing looked wrong about the tower from her vantage; just an average day up in the mountains. “Something’s wrong with my powers,” she whispered as Wyndle lowered himself from the top of the windowsill. “I couldn’t become awesome.” “Look, down there.” Some people had gathered on the Oathgate platform to the Shattered Plains. Several figures who seemed to have fallen to the ground. Blue uniforms. “Windrunners,” she said, squinting. “Somethin’s wrong with them. Maybe they broke the Oathgates?” “Maybe.” Lift searched out across the snowy landscape, trying to listen. Listen. The Sleepless had told her, Always listen. She heard screams. But not human ones. “There,” she said, pointing. “What’s that?” A bright red something was flying through the air in a desperate loop—being chased by something else that was green. Faster, more dangerous. The two collided in midair, and when the red something tore away, it dropped feathers in the sky. Chickens. Flying chickens. She didn’t need to be told to instinctively understand that the green one was the predator, while the red one was prey. It gave a few beleaguered flaps toward the tower, seeming barely able to stay in the air. “Come on,” Lift said, swinging out the window. “I need handholds.” “Oh, mistress!” Wyndle said, moving onto the outside of the tower. He wove back and forth to make a ladder of vines clinging to the stone, which she climbed. “We are far too high up for this! What if I drop!” “You’re a stormin’ spren. You’d be fine.” “We don’t know that!” he said. “I could fall hundreds
of feet!” “Cowardspren.” “Wisdomspren, if anything!” he said, but kept weaving as she scrambled upward. The red chicken barely dodged another attack in the sky before darting in toward a balcony above and vanishing from her sight. The green chicken rounded, and she got a good look at it. Wicked talons, a sharp knifelike beak. She’d always thought chickens looked silly, but this one was different. She reached the balcony and found the red one on the floor, bleeding from one wing, trying weakly to right itself. It was bigger than she’d thought, at least a foot tall, with a vivid red body and head. It had bright blue wings that went red at the ends, like fire. It chirped weakly as it saw her. She perched on the rim of the balcony and turned to see the green one coming in. “Wyndle, I need you,” she said, holding her hand to the side to make him into a weapon. Not a sword. She hated those things. A rod she could swing at the nightmare chicken. Nothing happened. “I can’t become a weapon, mistress!” Wyndle cried. “I don’t know why! It’s something about the wrongness in the tower!” Fine. She didn’t need a weapon anyway. The green chicken came swooping toward her, claws extended. It seemed to expect her to flinch. So she didn’t. She took the hit directly in the face and grabbed the chicken as it tried to rake her with its claws. Then she bit it. Right on the wing. Its startled scream seemed more confused than pained, but it tore out of her grip and fluttered away, crying as if it thought Lift wasn’t playing fair. She spat out a feather as Stormlight healed the cuts to her face. Well, at least that part of her abilities was still working. She hopped down and scooped up the wounded red-feathered chicken. It gave her a timid bite on the arm, and she glared at it. “You ain’t in any position to complain,” she said, then tried to heal it. She pressed her Light into the body, and it resisted. The healing didn’t work either. Damnation. The chicken calmed as she hurried into the room beyond, where a young lighteyed man had been walking to the balcony to see what the fuss was. “Sorry,” Lift said. “Important Radiant business.” As he leaped back, startled, she snatched a limafruit off his table, then hurried out into the hallway beyond. Let’s see … fifth floor … She found her way to one of the ventilation openings, and Wyndle made a ladder for her to climb up—the red chicken under her arm complaining softly about the treatment. Inside, safely around a few corners, she put the chicken on the floor, then pressed her hand to it again. She pushed harder. When she’d tried to become awesome earlier, nothing had happened. But when she’d tried to heal, she’d felt something different—a resistance. So this time she pushed it, growling softly until … it worked. Stormlight left her, and the chicken’s wing healed. Her powers
didn’t regrow the lost feathers, but in a moment the thing had rolled over and was picking at the bare skin on its side with a tentative beak. Finally, it looked at her and released a confused squawk. “It’s kind of what I do,” she said, and shrugged. “I’m ’posed to listen too. Damnation take me if I can figure out how that applies to chickens though.” The chicken squawked. She tried to summon her awesomeness, but that power didn’t merely resist. It seemed to not exist. As she tried again, she heard something odd. People shouting? “Wyndle?” she asked. He moved away as a vine. People could sometimes notice the remnants of those vines when they disintegrated, but he himself was invisible. The chicken began walking away down the tunnel. It had a funny stride, like it was indignant about being forced to use its feet. Lift hurried forward and blocked it off. “Where do you think you’re going?” It squawked insistently, then squeezed past her. “At least wait for Wyndle,” she said, blocking it off again. It let out a more threatening squawk, but soon Wyndle returned. “Radiants are dropping unconscious!” he said. “Oh, mistress. This seems very bad!” The chicken, uncaring, pushed past her and continued along the tunnel. Together she and Wyndle followed, the spren growing increasingly worried—particularly after the bird fluttered down into a corridor, then stared at the ground and chirped in an annoyed way. It turned toward her, plaintive. “You need to go down lower,” she said, “but you don’t know how? What are you following?” It squawked. “Mistress,” Wyndle said, “chickens are not intelligent. Talking to one would make me question your intelligence, if I hadn’t seen you talk to cremlings sometimes.” “Never can tell if one of those is reporting back to someone or not,” she muttered, then climbed down and picked up the chicken. It seemed to have trouble flying without all its feathers, so she carried it as they used the stairs to descend several levels, following the chicken’s body language. It would stretch out its head, then cock it, looking at the floor with one eye. When they got to the second level, it leveled out its head, staring insistently along a corridor, and made a kind of hooting noise. Something distant rumbled from one of the corridors behind them. Lift spun, and Wyndle whimpered. “That was thunder,” she said. “There are stormforms in the tower.” “Oh, mistress!” Wyndle cried. “We should do something! Like hide! Or run away and then hide!” Instead she followed the chicken’s gaze. She was supposed to listen. It was one of her stormin’ oaths, or something. She hurried through a side passage as the chicken started to squawk louder. “Mistress?” Wyndle said. “Why are we…” He trailed off as they stumbled across the corpse. It was an old Alethi man in robes. He’d been killed with some kind of knife wound to the chest, and lay—his eyes open—on the ground. Blood on his lips. She turned away. She never had gotten used to this
sort of thing. The chicken let out an angry screech, fluttering out of her hands to the man. Then—in perhaps the most heart-wrenching thing she’d ever seen—it began to nuzzle the corpse and chirp softly. It climbed into the crook of his dead arm and pushed its head against his side, chirping again, more worried this time. “I’m sorry,” Lift said, squatting down. “How did you know he was here?” It chirped. “You could feel him, couldn’t you?” she asked. “Or … you could feel where he’d been. You’re no ordinary chicken. Are you a Voidbringer chicken?” “Why,” Wyndle said, “do you insist on using that word? It’s horribly inaccurate.” “Shut it, Voidbringer,” she muttered at him. She reached over and carefully picked up the chicken, who had begun to let out pained chirps almost like words. Eerily similar to them, in fact. “Who was he?” she asked. “Wyndle, do you recognize him?” “I believe I’ve seen him before. A minor Alethi functionary, though his eyes are different now. Curious. Look at his fingers—tan skin with bands of lighter skin. He was wearing jewelry once.” Yes … thinking about it, she thought she recognized him. One of the old people in the tower. Retired, once an important official in the palace. She’d gone and talked to him because nobody paid attention to old people. They smelled. “Robbed,” she said. Back-alley killings still happened in this tower, though the Kholins tried to make the place safe. “I’ll remember you. I promise. I—” Something moved in the darkness nearby. A kind of scraping sound, like … feathers. Lift went alert and stood, holding out a sphere for light. It had come from farther down the corridor, where her light didn’t reach. Something flowed from that darkness. A man, tall with scarred features. He wore an Alethi uniform, but she swore she’d never seen him before. She would recognize a man this dangerous. Those eyes seemed to be part of the darkness—deep in shadow as he stepped into the light. On his shoulder sat the green chicken from before, its wicked claws gripping a patch of leather affixed to the uniform. “Little Radiant,” the man said. “I’ll admit, I’ve always wanted an excuse to hunt you.” She clutched her red chicken and started running. The man behind her laughed. As if he’d been given the grandest of gifts. Taravangian’s solitude was painful today. As was increasingly common, he wasn’t particularly smart. Smart Taravangian hated company. Smart Taravangian forgot the point of being around other people. Smart Taravangian was terrifying, but he would gladly have been that version of himself today. He would have welcomed the emotional anesthesia. He sat alone in a stormwagon, hands in his lap, surrounded by swirling brown exhaustionspren. The Everstorm was nearing its end. He was now to give the order for his men to betray the coalition. If Taravangian’s guesses were right, it also meant Odium had launched an attack on Urithiru. Taravangian did not give the order yet. Odium had said he would come to confirm, and so far
he hadn’t. Perhaps … perhaps Taravangian’s service wouldn’t be needed today. Perhaps the plan had changed. Weak, frail hopes for a weak, frail man. He so wished he could be smart. When had he last been intelligent? Not brilliant—he’d given up on feeling that way again—but merely smart? The last time had been … storms, over a year ago. When he’d planned how to destroy Dalinar. That attempt had failed. Dalinar had refused to be broken. Smart Taravangian, for all his capacities, had proven insufficient. Smart Taravangian came up with the plan that forced Odium to make a deal, he thought. That is enough. And yet … and yet he wavered. Smart Taravangian had failed. Besides, he hadn’t just been made intelligent. He’d been given a boon and a curse. Intelligence on one side. Compassion on the other. When smart, he assumed the compassion was the curse. But was it really? Or was the curse that he could never have both at once? He stood up in the wagon, and withstood the moment of dizziness that took him each time he stood these days: blackness creeping at the edges of his vision, like deathspren eager to claim him. He thought perhaps it was his heart, though he had not asked for a surgeon. Best not to trouble someone who could be helping wounded soldiers. He breathed out in short breaths, listening to the soft cracks of the Everstorm outside. The thunder was ebbing. Almost at the end. He shuffled the short distance to his trunk. Here, Taravangian forced himself to kneel. Storms, when had kneeling become so painful? His bones ground against one another like a pestle against its bowl. Trying not to focus on the painspren, he fumbled at the lock’s combination with trembling fingers, then unhooked the lid. He undid the trunk’s lining on the top, reached to the secret compartment and flipped a hidden latch. That disengaged the small ink vial he’d rigged to spill and ruin the contents of the compartment if it was tampered with. Only then could he feel around inside and locate the pages. He pulled them out with a tentative hand. A year ago, during his most recent bout of intelligence, he’d created this. A few pages from the Diagram, cut out and rearranged, with some scribbled notes. He’d burned his copy of the book itself, but had kept this excised section. Exhausted, he crawled to his chair and struggled into the seat. Wheezing, he cradled the old sheets from the Diagram, then tried to shoo away the exhaustionspren. When he’d created this little section, he hadn’t been as smart as he’d been on that singular day—now seven years gone—when he’d created the Diagram. On that day, he’d been a god. On the day when he’d created this fragment a year ago, he’d considered himself a prophet to that god. So what was he now? A priest? A humble follower? A fool? In a way, it felt a betrayal to think in religious terms. This was not the act of gods, but men. No.
A god made you what you are. He held up the pages and read through them, squinting without his reading spectacles. The cramped handwriting listed instructions, spliced together with original pieces of the Diagram. Most of it detailed the ploy to unseat Dalinar by the careful reveal of secrets—a plan designed to bring the poor man to his knees, to turn the coalition against him. In the end, that ploy had only galvanized the Blackthorn—and increased his suspicion of Taravangian. Before that day, they had been friends. Taravangian turned this page over in his fingers, trying to understand the strange creature he became when intelligent. A being unburdened by empathy, capable of seeing straight to the heart of matters. Yet also a being who couldn’t understand the context of his efforts. He would work to preserve a people at the same time he casually ordered the deaths of children. Smart Taravangian knew the how but not the why. Dumb Taravangian didn’t make connections, didn’t remember things quickly, couldn’t compute in his head. In this document—intended to demoralize, defame, and destroy a man he dearly respected—dumb Taravangian found pain. He was weeping by the time he finished reading it, and the exhaustionspren had been replaced by the white petals of shamespren. All this, he thought, to save a handful of people? He’d preserved Kharbranth by selling out the rest of humankind. He was certain Odium could not be defeated. And so, saving a remnant was the only logical path. Right now, that seemed pathetic. Smart Taravangian considered himself so brilliant, so masterful, but this was the best he could do? It was a dangerous line of thought. And pointless. Hadn’t he told off Mrall for making this very argument? They had to focus on what they could do. Smart Taravangian understood that, and had accomplished it. Dumb Taravangian instead wept for all the people he had failed. All the people who would die when Odium scoured the world of humankind. Taravangian looked back at the notes, and today saw something new in them. A small comment about a specific person. Why specifically can’t the Diagram see Renarin Kholin? the notes read. Why is he invisible? Smart Taravangian had moved on quickly from this question. Why waste time on something minor that you couldn’t solve? Dumb Taravangian lingered on it, remembering a later time when he’d been visited by Odium. Odium had shown Taravangian something, and Renarin … Renarin Kholin had appeared as a chain of blacked-out futures, unseeable. The wagon began to grow lighter around Taravangian. He cursed under his breath, quickly folding the papers together and hiding them in the pocket of his robes. In an instant, the stormwagon melted away—walls vanishing before a brilliant golden light. The floor changed, and Taravangian found himself sitting in his chair on a brilliant field, the ground made as if from solid gold. A figure stood in front of him, a twenty-foot-tall human bearing a scepter. His features were Shin, and his hair and beard were completely gold, as if he were Iriali. Odium’s robes
were more ornate than last time, red and gold, with a sword tied at the waist. It was a presentation meant to stun and awe, and Taravangian couldn’t help but gasp. It was so gorgeous. He forced himself out of his seat, falling again on painful knees, bowing his head but unable to tear his eyes away from the magnificent display. “I prefer you when you are like this, Taravangian,” Odium said with a powerful voice. “You may not think as quickly, but you do understand more quickly.” “My lord,” Taravangian said. “Is it time?” “Yes,” Odium said. “You are to send the orders.” “It will be done.” “Will they obey, Taravangian? You ask them to turn against their allies. To side with the enemy.” “The Alethi are their enemies, Lord,” Taravangian said. “The Vedens have hated their neighbors for centuries. Plus their new leaders—installed by your own hand—are hungry for power. They believe you will reward them.” They had not obtained promises. A god could be bound, but only by oaths. These foolish men believed that they’d be rewarded above the others, but Taravangian knew their entire country was doomed. Every human in those lands would eventually be destroyed. They were oblivious of this fate, and Taravangian was confident they would do as they were told and attack their former allies. He had spent a year preparing them, promoting the right men at Odium’s command, subtly indicating to all who followed him that the war was a problem for Alethkar and Azir, not for Jah Keved. That the enemy would never come for them. He looked up to find the god inspecting him with a curious expression. “Do you not fear death, Taravangian?” Odium asked. “You know you are doomed.” “I…” Taravangian trembled. He tried not to think about it too much, particularly when he was stupid. Because yes, he did fear death. He feared it terribly. He hoped that beyond death there was nothing. Oblivion. For if anything else awaited him, it would not be pleasant. “I do fear it,” he whispered. “So honest, this version of you,” Odium said. He walked around Taravangian, who continued to kneel. “I much prefer it, yes. There is a straightforwardness to your Passion.” “Could you not spare them?” Taravangian asked, tears in his eyes. “The people of Jah Keved, the Iriali, those who come to you willingly. Why waste their lives?” “Oh, I will not waste them, Taravangian,” Odium said. “Their lives will be spent as they expect—in war, in glory, in blood. I will give them exactly what they’ve been asking for. They don’t know it, but they beg me for death in their requests for power. Only you have begged me for peace.” He looked to Taravangian. “Kharbranth will remain an eye of calm in the storm to come. Do not let the others concern you. They will fight in the war they’ve been promised since birth, and though it will consume and destroy them, they will enjoy it. I shall make certain of that fact. Even if they will not
be led in this glory by the one who should have been their king…” As the god mused, Taravangian noticed something—a light emanating from Odium. It pulsed, making his skin transparent, glowing from within. There was a … sickly feel to it somehow. Indeed, Odium stopped and seemed to concentrate, making the light retreat before continuing. I have failed in many ways, but you failed too, Taravangian thought at the god. The “one who should have been their king” was in reference to Dalinar. Odium had been planning for something for many years, a war far greater—even—than the one that now consumed Roshar. Some strange battle for the heavens. He had wanted Dalinar for this war, but had failed to secure him. Odium still intended to use all of humankind as his frontline troops, once he won Roshar. He would throw their lives away, turn them into slaves focused on fueling his war for the heavens. He would use their blood to preserve the singers, which Odium saw as more valuable troops. Merely considering all this horrified Taravangian. It was even worse than the quick and swift destruction he’d been imagining. This would be a drawn-out nightmare of slavery, blood, and death. Yet one thought comforted him. One that smart Taravangian would have discarded as sentimental. You expected Dalinar to turn, Taravangian thought. You wanted him for your champion. You failed. So in the end, you were no smarter than I was. And for all your boasting that you can see the future, you do not know everything. Taravangian had seen the god’s plans once. Could he … could he make it happen again? No. He didn’t dare plot. He wasn’t smart. He was … he was only a man. But … who better to stand up for men everywhere? In a moment of impassioned boldness, Taravangian reached into his pocket and took out the piece of the Diagram he’d worked on. He held it close, as if for comfort. Odium took the bait. He strode over and snatched it from Taravangian’s fingers. “What is this?” Odium asked. “Ah … another piece of your Diagram, is it? Edited, I see. You think yourself so smart, do you.” “No,” Taravangian whispered, hoarse. “I know nothing.” “As well you should acknowledge it,” Odium said, then held the papers up before himself and shredded them in a flash of light. “This is nothing. You are nothing.” Taravangian cried out, grabbing one of the pieces as it fluttered. Odium waved. And for a second time, Taravangian was given a glimpse of the god’s plans. Hundreds of thousands of panes of writing, hovering as if on invisible glass. This was what Odium had shown him a year ago; it was intended to impress Taravangian with how thorough and extensive Odium’s planning was. And Taravangian had managed to tempt him into showing it off, like a prized stallion. Storms … Odium could be tricked. By dumb Taravangian. Taravangian glanced around, trying to find the black portion he’d seen before. Yes, there it was, the corrupted writing, a section
of plans ruined by Renarin Kholin. The implications of that seemed profound now. Odium wasn’t able to see Renarin’s future. No one could. The scar had expanded. Taravangian turned away quickly, not wanting to draw Odium’s ire. Yet right before looking away, Taravangian saw something half-consumed in the black scar. His own name. Why? What did it mean? I’m close to Renarin, Taravangian realized. Everyone close to the boy has their future clouded. Perhaps that was why Odium was wrong about Dalinar. Taravangian felt a surge of hope. Odium couldn’t see Taravangian’s future right now. Taravangian bowed his head and bit his lip, squeezing his eyes closed, hoping the tears at the corners of his eyes would be mistaken for tears of awe or fear. “Resplendent, isn’t it?” Odium asked. “I’ve wondered why she would give you a taste of what we can do. In some ways, you’re the only one I can talk to. The only one who understands, if in a limited way, the burden I bear.” You could have simply come and given me the order today, then left, Taravangian thought. You talk instead. You’re lonely. You want to show off. You’re … human. “I will miss you,” Odium said. “I’m pleased that you made me promise to keep the humans of Kharbranth alive. They will remind me of you.” If Odium could be lonely, if he could boast, if he could be tricked … he could be afraid. Taravangian might be dumb, but when dumb, he understood emotion. Odium had incredible power; that was clear. He was a god, in power. But in mind? In mind he was a man. What did Odium fear? He would have fears, wouldn’t he? Taravangian opened his eyes and scanned through the many hovering panes of description. Many were in languages he couldn’t read, but Odium used glyphs for names. Taravangian looked for a knot of tight writing. He looked for letters that evoked terror—the terror of a genius. He found them, understanding them without being able to read them, in a knot near the black scar. Words written in cramped letters, circling a name being consumed by the scar. A simple, terrifying name. Szeth. The Assassin in White. Trembling, Taravangian turned away. Odium began ranting again, but Taravangian missed what the creature said. Szeth. The sword. Odium feared the sword. Except … Szeth was at Urithiru. Why was his name being consumed by the scar that represented Renarin? It didn’t make any sense. Could Taravangian have misunderstood? It took him a painfully long time to see the obvious answer. Szeth was here, in the army, near Dalinar. Who was in turn near Renarin. Dalinar must have brought Szeth in secret. “You cannot conceive how long I’ve planned for this,” Odium was saying—though the light was building within him again, his skin like thin paper. He seemed … not weak—a being who could spawn storms and destroy entire nations would never be weak. But vulnerable. Odium had bet so much upon Dalinar being his champion. Now that was in chaos. The god
bragged about his plans, but Taravangian knew firsthand that you could plan and plan and plan, but if one man’s choices didn’t align to your will, it didn’t matter. A thousand wrong plans were no more useful than a single wrong one. “Don’t be too pained, Taravangian,” Odium said. “Dalinar won’t kill you immediately. He’ll seek to understand; it has become his way. Poor fool. The old Blackthorn would have immediately murdered you, but this weaker version won’t be able to help himself. He’ll need to talk to you before he orders your execution.” You’re doing the same, Taravangian thought, a dangerous plan budding in his mind. You should have killed me. Out loud he said, “So be it. I have accomplished my goal.” “So you have,” Odium said. “So you have. Go, my son. Make good on your part of our compact, and earn salvation for those you love.” The golden expanse faded, depositing Taravangian on the floor of his stormwagon. He opened his hand, finding the fragment of the Diagram in it. But … the other pieces were gone. They had vanished when the vision ended. That stunned him, for it implied that he had truly been in another place. That he’d taken the papers there with him, but only this one piece remained when he returned. He stared at the fragment for a long time, then forced himself into his seat. He took a moment to recover before digging into his satchel. He brought out the spanreed board, oriented it, and positioned the pen. When he finally got a response, he wrote out two simple words. Do it. He had to go through with the betrayal, of course. He needed to keep his agreement; he had to protect Kharbranth. That came before any other plots or plans. And any other such plots would have to be executed in such a way that Odium either did not know what he’d done, or couldn’t act against him to remove Kharbranth’s protections. It took less than fifteen minutes for Dalinar’s soldiers to arrive and break into his wagon, shattering the door and storming in with weapons drawn. Yes, they’d been waiting for this betrayal. Odium had his distraction. They’d need to dedicate weeks of frantic work to be certain the Veden armies didn’t gain too much of an advantage—and Dalinar would be occupied here, fighting off Taravangian’s soldiers. Taravangian groaned as the soldiers seized his spanreeds, a scribe among them reading the two words he’d sent. They didn’t harm him. Odium was probably right. Taravangian likely had a few weeks before his execution. He found that he hurt less, felt less tired, as they bound and gagged him. It was painful, yes, but he could suffer a little pain. For he knew something powerful. A quiet, furtive secret as dangerous as the Diagram had been. Taravangian had decided not to give up. If the Stormlight in a gemstone is withdrawn quickly enough, a nearby spren can be sucked into the gemstone. This is caused by a similar effect to a pressure differential,
created by the sudden withdrawal of Stormlight, though the science of the two phenomena are not identical. You will be left with a captured spren, to be manipulated as you see fit. —Lecture on fabrial mechanics presented by Navani Kholin to the coalition of monarchs, Urithiru, Jesevan, 1175 The Windrunners rose around Kaladin in a defensive spread. They hung in the air like no skyeel ever could: motionless, equidistant. Below, refugees stopped—despite the chaos of the evacuation—to stare up through the awespren at the sentinels in blue. There was something natural about the way Windrunners swooped and banked, but it was another matter altogether to be confronted by the surreal sight of a squad of soldiers hanging in the sky as if on wires. The fog had mostly burned away, giving Kaladin a good view of the Heavenly Ones as they advanced in the distance. The enemy wore solid-colored battle garb, muted save for the occasional bright crimson. They wore robes that trailed behind them several feet, even in battle. Those would be impractical to walk in, but why walk when they could fly? They’d learned much about the Fused from the Herald Ash. Each of those Heavenly Ones was an ancient entity; ordinary singers had been sacrificed, giving up their bodies and lives to host a Fused soul. Each approaching enemy carried a long lance, and Kaladin envied the way they moved with the winds. They did it naturally, as if they hadn’t merely claimed the sky—as he had—but had instead been born to it. Their grace made him feel like a stone tossed briefly into the air. Three flights would mean fifty-four members. Would Leshwi be among them? He hoped she would, as they needed a rematch. He wasn’t certain he’d be able to recognize her, as she’d died last time. He couldn’t claim credit; Rock’s daughter Cord had done the deed with a well-placed arrow from her Shardbow. “Three flights is small enough we don’t need everyone,” Kaladin called to the others. “Squires beneath rank CP4, you drop to the ground and guard the civilians—don’t pick a fight with a Fused unless they come at you first. The rest of you, primary engagement protocol.” The newer Windrunners dropped down to the ship with obvious reluctance, but they were disciplined enough not to complain. Like all squires—including the more experienced ones he’d let remain in the air—these hadn’t bonded their own spren, and therefore relied on having a nearby full Windrunner knight for their powers. Kaladin had some three hundred Windrunners at this point—though only around fifty full knights. Almost all of the surviving original members of Bridge Four had bonded a spren by now, as had many of the second wave—those who had joined him soon after he had moved to Dalinar’s camp. Even some of the third wave—those who had joined the Windrunners after moving to Urithiru—had found a spren to bond. There, unfortunately, progress stopped. Kaladin had lines of men and women ready to advance and say the oaths, but there weren’t willing honorspren to be found.
At this point, there was only a single one he knew of who was willing, but didn’t have a bond. But that was another problem for another time. Lopen and Drehy moved up beside him, floating slowly, brilliant Shardspears forming in their waiting hands. Kaladin reached overhead and seized his own spear as it formed from mist, then thrust it forward. His Windrunners broke apart, flying out to meet the approaching Heavenly Ones. Kaladin waited. If Leshwi was among this force, she’d spot him. Ahead, the first of the Heavenly Ones met Windrunners, proffering spears in challenge. Each gesture was an offer of one-on-one combat. His soldiers accepted, instead of ganging up on the enemy. The layman might have found that odd, but Kaladin had learned to use the ways of the Heavenly Ones and their ancient—some might say archaic—methods of fighting. The paired Windrunners and Fused broke off to engage in contests of skill. The resulting confrontation looked like two streams of water crashing into one another, then spraying to the sides. In moments, all of the Windrunners were engaged, leaving behind a handful of Fused. In small-scale skirmishes, the Heavenly Ones preferred to wait for opportunities to fight one-on-one, instead of doubling up on enemies. It wasn’t always so—Kaladin had twice been forced to fight multiples at once—but the more Kaladin fought these creatures, the more he respected their ways. He hadn’t expected to find honor among the enemy. As he scanned the unengaged Fused, his eyes focused on one in particular. A tall femalen with a stark red, black, and white skin pattern, marbled like the turbulent mixing of three shades of paint. Though her features were different, the pattern seemed much the same. Plus there was something about the way she held herself, and the way she wore her long crimson and black hair. She saw him and smiled, then held out her spear. Yes, this was Leshwi. A leader among the Fused—high enough that the others deferred to her, but not so high that she stayed behind during fights. A status similar to Kaladin’s own. He held out his spear. She darted upward, and Kaladin swooped to follow. As he did, an explosion of light expanded below. For a brief moment Kaladin glimpsed Shadesmar, and he soared in a black sky marked by strange clouds flowing like a roadway. A wave of power surged through the battlefield, causing Windrunners to burst alight. Dalinar had fully opened a perpendicularity, becoming a reservoir of Stormlight that would instantly renew any Radiant who drew near. It was a powerful edge, and one of the reasons they continued to risk bringing the Bondsmith on missions. Stormlight raged inside Kaladin as he flew after Leshwi. She trailed white and red cloth behind her, slightly longer than the others’ garments; it flowed in a swooping, fluid response to her actions as she turned and curved around, leveling her spear at Kaladin and diving toward him. Fully trained Windrunners had several important advantages in these battles. They had much greater potential speed than the
Heavenly Ones, and they had access to Shardweapons. One might have thought these advantages insurmountable, but the Heavenly Ones were ancient, practiced, and cunning. They had trained for millennia with their powers, and they could fly forever without running out of Voidlight. They only drained it to heal, and—he’d heard—to perform the occasional rare Lashing. And, of course, the Fused had a singular terrible edge over Kaladin’s people: They were immortal. Kill them, and they’d be reborn in the next Everstorm. They could afford a recklessness that Kaladin could not. As he and Leshwi clashed—spears slamming together, each grunting as they tried to slide their weapon around and stab the other—Kaladin was forced to pull away first. Leshwi’s spear was lined with a silvery metal that resisted Shardblade cuts. More importantly, it was set with a gemstone at its base. If the weapon struck Kaladin, that gemstone would suck away Kaladin’s Stormlight and render him unable to heal—a potentially deadly tool against a Radiant, even one infused by Dalinar’s perpendicularity. As soon as Kaladin broke away, Leshwi dove deeper, trailing fluttering cloth. He followed, Lashing himself downward and plummeting through the battlefield. A beautiful chaos, each pair dancing their own individual contest. Leyten zipped past directly overhead, chasing a Heavenly One dressed in grey-blue. Skar shot beneath Kaladin, nearly colliding with Kara as she scored a hit on her opponent. Orange singer blood sprayed in the air, individual drops splashing Kaladin on the forehead, other drops chasing him as he swooped toward the ground. Kara didn’t have a Blade yet; she would have said the Third Ideal by now, he was certain. If only she had a spren. Kaladin pulled up near the ground, skimming the stone by inches, orange blood raining down around him. Ahead, Leshwi dodged through a crowd of screaming refugees. Kaladin followed, darting between Leven the cobbler and his wife. Their horrified screams, however, made him slow. He couldn’t risk colliding with bystanders. He flew up to the side, then pulled to a stop in the air, watching, anticipating. Nearby, Lopen skimmed past. “You all right, gancho?” he called to Kaladin. “I’m fine,” Kaladin said. “I can fight her if you want a breather!” Leshwi emerged on the other side, and Kaladin ignored Lopen, zipping after. He and Leshwi brushed the outer buildings of the town, rattling stormshutters. He discarded his spear, and Syl appeared near his head as a ribbon of light. He controlled his general direction with Lashings, using his hands, arms, and the contours of his body to govern fine motions. This much air rushing around him gave him the ability to sculpt his trajectory, almost as if he were swimming. He increased his speed with another Lashing, but Leshwi dodged down through the crowds again. Her recklessness almost cost her as she buzzed a group under the protection of Godeke the Edgedancer. He was a hair too slow, and his Shardblade only sliced off the end of her trailing robes. She turned away from the people after that, though she stayed near the ground.
The Heavenly One couldn’t go as fast as a Windrunner, and so she focused on sudden turns or weaving around obstacles—requiring Kaladin to moderate his speed and remain unable to press one of his strongest advantages. He followed, the chase thrilling him in part because of how well Leshwi flew. She turned again, this time coursing in close to the Fourth Bridge. She slowed as they skimmed along the side of the enormous vehicle, and she peered at the wooden construction keenly. She’s intrigued by the airship, Kaladin thought, following. She likely wants to gather as much information about it as she can. In Jasnah’s interviews with the two Heralds—who had lived thousands of years—it had come out that they too were amazed by this creation. As incredible as it seemed, modern artifabrians had discovered things that even the Heralds hadn’t known. Kaladin broke off the chase for a moment, instead soaring over the top of the large ship. He spotted Rock standing at the side of the vehicle with his son, delivering water to the refugees. When Rock saw Kaladin gesturing, the large Horneater snatched a spear from a pile placed there and Lashed it into the air. It shot up to Kaladin, who grabbed it, then Lashed himself after Leshwi. He got on her tail again as she rose in a wild loop. She often tried to wear him down—leading him in intricate chases—before coming in to fight at close quarters. Syl, flying beside Kaladin, eyed the spear Rock had thrown. Despite the wind rushing in his ears, Kaladin heard her dismissive sniff. Well, she couldn’t be infused with Stormlight. Trying to push it into her was like trying to fill an already brimming cup with more water. The next few turns strained Kaladin’s abilities to their fullest as Leshwi dove and dodged through the battlefield. Most of the others were engaged directly in duels, fighting with spear or Blade. Some led one another on chases, but none were as intricate as the weaving Kaladin was required to do. His focus narrowed. The other combatants became nothing more than obstacles in the air. His entire being, the fullness of his attention, fixated on chasing that figure ahead of him. The roaring air seemed to fade, and Syl shot ahead of him, leaving a trail of light—a beacon for Kaladin to follow. Windspren darted from the sky and fell in beside him as he curved in a gut-wrenching turn, spinning as Leshwi arrowed between Skar and another Fused. Kaladin followed, sliding directly through the space between the two spears—narrowly avoiding being stabbed—then Lashed himself around to follow Leshwi. Sweating, he gritted his teeth against the force of the turn. Leshwi glanced back at him, then dove. She was going to make another pass at the Fourth Bridge. Now, Kaladin thought, pouring Light into his weapon as he dove after Leshwi. It tried to pull out of his hand, but he held it back even as he thrust it forward. As Leshwi neared the ground, he finally let go of the spear,
launching it toward her. She, unfortunately, glanced behind at just the right moment, allowing her to narrowly dodge the spear. It crashed to the ground, splintering, the head smashed up into the shaft. Recovering, Leshwi pulled upward in a stunning move, soaring past Kaladin, who—in the moment—lost concentration and nearly collided with the ground. He landed roughly, catching himself on the stone—hard enough that he’d have broken bones without Stormlight—then cursed and looked upward. Leshwi disappeared into the fight, leaving him behind with an exultant swirling maneuver in the sky. She seemed to revel in losing him when she could. Kaladin groaned, shaking his hand where he’d hit the ground. His Stormlight healed the sprain in moments, but it still hurt in a phantom way, like the echoing of a loud noise in one’s mind after it left one’s ears. Syl appeared in the air before him in the shape of a young woman, hands on her hips. “And don’t you dare return!” she shouted up at the departing Fused. “Or we’ll … um … come up with a better insult than this one!” She glanced at Kaladin. “Right?” “You could have caught her,” Kaladin said, “if you’d been flying on your own without me.” “Without you, I’d be as dumb as a rock. And without me you’d fly like one. I think we’re better off not worrying about what we could do without the other.” She folded her arms. “Besides, what would I do if I caught her? Glare at her? I need you for the stabby-stabby part.” He grunted, climbing to his feet. A moment later, a Radiant with a white beard hovered down nearby. It was odd how much difference a small change in perspective could make. Teft had always seemed … rumpled. Beard a little ragged, skin a little rough, mood a lot of both. But hovering in the sky, the glow of Stormlight making his beard shine, he seemed divine. Like a wise god from one of Rock’s stories. “Kaladin, lad?” Teft asked. “You all right?” “Fine.” “You sure?” “I’m fine. How’s the battlefield?” “Mostly quick engagements,” Teft said. “No casualties so far, thank Kelek.” “They’re more interested in inspecting the Fourth Bridge than they are in killing us,” Kaladin said. “Ah, that makes sense,” Teft said. “Shall we try to stop them?” “No. Navani’s fabrials are hidden in the hold. A few flybys won’t tell the enemy anything.” Kaladin surveyed the town, then studied the battlefield in the air. Rapid clashes, with the Heavenly Ones generally backing away quickly. “They aren’t committed to a full assault; they’re testing our defenses and surveying the flying machine. Spread the word. Have our Windrunners lead the enemy in chases; have them fight defensively. Minimize our casualties.” Teft saluted as another group of townspeople was led up into the ship. Roshone ushered them on, and the old blowhard looked concerned for the people under his care. Perhaps he’d been taking acting lessons with the Lightweavers. Atop the ship, Dalinar glowed with a near impenetrable light. Though it wasn’t the enormous
pillar of radiance he’d created the first time he’d done this, today’s beacon was still powerful enough that it was difficult to look directly at it. In the past, the Fused had focused their attacks on Dalinar. Today they buzzed the ship—but didn’t try to strike at the Bondsmith. They were afraid of him for reasons nobody yet understood, and only committed to a full assault on him if they had overwhelming numbers and ground support. “I’ll pass the word,” Teft told Kaladin, but seemed hesitant about him. “You sure you’re well, lad?” “I’d be better if you’d stop asking.” “Right, then.” Teft shot into the sky. Kaladin dusted himself off, eyeing Syl. First Lopen, then Teft, acting like he was fragile. Had Syl told the others to keep watch over him? Just because he was feeling a tad tired lately? Well, he didn’t have time for that nonsense. A Heavenly One was approaching, red clothing fluttering, spear proffered toward him. It wasn’t Leshwi, but Kaladin was happy to accept the challenge. He needed to be up and flying again. * * * The cultists froze, staring at Shallan through the eyeholes in their hoods. The chasm fell silent, save for the noises of scuttling cremlings. Even the tall man with the sack didn’t move, though that wasn’t as surprising. He’d be waiting for her to take the lead. I’m not who you think I am, Shallan had said, implying she was going to make some startling revelation. Now she had to think of one. I’m really curious to see where this goes … Radiant thought at her. “I am no simple tradeswoman,” Shallan said. “You obviously don’t trust me yet—and I’m guessing you’ve seen the oddities about my lifestyle. You want an explanation, don’t you?” The two lead cultists glanced at one another. “Of course,” the woman said. “Yes, you should not have tried to hide things from us.” Remember Adolin, Radiant thought. Making a disturbance could be tactically dangerous. She’d told Pattern and Adolin—who might be watching by now—that if she was in distress, she’d create a distraction so they could attack. They’d try to take the cultists captive, but it could lose them the chance to capture Ialai. Hopefully they’d see she wasn’t in distress, but was instead prying information out of these people. “Did you ever wonder why I disappear from the warcamps sometimes?” Shallan asked. “And why I have far more money than I should? I have a second business, a hidden one. With the help of agents at Urithiru, I’ve been copying schematics the Kholin artifabrians have been developing.” “Schematics?” the woman said. “Like what?” “Surely you’ve heard news of the enormous flying platform that left Narak a few weeks ago. I have the plans. I know exactly how it was done. I’ve sold smaller fabrial schematics to Natan buyers, but nothing on this level. I’ve been searching for a buyer of enough means to purchase this secret.” “Selling military secrets?” the male cultist said. “To other kingdoms? That is treason!” Says the man wearing a
silly hood and trying to depose the Kholin monarchy, Veil thought. These people … “It’s only treason if you accept Dalinar’s family as rightful rulers,” Shallan said to him. “I do not. But if we can truly help House Sadeas assert itself … These secrets could be worth thousands of broams. I would share them with Queen Sadeas.” “We will take them to her,” the woman said. Radiant affixed her with a calculated stare, level and calm. A leader’s stare, one Shallan had sketched a dozen times over as she watched Dalinar interact with people. The stare of one in power, who didn’t need to say it. You will not take this from me, the stare said. If you want favor for having been involved in this revelation, you’ll do it by assisting me—not by taking it for yourself. “I’m certain that someday this might—” the man began. “Show me,” the woman said, interrupting him. Hooked, Veil thought. Nice work, you two. “I’ve got some of the plans in my satchel,” Shallan said. “We searched the satchel,” the woman said, waving to a nearby cultist to produce the bag. “There were no plans.” “You think I’d be foolish enough to leave them where they could be discovered?” Shallan said, taking the satchel. She dug inside and covertly took a quick breath of Light as she pulled out a small notebook. She flipped to a rear page, then took out a charcoal pencil. Before the others could crowd around, she breathed out carefully, snapping a Lightweaving in place. Fortunately, she’d been asked to help with the schematics—Shallan had real trouble creating a Lightweaving of something she hadn’t previously drawn. By the time the lead cultists had positioned themselves to peer over her shoulder, she had the Lightweaving in place. As she carefully rubbed her charcoal across the page, it seemed to reveal a hidden schematic. Your turn, Shallan said as Veil took over. “You trace the schematic on a piece of paper above this one,” Veil explained, “and press very hard. That leaves an indentation in the page. A light brush of charcoal reveals it. This isn’t the entire thing, naturally; I keep it as proof for potential buyers.” Shallan felt a little stab of pride at the complicated illusion. It appeared exactly as she wanted it to, making a complicated series of lines and notations appear magically on the page as she did the rubbing. “I can’t make any sense of that,” the man complained. The woman, however, leaned closer. “Replace her sack,” the woman said. “We’ll bring the matter to the queen. This might be interesting enough for her to grant an audience.” Veil steeled herself as a cultist snatched away her notebook, probably to try applying charcoal to the other pages, which would of course do nothing. The tall man pulled the sack over her head, but as he did so he leaned close. “What now?” he whispered to Veil. “This feels like trouble.” Don’t break character, Red, she thought, bowing her head. She needed to get to Ialai and
discover if the woman really did have a spy in Dalinar’s court. That meant taking a few risks. Red was the first one they’d embedded into the Sons of Honor, but his persona—that of a darkeyed workman—hadn’t been important enough to get any real access. Hopefully, together they could— Shouts rose nearby in the chasm. Veil spun, blinded by the sack. Storms alight. What was that? “We’ve been followed,” the male leader of the conspirators said. “To arms! Those are Kholin troops!” Damnation, Veil thought. Radiant was right. Adolin, seeing her sack replaced, had decided it was time to take this group captive and cut their losses. * * * Kaladin traded blows with his enemy, landing one hit, then another. As he came back around, the Heavenly One thrust down with his lance. But Kaladin had drilled spearplay until he could practically fight in his sleep. Hovering in the air, surging with Stormlight, his body knew what to do and deflected the thrust. Kaladin made his own lunge, scoring another hit. As they danced, they rotated around one another. Much of Kaladin’s formal training had been with spear and shield, intended for formation tactics, but he’d always loved the longspear, wielded two-handed. There was a power to it, a control. He could move the weapon so much more deftly this way. This Heavenly One wasn’t as good as Leshwi. Kaladin scored yet another slice along the enemy’s arm. The Shardspear did no physical damage other than greying the flesh around where the cut would have been. It soon healed, but each healing came more slowly. The enemy’s Voidlight was running out. The enemy started humming one of the Fused songs, gritting his teeth as he tried to spear Kaladin. They saw Kaladin as a challenge, a test. Leshwi always got to fight Kaladin first, but if he disengaged or defeated her, another was always waiting. A part of him wondered if this was why he was so tired lately. Even little skirmishes were a slog, never giving him a break. A deeper part of him knew that wasn’t the reason at all. His enemy prepared to strike, and Kaladin reached with his off hand for one of his belt knives, then whipped it into the air. The Fused overreacted and fumbled his defense. That let Kaladin score a spear hit along the thigh. Defeating a Fused was a test in endurance. Cut them enough, and they slowed. Cut them more, and they stopped healing entirely. His opponent’s humming grew louder, and Kaladin sensed the wounds weren’t healing any longer. Time to go for the kill. He dodged a strike—then changed Syl into a hammer, which he swung down on the enemy’s weapon, smashing it. The powerful blow threw the Heavenly One completely off balance. Kaladin dropped the hammer and thrust his hands forward; Syl was instantly a spear, steady in his grip. His aim was true, and he speared the enemy right through the arm. The Fused grunted as Kaladin whipped the spear out by reflex, then spun it around and
leveled it at the enemy’s neck. The Fused met his eyes, then licked his lips, waiting. The creature began to slowly drop from the sky, his Light expended, his powers failing. Killing him does no good, Kaladin thought. He’ll simply be reborn. Still, that was one Fused out of combat for a few days at least. He’s out anyway, he thought as the creature’s arm flopped down at his side, useless and dead from the Shardspear cut. What good is another death? Kaladin lowered his spear, then gestured to the side. “Go,” he said. Some of them understood Alethi. The Fused hummed a different tone, then raised his broken spear to Kaladin—holding it in his off hand. The Heavenly One dropped the weapon toward the rocks below. The creature bowed his head to Kaladin, then drifted away. Now, where had— A ribbon of red light streaked in from the side. Kaladin immediately Lashed himself backward and spun, weapon out. He hadn’t realized he’d been dedicating a part of his energy to watching for that red light. It darted away from him now that he’d noticed it. Kaladin tried to follow it with his eyes, but couldn’t keep track of it as it maneuvered among the homes below. Kaladin breathed out. The fog was all but gone, letting him scan the entirety of Hearthstone—a little cluster of homes bleeding people toward the Fourth Bridge in a steady stream. The citylord’s manor stood on the hilltop at the far edge of town, overlooking them all. It had once seemed so large and imposing to Kaladin. “Did you see that light?” he asked Syl. Yes. That was the Fused from before. When she was a spear, her words came directly into his mind. “My quick reaction scared it away,” Kaladin said. “Kal?” a feminine voice called. Lyn came swooping in, wearing a brilliant blue Alethi uniform, Stormlight puffing from her lips as she spoke. She wore her long dark hair in a tight braid, and carried a functional—but ordinary—lance under her arm. “You all right?” “I’m fine,” he said. “You sure?” she said. “You seem distracted. I don’t want anyone stabbing you in the back.” “Now you care?” he snapped. “Of course I do,” she said. “Not wanting us to be more doesn’t mean I stopped caring.” He glanced at her, then had to turn away because he could see genuine concern in her face. Their relationship hadn’t been right. He knew that as well as she did, and the pain he felt wasn’t for the end of that. Not specifically. It was simply one more thing weighing him down. One more loss. “I’m fine,” he said, then glanced to the side as he felt the power from Dalinar end. Was something wrong? No, the time had merely passed. Dalinar generally didn’t keep his perpendicularity open for entire battles, but instead used it periodically to recharge spheres and Radiants. Holding it open was taxing for him. “Run a message to the other Windrunners in the air,” Kaladin said to Lyn. “Tell them I spotted that
new Fused, the one I told them about earlier. He moved toward me as a ribbon of red light—like a windspren, but the wrong color. He can fly incredibly quickly, and could strike at one of us up here.” “Will do…” she said. “If you’re sure you don’t need any help…” Kaladin pointedly ignored that comment and dropped toward the ship. He wanted to make sure Dalinar was being watched, in case the strange new Fused came after him. Syl landed on his shoulder and rode downward with her hands primly on her knees. “The others keep checking on me,” Kaladin said to her, “like I’m some delicate piece of glasswork ready to fall off the shelf at any moment and break. Is that your doing?” “What? That your team is considerate enough to watch out for one another? That would be your fault, I’d say.” He landed on the deck of the ship, then turned his head and looked straight at her. “I didn’t say anything to them,” she told him. “I know how anxious the nightmares make you. It would be worse if I told anyone about them.” Great. He hadn’t liked the idea of her talking to the others, but at least it would have explained why everyone was acting so strangely. He crossed over to Dalinar, who was speaking with Roshone, who had come up from below. “The town’s new leaders keep prisoners in the manor’s stormcellar, Brightlord,” Roshone was saying, pointing at his former dwelling. “There are currently only two people there, but it would be a crime to abandon them.” “Agreed,” Dalinar said. “I’ll send one of the Edgedancers to free them.” “I will accompany them,” Roshone said, “with your permission. I know the layout of the building.” Kaladin sniffed. “Look at him,” he whispered to Syl, “acting like some hero now that Dalinar is around to impress.” Syl reached up and flicked Kaladin on the ear, and he felt a surprisingly sharp pain, like a jolt of power. “Hey!” he said. “Stop being a stumer.” “I’m not being a … What’s a stumer?” “I don’t know,” Syl admitted. “It’s a word I heard Lift using. Regardless, I’m pretty sure you’re being one right now.” Kaladin glanced at Roshone, who headed toward the manor with Godeke. “Fine,” Kaladin said. “He has maybe improved. A little.” Roshone was the same petty lighteyes he’d always been. But during this last year, Kaladin had seen another side to the former citylord. He seemed to legitimately care. As if realizing, only now, his responsibility. He’d still gotten Tien killed. For that, Kaladin didn’t think he could ever forgive Roshone. At the same time, Kaladin didn’t intend to forgive himself for that loss either. So at least Roshone was in good company. Rock and Dabbid were helping the refugees, so Kaladin told them he’d seen the strange Fused again. Rock nodded, understanding immediately. He waved to his older children—including Cord, who carried Amaram’s old Shardbow strapped to her back and wore the full set of Shardplate she’d found in Aimia. Together
they moved in a not-so-subtle way over near Dalinar, keeping a watch on the sky for red lines of light. Kaladin glanced upward as one of the Heavenly Ones shot past, chased by Sigzil. “That’s Leshwi,” Kaladin said, launching into the air. I find this format most comfortable, as it is how I’ve collaborated in the past. I have never done it in this way, and with this kind of partner. —From Rhythm of War, page 1 Kaladin jogged through the dark tunnels of Urithiru, Teft across his shoulders, feeling as if he could hear his life crumbling underfoot with each step. A phantom cracking, like glass shattering. Each painful step took him farther from his family, farther from peace. Farther into the darkness. He’d made his decision. He would not leave his friend to the whims of enemy captivity. But though he’d finally thought to take off his bloodied shoes—and now carried them with the laces looped around his neck—he still felt as if he were leaving stained tracks behind him. Storms. What did he think he could accomplish by himself? He was effectively disobeying the queen’s order to surrender. He tried his best to banish such thoughts and keep moving. He would have time later to ruminate on what he’d done. For now, he needed to find a safe place to hide. The tower was no longer home, but an enemy fortress. Syl zipped out in front of him, checking each intersection before he arrived. Stormlight kept him moving, but he worried what would happen when it ran out. Would his strength fail him? Would he collapse in the center of the corridor? Why hadn’t he collected more spheres from his parents or Laral before leaving? He hadn’t even thought to take the stormform’s axe. That left him unarmed, save for a scalpel. He was too used to having Syl as his Shardspear, but if she couldn’t transform— No, he thought to himself. No thoughts. Thoughts are dangerous. Just move. He pushed forward, relying on Syl, who sped toward a stairwell. The easiest way to lose themselves would be to find a hiding place on the uninhabited floors, perhaps somewhere on eleven or twelve. He took the stairs two at a time, propelled by the pulsing Light in his veins. His glow was enough to see by. Teft began muttering quietly, perhaps responding to the jostling. They reached the seventh floor, then started straight up toward the eighth. Here, Syl led him farther inward. Try as he might to ignore them, Kaladin continued to hear the echoes of his failure. His father’s shouts. His own tears … He’d been so close. So close. He lost track of their location in the endless tunnels. The floor here wasn’t painted to give directions, so he trusted in Syl. She zipped ahead to an intersection, spun around in a circle a few times, then shot to the right. He kept pace with her, though he was feeling Teft’s weight more and more. “Just a second,” he whispered to her at the next intersection,
then rested against the wall—Teft still weighing heavily on his shoulders—and fished a chip from his pouch. The small topaz was barely enough to see by, but he needed it as the Stormlight he was holding finally gave out. And he didn’t have many spheres left. He grunted under the weight of his friend, then pushed himself to stand up straight, clinging tightly to Teft with both hands while gripping the sphere between two fingers. He nodded to Syl, then continued after her, pleased that his strength was holding. He could manage Teft without Light. Despite Kaladin’s last few weeks spent as a surgeon, his body was still that of a soldier. “We should go higher,” Syl said, floating alongside his head as a ribbon of light. “Can you manage?” “Get us to floor ten at least,” Kaladin said. “I’ll have to take us up stairwells as I see them. I don’t really know this section of the tower.…” He let himself sink into an old familiar mindset as they continued. Teft’s weight across his shoulders wasn’t that different from carrying a bridge. It brought him back to those days. Running bridges. Eating stew. Watching his friends die … feeling terror anew each day … Those memories offered no comfort. But the rhythm of steps, carrying a burden, working his body on an extended march … it was at least familiar. He followed Syl up one set of steps, then another. Then across another long tunnel, the strata here waving vigorously like ripples in a churning pond. Kaladin kept moving. Until suddenly he came alert. He couldn’t pinpoint what alarmed him, but he moved on instinct to immediately cover his sphere and duck into a side passage. He stepped into a nook and knelt to slide Teft off his shoulders. He pressed his hand against the unconscious man’s mouth to silence his mumbling. Syl darted over a moment later. He could see her in the darkness, but she didn’t illuminate things around her. He shoved his other hand in his pocket, tightly holding the sphere so it couldn’t give off any betraying illumination. “What?” Syl asked. Kaladin shook his head. He didn’t know, but didn’t want to speak. He huddled there—hoping Teft wouldn’t mutter or shift too loudly—his own heartbeat thumping in his ears. Then, faint red light crept into the hallway he’d left. Syl immediately zipped to hide her light behind Kaladin’s dark form. The light approached, revealing a single ruby along with a pair of glowing red eyes. Those illuminated a terrible face. Pure black, with hints of marbled red under the eyes. Long dark hair, which appeared woven into his simple wrap of clothing. It was the creature Kaladin had fought in Hearthstone, the one he’d killed in the burning room of the mansion. Though the Fused had been reborn into a new body, Kaladin knew from the skin patterns that it was the same individual. Come for revenge. The Fused didn’t seem to spot Kaladin hiding in the darkness, though he did pause at the intersection for an
extended period of time. He moved on, thankfully, going deeper along the path Kaladin had been taking. Storms … Kaladin had defeated the thing last time without any Stormlight, but he had done so by playing on its arrogance. Kaladin doubted it would let him get such an easy kill again. Those singers in the clinic … one of them mentioned that a Fused was looking for me. They called him the Pursuer. This thing … it had come to the tower specifically to find Kaladin. “Follow it,” he mouthed, turning to Syl, counting on her to understand his meaning. “I’ll find someplace more secluded to hide.” She wove her line of light into a brief luminescent representation of a kejeh glyph—meaning “affirmative”—then zipped after the Pursuer. She couldn’t get too far from Kaladin anymore, but she should be able to follow for a while. Hopefully she could do so circumspectly, as some of the Fused could see spren. Kaladin hauled Teft back up onto his shoulders, then struck out into the darkness, barely allowing himself any light. There was always something oppressive about being deep in the tower, feeling so far away from the sky and the wind—but it was worse in the darkness. He could all too easily imagine himself trapped in here without spheres, left to wander forever in a tomb of stone. He wove through a few more turns, hoping to find a stairwell up to another floor. Unfortunately, Teft started muttering again. Gritting his teeth, Kaladin ducked into the first room he found—a place with a narrow doorway. Here he set Teft down, then tried to stifle his noises. Syl darted into the room a moment later, which made Kaladin jump. “He’s coming,” she hissed. “He went only a short distance down the wrong hallway before he stopped, inspected the ground, then doubled back. I don’t think he saw me. I followed long enough to see him stop at the place where you hid a bit ago. He found a little smear of blood on the wall there. I hurried ahead of him, but he knows you’re nearby.” Storms. Kaladin glanced at his bloody clothing, then at Teft—who was muttering despite Kaladin’s attempts to quiet him. “We need to lead the Pursuer away,” Kaladin whispered. “Be ready to distract him.” She made another affirmative signal. Kaladin left his friend as a restless lump in the darkness, then backtracked a little. He pulled up near an intersection, gripping his scalpel. He allowed no light other than Syl’s, his few remaining infused spheres tucked away in his black pouch. He took a few deep breaths, then mouthed his plan to Syl. She sailed farther away through the black corridor, leaving Kaladin in total darkness. He’d never been able to find the pure emptiness of mind that some soldiers claimed to adopt in battle. He wasn’t certain he’d ever want something like that. However, he did compose himself, making his breathing shallow, and came fully alert, listening. Loose, relaxed, but ready to come alight. Like tinder waiting for the spark.
He was ready to breathe in his last spheres of Stormlight, but wouldn’t until the last moment. Footsteps scraped the corridor to Kaladin’s right, and the walls slowly bled with red light. Kaladin held his breath, ready, his back to the wall. The Pursuer froze just before reaching the intersection, and Kaladin knew the creature had spotted Syl, who would have zipped past in the distance. A heartbeat later, scraping noises announced the Pursuer dropping his body as a husk—and a red ribbon of light rushed after Syl. The distraction had worked. Syl would lead him away. As far as they knew, the Fused couldn’t harm spren naturally—the only way to do so was with a Shardblade. Even that was temporary; cut spren with a Shardblade, even rip them to pieces, and they eventually re-formed in the Cognitive Realm. Experiments had proven that the only way to keep them divided was to store separate halves in gemstones. Kaladin gave it ten heartbeats, then brought out a small sphere for light and dashed into the corridor—sparing a brief glance at the Pursuer’s discarded body—before running for the room where he’d put Teft. It was amazing what a jolt of energy came from being so close to a fight. He heaved Teft on his shoulders without trouble, then was jogging away in moments—almost as if he were infused with Stormlight again. Using the light of the sphere, he soon found a stairwell. He almost rushed up it, but a faint light from above made him stop fast. Voices speaking to rhythms echoed from above. And from below, he realized. He left that stairwell, but two hallways over he saw distant lights and shadows. He pulled into a side corridor, sweating in streams, fearspren—like globs of goo—writhing up through the stone beneath him. He knew this feeling. Scurrying through the darkness. People with lights searching in a pattern, hunting him. Breathing heavily, he hauled Teft through a different side passage, but soon spotted lights in that direction as well. The enemy was forming a noose, slowly tightening around his position. That knowledge sent him into flashbacks of the night when he’d failed Nalma and the others. A night when, like so many other times, he’d survived when everyone else had died. Kaladin wasn’t a runaway slave anymore, but the sensation was the same. “Kaladin!” Syl said, zipping up to him. “I was leading him toward the edge of the level, but we ran into some regular soldiers and he turned back. He seemed to figure out I was trying to distract him.” “There are multiple squads up here,” Kaladin said, pulling into the darkness. “Maybe a full company. Storms. The Pursuer must have repurposed the entire force sent to go through homes on the sixth floor.” He was shocked at the speed with which they’d set up the trap. He had to admit that was likely the result of him letting a soldier run and tell the others. Well, he doubted the enemy had found the time to appropriate one of Navani’s maps of this
level. They couldn’t have managed to place people in every hallway or stairwell. The net closing around him had to have gaps. He began searching. Down a side corridor, he found shadowy figures approaching. And in the next stairwell. They were relentless, and everywhere. Plus, he didn’t know this area any better than they did. He twisted around through a group of corridors until he reached a dead end. A quick search of the nearby rooms showed no other exits, and he looked over his shoulder, hearing voices calling to one another. They spoke Azish, he thought—and to the rhythms. Feeling a sense of growing dread, he set Teft down, counted his few spheres, and took out his scalpel once more. Right. He’d … he’d need to take a weapon from the first soldier he killed. A spear, hopefully. Something with reach if he was going to survive a fight in these corridors. Syl landed on his shoulder and took the shape of a young woman, seated with her hands in her lap. “We have to try to punch through,” Kaladin whispered. “There’s a chance they’ll send only a couple men this direction. We kill them, then slip out of the noose and run.” She nodded. It didn’t sound like a “couple men” though. And he was reasonably certain he caught a harsher, louder voice among them. The Pursuer was still tracking him, possibly by the faint marks of blood smeared on the walls or floor. Kaladin pulled Teft into one of the rooms, then positioned himself in the doorway to wait. Not calm, but prepared. He gripped his scalpel in a reverse grip—a hacking grip—for ramming into the space between carapace and neck. Standing there, he felt the weight of it all pressing down on him. The darkness, both inside and out. The fatigue. The dread. Gloomspren like tattered pieces of cloth faded in, as if banners attached to the walls. “Kaladin,” Syl said softly, “could we surrender?” “That Fused isn’t here to take me captive, Syl,” he said. “If you die I’ll be alone again.” “We’ve slipped out of tighter problems than this.…” He trailed off as he glanced at her, sitting on his shoulder, seeming far smaller than usual. He couldn’t force the rest of the words out. He couldn’t lie. Light began to illuminate the corridor, coming toward him. Kaladin gripped his knife more tightly. A part of him seemed to have always known it would come to this. Alone in the darkness, standing with his back to the wall, facing overwhelming numbers. A glorious way to die, but Kaladin didn’t want glory. He’d given up on that foolish dream as a child. “Kaladin!” Syl said. “What’s that? On the floor?” A faint violet light had appeared in the crook of the rightmost corner. Almost invisible, even in the darkness. Frowning, Kaladin left his post by the door, inspecting the light. There was a garnet vein in the stone here, and a small portion of it was glowing. As he tried to figure out why, the glow moved—running
along the crystal vein. He followed it to the doorway, then watched it cross the hallway to the room on the other side. He hesitated only briefly before putting away his weapon and hauling Teft onto his shoulders once again. He stumbled across the hallway outside—and one of the approaching people said something in Azish. It sounded hesitant, as if they hadn’t caught more than a glimpse of him. Storms. What was he doing? Chasing phantom lights, like starspren in the sky? In this small chamber, the light moved across the floor and up the wall, revealing what appeared to be a gemstone embedded deeply in the stone. “A fabrial?” Syl said. “Infuse it!” Kaladin breathed in some of his Stormlight, then glanced over his shoulder. Voices outside, and shadows. Rather than hold his Stormlight for that fight, however, he did as Syl told him—pressing the Light into the gemstone. He had maybe two or three chips’ worth left after that. He was practically defenseless. The wall split down the center. He gaped as the stones moved, but with a silence that defied explanation. They cracked open just wide enough to admit a person. Carrying Teft, he entered a hidden corridor. Behind him, the doorway smoothly slid shut, and the light in the gemstone went out. Kaladin held his breath as he heard voices in the room behind. Then he pressed his ear against the wall, listening. He couldn’t make out much—an argument that seemed to involve the Pursuer. Kaladin worried they had spotted the door closing, but he heard no scraping or pounding. They would spot the spren he’d drawn though, and would know he was close. Kaladin needed to keep moving. The little violet light on the floor twinkled and moved, so he lugged Teft after it through another series of corridors. Eventually they reached a hidden stairwell that—blessedly—was undefended. He climbed that, though each footfall was slower than the one before it and exhaustionspren hounded him. He kept moving somehow, as the light led him to the eleventh floor, and then into another dark room. The oppressive silence told him he’d reached a portion of the tower the enemy wasn’t searching. He wanted to collapse, but the light pulsed insistently on the wall—and Syl encouraged him to look. Another embedded gemstone, barely visible. He used the last of his Stormlight to infuse it, and slipped through the door that opened. In absolute darkness, Kaladin set Teft down, feeling the door closing behind. He didn’t have the strength to inspect his surroundings. He instead slid to the cold stone floor, trembling. There, he finally let himself drift to sleep. Eshonai had been told that mapping the world removed its mystery. Some of the other listeners insisted the wilderness should be left uncharted—the domain of the spren and the greatshells—and that by trying to confine it to paper, she risked stealing its secrets. She found this to be flat-out ridiculous. She attuned Awe as she entered the forest, the trees bobbing with lifespren, bright green balls with white spines poking out.
Closer to the Shattered Plains, most everything was flat, grown over by only the occasional rockbud. Yet here, not so far away, plants thrived in abundance. Her people made frequent trips to the forest to get lumber and mushrooms. However, they always took the exact same route. Up the river a day’s walk inward, gather there, then return. This time she’d insisted on leaving the party—much to their concern. She’d promised to meet them again at their normal camp, after scouting the outer perimeter of the forest all the way around. After hiking around the trees for several days, she’d encountered the river on the other side. Now she could cut back through the heart of the forest and reach her family’s camp from that direction. She’d bear with her a new map that revealed exactly how large the forest was, at least on one side. She started along the stream, attuned to Joy, accompanied by swimming riverspren. Everyone had been so worried about her being out in the storms alone. Well, she had been out in storms a dozen times in her life, and had survived with no trouble. Plus, she’d been able to move in among the trees for shelter. Her family and friends were concerned nonetheless. They spent their lives living in a very small region, dreaming of the day they could conquer one of the ten ancient cities at the perimeter of the Shattered Plains. Such a small-minded goal. Why not strike out, see what else there was to the world? But no. Only one possible goal existed: win one of the cities. Seek shelter behind crumbling walls, ignoring the barrier the woods provided. Eshonai considered it proof that nature was stronger than the creations of listeners. This forest had likely stood when the ancient cities had been new. Yet this forest still thrived, and those were ruins. You couldn’t steal the secrets from something so strong just by exploring it. You could merely learn. She settled down near a rock and unrolled her map, made from precious paper. Her mother was one of the few among all the families who knew the Song of Making Paper, and with her help, Eshonai had perfected the process. She used a pen and ink to sketch the path of the river as it entered the forest, then dabbed the ink until it was dry before rerolling the map. Though she was confident, Resolve attuned, the others’ complaints had been particularly bothersome lately. We know where the forest is and how to reach it. Why map its size? What will that help? The river flows this direction. Everyone knows where to find it. Why bother putting it on paper? Too many of her family wanted to pretend the world was smaller than it was. Eshonai was convinced that was why they continued to squabble with the other listener families. If the world consisted only of the land around the ten cities, then fighting over that land made sense. But their ancestors hadn’t fought one another. Their ancestors had turned their faces
to the storm and marched away, abandoning their very gods in the name of freedom. Eshonai would use that freedom. Instead of sitting by the fire and complaining, she would experience the beauties Cultivation offered. And she would ask the best question of them all. What will I discover next? Eshonai continued walking, judging the river’s course. She used her own methods of counting the distance, then rechecked her work by surveying sights from multiple angles. The river continued flowing for days once a storm passed. How? When all other water had drained away or been lapped up, why did this river keep going? Where did it start? Rivers and their carapace-covered spren excited her. Rivers were markers, guideposts, roadways. You could never get lost if you knew where the river was. She stopped for lunch near one of the bends, and discovered a type of cremling that was green, like the trees. She’d never seen one that shade before. She’d have to tell Venli. “Stealing nature’s secrets,” Eshonai said to Annoyance. “What is a secret but a surprise to be discovered?” Finishing her steamed haspers, she put out her fire and scattered the flamespren before continuing on her way. By her guess, it would take her a day and a half to reach her family. Then, if she left them again and rounded the other side of the forest, she’d have a finished picture of how it looked. There was so much to see, so much to know, so much to do. And she was going to discover it all. She was going to … What was that? She frowned, halting in her tracks. The river wasn’t strong now; it would likely slow to a trickle by tomorrow. Over its gurgling, she heard shouts in the distance. Had the others come to find her? She hurried forward, attuning Excitement. Perhaps they were growing more willing to explore. It wasn’t until she was almost to the sounds that she realized something was very wrong with them. They were flat, no hint of a rhythm. As if they were made by the dead. A moment later she rounded a bend and found herself confronted by something more wondrous—and more terrible—than she’d ever dared imagine. Humans. * * * “‘… dullform dread, with the mind most lost,’” Venli quoted. “‘The lowest, and one not bright. To find this form, one need banish the cost. It finds you and brings you to blight.’” She drew in a deep breath and sat back in their tent, proud. All ninety-one stanzas, recited perfectly. Her mother, Jaxlim, nodded as she worked the loom. “That was one of your better recitations,” she said to Praise. “A little more practice, and we can move to the next song.” “But … I got it right.” “You mixed up the seventh and fifteenth stanzas,” her mother said. “The order doesn’t matter.” “You also forgot the nineteenth.” “No I didn’t,” Venli said, counting them in her head. Workform? “… Did I?” “You did,” her mother said. “But you needn’t be embarrassed. You are
doing fine.” Fine? Venli had spent years memorizing the songs, while Eshonai barely did anything useful. Venli was better than fine. She was excellent. Except … she’d forgotten an entire stanza? She looked at her mother, who was humming softly as she worked the loom. “The nineteenth stanza isn’t that important,” Venli said. “Nobody is going to forget how to become a worker. And dullform. Why do we have a stanza about that? Nobody would willingly choose it.” “We need to remember the past,” her mother said to the Rhythm of the Lost. “We need to remember what we passed through to get here. We need to take care not to forget ourselves.” Venli attuned Annoyance. And then, Jaxlim began to sing to the rhythms in a beautiful voice. There was something amazing about her mother’s voice. It wasn’t powerful or bold, but it was like a knife—thin, sharp, almost liquid. It cut Venli to the soul, and Awe replaced her Annoyance. No, Venli wasn’t perfect. Not yet. But her mother was. Jaxlim sang on, and Venli watched, transfixed, feeling ashamed of her earlier petulance. It was just so hard sometimes. Sitting in here day after day, memorizing while Eshonai played. The two of them were nearly adults, only a year off for Eshonai and a little more than two for Venli. They were supposed to be responsible. Her mother eventually trailed off, after the tenth stanza. “Thank you,” Venli said. “For singing something you’ve heard a thousand times?” “For reminding me,” Venli said to Praise, “of what I am practicing to become.” Her mother attuned Joy and continued working. Venli strolled to the doorway of the tent and peered out, where family members worked at various activities, like chopping wood and felling trees. Her people were the First-Rhythm family, and had a noble heritage. They were thousands strong, but it had been many years since they’d controlled a city. They kept talking of winning one back soon. Of how they’d strike out of the forest and attack before a storm, claiming their rightful seat. It was an excellent and worthy goal, yet Venli found herself dissatisfied as she watched warriors making arrows and sharpening ancient metal spears. Was this really what life amounted to? Fighting back and forth over the same ten cities? Surely there was more for them. Surely there was more for her. She had come to love the songs, but she wanted to use them. Find the secrets they promised. Would Roshar create someone like Venli, only to have her sit in a hogshide tent and memorize words until she could pass them on, then die? No. She had to have some kind of destiny. Something grand. “Eshonai thinks we should draw pictures to represent the verses of the songs,” Venli said. “Make stacks of papers full of pictures, so we won’t forget.” “Your sister has a wisdom to her at times,” her mother said. Venli attuned Betrayal. “She shouldn’t be off away from the family so much, being selfish with her time. She should be learning the
songs like me. It’s her duty too, as your daughter.” “Yes, you are correct,” Jaxlim said. “But Eshonai has a bold heart. She merely needs to learn that her family is more important than counting the number of hills outside the camp.” “I have a bold heart!” Venli said. “You have a keen and crafty mind,” her mother said. “Like your mother. Do not dismiss your own talents because you envy those of another.” “Envy? Her?” Venli’s mother continued weaving. She wasn’t required to do such work—her position as keeper of songs was lofty, perhaps the most important in the family. Yet her mother always sought to keep busy. She said working her hands kept her body strong, while going over songs worked her mind. Venli attuned Anxiety, then Confidence, then Anxiety again. She walked to her mother and sat on the stool next to her. Jaxlim projected Confidence, even when doing something as simple as weaving. Her complex skin pattern of wavy red and black lines was among the most beautiful in the camp—like true marbled stone. Eshonai took after their mother’s colorings. Venli, of course, took after her father—primarily white and red, her own pattern more like swirls. In truth, Venli’s pattern had all three shades. Many people claimed they couldn’t see the small patches of black at her neck, but she could pick them out. Having all three colors was very, very rare. “Mother,” she said to Excitement, “I think I’ve discovered something.” “And what would that be?” “I’ve been experimenting with different spren again. Taking them into the storms.” “You were cautioned about this.” “You didn’t forbid me, so I continued. Should we only ever do as we are told?” “Many say we need no more than workform and mateform,” her mother said to Consideration. “They say that courting other forms is to take steps toward forms of power.” “What do you say?” Venli asked. “You are always so concerned for my opinions. Most children, when they reach your age, start to defy and ignore their parents.” “Most children don’t have you as a mother.” “Flattery?” Jaxlim said to Amusement. “Not … entirely,” Venli said. She attuned Resignation. “Mother, I want to use what I’ve learned. I have a head full of songs about forms. How can I help wanting to try to discover them? For the good of our people.” Jaxlim finally stopped her weaving. She turned on her stool and scooted closer to Venli, taking her hands. She hummed, then sang softly to Praise—just a melody, no words. Venli closed her eyes and let the song wash over her, and thought she could feel her mother’s skin vibrating. Feel her soul. Venli had done this as long as she could remember. Relying on her, and her songs. Ever since her father had left, seeking the eastern sea. “You make me proud, Venli,” Jaxlim said. “You’ve done well these last few years, memorizing after Eshonai gave up. I encourage you to seek to improve yourself, but remember, you must not become distracted. I need you. We need
you.” Venli nodded, then hummed the same rhythm, attuning Praise to be in sync with her mother. She felt love, warmth, acceptance from those fingers. And knew whatever else happened, her mother would be there to guide her. Steady her. With a song that pierced even storms. Her mother returned to her weaving, and Venli began to recite again. She went through the entire thing, and this time did not miss a stanza. When she was done, she waited, taking a drink of water and hoping for her mother’s praise. Instead, Jaxlim gave her something better. “Tell me,” she said, “of these experiments with spren you’ve been doing.” “I’m trying to find warform!” Venli said to Anticipation. “I’ve been staying near the edge of the shelter during storms, and trying to attract the right spren. It is difficult, as most spren flee from me once the winds pick up. “However, this last time I feel I was close. A painspren is the key. They’re always around during storms. If I can keep one close to me, I think I can adopt the form.” If she managed it, she’d become the first listener to hold warform in many generations. Ever since the humans and the singers of old destroyed one another in their final battle. This was something she could bring her people, something that would be remembered! “Let’s go speak with the Five,” Jaxlim said, standing up from beside the loom. “Wait,” Venli said, taking her arm and attuning Tension. “You are going to tell them what I said? About warform?” “Naturally. If you are going to continue on this path, we will want their blessing.” “Maybe I should practice more,” Venli said. “Before we tell anyone.” Jaxlim hummed to Reprimand. “This is like your refusal to perform the songs in public. You are afraid of exposing yourself to failure again, Venli.” “No,” she said. “No, of course not. Mother, I just think this would be better if I knew for certain it worked. Before causing trouble.” Why wouldn’t someone want to be certain before inviting ridicule by failing? That did not make Venli a coward. She’d adopt a new form when nobody else had. That was bold. She wanted to control the circumstances, that was all. “Come with me,” Jaxlim said to Peace. “The others have been discussing this—I approached them after you asked me before. I hinted to the elders that I thought adopting new forms might be possible, and I believe they are willing to try.” “Really?” Venli asked. “Yes. Come. They will celebrate your initiative. That is too rare for us, in this form. It is far better than dullform, but it does affect our minds. We need other forms, despite what some may say.” Venli felt herself attuning Excitement as she followed her mother out of the tent. If she did obtain warform, would it open her mind? Make her even more bold? Quiet the fears and worries she often felt? She hungered for accomplishments. Hungered to make their world better, less dull, more vibrant. Hungered to
be the one who carried her people to greatness. Out of the crem and toward the skies. The Five were gathered around the firepit amid the trees, discussing offensive tactics for the upcoming battle. That mostly equated to which boasts to make, and which warriors to let cast their spears first. Jaxlim stepped up to the elders and sang a full song to Excitement. A rare delivery from the keeper of songs, and each stanza made Venli stand taller. Once the song was finished, Jaxlim explained what Venli had told her. Indeed, the elders were interested. They realized that new forms were worth the risk. Confident that she would not be rejected, Venli stepped forward and attuned Victory. As she began, however, something sounded outside of town. The warning drums? The Five hastened to grab their weapons—ancient axes, spears, and swords, each one precious and passed down for generations, for the listeners had no means of creating new metal weapons. But what could this be? No other family would attack them out here in the wilderness. It hadn’t happened in generations, since the Pure-Song family had raided the Fourth-Movement family in an attempt to steal their weapons. The Pure-Songers had been thoroughly shunned for that action. Venli stayed back as the elders left. She didn’t wish to be involved in a skirmish—if indeed that was happening. She was an apprentice keeper of songs, and was far too valuable to risk in battle. Hopefully whatever this was, it would be over soon and she could return to basking in the respect of the elders. So it was that she was one of the last to hear about Eshonai’s incredible discovery. Among the last to learn that their world had forever been changed. And among the last to learn that her grand announcement had been utterly overshadowed by the actions of her reckless sister. I approach this project with an equal mixture of trepidation and hope. And I know not which should rule. —From Rhythm of War, page 1 Raboniel denied Navani servants. The Fused apparently thought it would be a hardship for Navani to live without them. So Navani allowed herself a small moment of pride when she stepped out of her rooms on the first full day of Urithiru’s occupation. Her hair was clean and braided, her simple havah pressed and neat, her makeup done. Washing in cold water hadn’t been pleasant, but the fabrials weren’t working, so it wasn’t as if she could expect warm water even if she had servants. Navani was led down to the library rooms in the basement of Urithiru. Raboniel sat at Navani’s own desk, going through her notes. Upon arriving, Navani bowed precisely, just low enough to indicate obedience—but not low enough to imply subservience. The Fused pushed back the chair and leaned an elbow on the desktop, then made a shooing motion with a hummed sound to dismiss the guards. “What is your decision?” the Fused asked. “I will organize my scholars, Ancient One,” Navani said, “and continue their research under your observation.” “The
wiser choice, and the more dangerous one, Navani Kholin.” Raboniel hummed a different tone. “I do not find the schematics for your flying machine in these notes.” Navani made a show of debating it, but she’d already considered this issue. The secrets of the flying platform would be impossible to keep; too many of Navani’s scholars knew them. Beyond that, many of the new style of conjoined fabrials—which allowed lateral motion while maintaining elevation—were already in use around the tower. Though fabrials didn’t work, Raboniel’s people could surely discern their operation. After a long debate with herself, she’d come to the conclusion that she needed to give up this secret. Her best hope in escaping the current predicament was to appear to be willing to work with Raboniel, while also stalling. “I intentionally don’t keep priority schematics anywhere but in my own head,” Navani lied. “Instead I explain each piece I need built to my scholars as I need them. Given time, I can draw for you the mechanism that makes the machine work.” Raboniel hummed to a rhythm, but Navani couldn’t tell what it represented. However, Raboniel seemed skeptical as she stood and waved for Navani to sit down. She placed a reed in Navani’s hands and folded her arms to wait. Well, fine. Navani began drawing with quick, efficient lines. She made a diagram of a conjoined fabrial, with a quick explanation of how it worked, then she drew the expanded vision of hundreds of them embedded into the flying machine. “Yes,” Raboniel said as Navani sketched the last portions, “but how do you make it move laterally? Surely with this construction, you could raise a machine high in the air—but it would have to remain there, in one place. You don’t expect me to believe that you have a ground machine moving in exact coordination to the one in the sky.” “You understand more about fabrials than I assumed, Lady of Wishes.” Raboniel hummed a rhythm. “I am a quick learner.” She gestured to the notes on Navani’s desk. “In the past, my kind found it difficult to persuade spren to manifest themselves in the Physical Realm as devices. It seems Voidspren are not as naturally … self-sacrificing as those of Honor or Cultivation.” Navani blinked as the implications of that sank in. Suddenly a dozen loose threads in her mind tied together, forming a tapestry. An explanation. That was why the fabrials of the tower—the pumps, the climbing mechanisms—didn’t have gemstones with captive spren. Storms … that was the answer to Soulcasting devices. Awespren burst around her in a ring of blue smoke. Soulcasters didn’t hold spren because they were spren. Manifesting in the Physical Realm like Shardblades. Spren became metal on this side. Somehow the ancient spren had been coaxed into manifesting as Soulcasters instead of Blades? “You didn’t know, I see,” Raboniel said, pulling a chair over for herself. Even sitting, she was a foot taller than Navani. She made such an odd image: a carapace-armored figure, as if prepared for war, picking through notes. “Odd
that you should have made so many advances that we never dreamed of in epochs past, yet you’ve forgotten the far simpler method your ancestors used.” “We … we didn’t have access to spren who would talk to us,” Navani explained. “Vev’s golden keys … this … I can’t believe we didn’t see it. The implications…” “Lateral movement?” Raboniel asked. Feeling almost in a daze, Navani sketched out the answer. “We learned to isolate planes for conjoined fabrials,” she explained. “You have to use this construction of aluminum wires, rigged to touch the gemstone. That maintains vertical position, but allows the gemstone to be moved horizontally.” “Fascinating,” Raboniel said. “Ralkalest—you call it aluminum in your language—interfering with the Connection. That’s quite ingenious. It must have taken a great deal of testing to get the correct configuration.” “Over a year’s worth,” Navani admitted. “After the initial possibility was theorized. We have a problem that we can’t move vertically and laterally at the same time—the fabrials that move us upward and downward are finicky, and we have been touching aluminum to them only after locking them into place.” “That’s inconvenient.” “Yes,” Navani said, “but we’ve found a system where we stop, then do our vertical motions. It can be a pain, since spanreeds are very difficult to make work in moving vehicles.” “It seems there should be a way to use this knowledge to make spanreeds that can be used while moving,” Raboniel said, inspecting Navani’s sketch. “That was my thought as well,” Navani said. “I put a small team on it, but we’ve been mostly occupied by other matters. Your weapons against our Radiants still confuse me.” Raboniel hummed to a quick and dismissive rhythm. “Ancient technology, barely functional,” she said. “We can suck the Stormlight from a Radiant, yes—so long as they remain hanging there impaled by one of our weapons. This method does nothing to prevent the spren from bonding a new Radiant. I should like it if your spren were easier to capture in gemstones.” “I’ll pass the request along,” Navani said. Raboniel hummed to a different rhythm, then smiled. It was difficult not to see the expression as predatory on her marbled face, with its lean danger. Yet there was also something tempting about the efficiency of this interaction. A few minutes of exchange, and Navani knew secrets she’d been trying to crack for decades. “This is how we end the war, Navani,” Raboniel said, standing. “With information. Shared.” “And this ends the war how?” “By showing everyone that our lives will all be improved by working together.” “With the singers ruling.” “Of course,” Raboniel said. “You are obviously a keen scholar, Navani Kholin. If you could improve the lives of your people manyfold, is that not worth abandoning self-governance? Look what we’ve done in mere minutes by sharing our knowledge.” Shared only because of your threats, Navani thought, careful not to show that on her face. This wasn’t some free exchange. It doesn’t matter what you tell me, Raboniel. You can reveal any secret you desire—because I’m in
your power. You can just kill me once you have everything you want. She smiled at Raboniel, however. “I would like to check on my scholars, Lady of Wishes, to see how they’re being treated, and find out the extent of our … losses.” That made one point clear, Navani hoped. Some of her friends had been murdered. She was not simply going to forget about that. Raboniel hummed, gesturing for Navani to join her. This was going to require a delicate balance, with both of them trying to play one another. Navani had to be explicitly careful not to let herself be taken in by Raboniel. That was one advantage Navani had over her scholars. She might never be worthy to join them, but she did have more experience with the real world of politics. Raboniel and Navani entered the second of the two library rooms—the one with more desks and chairs. Navani’s best—ardents and scholars alike—sat on the floor, heads bowed. They’d plainly been made to sleep here, judging by the spread-out blankets. A few looked up to see her, and she noted with relief that Rushu and Falilar were both unharmed. She did a quick count, immediately picking out the notable exceptions. She stepped over to Falilar, squatting down and asking, “Neshan? Inabar?” “Killed, Brightness,” he said softly. “They were in the crystal pillar room, along with both of Neshan’s wards, Ardent Vevanara, and a handful of unfortunate soldiers.” Navani winced. “Pass the word,” she whispered. “For the time being, we are going to cooperate with the occupation.” She stopped by Rushu next. “I am glad you are well.” The ardent—who had obviously been crying—nodded. “I was on my way down here to gather some scribes to help catalogue the destruction up in that room, when … this happened. Brightness, do you think it’s related?” In the chaos, Navani had nearly forgotten the strange explosion. “Did you by chance find any infused spheres in the wreckage?” Specifically, a strange Voidlight one? “No, Brightness,” Rushu said. “You saw the place. It was in shambles. But I did darken it to see if anything glowed, and saw nothing. Not a hint of Stormlight, or even Voidlight.” As Navani had feared. Whatever that explosion had been, it had to be tied to the strange sphere—and that sphere was likely now gone. Navani stood and walked back to Raboniel. “You didn’t need to kill my scholars during your attack. They were no threat to you.” Raboniel hummed to a quick-paced rhythm. “You will not be warned again, Navani. You will use my title when addressing me. I do not want to see you harmed, but there are proprieties thousands of years old that you will follow.” “I … understand, Lady of Wishes. I think putting my remaining people to work immediately would be good for morale. What would you like us to do?” “To ease the transition,” Raboniel said, “have them continue whatever they were doing before my arrival.” “Many were working on fabrials, which will no longer function.” “Have them do design
sketches then,” Raboniel said. “And write about the experiments they’d done before the occupation. I can see that their new theories get tested.” Did that mean there was a way to get fabrials working in the tower? “As you wish.” Then she got to work on the real problem: planning how she was going to get them out of this mess. * * * Kaladin was awakened by rain. He blinked, feeling mist on his face and seeing a jagged sky lit by spears of lightning frozen in place—not fading, just hanging there, framed by black clouds in a constant boil. He stared at the strange sight, then rolled to his side, half submerged in a puddle of frigid water. Was this Hearthstone? The warcamps? No … neither? He groaned, forcing himself to his feet. He didn’t appear to be wounded, but his head was pounding. No weapons. He felt naked without a spear. Gusts of rain blew around him, the falling water moving in sheets—and he swore he could see the outlines of figures in the rainfall. As if it were making momentary shapes as it fell. The landscape was dark, evoking distant crags. He started through the water, surprised to see no spren around—not even rainspren. He thought he saw light atop a hill, so he started up the incline, careful not to lose his footing on the slick rock. A part of him wondered why he could see. The frozen jagged lightning bolts didn’t give off much illumination. Hadn’t he been in a place like this once? With omnipresent light, but a black sky? He stopped and stared upward, rain scouring his face. This was all … all wrong. This wasn’t real … was it? Motion. Kaladin spun. A short figure moved down the hill toward him, emerging from the darkness. It seemed composed entirely of swirling grey mist with no features, though it wielded a spear. Kaladin caught the weapon with a quick turn of his hand, then twisted and pushed back in a classic disarming move. This phantom attacker wasn’t terribly skilled, and Kaladin easily stole the weapon. Instinct took command, and he spun the spear and rammed it through the figure’s neck. As the short figure dropped, two more appeared as if from nothing, both wielding spears of their own. Kaladin blocked one strike and threw the attacker off with a calculated shove, then spun and dropped the other one with a sweep to the legs. He stabbed that figure with a quick thrust to the neck, then easily rammed his spear into the stomach of the other one as it stood up. Blood ran down the spear’s shaft onto Kaladin’s fingers. He yanked the spear free as the smoky figure dropped. It felt good to hold a spear. To be able to fight without worries. Without anything weighing him down other than the rainwater on his uniform. Fighting used to be simple. Before … Before … The swirling mist evaporated off the fallen figures and he found three young messenger boys in Amaram’s colors, killed
by Kaladin’s spear. Three corpses, including his brother. “No!” Kaladin screamed, ragged and hateful. “How dare you show me this? It didn’t happen that way! I was there!” He turned away from the corpses, looking toward the sky. “I didn’t kill him! I just failed him. I … I just…” He stumbled away from the dead boys and dropped his spear, hands to his head. He felt the scars on his forehead. They seemed deeper, like chasms cutting through his skull. Shash. Dangerous. Thunder rumbled overhead and he stumbled downhill, unable to banish the sight of Tien dead and bleeding on the hillside. What kind of terrible vision was this? “You saved us so we could die,” a voice said from the darkness. He knew that voice. Kaladin spun, splashing in the rainwater, searching for the source. He was on the Shattered Plains now. In the rain he saw the suggestions of people. Figures made by the falling drops, but somehow empty. The figures began attacking each other, and he heard the thunder of war. Men shouting, weapons clashing, boots on stone. It surrounded him, overwhelmed him, until—in a flash—he emerged into an enormous battle, the suggested shapes becoming real. Men in blue fighting against other men in blue. “Stop fighting!” Kaladin shouted at them. “You’re killing your own! They’re all our soldiers!” They didn’t seem to hear him. Blood flowed beneath his feet instead of rainwater, sprays and gushes melding as spearmen climbed eagerly over the bodies of the fallen to continue killing one another. Kaladin grabbed one spearman and pushed him away from another, then seized a third and pulled him back—only to find that it was Lopen. “Lopen!” Kaladin said. “Listen to me! Stop fighting!” Lopen bared his teeth in a terrible grin, then knocked Kaladin aside before launching himself at yet another figure—Rock, who had stumbled on a corpse. Lopen killed him with a spear through the gut, but then Teft killed Lopen from behind. Bisig stabbed Teft, and Kaladin didn’t see who brought him down. He was too horrified. Sigzil dropped nearby with a hole in his side, and Kaladin caught him. “Why?” Sigzil asked, blood dribbling from his lips. “Why didn’t you let us sleep?” “This isn’t real. This can’t be real.” “You should have let us die on the Shattered Plains.” “I wanted to protect you!” Kaladin shouted. “I had to protect you!” “You cursed us…” Kaladin dropped the dying body and stumbled away. He ducked his head, his mind cloudy, and started running. A part of him knew this horror wasn’t real, but he could still hear the screaming. Accusing him. Why did you do this, Kaladin? Why have you killed us? He pressed his hands to his ears, so intent on escaping the carnage that he nearly ran straight into a chasm. He pulled up, teetering on the edge. He stumbled, then looked to his left. The warcamps were there, up a short slope. He’d been here. He remembered this place, this storm, lightly raining. This chasm. Where he’d nearly died. “You saved
us,” a voice said, “so we could suffer.” Moash. He stood on the edge of the chasm near Kaladin. The man turned, and Kaladin saw his eyes—black pits. “People think you were merciful to us. But we both know the truth, don’t we? You did it for you. Not us. If you were truly merciful, you’d have given us easy deaths.” “No,” Kaladin said. “No!” “The void awaits, Kal,” Moash said. “The emptiness. It lets you do anything—even kill a king—without regret. One step. You’ll never have to feel pain again.” Moash took a step and dropped into the chasm. Kaladin fell to his knees on the edge, rain streaming around him. He stared down in horror. Then started awake someplace cold. Immediately, a hundred pains coursed through his joints and muscles, each demanding his attention like a screaming child. He groaned and opened his eyes, but there was only darkness. I’m in the tower, he thought, remembering the events of the previous day. Storms. The place is controlled by the Fused. I barely got away. The nightmares seemed to be getting worse. Or they’d always been this bad, but he didn’t remember. He lay there, breathing deeply, sweating as if from exertion—and remembered the sight of his friends dying. Remembered Moash stepping into that darkness and vanishing. Sleeping was supposed to refresh you, but Kaladin felt more tired than when he’d collapsed. He groaned and put his back to the wall, forcing himself to sit up. Then he felt around in a sudden panic. In his addled state, a part of him thought for sure he’d find Teft dead on the floor. He let out a sigh of relief as he located his friend lying nearby, still breathing. The man had wet himself, unfortunately—he’d grow dehydrated quickly if Kaladin didn’t do something, and the potential for rotspren was high if Kaladin didn’t get him cleaned up and properly situated with a bedpan. Storms. The weight of what Kaladin had done hung above him, nearly as oppressive as the weight of the tower. He was alone, lost in the darkness, without Stormlight or anything to drink—let alone proper weapons. He needed to take care of not only himself, but a man in a coma. What had he been thinking? He didn’t believe the nightmare—but he couldn’t completely banish its echoes either. Why? Why couldn’t he have let go? Why did he keep fighting? Was it really for them? Or was it because he was selfish? Because he couldn’t let go and admit defeat? “Syl?” he asked in the darkness. When she didn’t answer him, he called again, his voice trembling. “Syl, where are you?” No reply. He felt around his enclosure, and realized he had no idea how to get out. He’d entombed himself and Teft here in this too-thick darkness. To die slow deaths alone … Then a pinprick of light appeared. Syl, blessedly, entered the enclosure. She couldn’t pass through walls—Radiant spren had enough substance in the Physical Realm that they were impeded by most materials. Instead she appeared to
have come in through some sort of vent high in the wall. Her appearance brought with it a measure of his sanity. He released a shuddering breath as she flitted down and landed on his outstretched palm. “I found a way out,” she said, taking the shape of a soldier wearing a scout’s uniform. “I don’t think you’d be able to get through it though. Even a child would be cramped. “I looked around, though I couldn’t go too far. Guards are posted at many stairwells, but they don’t seem to be searching for you. These floors are big enough that I think they’ve realized finding one man in here is virtually impossible.” “That’s some good news, I guess,” Kaladin said. “Do you have any idea what that light was that led me in here?” “I … have a theory,” Syl said. “A long time ago, before things went poorly between spren and humans, there were three Bondsmiths. One for the Stormfather. One for the Nightwatcher. And one other. For a spren called the Sibling. A spren who remained in this tower, hidden, and did not appear to humans. They were supposed to have died long ago.” “Huh,” Kaladin said, feeling at the door that had opened to let him in. “What were they like?” “I don’t know,” Syl said, moving to his shoulder. “We’ve talked to Brightness Navani about this, answering her questions, and the other Radiant spren didn’t know more than I just said. Remember, many of the spren who knew about the old days died—and the Sibling was always secretive. I don’t know what kind of spren they were, or why they could create a Bondsmith. If they are alive though, I don’t know why so much in the tower doesn’t work.” “Well, this wall worked,” Kaladin said, finding the gemstone in the wall. The gem was dark now, but it was also much more prominent on this side. He could easily have missed it from the other direction. How many other rooms had such gemstones embedded in the wall, hiding secret doors? He touched the gemstone. Despite the fact that he didn’t have any more Stormlight, light appeared deep inside it. A white light that twinkled like a star. It expanded into a small burst of Stormlight, and the door silently split open again. Kaladin let out a long breath and felt a little of his panic wash away. He wouldn’t die in the darkness. Once the gemstone was charged, it worked like any other fabrial, continuing to function so long as it had remaining Stormlight. He looked to Syl. “Think you can find your way back here to Teft if we leave and do some scouting?” “I should be able to memorize our path.” “Great,” Kaladin said. “Because we need supplies.” He couldn’t afford to think about the long term yet. Those daunting questions—what he was going to do about the tower, the dozens of Radiants in enemy captivity, his family—would need to wait. First he needed water, food, Stormlight, and—most importantly—a better weapon. I approach this
project with inspiration renewed; the answers are all that should matter. —From Rhythm of War, page 1 undertext The wood lurched under Dalinar’s feet, and he grabbed a railing to steady himself. “Skybreakers!” he shouted. “Trying to get at the fabrial housings!” Two figures in blue leaped off the deck nearby, bursting with Light as the platform continued to shake. Two wouldn’t be able to handle this. Storm it, where was— Sigzil and his force of ten Windrunners came swooping back, striking at the underside of the flying platform. It wasn’t truly a flying machine like the Fourth Bridge, but these platforms were nevertheless an excellent vantage for viewing a battlefield. Assuming they didn’t get attacked. Dalinar held firm to the railing, glancing at the Mink—who was tethered to Dalinar with a rope. The shorter man was grinning wildly as he clung to the railing. Fortunately, the platform soon stopped lurching and the Skybreakers scattered, trailed by figures in blue with spears. Fewer Heavenly Ones than I’d have expected, Dalinar noted as the wind ruffled his hair. He picked out only four of the flying Fused watching the battlefield from above and occasionally delivering instructions to the ground troops. They didn’t engage. They’re leaning on the Skybreakers for this battle. Perhaps the bulk of the Heavenly Ones were with the main enemy forces, stationed several days’ march away. The Mink leaned out over the side of the platform, trying to get a view directly beneath—where Radiants were clashing. He didn’t seem at all bothered by the three-hundred-yard drop to the ground. For a man who always seemed so paranoid, he could certainly be cavalier regarding danger. Beneath them, the battle lines held formation. Dalinar’s troops, augmented by ranks of Azish, fought Taravangian’s treasonous forces—who had tried to strike inward to rescue their king. The Vedens were accompanied by a small number of Fused and some singer troops, a small enough force to have moved in close without detection before the betrayal. On Dalinar’s platform, some fifty archers re-formed their ranks following the chaos of the sudden Skybreaker attack. In moments, they were sending a hail of arrows on the Vedens. “They’ll break soon,” the Mink said softly, surveying the battlefield. “Their line is bowing. Those Azish fight well. Better than I thought they would.” “They have excellent discipline,” Dalinar agreed. “They simply needed proper direction.” Any given Azish soldier was no match for an Alethi, but after witnessing their discipline this last year, Dalinar was grateful he’d never had to face their infantry in battle. The vast blocks of Azish pikes were less mobile than the Alethi equivalent, but were impeccably coordinated. They were a tremendous addition to an Alethi system, which had far more flexibility and a variety of specialized troops. Using Azish blocks like wedges, and Alethi tactics, they’d been able to stand against the enemy despite their natural advantages, like carapace armor and stronger builds. And the Veden traitors? Well, the Mink was right. The enemy line was beginning to bow and crack. They had no cavalry, and the
Mink made a quiet order to one of the waiting scribes, who transferred it. Dalinar guessed—correctly—he’d ordered a harrying strike of light riders along the left flank. Those filled the Veden back rows with arrows, distracting them to further stress the wavering lines. “I do have to admit,” the Mink said to Dalinar as they watched, bowstrings snapping behind them, “this is an excellent way to oversee a battlefield.” “And you were worried about there being no escape.” “Rather,” the Mink said, looking toward the ground below, “I was worried about all avenues of escape being interrupted by an unfortunate collision with the ground. Still don’t know the wisdom of putting us both up here; seems like we should be on separate platforms, so that if one falls, the other can continue to lead our forces.” “You mistake my purpose, Dieno,” Dalinar said, tugging on the rope that bound them. “My job in this battle isn’t to command if you are killed. It’s to get you out before you are killed.” One of Jasnah’s escape boats waited on the other side, in Shadesmar. In an emergency, Dalinar could get himself and the Mink through the perpendicularity. They’d drop a short distance—but not nearly as far as they would on this side—into a padded ship with mandras hooked in place. The Mink, unsurprisingly, didn’t like that escape route. He couldn’t control it. In truth, Dalinar wasn’t a hundred percent comfortable with it himself—he didn’t fully trust his powers yet. His mastery over them was tenuous. He opened the perpendicularity as the Windrunners approached for more Stormlight. He managed to open it only a sliver, renewing those nearby, but preventing the Skybreakers from partaking. They retreated; Skybreakers couldn’t match Windrunners who were being constantly renewed, and were usually deployed on battlefields where Dalinar was not present. As the Mink took casualty reports—which included two Windrunner squires, unfortunately—a young scribe stepped up to Dalinar with a sheaf of papers and a blinking spanreed. “Word from Urithiru, Brightlord,” she said. “You wanted to know as soon as we heard something, and we have.” Dalinar felt a huge weight slide off his shoulders. “Finally! What is happening?” “Trouble with the tower fabrials,” the scribe reported. “Brightness Navani says that some kind of strange defensive aura has been deployed, preventing Radiants from using their powers. It also interferes with fabrials. She had to send a scouting team out along the ridge into the mountains before they were able to deliver her message. “Everyone is safe, and she’s working on the problem. That is why the Oathgates have stopped working, however. She begs for your patience, and asks if anything strange has happened here.” “Tell her about Taravangian’s betrayal,” Dalinar said, “but report that I’m safe, as is our family. We are fighting the traitors, and should soon win the day.” She nodded and went to send the message. The Mink stepped closer; he’d either overheard, or had received a similar report. “They’re trying to confuse and distract us during the betrayal,” he said. “Heaping attacks on multiple fronts.”
“Another ploy to negate the Oathgates,” Dalinar agreed. “That device they used on Highmarshal Kaladin must have been some sort of test. They’ve knocked out Urithiru for a while to isolate us.” The Mink leaned out, squinting at the armies below. “Something about this smells wrong, Blackthorn. If this was merely a ploy to isolate the fighting in Azir and Emul, they’ve made a tactical mistake. Their forces in this part of the land are exposed, and we have the upper hand. They wouldn’t go through so much effort to block us from the Oathgates unless it were truly cutting off our escape route. Which it won’t because we’re not going to need one.” “You think this is a distraction from something else?” The Mink nodded slowly. Far below, the cavalry did another sweep. The line of the traitors buckled further. “I’ll tell the others to watch out,” Dalinar said, “and send scouts to investigate Urithiru. I agree, something about this is off.” “Make certain the armies we’re going to fight in Emul haven’t been secretly reinforced. That could be terrible for us—the only true disaster I can envision here is Azimir being besieged, and unable to be resupplied via the Oathgates. Having seen that city, I’d hate to be trapped there.” “Agreed,” Dalinar said. The Mink leaned out further, precariously, as he watched the battlefield below. It was hard to hear—muffled clangs, shouts from far away. Men moved like lifespren. But Dalinar could smell the sweat. Could hear the roar. Could feel himself standing among the struggling, screaming, dying bodies and dominating with Blade in hand. Once you’d tasted the near invincibility of wearing Plate and wading in among mortals, it was a … difficult flavor to forget. “You miss it,” the Mink said, eyeing him. “Yes,” Dalinar admitted. “They could use you on the ground.” “Down there, I’d be merely another sword. I can do more in other positions.” “Pardon, Blackthorn, but you were never merely another sword.” The Mink crossed his arms, leaning against the wooden railing. “You keep saying you’re more use elsewhere, and I suppose you make a pretty good storm for renewing spheres. But I can sense you stepping away. What are you planning?” That was the question. He sensed there was so much more for him to do. Greater things. Important things. The tasks of a Bondsmith. But getting to them, figuring them out … “They’re breaking,” the Mink said, standing up straight. “You want to let them go, or pin them and crush them?” “What do you think?” Dalinar asked. “I hate fighting men who feel they have no way out,” the Mink said. “We can’t afford to let them reinforce the enemy to the south,” Dalinar said. That would be their true battlefield, once this skirmish was over. The war for Emul. “Keep pressing them until they surrender.” The Mink began giving the orders. From below, drums washed over the battlefield: the frantic attempts by enemy commanders to maintain discipline as the lines disintegrated. He could almost hear their shouted, panic-tinged cries. Desperation

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