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were not. There was a pattern to them that she was growing better at understanding. And there was a mood at times to their tones, almost like a rhythm. She crawled closer along the desk, trying to listen. It was difficult. Chiri-Chiri did not like listening. She liked to do what felt right. Sleeping felt right. Eating felt right. Saying she was happy, or hungry, or sad felt right. Communication should be about moods, desires, needs. Not all these flapping, flapping, sloppy wet noises. Like the ones Rysn made now, talking to the old soft one who was like a parent. Chiri-Chiri crawled over the desk and into her box. It didn’t smell as alive as the grass, but it was nice, stuffed with soft things and covered over with some vines. She clicked for it. Contentment. Contentment felt right. “I do not understand half of what you explain, Rysn,” the old soft one said as the two sat in chairs beside the table. Chiri-Chiri understood some of the words. And his hushed tone, yet tense. Confused. That was confusion. Like when you are bitten on the tail by one you thought was happy. “You’re saying these things … these Sleepless … are all around us? Moving among us? But they aren’t … human?” “They are as far from human as a being can get, I should guess,” Rysn said, sipping her tea. Chiri-Chiri understood her better. Rysn wasn’t confused. More thoughtful. She’d been that way ever since … the event at the homeland. “This is not what I thought I was preparing you for,” the old soft one said, “with your training in negotiation.” “Well, you always liked to travel paths others thought too difficult,” Rysn said. “And you relished trading with people ignored by your competition. You saw opportunity in what others discarded. This is somewhat the same.” “Pardon, Rysn—dear child—but this feels very different.” The two fell silent, but it wasn’t the contented silence of having just eaten. Chiri-Chiri turned to snuggle back into her blankets, but felt a vibration coming up through the ground. A kind of call, a kind of warning. One of the rhythms of Roshar. It reminded her of the carapace of the dead ones she had seen in the homeland. Their hollow skull chitin, their gaping emptiness, so still and noiseless. A silence of having eaten all, and having then been consumed. Chiri-Chiri could not hide. The rhythm whispered that she could not do only easy things. Dark times were coming, the hollow skulls warned. And the vibrations of that place. Encouraging. Demanding. Be better. You must be better. And so, Chiri-Chiri climbed out of her box and crawled up onto the arm of Rysn’s chair. Rysn scooped her up, assuming she wanted scratches at the part along her head where carapace met skin. And it did feel nice. Nice enough that Chiri-Chiri forgot about hollow skulls and warning rhythms. “Why do I feel,” the old soft one said, “that you shouldn’t have told me about any of this? The more people who know
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what you’ve done, Rysn, the more dangerous it will be for you.” “I realize this,” she said. “But … Babsk … I had to tell someone. I need your wisdom, now more than ever.” “My wisdom does not extend to the dealings of gods, Rysn,” he said. “I am just an old man who thought himself clever … until his self-indulgences nearly destroyed the life and career of his most promising apprentice.” Rysn sat up sharply, causing Chiri-Chiri to start and nip at her fingers. Why did she stop scratching? Oh. Emotions. Chiri-Chiri could nearly feel them thrumming through Rysn, like rhythms. She was sad? Why sad? They had enough to eat. It was warm and safe. Was it about the hollowness? The danger? “Babsk,” Rysn said. “You still blame yourself for my foolishness? My follies were mine alone.” “Ah, but I knew of your brashness,” he said. “And it was my duty to check it.” He took her hands, so Chiri-Chiri nipped at them a little—until Rysn glared at her. They didn’t taste good anyway. The two soft ones shared something. Almost like they could project emotions with a vibration or a buzz, instead of flapping their lips and squishing their too-melty faces. Those really were odd. Why didn’t all their skin flop off, without carapace to hold it in? Why didn’t they hurt themselves on everything they bumped? But yes, they shared thoughts. And finally the old one nodded, standing. “I will help you bear this, Rysn. Yes, I should not complain about my own deficiencies. You have come to me, and show me great honor in doing so.” “But you mustn’t tell anyone,” she said to him. “Not even the queen. I’m sorry.” “I understand,” he said. “I will ponder what you’ve told me, then see what advice—if any—I can have on this unique situation.” He took his hat and moved to leave, but hesitated and said a single word. “Dawnshards.” He imbued it with meaning somehow. Disbelief and wonder. After he’d left, a few nips got Rysn to start scratching again. But she felt distracted, and soon Chiri-Chiri was unable to enjoy the scratches. Not with the hollow eyes speaking to her. Warning her. To enjoy easy days, sometimes you had to first do difficult things. Rysn activated her chair—which flew a few inches off the ground, though it didn’t have any wings. Chiri-Chiri jumped off onto the desk. “I need something to eat,” Rysn said. And Chiri-Chiri concentrated on the sounds, not the tired cadence. Eat. Food. “Eeeaaat.” Chiri-Chiri tried to get her mandibles to click the sounds, blowing through her throat and making her carapace vibrate. Rysn smiled. “I’m too tired. That almost sounded…” “Rrrrrizzznn,” Chiri-Chiri said. “Eeeeaat. Voood.” Yes, that seemed right. Those were good mouth noises. At least, Rysn dropped her cup of tea and made a shocked vibration. Perhaps doing it this way would be better. Not just because of the hollow skulls. But because, if the soft ones could be made to understand, it would be far easier to get scratches when
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they were required. Taravangian awoke hurting. Lately, each morning was a bitter contest. Did it hurt more to move or to stay in bed? Moving meant more pain. Staying in bed meant more anguish. Eventually he chose pain. After dressing himself with some difficulty, he rested at the edge of the bed, exhausted. He glanced at the notes scratched on the side of an open drawer. Should he hide that? He should. The words appeared jumbled to him today. He had to stare at them a long time to get them to make sense. Dumb. How dumb was he? Too … too dumb. He recognized the sensation, his thoughts moving as if through thick syrup. He stood. Was that light? Yes, sunlight. He shuffled into the main room of his prison. Sunlight, through an open window. Strange. He hadn’t left a window open. Windows were all boarded up, he thought. Someone broke one. Maybe a storm? No. He slowly realized that Dalinar must have ordered one opened. Kindly Dalinar. He liked that man. Taravangian made his way to the sunlight. Guards outside. Yes, they would watch. They knew he was a murderer. He smiled at them anyway, then opened the small bundle on the windowsill. A notebook, a pen, and some ink. Had he asked for that? He tried to remember. Storms. He wanted to sleep. But he couldn’t sleep through another day. He’d done that too often. He returned to his room and sat—then realized he had forgotten what he’d intended to do. He retraced his steps, looked down at the pen and paper again, and only then remembered. He went back into his bedroom. Unhooked the drawer with the instructions. Slowly read them. Then again. He laboriously copied them into the notebook. They were a list of things he needed to say if he could meet Szeth alone. Several times, the words “Don’t talk to Dalinar” were underlined. In his current state, Taravangian was uncertain about that. Why not talk to him? Smarter him was convinced they needed to do this themselves. Dalinar Kholin could not be entrusted with Taravangian’s plans. For Dalinar Kholin would do what was right. Not what was needed. Taravangian forced himself to get food. He had some in the other room, bread that had gone stale. He should have asked for better food. Only after chewing on it did he think to go look at the table right inside his door where they delivered his meals. Today was the day new food came. And there it was. Fresh bread. Dried meat. No jam. He felt like a fool. Why not look for fresh food before forcing yourself to choke down the old stuff? It was difficult to live like this. Making easy mistakes. Forgetting what he was doing and why. At least he was alone. Before he’d gotten good staff, people had always been so angry at him when he was stupid. And since he got emotional when stupid, he often cried. Didn’t they understand? He made their lives difficult. But he lived the difficulty.
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He wasn’t trying to be a problem. People took their minds for granted. They thought themselves wonderful because of how they’d been born. “Traitor!” a voice called into the room. “You have a visitor!” Taravangian felt a spike of alarm, his fingers shaking as he closed and gripped the notebook. A visitor? Szeth had come? Taravangian’s planted seed bore fruit? He breathed in and out, trying to sort through his thoughts. They were a jumble, and the shouting guard made him jump, then scramble toward the sound. He prepared himself for the sight of Szeth. That haunted stare. Those dead eyes. Instead, at the window, Taravangian saw a young man with black hair peppered blond. The Blackthorn’s son Renarin. Taravangian hesitated, though the guards waved for Taravangian to come speak to the youth. He hadn’t prepared for this. Renarin. Their quiet salvation. Why had he come? Taravangian hadn’t prepared responses in his notebook for this meeting. Taravangian stepped up to the window, and the guards retreated to give them privacy. Here Taravangian waited, expecting Renarin to speak first. Yet the boy stood silent, keeping his distance from the window—as if he thought Taravangian would reach out and grab him. Taravangian’s hands were cold. His stomach churned. “Something changed,” Renarin finally said, looking away as he spoke. He avoided meeting people’s eyes. Why? “About you. Recently. Why?” “I do not know, Brightlord,” Taravangian said—though he felt sweat on his brow at the lie. “You’ve hurt my father,” Renarin said. “I believe he thought, up until recently, that he could change you. I don’t know that I’ve seen him as morose as when he speaks of you.” “I would…” Taravangian tried to think. Words. What words? “I would that he had changed me, Brightlord. I would that I could have been changed.” “I believe that is true,” Renarin said. “I see your future, Taravangian. It is dark. Not like anything I’ve seen before. Except there’s a point of light flickering in the darkness. I worry what it will mean if that goes out.” “I would worry too.” “I can be wrong,” Renarin said. He hesitated, then closed his eyes—as if carefully thinking through his next words. “You are in darkness, Taravangian, and my father thinks you are lost. I lived through his return, and it taught me that no man is ever so far lost that he cannot find his way back. You are not alone.” The young man opened his eyes, stepped forward, then lifted his hand and presented it toward Taravangian. The gesture felt awkward. As if Renarin wasn’t quite sure what he was doing. He wants me to take his hand. Taravangian didn’t. Seeing it made him want to break into tears, but he contained himself. Renarin withdrew his hand and nodded. “I’ll let you know if I see something that could help you decide.” With that the boy left, accompanied by one of the guards—the man who had yelled at Taravangian earlier. That left one other guard: a short, nondescript Alethi man who walked up to the window to eye
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Taravangian. Taravangian watched Renarin walking away, wishing he had the courage to call after the boy. Foolish emotions. Taravangian was not lost in darkness. He had chosen this path, and he knew precisely where he was going. Didn’t he? “He is wrong,” the guard said. “We can’t all return from the dark. There are some acts that, once committed, will always taint a man.” Taravangian frowned. That guard had a strange accent. He must have lived in Shinovar. “Why did you ask for an Oathstone?” the guard demanded. “What is your purpose? Do you wish to tempt or trick me?” “I don’t even know you.” The man stared at him with unblinking eyes. Eyes like one of the dead … and Taravangian finally understood what on any other day he would have seen immediately. The guard wore a different illusion today. “Szeth,” Taravangian whispered. “Why? Why do you seek an Oathstone? I will not follow your orders again. I am becoming my own man.” “Do you have the sword?” Taravangian asked. He reached out, foolish though it was, and tried to grab Szeth. The man stepped away in an easy motion, leaving Taravangian grasping at air. “The sword. Did you bring it?” “I will not serve you,” Szeth said. “Listen to me,” Taravangian said. “You have to … the sword … Wait a moment.” He furiously began flipping through the notebook for the words he’d copied from the desk drawer. “‘The sword,’” he read, “‘is something we didn’t anticipate. It was nowhere in the Diagram. But Odium fears it. Do you understand? He fears it. I think it might be able to harm him. We attack him with it.’” “I will not serve you,” Szeth said. “I will not be manipulated by you again. My stone … was always only a stone.… My father said…” “Your father is dead, Szeth,” Taravangian said. “Listen to me. Listen.” He read from the notebook. “‘Fortunately, I believe his ability to see us here is limited. Therefore, we may talk freely. I doubt you can harm Odium directly unless you are in one of his visions. You must get into one of those visions. Can you do this?’” There were more notes in the book about how to manipulate Szeth. Taravangian read them, and the words made him hurt. Hadn’t this man been through enough? He rejected those manipulations and looked up at Szeth. “Please,” Taravangian whispered. “Please help me.” Szeth didn’t appear to have heard. He turned to go. No! “Listen,” Taravangian said, going off script, ignoring the orders of his smarter self. “Give Dalinar the sword. Dalinar is taken to Odium’s vision sometimes. It should travel with him. Do you understand? Odium thinks the sword is in Urithiru. He doesn’t realize you’re here. He can’t see it because of Renarin.” Smarter Taravangian claimed he didn’t want to work with Dalinar because it was too dangerous, or because Dalinar wouldn’t believe. Those lies made dumb Taravangian want to pound his fists at his own face out of shame. But the truth was more shameful. Szeth
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did not care which Taravangian he was speaking to. “I don’t understand your manipulations,” the man said as he walked away. “I should have realized I wouldn’t be able to understand the way your mind works. All I can do is refuse.” He left, sending the other guard back to watch Taravangian—who stood gripping his little notebook, crying. Venli could hear new rhythms. She tried to hide this fact, attuning the old, boring rhythms around others. It was so difficult. The new rhythms were her majesty, the proof that she was special. She wanted to shout them, flaunt them. Quiet, Ulim said from her gemheart. Quiet for now, Venli. There will be time enough later to enjoy the Rhythm of Praise. She attuned Exultation, but did not hum it as she walked through the room where her scholars worked. Ulim had given her hints about finding another form, nimbleform. He wouldn’t tell her the exact process yet, so she’d gathered these scholars and set them to work. Over time, she intended to use them as an excuse to reveal many important discoveries. Including ones that Ulim had promised her. Greater forms than these. Power. You are special, Ulim whispered as she idled near a pair of her scholars who were trying to trap a windspren that had flown in to tease them. I could sense you from far away, Venli. You were chosen by our god, the true god of all singers. He sent me to explain how wonderful you are. The words comforted her. Yes. That was right. She would wear forms of power. Only … hadn’t she once wanted those … for her mother? Wasn’t that the point? You will be great, he said within her gemheart. Everyone will recognize your majesty. “Well, I want nimbleform soon,” she whispered to Ulim, stepping out of the chamber. “It has been too long since warform. My sister and her sycophants get to tromp around the cities on display like heroes.” Let them. Those are your grunts, who will be sent to die fighting the humans once our plot is accomplished. You should take time “finding” nimbleform. It will be too suspicious for you to find another so soon. She folded her arms, listening to the new rhythm praise her. The city buzzed with activity, thousands of listeners from a dozen families passing by. Eshonai and the others had made great strides toward true unity, and the elders of the various families were talking to one another. Who would get the glory for that? Venli had orchestrated this grand convergence, but everyone ignored her. Perhaps she should have taken warform. Ulim had urged her to be one of the first, but she’d hesitated. She hadn’t been frightened, no, but she’d assumed she could manipulate better without taking the form. That had been a mistake, and this was her reward: Eshonai taking all the credit. Next time, Venli would do it herself. “Ulim,” she whispered, “when will the other Voidspren be ready?” Can’t say for certain, he replied. That stupid Herald is still standing
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strong all these years later. We have to work around him. “The new storm,” Venli whispered. Yes. It’s been building in Shadesmar for centuries. We need to get our agents close enough to it on this side—a place that is out in the ocean, mind you—so they can use gemstones to pull my brothers and sisters across. Then those stones have to be physically transported here. You have no idea how much of a pain it all is. “I’m well acquainted by now,” she said to Derision. “You never shut up about it.” Hey, you’re the only one I get to talk to. And I like to talk. So … “Nimbleform. When?” We have bigger problems. Your people aren’t ready to accept forms of power. At all. They’re far too timid. And the way they fight … “What’s wrong with the way we fight?” Venli asked to Conceit. “Our warriors are powerful and intimidating.” Please, Ulim replied. The humans have remembered how to make good steel all these centuries, and even figured out some things we never learned. Meanwhile, your people throw spears at each other like primitives. They yell and dance more than they fight. It’s embarrassing. “Maybe you should have gone to the humans then.” Don’t be childish, Ulim said. You need to know what you’re facing. Imagine a hundred thousand men in glistening armor, moving in coordinated blocks, lifting a wall of interlocking shields—broken only by the spears coming out to bite your flesh. Imagine thousands upon thousands of archers loosing waves of arrows that sweep in a deadly rain. Imagine men on horseback charging—thunder without lightning—and riding down anyone in their path. You think you can face that with a few semicoherent boasts? Venli’s confidence wavered. She looked out toward the Shattered Plains, where their warforms trained on a nearby plateau. She’d nudged them toward that, following Ulim’s suggestions. He knew a lot about manipulating people; with his help she could get the others to do pretty much anything. A part of her thought she should be concerned about that. But when she tried to think along those lines, her mind grew fuzzy. And she ended up circling back to whatever she’d been thinking about before. “Eshonai guesses that the humans are bluffing about how many cities they have,” she said. “But if they have dozens like they told us, then our numbers would be roughly equal. If we can get all the families to listen to us.” Roughly equal? Ulim said, then started laughing. An outrageous sound, uproarious. It made her gemheart vibrate. You and them? Even? Oh, you blessed little idiot. Venli felt herself attune Agony. She hated the way he made her feel sometimes. He’d whisper about how great she was, but then they’d get deep into a conversation and he’d speak more freely. More derogatorily. “Well,” she said, “maybe we don’t have to fight them. Maybe we can find another way.” Kid, you’re not gonna have a choice on that one, Ulim said. They will make sure of it. You know what they’ve done
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to all the other singers in the world? They’re slaves. “Yes,” Venli said. “Proof that my ancestors were wise in leaving.” Yeah, please don’t say that around any of my friends, Ulim said. You’ll make me look bad. Your ancestors were traitors. And no matter what you do, the humans will make you fight. Trust me. It’s what they always do. Your primitive little paradise here is doomed. Best you can do is train some soldiers, practice using the terrain to your advantage, and prepare to get some actual forms. You don’t get to choose to be free, Venli. Just which master to follow. Venli pushed off from the wall and began walking through the city. Something was wrong about Ulim. About her. About the way she thought now … You have no idea the power that awaits you, Venli, Ulim said to the Rhythm of Craving. In the old days, forms of power were reserved for the most special. The most valuable. They were strong, capable of amazing feats. “Then how did we ever lose?” she asked. Bah, it was a fluke. We couldn’t break the last Herald, and the humans found some way to pin the whole Oathpact on him. So we got stuck on Braize. Eventually the Unmade decided to start a war without us. That turned out to be exceedingly stupid. In the past, Odium granted forms of power, but Ba-Ado-Mishram thought she could do it. Ended up handing out forms of power as easily as Fused give each other titles, Connected herself to the entire singer species. Became a little god. Too little. “I … don’t understand.” I’ll bet you don’t. Basically, everyone relied way too much on an oversized spren. Trouble is, spren can get stuck in gemstones, and the humans figured this out. End result: Ba-Ado-Mishram got a really cramped prison, and everyone’s souls got seriously messed up. It will take something big to restore the minds of the singers around the world. So we’re going to prime the pump, so to speak, with your people. Get them into stormform and pull the big storm over from Shadesmar. Odium thinks it will work, and considering he’s anything but a little god, we are going to do what he says. It’s better than the alternative, which generally involves a lot of pain and the occasional flavorful dismemberment. Venli nodded to some listeners passing by. Members of another family; she could tell by the colors of the bands on their braids and the type of gemstone bits in the men’s beards. Venli deliberately hummed one of the weak old rhythms for them to hear, but these newcomers didn’t give her a second glance despite her importance. Patience, Ulim said. Once the Return arrives, you will be proclaimed as the one who initiated it—and you will be given everything you deserve as the most important of all listeners. “You say my ancestors were traitors,” Venli whispered. “But you need us. If they hadn’t split off, you wouldn’t have us to use in your plot. You should bless what
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they did.” They got lucky. Doesn’t mean they weren’t traitors. “Perhaps they knew what Ba-Ado-Mishram was going to do, and so they attuned Wisdom, not Betrayal, in their actions.” She knew the name, of course. As a keeper of songs, she knew the names of all nine Unmade—who were among the gods her people swore to never follow again. But the more she talked with Ulim, the less regard she gave the songs. The old listeners had memorized the wrong things. How could they retain the names of the Unmade, but forget something as simple as how to adopt workform? Anyway, who cares what your ancestors did? Ulim said. We need to prepare your people for forms of power, then get them to summon Odium’s storm. Everything will take care of itself after that. “That might be harder than you think, spren,” Venli said to Derision. She quieted her voice as another group of listeners passed. The city was so packed these days, you could barely find any peace to think. Forms of power, Venli. The ability to reshape the world. Strength beyond anything you’ve ever dreamed of having. She stuffed her hands into the pockets of her robe as she reached the heart of the city. She hadn’t realized she was coming this way, to her family’s home. She stepped inside, and found her mother picking apart a rug she had woven. Jaxlim glanced up at Venli, jumping. “It’s only me,” Venli said to Peace. “I got it wrong again,” Jaxlim said, huddling over her rug. “Wrong every time…” Venli tried to attune Indifference, one of the new rhythms, but she couldn’t find it. Not here, not with her mother. She instead settled down on the floor, cross-legged, like she’d sat as a child when learning the songs. “Mother?” Venli asked to Praise. “Everyone makes mistakes.” “Why can’t I do anything right anymore?” “Mother, can you tell me the first song?” Venli whispered. Jaxlim kept picking at the rug. “You know it,” Venli said. “Days we sing. Days we once knew? Days of—” “Days of pain,” Jaxlim said, to the Rhythm of Memories. “Days of loss. Days of glory.” Venli nodded as Jaxlim continued. This song was more of a chant, the original recitation of her people leaving the war. Leaving their gods. Striking out on their own. This is painful to hear, Ulim noted. Your people had no idea what they were doing. Venli ignored him, listening, feeling the Rhythm of Memories. Feeling … like herself. This had all been about finding a way to help her mother, hadn’t it? At the start? No, she admitted. That’s what you told yourself. But you want more. You’ve always wanted more. She knew forms changed the way a person thought. But was she in a new form now? Ulim had been dodgy in explaining it. Evidently she had a normal spren in her gemheart to give her workform—but Ulim was there too, crowding in. And he could speak to her, even hear what she was thinking. You single-handedly delivered warform to your
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people, Ulim whispered. Once you give them additional forms, they will revere you. Worship you. She wanted that respect. She wanted it so badly. But she forced herself to listen to what her ancestors had done, four hundred of them striking out alone, wearing dullform. The fools were inbred, then, Ulim said. No wonder … “These people created us,” she whispered. Her mother continued singing, and didn’t seem to have heard the interruption. “They were not fools. They were heroes. Their primary teaching, preserved in everything we do, is to never let our gods rule us again. To never take up forms of power. To never serve Odium.” Then don’t serve him, Ulim said. Deal with him. You have something he needs—you can approach him from a place of power. Your ancestors were lowly things; that was why they wanted to leave. If they’d been at the top, like your people will be, they’d have never wanted such a thing. Venli nodded. But she was more persuaded by other arguments. War was coming with the humans. She could feel it in the way their soldiers eyed her people’s weapons. They had enslaved those parshmen. They’d do the same to Venli’s people. The ancient songs had become irrelevant the moment Eshonai had led the humans to the Shattered Plains. The listeners could no longer hide. Conflict would find them. It was no longer a choice between their gods or freedom. It was a choice between their gods and human slaving brands. How do we proceed? Ulim asked. Venli closed her eyes, listening to her mother’s words. Her ancestors had been desperate. “We will need to be equally desperate,” Venli whispered. “My people need to see what I have seen: that we can no longer remain as we have been.” The humans will destroy them. “Yes. Help me prove it.” I am your servant in this, Ulim said to Subservience. What do you propose? Venli listened. Jaxlim’s voice cracked and she trailed off. Jaxlim had forgotten the song again. The older femalen turned away and cried softly. It broke Venli’s heart. “You have agents among the humans, Ulim?” Venli whispered. We do. “Can you communicate with them?” I have ways of doing so. “Have your agents influence those at the palace,” Venli said. “Get the Alethi to invite us to visit. Their king spoke of it before he left; he’s considering it already. We must bring our people there, then show them how powerful the humans are. We must overwhelm my people with our own insignificance.” She stood up, then went to comfort her mother. We must make them afraid, Ulim, Venli thought. We must make them sing to the Terrors long into the night. Only then will they listen to our promises. It shall be done, he replied. Words. I used to be good with words. I used to be good at a lot of things. Venli tried to attune the Rhythm of Conceit as she walked the halls of Urithiru. She kept finding the Rhythm of Anxiety instead. It was difficult to
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attune an emotion she didn’t feel; doing so felt like a worse kind of lie than she normally told. Not a lie to others, or to herself. A lie to Roshar. Timbre pulsed comfortingly. These were dangerous times, requiring dangerous choices. “That sounds an awful lot like the things Ulim told me,” Venli whispered. Timbre pulsed again. The little spren was of the opinion that Venli couldn’t be blamed for what she’d done, that the Voidspren had manipulated her mind, her emotions, her goals. Timbre, for all her wisdom, was wrong in this. Ulim had heightened Venli’s ambitions, her arrogance, but she’d given him the tools to work with. A part of her continued to feel some of those things. Worse, Ulim had occasionally left her gemheart during those days, and she’d still gone through with those plans, without his influence. She might not bear full blame for what had happened. But she’d been a willing part of it. Now she had to do her best to make up for it. So she kept her head high, walking as if she owned the tower, trailed by Rlain, who carried the large crate as if on her orders. Everyone needed to see her treating him as a servant; hopefully that would quash some of the rumors about the two of them. He hurried closer as they entered a less populated section of the tower. “The tower does feel darker now, Venli,” he said to the Rhythm of Anxiety—which didn’t help her own mood. “Ever since…” “Hush,” she said. She knew what he’d been about to say: Ever since the fight in the market. The whole tower knew by now that Kaladin Stormblessed, Windrunner and champion, fought. That his powers still functioned. The Fused had worked hard to spread a different narrative—that he’d been faking Radiant powers with fabrials, that he’d been killed during a cruel attack on innocent singer civilians in the market. Venli found that story far-fetched, and she knew Stormblessed only by reputation. She doubted the propaganda would fool many humans. If Raboniel had been behind it, the message would have been more subtle. Unfortunately, the Lady of Wishes spent most of her time with her research, and instead let the Pursuer lead. His personal troops dominated the tower. Already there had been a half dozen instances of singers beating humans near to death. This place was a simmering cauldron, waiting for the added bit of fuel that would bring it to a boil. Venli needed to be ready to get her people out when that happened. Hopefully the crate Rlain carried would help with that. Head high. Hum to Conceit. Walk slowly but deliberately. By the time they reached the Radiant infirmary, Venli’s nerves were so tight she could have played a rhythm on them. She shut the door after Rlain—they’d recently had it installed by some human workers—and finally attuned Joy. Inside the infirmary, the human surgeon and his wife cared for the comatose Radiants. They did a far better job of it than Venli’s staff; the surgeon knew
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how to minimize the formation of sores on the humans’ bodies and how to spot signs of dehydration. When Venli and Rlain entered, the surgeon’s wife—Hesina—hurried over. “Is this them?” she asked Rlain, helping him with the crate. “Nah, it’s my laundry,” he said to Amusement. “Figured Venli here is so mighty and important, she might be able to get someone to wash it for me.” Joking? Now? How could he act so indifferent? If they were discovered, it would mean their executions—or worse. The human woman laughed. They carried the box to the back of the room, away from the door. Hesina’s son put down the shoestrings he’d been playing with and toddled over. Rlain ruffled his hair, then opened the crate. He moved the decoy papers on top, revealing a group of map cases. Hesina breathed out in a human approximation of the Rhythm of Awe. “After Kal and I parted,” Rlain explained, “and the queen surrendered, I realized I could go anywhere in the tower. A little black ash mixed with water covered my tattoo, blending it into my pattern. Humans were confined to quarters, and so long as I looked like I was doing something important, the singers ignored me. “So I thought to myself, ‘What can I do to best undermine the occupation?’ I figured I had a day at most before the singers got organized and people started asking who I was. I thought about sabotaging the wells, but realized that would hurt too many innocents. I settled on this.” He waved his hand over the round tubes filling the crate. Hesina took one out and unrolled the map inside. It depicted the thirty-seventh floor of the tower, meticulously mapped. “So far as I know,” Rlain said, “guard posts and master-servant quarters just contain maps of the lower floors. The upper-level maps were kept in two places: the queen’s information vault and the map room. I stopped by the map room and found it burned out, likely at the queen’s order. The vault was on the ground floor, far from where her troops could have reached. I figured it might still be intact.” Rlain shrugged a human shrug. “It was shockingly easy to get in,” he continued to Resolve. “The human guards had been killed or removed, but the singers didn’t know the value of the place yet. I walked right through a checkpoint, stuffed everything I could into a sack, and wandered out. I said I was on a search detail sent to collect any form of human writing.” “It was brave,” Lirin the surgeon said, stepping over and folding his arms. “But I don’t know how useful it will be, Rlain. There’s not much they’d want on the upper floors.” “It might help Kaladin stay hidden,” Rlain said. “Maybe,” Lirin said. “I worry you put yourself through an awful lot of effort and danger to accomplish what might add up to a mild inconvenience for the occupation.” The man was a pragmatist, which Venli appreciated. She, however, was interested in other matters. “The tunnel
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complex,” she said. “Is there a map here of the tunnels under the tower?” Rlain dug for a moment, then pulled out a map. “Here,” he said. “Why?” Venli took it reverently. “It’s one of the few paths of escape, Rlain. I came in through those tunnels—they’re a complicated maze. Raboniel knew her way through, but I doubt I could get us out on my own. But with this…” “Didn’t the enemy collapse those tunnels?” Lirin asked. “Yes,” Venli said. “But I might have a way around that.” “Even if you do,” Lirin said, “we’d have to travel through the most heavily guarded section of the tower—where the Fused are doing their research on the tower fabrials.” Yes, but could she use her powers to form a tunnel through the stone? One that bypassed Raboniel’s workstation and the shield, then intersected with these caverns below? Perhaps. Though there was still the greater problem. Before they could run, she had to ensure the Fused wouldn’t give chase. Escaping the tower only to die by a Heavenly One’s hand in the mountains would accomplish nothing. “Rlain,” Hesina said. “These are wonderful. You did more than anyone could have expected of you.” “I might have been able to do more, if I hadn’t messed up,” Rlain said to Reconciliation. “I was stopped in the hallway, asked to give the name of the Fused I was operating under. I should have played dumb instead of using the name of one I’d heard earlier in the day. Turns out that Fused doesn’t keep a staff. She’s one of the lost ones.” “You could have locked yourself in a cell the moment the tower fell,” Lirin said, “and pretended to be a prisoner. That way, the Fused could have liberated you, and no one would be suspicious.” “Every human in the tower knows about me, Lirin,” Rlain said. “The ‘tame’ Parshendi your son ‘keeps.’ If I’d tried a ploy like that, the singers would have found me eventually, and I’d have ended up in a cell for real.” He shrugged again. “Did anyway though.” He and Hesina began digging through the maps, Rlain chatting with them as they did. He seemed to like these humans, and looked more comfortable around them than he was with her. Beyond that, the way he used human mannerisms to exaggerate his emotions—the way the rhythms were a subtle accent to his words, rather than the driving power behind them—it all seemed a little … pathetic. Lirin returned to his work tending the unconscious. Venli strolled over to him, attuning Curiosity. “You don’t like what they’re doing,” Venli said, nodding toward the other two. “I’m undecided,” Lirin said. “My gut says that stealing a few maps won’t hurt the occupation. But perhaps if we turned the maps in and claimed we found them in a forgotten room, there’s a good chance it would earn us favor with the Fused. Perhaps it would prove Hesina and I aren’t malcontents, so we could come out of hiding.” “It isn’t the hiding that protects you,” Venli
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said, “it is Lady Leshwi’s favor. Without it, the Pursuer would kill you, no matter what you did to prove yourself. He’d kill other Fused, if he thought it would let him fulfill his tradition. And the others would applaud him.” Lirin grunted—a human version of Derision, she thought—as he knelt beside a Radiant and lifted her eyelids to check her eyes. “Nice to know your government has its idiocies too.” “You really don’t want to resist, do you?” Venli said to Awe. “You truly want to live with the occupation.” “I resist by controlling my situation,” Lirin said. “And by working with those in power, rather than giving them reason to hurt me and mine. It’s a lesson I learned very painfully. Fetch me some water.” Venli was halfway to the water station before she realized she’d done what he said, despite telling him—several times—that he needed to show her more respect. What a strange man. His attitude was so commanding and in charge, but he used it to reinforce his own subservience. Timbre thrummed as Venli returned to him with the water. She needed to practice her powers some more—particularly if she might be required to tunnel them down through many feet of rock to reach an exit. She took the tunnel map and gave it to Jial, one of her loyalists. Jial folded it and placed it into her pocket as a knock sounded at the door. Venli glanced toward Rlain and Hesina, but they’d apparently heard, for they covered up the crate of maps. It still looked suspicious to Venli, but she went to the door anyway. Fused wouldn’t knock. Accordingly, she opened the door and let in a group of humans who bore water jugs on poles across their shoulders. Six workers—the same ones as always. That was good, for although Venli had permission from Raboniel to bring a human surgeon in to care for the fallen Radiants, she had lied in saying she’d gone to the clinic to recruit him. Eventually, Lirin and Hesina would be recognized—but best to limit their exposure to as few people as possible. The water carriers delivered their burdens to the room’s large troughs, then helped with the daily watering of the patients. It demanded near-constant work to give broth and drink to so many unconscious people. Venli checked the time by the Rhythm of Peace. She needed to visit Raboniel for translation duty soon—there were books in Thaylen that the Lady of Wishes wanted read to her. She doesn’t care about anything other than her research, Venli thought. What could be so important? “You there,” Lirin said. “What is that on your head?” Venli turned to find the surgeon confronting one of the water bearers. Lirin pushed back the hair on the man’s head and pointed. She hummed to Irritation—the surgeon was generally calm, but once in a while something set him off. She strode over to settle the situation, to find that the water bearer—a short man with far too much hair on his body—had painted his forehead with
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some kind of ink. “What is that?” Venli asked. “Nothing, Brightness,” the man said, pulling out of Lirin’s grip. “Just a little reminder.” He moved on, but one of the other water carriers—a female this time—had a similar marking on her forehead. “It’s a shash glyph,” Lirin said. As soon as Venli knew it was writing, her powers interpreted it. “Dangerous? Why do they think they’re dangerous?” “They don’t,” Lirin said—wearing his upset emotions on his face. “They’re fools.” He turned to go, but Venli caught him by the arm and hummed to Craving. Which of course he couldn’t understand. So she asked, “What does it mean?” “It’s the brand on … on the forehead of Kaladin Stormblessed.” Ah … “He gives them hope.” “That hope is going to get them killed,” Lirin said, lowering his voice. “This isn’t the way to fight, not with how brutal the Regals in the tower have started acting. My son may have gotten himself killed resisting them. Heralds send it isn’t true, but his example is going to cause trouble. Some of these might get the terrible idea of following in his steps, and that will inevitably provoke a massacre.” “Maybe,” Venli said, letting him go. Timbre pulsed to an unfamiliar rhythm that echoed in her mind. What was it? She could swear she’d never heard it before. “Or maybe they simply need something to keep them going, surgeon. A symbol they can trust when they can’t trust their own hearts.” The surgeon shook his head and turned away from the water carriers, instead focusing on his patients. There was a time when others would approach me for help with a problem. A time when I was decisive. Capable. Even authoritative. It was a crystalline day in Shadesmar as Adolin—guarded as always by two honorspren soldiers—climbed to the top of the walls of Lasting Integrity. During his weeks incarcerated in the fortress, he’d discovered that there were weather patterns in Shadesmar. They just weren’t the same type as in the Physical Realm. When he reached the top of the wall, he could see a faint shimmer in the air. It was only visible if you could look a long distance. A kind of violet-pink haze. Crystalline, they called it. On days like these, plants in Shadesmar grew quickly enough to see the change with your eyes. Other types of “weather” involved spren feeling invigorated or dreary, or certain types of smaller spren getting more agitated. It was never about temperature or precipitation. From the top of the wall, he could really get a sense of the fortress’s size. Lasting Integrity was enormous, several hundred feet tall. It was also hollow, and had no roof. Rectangular and resting on the small side, all four of its walls were perfectly sheer, without windows. No human city would ever have been built this way; even Urithiru needed fields at its base and windows to keep the people from going mad. But Lasting Integrity didn’t follow normal laws of nature. You could walk on the interior walls. Indeed, to
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reach the top, Adolin had strolled vertically up the inside of the fortress wall. His body thought he had been walking on the ground. However, at the end of the path, he’d reached the battlements. Getting onto them had required stepping off what seemed to be the edge of the ground. As he’d done so, gravity had caught his foot, then propelled him over so he was now standing at the very top of the fortress. He felt vertigo as he glanced down along a wall he’d recently treated as the ground. In fact, he could see all the way to the floor hundreds of feet below. Thinking about it gave him a headache. So he looked outward across the landscape. And the view … the view was spectacular. Lasting Integrity overlooked a sea of churning beads lit by the cold sun so they shimmered and sparkled, an entire ocean of captured stars. Huge swells washed through the bay and broke into crashing falls of tumbling beads. It was mesmerizing, made all the more interesting by the lights that congregated and moved in the near distance. Tukar and the people who lived there, reflected in the Cognitive Realm. The other direction had its own less dramatic charms. Rocky obsidian shores gave way to growing forests of glass, lifespren bobbing among the trees. Lifespren were larger here, though still small enough that he wouldn’t have been able to see them save for the bright green glow they gave off. These lights blinked off and on, a behavior that seemed unique to this region of Shadesmar. Watching, Adolin could swear there was a coordination to their glows. They’d blink in rippling waves, synchronized. As if to a beat. He took it in for a moment. The view wasn’t why he’d come, however. Not fully. Once he’d spent time drinking in the beauty, he scanned the nearby coast. Their camp was still there, tucked away a short walk into the highlands, nearer the trees. Godeke, Felt, and Malli waited for the results of his trial. With some persuasion, the honorspren had allowed Godeke to come in, given him a little Stormlight, and let him heal Adolin’s wound. The honorspren had expelled Godeke soon after, but permitted Adolin to communicate with his team via letters. They’d traded—with his permission—a few of his swords to a passing caravan of Reachers for more food and water. Non-manifested weapons were worth a lot in Shadesmar. The Stump, Zu, and the rest of Adolin’s soldiers had left to bring word to his father. Though Adolin had initially anticipated a quick and dramatic end to his incarceration, the honorspren hadn’t wanted an immediate trial. He should have realized the punctilious spren would want time to prepare. Though aspects of the delay were frustrating, the wait favored him. The longer he spent among the honorspren, the more chance he had to persuade them. Theoretically. So far, the spren of this fortress seemed about as easy to persuade as rocks. One other oddity was visible from this high perch. Gathering on the coast
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nearby was an unusual group of spren. It had begun about two weeks ago as a few scattered individuals, but those numbers grew each day. At this point, there had to be two hundred of them. They stood on the coast all hours of the day, motionless, speechless. Deadeyes. “Storms,” said Vaiu. “There are so many.” Vaiu was Adolin’s primary jailer for excursions like this. He was a shorter honorspren and wore a full beard, squared like that of an ardent. Unlike many others, Vaiu preferred to go about bare-chested, wearing only an old-style skirt a little like an Alethi takama. With his winged spear, he seemed like a depiction of a Herald from some ancient painting. “What happened to the ones you let in?” Adolin asked. “We put them with the others,” Vaiu explained. “Everything about them seems normal, for deadeyes. Though we don’t have space left for more. We never expected…” He shook his head. There were no lights of souls near those deadeyes; this wasn’t a gathering of Shardbearers in the Physical Realm. The deadeyes were moving of their own accord, coming up from the depths to stand out here. Silent. Watching. The fortress had quarters for deadeyes. Though Adolin had little love for these honorspren and their stubbornness, he had to admit there was honor in the way they treated fallen spren. The honorspren had dedicated themselves to finding and caring for as many as they could. Though they’d taken Maya and put her in with the others, they let Adolin visit her each morning to do their exercises together. While they wouldn’t let her wander free, she was treated quite well. But what would they do with so many? The honorspren had taken in the first group, but as more and more deadeyes arrived, the fortress had reluctantly shut its gates to them. “It doesn’t make any sense,” Vaiu said. “They should all be wandering the oceans, not congregating here. What provoked this behavior?” “Has anyone tried asking them?” Adolin asked. “Deadeyes can’t talk.” Adolin leaned forward. Around his hands on the railing, pink crystal fuzz began to grow: the Shadesmar version of moss, spreading because of the crystalline day. The distance was too great for him to distinguish one scratched-out face from another. However, he did notice when one vanished into mist. Those spren were Shardblades—hundreds of them, more than he’d known existed. When their owners summoned them, their bodies evaporated from Shadesmar. Why were they here? Deadeyes usually tried to keep close to their owners, wandering through the ocean of beads. “There is a Connection happening,” Vaiu said. “Deadeyes cannot think, but they are still spren—bound to the spiritweb of Roshar herself. They can feel what is happening in this keep, that justice will finally be administered.” “If you can call it justice,” Adolin said, “to punish a man for what his ancestors did.” “You are the one who suggested this course, human,” Vaiu said. “You took their sins upon you. This trial cannot possibly make remediation for the thousands murdered, but the deadeyes sense
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what is happening here.” Adolin glanced at his other guard, Alvettaren. She wore a breastplate and a steel cap—both formed from her substance, of course—above close-cropped hair. As usual she stared forward, her lips closed. She rarely had anything to add. “It is time for today’s legal training,” Vaiu said. “You have very little time until the High Judge returns and your trial begins. You had best spend it studying instead of staring at the deadeyes. Let’s go.” * * * Veil was really starting to hate this fortress. Lasting Integrity was built like a storming monolith, a stupid brick of a building with no windows. It was impossible to feel anything other than trapped while inside these walls. But that wasn’t the worst of it. The worst was how honorspren had no respect whatsoever for the laws of nature. Veil opened the door from the small building she shared with Adolin, looking out at what seemed to be an ordinary street. A walkway of worked stone led from her front door and passed by several other small buildings before dead-ending at a wall. However, as soon as she stepped out, her brain started to panic. Another flat surface of stone hung in the air above her, instead of the sky. It was clustered with its own buildings—and people, mostly honorspren, walked along its pathways. To her left and right were two other surfaces, much the same. The actual sky was behind her. She was walking on the inside surface of one of the walls of the fortress. It squeezed her mind, making her tremble. Shallan, Veil thought, you should be leading. You’d like the way this place looks. Shallan did not respond. She huddled deep within, refusing to emerge. Ever since they’d discovered that Pattern had been lying to them, probably for years, she had become increasingly reclusive. Veil was able to coax her out now and then, but lately something … dangerous had come with her. Something they were calling Formless. Veil wasn’t certain it was a new persona. If it wasn’t, would that be even worse? Veil let Radiant take over. Radiant wasn’t so bothered by the strange geometry, and she took off down the path without feeling vertigo—though even she had trouble sometimes. The worst parts were the strange halfway zones at the corners where each plane met, where you had to step from one wall to another. The honorspren did it easily, but Radiant’s stomach did somersaults every time she had to. Shallan, Radiant thought, you should sketch this place. We should carry drawings with us when we leave. Nothing. Honorspren liked to keep the hour exactly, so the bells told Radiant she was on time as she turned up the side of the wall toward the sky, passing various groups of spren going about their business. This wall of the fortress—the southern plane—was the most beautified, with gardens of crystalline plants of a hundred different varieties. Fountains somehow flowed here, the only free water Radiant had seen in Shadesmar. She passed one fountain that surged and
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fell in powerful spouts; if a spray got beyond about fifteen feet high, the water would suddenly break off the top and stream down toward the actual ground rather than back toward the wall plane. Storms, this place didn’t make any kind of sense. Radiant turned away from the fountain and tried to focus on the people she was passing. She hadn’t expected to find anyone other than honorspren in here, considering how strict the fortress was, but apparently its xenophobic policy had only been instituted a year ago. Any other people then living inside the fortress were allowed to stay, though they’d be forbidden reentry if they left. That meant ambassadorial delegations from the other spren nations—as well as some tradespeople and random wanderers—had been grandfathered into the honorspren lockdown. Most importantly, seventeen humans lived here. Without direction from Shallan, and with the honorspren taking their time preparing their trial, Radiant and Veil had reached a compromise. They’d find Restares, the person Mraize had sent them to locate. They wouldn’t take any actions against him unless they could get Shallan to decide, but Radiant was perfectly willing to locate him. This man, the phantom leader of the Sons of Honor, was a key part of this entire puzzle—and she was intensely curious why Mraize wanted him so badly. Restares was, according to Mraize, a human male. Radiant carried a description of the man in her pocket, though none of the honorspren Veil had asked knew the name. And unfortunately, the description was rather vague. A shorter human with thinning hair. Mraize said Restares was a secretive type, and would likely be using an alias and perhaps a disguise. He was supposedly paranoid, which made perfect sense to Radiant. Restares led a group of people who had worked to restore the singers and the Fused. The coming of the Everstorm had led to the fall of multiple kingdoms, the deaths of thousands, and the enslavement of millions. The Sons of Honor were deplorable for seeking these things. True, it wasn’t clear their efforts had in fact influenced the Return, but she could understand why they wanted to hide. Upon first entering the fortress, she’d asked to be introduced to the other humans residing in the place. In response, the honorspren had given her the full list of all humans living here. With limited locations to search, she’d assumed her task would be easy. Indeed, it had started out that way. She’d started with the largest group of people: a caravan of traders from a kingdom called Nalthis, a place out in the darkness beyond the edges of the map. Veil had chatted with them at length, discovering that Azure—who had moved on from the fortress by now—was from the same land. Radiant had trouble conceptualizing what it meant for there to be kingdoms out away from the continent. Did Azure’s people live on islands in the ocean? No, Veil thought. We’re avoiding the truth, Radiant. It means something else. Like Mraize told us. Those people came from another land. Another world. Radiant’s
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mind reeled at the thought. She took a deep breath, slowing near a group of trees—real ones from the Physical Realm, kept alive with Stormlight instead of sunlight—that were the centerpieces of this park. The tops were so high that when leaves fell off, they drifted down toward the real ground, through the middle of the fortress. Shallan, Radiant thought. You could come and talk to people from other worlds. This is too big for Veil and me. Shallan stirred, but as she did, that darkness moved with her. She quickly retreated. Let’s focus on today’s mission, Radiant, Veil said. Radiant agreed, and forced Veil to emerge. She could handle the strange geography; she had to. She put her head down and continued. None of the travelers from Nalthis looked like Restares, or seemed likely to be him in disguise. The next handful on her list had been Horneaters; apparently there was a clan of them who lived in Shadesmar. She’d doubted any were Restares, but she’d interviewed each of them just in case. That done, Veil had been left with five people. Four turned out to be wanderers. None had been open about their pasts, but over the weeks she’d met with them one by one. After conversing with each, she had reported on them to Mraize. He had eliminated each of those as possibilities. Now, only a single name remained on her list. This person was the most reclusive of them all—but was male, and the descriptions of him from the honorspren indicated that he was probably her quarry. Today she would finally catch a glimpse of him. With the subject confirmed she could call Mraize, find out what message she was supposed to deliver to Restares, then be done with this mission. The target called himself “Sixteen.” He supposedly came out of his home once every sixteen days exactly—the regularity of it amused the honorspren, who suffered the odd fellow because of the novelty. No one knew how he survived without food, and no one reported a terrible stench or anything like that from him—though he didn’t ever seem to bathe or empty a chamber pot. Indeed, the more she’d learned about him, the more Veil was certain this mysterious man was her target. His home was a small box built near the statue garden. Veil had made a habit of visiting this garden, where she tried to coax Shallan out by drawing. It worked occasionally, though Shallan usually retreated after a half hour or so of sketching. Today, Veil curled up on a bench with a sketchpad, coat enveloping her, hat shading her eyes. Today was the day that Sixteen would emerge, assuming he followed his pattern. All she had to do was wait and not act suspicious. Shallan, Veil said, opening the sketchbook. See? It’s time to draw. Shallan started to emerge. Unfortunately, a faint humming sound made her panic and Veil was thrust back into control. She sighed, glancing to the side—to where Pattern walked among the statues, which she’d been told were of honorspren killed
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in the Recreance. Tall men and women with heroic builds and clothing that—though made of stone—seemed to ripple in the wind. How odd that they’d made these; after all, the real individuals were still around, though deadeyed. Pattern bobbed over to her. He was easy to tell from other Cryptics; he had an excitable spring to his step, while others slunk or crept, more furtive. “I thought you were watching the Nalthians today,” Veil said. “I was!” he said, plopping down on the bench beside her. “But Veil, I do not think any of them are Restares. They do not look like him at all. They do not even look like people from Roshar. Why do you think Azure appeared so much like an Alethi, when these have the wrong features?” “Don’t know,” Veil said, pretending to sketch. “But this Restares could be using something like Lightweaving. I need you to watch them carefully.” “I am sorry,” Pattern said, his pattern slowing, like a wilting plant. “I miss being with you.” You’re worried you’ll miss something important, traitor, Shallan thought. And want an excuse to keep spying on me. Veil sighed again. She reached over and put her hand on Pattern’s. He hummed softly. We need to confront him, Radiant thought. We need to find out exactly why he is lying. Veil wasn’t so certain. It was all growing so messy. Pattern, Shallan’s past, the mission they were on. She needed Shallan to remember. That would solve so much. Wait, Radiant thought. Veil, what do you know? What do you remember that I do not? “Veil?” Pattern asked. “Can I talk to Shallan?” “I can’t force her to emerge, Pattern,” Veil said. Stormwinds; she suddenly felt so tired. “We can try later, if you want. For now, Sixteen is going to come out of that house in a few minutes. I need to be ready to intercept him in a way that reveals his face, but doesn’t make him suspicious of me.” Pattern hummed. “Do you remember,” he said softly, “when we first met on the boat? With Jasnah? Mmm … You jumped in the water. She was so shocked.” “Nothing shocks Jasnah.” “That did. I barely remember—I was so new to your realm.” “That wasn’t the first time we met though,” Radiant said, sitting up straighter. “Shallan had spoken oaths before, after all. She had a Shardblade.” “Yes.” If he had been human, his posture would have been described as unnaturally still. Hands clasped, seated primly. His pattern moved, expanding, contracting, rotating upon itself. Like an explosion. “I think,” he finally said, “we have been doing this wrong, Radiant. I once tried to help Shallan remember, and that was painful for her. Too painful. So I started to think it was good for her not to remember. And the lies were delicious. Nothing is better than a lie with so much truth.” “The holes in her past,” Radiant said. “Shallan doesn’t want to remember them.” “She can’t. At least not yet.” “When Shallan summoned you as a Blade,” Radiant said, “and
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killed her mother, were you surprised? Did you know she was going to do something that drastic?” “I … don’t remember,” Pattern said. “How can you not remember?” Radiant pressed. He remained quiet. Radiant frowned, considering the lies she’d caught him in during the last few weeks. “Why did you want to bond a human, Pattern?” Radiant found herself asking. “In the past, you’ve seemed so certain that Shallan would kill you. Yet you bonded her anyway. Why?” This is a dangerous line of questioning, Radiant, Veil warned. Be careful. “Mmm…” Pattern said, humming to himself. “Why. So many answers to a why. You want the truest one, but any such truth is also a lie, as it pretends to be the only answer.” He tipped his head to the right, looking toward the sky—though so far as she knew, he didn’t “see” forward, as he didn’t have eyes. He seemed to sense all around him. She glanced in the same direction. Colors shimmered in the sky. It was a crystalline day. “You and the others,” Pattern said, “refer to Shadesmar as the world of the spren, and the Physical Realm as ‘your’ world. Or the ‘real’ world. That is not true. We are not two worlds, but one. And we are not two peoples, but one. Humans. Spren. Two halves. Neither complete. “I wanted to be in the other realm. See that part of our world. And I knew danger was coming. All spren could sense it. The Oathpact was no longer working correctly. Voidspren were sneaking onto Roshar, using some kind of back door. Two halves cannot fight this enemy. We need to be whole.” “And if Shallan killed you?” “Mmm. I was sure you would. But together, we Cryptics thought we needed to try. And I volunteered. I thought, maybe even if I die it will be the step other spren need. You cannot reach the end of a proof without many steps in the middle, Shallan. I was to be the middle step.” He turned toward her. “I no longer believe you will kill me. Or perhaps I wish to no longer believe you will kill me. Ha ha.” Radiant wanted to believe. She wanted to know. This will lead to pain, Veil warned. “Can I trust you, Pattern?” Radiant asked. “Any answer will be a lie,” he said. “I cannot see the future like our friend Renarin. Ha ha.” “Pattern, have you lied to us?” His pattern wilted. “… Yes.” Radiant took a deep breath. “And have you been spying on us? Have you been using the cube Mraize gave us, in secret?” “I’m sorry, Radiant,” he said softly. “I couldn’t think of another way.” “Please answer the questions.” “I have,” he said, his pattern growing even smaller. There, Radiant thought. Was that so hard? We should have asked him right away, Veil. It was only then that she noticed, deep inside, that Shallan was seething. Twisting about herself, trembling, fuming, alternating between terror and anger. That … didn’t seem good. Pattern’s pattern swirled small and tight.
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“I try to be worthy of trust. That is not a lie. But I have brought someone for Shallan to meet. I think it is important.” He stood with a smooth inhuman motion, then gestured behind him with one long-fingered hand. Radiant frowned and glanced over her shoulder. Leaves from the trees farther up the plane lazily drifted down the central corridor. A faint shimmer dusted the air, and a small crystal tree started to grow in miniature on the bench beside her hand. Standing near a statue behind them was a dark figure wearing a stiff robe. Like Pattern’s, but dustier. And a head trapped in shadow. Twisted and wrong. Damnation, Veil thought. Shallan emerged. She grabbed Radiant, shoved her away someplace dark and small, and slammed the door shut. Shallan … Veil thought, then her voice crumpled. She should remain sectioned away. In the past, they hadn’t talked to one another this way. They’d simply taken turns being in control, as they were needed. Shallan was in control. The other two became whispers. “No,” she said to Pattern. “We are not doing this.” “But—” he said. “NO,” she said. “I want nothing from you, Pattern. You are a traitor and a liar. You have betrayed my trust.” He wilted, flopping onto the bench. Shallan saw movement from the corner of her eye and spun, her heart thundering in her ears. The small building she’d come here to watch—Sixteen’s home—had opened, and a furtive figure had emerged. Hunched over, face hidden in the cowl of a cloak, the figure hurried through the statue park. Excellent. It was time to fulfill Mraize’s mission. Shallan … Veil whispered. She ignored the voice and settled down on the bench, acting nonchalant as she opened her notebook. Veil’s plan had included wandering through the statue park, idly flipping through her notebook, then bumping into Sixteen—hopefully getting a good look at his face. Unfortunately, Shallan wasn’t in position yet to do that. She’d been distracted by Pattern and his lies. She stood and meandered toward the statue garden, trying to appear nonthreatening. She needed to determine for certain that Sixteen was her target. Then … Then what. Kill him. What are you doing? Veil thought. Such a distant, annoying voice. Couldn’t she quiet it entirely? You were the one who wanted to go forward with Mraize’s plan, Shallan thought. Well, I agree. So two of us have decided. I wanted to gather information, Veil thought. I wanted to use it against him. Why are you suddenly so aggressive? Because this was exactly who Shallan was. Who she’d always been. She stalked toward the statue garden. Radiant was, of course, screaming and railing at her—but she was outvoted. Shallan had been watching and learning these last months, and she’d picked up some things from Veil. She knew to get into Sixteen’s blind spot, then stop and appear like she was sketching a statue—so when he turned to glance around, she seemed unremarkable. She knew to glide forward when he turned away. She knew to step carefully, putting
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the heel of her foot down first and rolling toward the toe. She knew to walk on the sides of her feet as much as possible, not letting the flats slap. She got right up behind Sixteen as he hunched over, fiddling with some notes. She grabbed him by the shoulder, then spun him around. His hood fell, revealing his face. He was Shin; there was no mistaking that pale, almost sickly skin and those childlike eyes. Restares was a short Alethi man with wispy hair. This man was short, yes, but completely bald, and was not Alethi. So unless Mraize was wrong and Restares was a Lightweaver, this was not her man. He shouted and said something to her in a language she didn’t recognize. She released him, and he fled toward his home. Her heart thumping in her chest, she pulled her hand out of the satchel. She hadn’t even realized she’d reached into that, for a weapon. She didn’t need it. This wasn’t him. Pattern walked up, having recovered some of his characteristic perkiness. There was no sign of the other spren he’d wanted her to meet. “Well!” he said. “That was exciting. But this is not him, is it?” “No,” Shallan said. “It’s not.” “Shallan, I need to explain to you. What I’ve been doing.” “No,” Shallan said, covering her pain. “It is done. Let’s move forward instead.” “Mmm…” Pattern said. “I … What has happened to you? Something has changed. Are you … Veil?” “No,” Shallan said. “I’m me. And I’ve finally made a difficult decision that was a long time coming. Come on, we need to report to Mraize. His intel was wrong—Restares is not in this fortress.” Such skills, like my honor itself, are now lost to time. Weathered away, crushed to dust, and scattered to the ends of the cosmere. I am a barren tree of a human being. I am the hollow that once was a mighty peak. The Sibling refused to speak to Navani. She lowered her hand and stared at the garnet vein in the wall. Such a wonderful secret. In plain sight, surrounding her all this time. So common your eyes passed over it, and if you noticed it at all, you remarked only briefly. Simply another pattern in the strata. The soul of Urithiru had been watching her all along. Perhaps if Navani had discovered it sooner, they could have achieved a different result. She replaced her hand on the vein. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Please know that I’m sorry. Truly.” For the briefest moment, she thought the Sibling would respond this time. Navani felt something, faint as the movement of a shadow deep within the ocean. No words came. With a sigh, Navani left the crystal vein and wound her way through the shelves of the small library to reach her desk beside the door. Today, in addition to the guard, Raboniel’s daughter—with the topknot and the vacant eyes—sat on the floor right inside. Navani settled onto her seat, trying to ignore the insane Fused. Notes and half-finished
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experiments cluttered her desk. She didn’t have the least bit of interest in continuing them. Why would she? Everything she’d attempted so far had been a sham. She wrote out her daily instructions to the scholars—she was having them perform tests on Voidspren fabrials, which Raboniel had delivered before everything went wrong. She gave this to a messenger, then sat there staring. Eventually Raboniel herself made an appearance, wearing an Alethi havah that fit her surprisingly well. Clearly a good dressmaker had tailored it to the Fused’s taller, more broad-shouldered frame. One might have thought her form would make her unfeminine, particularly with the unpronounced bust common to most singer femalens. Instead—with the excellent cut and the confidence of her stride—Raboniel wore the dress as if it had always been designed to accentuate someone of height, power, and poise. She had made this fashion her own. Adolin would have approved. At least he was safe. Adolin, Renarin, Jasnah, Dalinar, and little Gav. Her entire family safe from the invasion and the mess Navani had made. It was one small blessing she could thank the Almighty for sending her. Raboniel had brought a stool—a low one, so that when she sat on it, she was at eye level with Navani. The Fused set a basket on the floor, then pulled out a bottle of burgundy wine. A Shin vintage, sweeter than traditional Alethi wines, known as an amosztha—a Shin wine made from grapes. “Your journals,” Raboniel said, “indicate you are fond of this vintage.” “You read my journals?” Navani said. “Of course,” Raboniel said, setting out two glasses. “You would have wisely done the same in my position.” She uncorked the bottle and poured half a cup for Navani. She didn’t drink. Raboniel didn’t force her, instead inspecting the wine with an expert eye, then taking a sip. “Ah, yes,” she said. “That is a taste infused with memory. Grapes. Your ancestors never could get them to live outside Shinovar. Too cold, I believe. Or perhaps it was the lack of soil. I found that explanation odd, as grapevines seem similar to many of our native plants. “I wasn’t there when your kind came to our world. My grandmother, however, always mentioned the smoke. At first she thought you had strange skin patterns—but that was because so many human faces had been burned or marked by soot from the destruction of the world they left behind. “She talked about the way your livestock moaned and cried from their burns. The result of humans Surgebinding without oaths, without checks. Of course, that was before any of us understood the Surges. Before the spren left us for you, before the war started.” Navani felt the hair go up on the back of her neck as she listened. Storms. This creature … she had lived during the shadowdays, the time before history. They had no primary accounts of those days. Yet one sat before her, drinking wine from Navani’s secret stash, musing about the origins of humanity. “So long ago,” Raboniel said, with a soft, almost
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indistinguishable cadence to her words. “So very, very long ago. What has it been? Seven thousand years? I don’t think you can comprehend how tired I am of this war, Navani. How tired all of us are. Your Heralds too.” “Then let’s end it,” Navani said. “Declare peace. Withdraw from the tower and I will convince Dalinar to engage in talks.” Raboniel turned her wine cup around, as if trying to see the liquid within from different angles. “You think talks haven’t been tried? We are born to fight one another, Navani. Opposites. At least so I thought. I always assumed that if Stormlight and Voidlight could be forced to truly mix, then … poof, they’d annihilate one another. Much as we’re doing to one another in this endless war…” “Is that what this is all about?” Navani asked. “Why you want me to combine the Lights so badly?” “I need to know if you’re right,” Raboniel said. “If you are, then so much of what I’ve planned will collapse. I wonder … whether sometimes I can’t see clearly anymore. Whether I assume what I want to be true is true. You live long enough, Navani, and you forget to be careful. You forget to question.” Raboniel nodded toward Navani’s desk. “No luck today?” “No interest,” Navani said. “I think it is time for me to accept your initial offer and start carrying water.” “Why waste yourself like that?” Raboniel asked, her rhythm becoming intense. “Navani, you can still defeat me. If it wasn’t possible for humans to outthink the Fused, you’d have fallen during the first few Returns. The first few Desolations, as you call them. “Instead you always pushed us back. You fought with stones, and you beat us. My kind pretends we know so much, but during many Returns, we’d find ourselves struggling to catch up to your kind. That is our terrible secret. We hear the rhythms, we understand Roshar and the spren. But the rhythms don’t change. The spren don’t change. “If you and I discover this secret together, you’ll be able to use it better than I will. Watch and see. At the very least, prove me wrong. Show me that our two Lights can meld and mix as you theorize.” Navani considered it, though storms, she knew she shouldn’t have. It was another trick—another catalyst added to the system to push the reaction forward. Yet Navani couldn’t lie to herself. She did want to know. As always, questions teased her. Questions were disorder awaiting organization. The more you understood, the more the world aligned. The more the chaos made sense, as all things should. “I’ve run into a problem,” Navani said, finally taking a sip from her cup. “I can make the two Lights intersect—I can get them to pool around the same gemstone, swirling out like smoke caught in a current of air. But they won’t mix.” “Opposites,” Raboniel said, leaning forward to look at the diagrams and notes Navani had made on each failed attempt. “No, merely inert substances,” Navani said. “The vast
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majority of elements, when combined, produce no reaction. I’d have long ago named these two things immiscible if I hadn’t seen Towerlight.” “It is what gave me the original idea,” Raboniel said. “I decided if there was a hybrid between Honor’s Light and Cultivation’s, there must be a reason no one had mixed Odium’s Light with either.” “Questions are the soul of science,” Navani said, sipping her wine. “But assumptions must be proven, Ancient One. From my research I believe these two aren’t opposites, but it isn’t proven to me yet.” “And to prove it?” “We need an emulsifier,” Navani said. “Something that causes them to mix. Unfortunately, I can’t fathom what such an emulsifier would be, though it might be related to sound. I only recently learned that Stormlight responds to tones.” “Yes,” Raboniel said, taking a sphere off the desk. “The sounds of Roshar.” “Can you hear the Light?” Navani asked. Raboniel hummed—then thought to nod—her response. She held up a diamond, crystalline and pure, filled with Stormlight from the highstorm the day before. “You have to concentrate, and know what you’re seeking, to hear it from a sphere. A pure tone, extremely soft.” Navani hit the proper tuning fork, letting the tone ring in the room. Raboniel nodded. “Yes, that is it. Exactly the same. Only…” Navani sat up. “Only?” “The sphere’s tone has a rhythm to it,” Raboniel explained, eyes closed as she held the sphere. “Each Light has a rhythm. Honor’s is stately. Cultivation’s is stark and staccato, but builds.” “And Odium’s?” “Chaos,” she said, “but with a certain strange logic to it. The longer you listen, the more sense it makes.” Navani sat back, sipping her wine, wishing she had access to Rushu and the other scholars. Raboniel had forbidden her from drawing on their expertise in this matter, giving the problem to Navani alone. Navani, who wasn’t a scholar. What would Jasnah do in this situation? Well, other than find a way to kill Raboniel? Navani felt the answers were right in front of her. So often, that was the case with science. The ancient humans had fought with stone weapons, but the secrets to metallurgy had been within their grasp.… “Does Towerlight have a tone?” Navani asked. “Two tones,” Raboniel said, opening her eyes and setting down the Stormlight sphere. “But they aren’t simply the tones of Cultivation and of Honor. They are … different, changed so that they are in harmony with one another.” “Curious,” Navani said. “And is there a rhythm to it?” “Yes,” Raboniel said. “Both tones adopt it, harmonizing as they play the same rhythm. A symphony combining Honor’s control and Cultivation’s ever-building majesty.” Their Towerlight spheres had all run out by now, and Raboniel had no way to restore them, so there was nothing for them to check. “Plants grow by Stormlight,” Navani said, “if you beat the proper rhythm in their presence.” “An old agricultural trick,” Raboniel said. “It works better with Lifelight, if you can find some.” “Why, though?” Navani asked. “Why does Light respond to tones?
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Why is there a rhythm that makes plants grow?” Navani dug in her materials and began setting up an experiment. “I have asked myself this question many times,” Raboniel said. “But it seems like asking why gravity pulls. Must we not accept some fundamentals of science as baselines? That some things in this world simply work?” “No, we don’t have to,” Navani said. “Even gravity has a mechanism driving it. There are proofs to show why the most basic addition problems work. Everything has an explanation.” “I have heard,” Raboniel said, “that the Lights respond to sound because it is reminiscent of the voice of the Shards commanding them to obey.” Navani hit the tuning forks, touched them to their respective gemstones, then put them in place. A thin stream of Stormlight ran from one gemstone, a thin stream of Voidlight from the other. They met together at the center—swirling around an empty gemstone. Neither Light entered it. “Voidlight and Stormlight,” Navani said. “The voices of gods.” Or perhaps something older than that. The reason the beings called gods spoke the way they did. Raboniel came in close, shoulder-to-shoulder with Navani as they observed the streams of Light. “You said that Stormlight and Lifelight make a rhythm together when they mix,” she said. “So, if you could imagine a rhythm that mixed Stormlight and Voidlight, what would it be like?” “Those two?” Raboniel said. “It wouldn’t work, Navani. They are opposites. One orderly, organized. The other…” Her words drifted off, and her eyes narrowed. “… the other chaotic,” Raboniel whispered, “but with a logic to it. An understandable logic. Could we perhaps contrast it? Chaos always seems more powerful when displayed against an organized background.…” Finally she pursed her lips. “No, I cannot imagine it.” Navani tapped the rim of her cup, inspecting the failed experiment. “If you could hear the rhythms,” Raboniel said, “you’d understand. But that is beyond humans.” “Sing one for me,” Navani said. “Honor’s tone and rhythm.” Raboniel complied, singing a pure, vibrant note—the tone of Stormlight, the same as made by the tuning fork. Then she made the tone waver, vibrate, pulse in a stately rhythm. Navani hummed along, matching the tone, trying to affix it into her mind. Raboniel was obviously overemphasizing the rhythm, making it easier for her to recognize. “Change now,” Navani said, “to Odium’s rhythm.” Raboniel did so, singing a discordant tone with a violent, chaotic rhythm. Navani tried to match it with Honor’s tone. She had vocal training, like any lighteyed woman of her dahn. However, it hadn’t been an area of express study for her. Though she tried to hold the tone against Raboniel’s forceful rhythm, she quickly lost the note. Raboniel cut off, then softly hummed a different rhythm. “That was a fine attempt,” Raboniel said. “Better than I’ve heard from other humans, but we must admit you simply aren’t built for this kind of work.” Navani took a drink, then swirled the wine in her cup. “Why did you want me to sing those rhythms?” Raboniel asked. “What were
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you hoping to accomplish?” “I thought that perhaps if we melded the two songs, we could find the proper harmony that would come from a combination of Stormlight and Voidlight.” “It won’t be that easy,” Raboniel said. “The tones would need to change to find a harmony. I’ve tried this many times, Navani, and always failed. The songs of Honor and Odium do not mesh.” “Have you tried it with a human before?” Navani asked. “Of course not. Humans—as we just proved—can’t hold to a tone or rhythm.” “We proved nothing,” Navani said. “We had a single failed experiment.” She set her cup on the table, then crossed the room and dug through her things. She emerged with one of her arm sheaths, in which she’d embedded a clock and other devices. Like other Stormlight fabrials in the tower, it didn’t work any longer. But it was rigged to hold a long sequence of gemstones. Navani ripped off the interior leather of the sheath, then settled at the table and fiddled with the screws and set new gemstones—full of Stormlight—into it. “What is this?” Raboniel said. “You can hear the songs and rhythms of Roshar,” Navani said. “Perhaps it’s merely because you have better hearing.” Raboniel hummed a skeptical rhythm, but Navani continued setting the gemstones. “We can hear them because we are the children of Roshar,” Raboniel said. “You are not.” “I’ve lived here all my life,” Navani said. “I’m as much a child of this planet as you are.” “Your ancestors were from another realm.” “I’m not speaking of my ancestors,” Navani said, strapping the sheath on so the flats of the gemstones touched her arm. “I’m speaking of myself.” She reset her experiment on the table, sending new lines of Stormlight and Voidlight out of gemstones, making them swirl at the center around an empty one. “Sing Honor’s tone and rhythm again, Ancient One,” Navani asked. Raboniel sat back on her stool, but complied. Navani closed her eyes, tightening her arm sheath. It had been built as a fabrial, but she wasn’t interested in that function. All she wanted was something that would hold large gemstones and press them against her skin. She could feel them now, cool but warming to her touch. Infused gemstones always had a tempest inside. Was there a sound to them too? A vibration … Could she hear it in there? The tone, the rhythm? With Raboniel singing, she thought she could. She matched that tone, and felt something on her arm. The gemstones reacting—or rather the Stormlight inside reacting. There was a beat to it. One that Raboniel’s rhythm only hinted at. Navani could sing the tone and feel the gemstones respond. It was like having a stronger singer beside her—she could adapt her voice to match. The Stormlight itself guided her—providing a control, with a beat and rhythm. Navani added that rhythm to her tone, tapping her foot, concentrating. She imagined a phantom song to give it structure. “Yes!” Raboniel said, cutting off. “Yes, that’s it!” “Odium’s rhythm now,” Navani said to
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Honor’s tone and beat. Raboniel did so, and it struck Navani like a wave, making her tone falter. She almost lost it, but the gemstones were her guide. Navani sang louder, trying to hold that tone. In turn, Raboniel sang more forcefully. No, Navani thought, taking a breath then continuing to sing. No, we can’t fight. She took Raboniel’s hand, singing the tone, but softer. Raboniel quieted as well. Holding the Fused’s hand, Navani felt as if she were reaching for something. Her tone changed slightly. Raboniel responded, their two tones moving toward one another, step by step, until … Harmony. The rhythms snapped into alignment, a burst of chaotic notes from Raboniel—bounded by a regular, orderly pulse from Navani. Heartbeats. Drumbeats. Signals. Together. Navani reached over and placed their clasped hands on the empty gemstone at the center of the experiment, holding them there as they sang for an extended moment in concert. In tandem, a pure harmony where neither took control. The two of them looked at each other, then fell silent. Carefully, they removed their hands to reveal a diamond glowing a vibrant black-blue. An impossible color. Raboniel trembled as she picked the gemstone out of its place, then held it up, humming a reverential rhythm. “They did not annihilate one another, as I assumed. Indeed, as part of me hoped. You were right, Navani. Remarkably, I have been proven wrong.” She turned the gemstone in her fingers. “I can name this rhythm: the Rhythm of War. Odium and Honor mixed together. I had not known it before today, but I recognize its name; I know this as surely as I know my own. Each rhythm carries with it an understanding of its meaning.” The sphere they had created was different from Szeth’s—blue instead of violet, and lacking the strange distortion. Navani couldn’t be certain, but it seemed to her that was what Raboniel had been seeking. “Ancient One,” Navani said. “Something confuses me. Why would you have preferred that these two annihilate one another?” Navani had an inkling why. But she wanted to see what she could prompt the Fused to reveal. Raboniel sat for a long time, humming softly to herself as she inspected the gemstone. She seemed fascinated by the motion within, the Stormlight and the Voidlight mixed to form something that surged in brilliant raging storms, then fell still—peaceful and quiet—between. “Do you know,” the Fused finally asked, “how Honor was killed?” “I … am not certain I accept that he was.” “Oh, he was. At least the being you call the Almighty—the being who controlled the Shard of power that was Honor—is dead. Long dead. Do you know how?” “No.” “Neither do I,” Raboniel said. “But I wonder.” Navani sat back in her seat. “Surely, if it is true—and my husband says it is, so I accept the possibility—then the mechanisms of the deaths of gods are far beyond the understanding of humans and Fused alike.” “And did you not tell me earlier that everything has a mechanism? The gods give us powers. What
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are those powers? Gravitation, Division, Transformation … the fundamental Surges that govern all things. You said that nothing simply is. I accept that, and your wisdom. But by that same logic, the gods—the Shards—must work not by mystery, but by knowledge.” She turned the gemstone in her fingers, then met Navani’s eyes. “Honor was killed using some process we do not yet understand. I assume, from things I have been told, that some opposite was used to tear his power apart. I thought if I could discover this opposite Light, then we would have power over the gods themselves. Would that not be the power to end a war?” Storms. That was what he’d wanted. That was what Gavilar had been doing. Gemstones. Voidlight. A strange sphere that exploded when affixed to a fabrial … when mixed with another Light … Gavilar Kholin—king, husband, occasional monster—had been searching for a way to kill a god. Suddenly, the extent of his arrogance—and his magnificent planning—snapped together for Navani. She knew something Raboniel did not. There was an opposite to Voidlight. It wasn’t Stormlight. Nor was it this new mixed Light they’d created. But Navani had seen it. Held it. Her husband had given it to Szeth, who had given it to her. By the holiest name of the Almighty … she thought. It makes sense. But like all great revelations, it led to a multitude of new questions. Why? How? Raboniel stood up, completely oblivious to Navani’s epiphany. The Fused tucked away the gemstone, and Navani forced herself to focus on this moment. This discovery. “I thought for certain it was something about the nature of Odium’s power contrasting Honor’s power that led to the destruction,” Raboniel said. “I was wrong, and you have proven exceedingly helpful in leading me to this proof. Now, I must abandon this line of reasoning and focus on my actual duty—the securing of the tower.” “And your promise that you would leave if I helped you find this Light?” “I’m sorry,” Raboniel said. “Next time, try not to be so trusting.” “In the end,” Navani whispered, “you are his, and I am Honor’s.” “Unfortunately,” Raboniel said. “You may remain here and continue whatever other research you wish. You have earned that, and my gratitude. If you would like to seek a simple job in the tower instead, I will arrange it. Consider your options, then tell me your wishes.” Raboniel hesitated. “It is rare for a Fused to be in the debt of a human.” With that, she left. Navani, in turn, downed the rest of the cup of wine, her head abuzz with implications. Venli ducked out of the way of a patrol of human guards. As she hid in the doorway, she attuned Peace in an attempt to calm her emotions. She’d come with her people to sign the treaty, but that—and the feast to mark the occasion—was still hours away. While her people prepared, Venli crept through forbidden hallways in their palace. The pair of guards, chatting in the Alethi tongue, continued on their
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patrol. She breathed quietly, trying hard not to let the majesty of this human building overwhelm her. Ulim assured her that her people had built equally grand structures once, and they would again. They would build such amazing creations, this palace of Kholinar would look like a hut by comparison. Would that she could skip this middle part, where she was required to be in such danger. Planning with Ulim, that she liked. Being famous for revealing warform, that she loved. This creeping about though … She’d expressly disobeyed human rules, slipping into forbidden sections of the palace. If she were caught … She closed her eyes and listened to the Rhythm of Peace. Only a little longer, she thought. Just until Ulim’s companions reach us. Then this will all be over. However, she found herself questioning more now that Ulim had left her gemheart. Ulim spoke of a hidden storm and a coming war, with figures of legend returning to fight. That talk spun in her head—and things that seemed so rational a day ago now confused her. Was this really the best way to convince her people to explore forms of power? Wasn’t she toying with war and destruction? Why was Ulim so eager? As soon as they’d reached the palace, he’d insisted that she help him gather a bag of gemstones left by his agent here. More spren, like him, ready to be delivered to Venli’s scholars. That hadn’t been part of the original plan. She’d merely wanted to show her people how dangerous the humans were. But what was she to do? She’d started this boulder rolling down the cliff. If she tried to stop it now, she’d be crushed. So she continued doing as he said. Even if, without him in her gemheart, she felt old and dull. Without him, she couldn’t hear the new rhythms. She craved them. The world made more sense when she listened to those. “There you are,” Ulim said, zipping down the hallway. He moved like lightning, crawling along the top of the stone—and he could vanish, making only certain people able to see him. “Why are you cringing like a child? Come on. We must be moving.” She glanced around the corner. The guards had long since moved on. “I shouldn’t have to do this,” Venli hissed at him. “I shouldn’t have to expose myself.” “Someone needs to carry the gemstones,” Ulim said. “So unless you want me to find someone else to be the greatest among your people, do what I say.” Fine. She crept after him, though she’d lately found Ulim’s tone increasingly annoying. She disliked his crass, dismissive attitude. He’d better not abandon her again. He had claimed he needed to scout the way, but she was half convinced he wanted her to be discovered. He led her up a stairwell. The Rhythm of Fortune blessed her, and she emerged onto the top floor without meeting any humans—though she did have to hide in the stairwell as more guards passed. “Why must we come all the way up
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here!” she hissed after they passed. “Couldn’t your friend have brought the gemstones into the basement, where all the other listeners are?” “I … lost contact with her,” Ulim admitted. “You what?” Venli said. He whirled on the floor, then the lightning rose up to form his little humanlike figure. “I haven’t heard from Axindweth in a few days. I’m certain it’s all right. We have a meeting point where she leaves things for me. The gemstones will be there.” Venli hummed to Betrayal. How could he leave out such an important detail? She was sneaking through the human palace—jeopardizing the treaty—based on flawed information? Before she could demand more answers, however, Ulim turned back into a patch of energy on the floor and shot forward. She had no choice but to scramble after him across the hallway, feeling terribly exposed. They should have brought Demid. She liked how he listened to what she said, and he always had a ready compliment. He’d enjoy sneaking about, and she’d feel braver with him along. She wove through the hallways, certain she’d be discovered at any moment. Yet by some miracle, Ulim got her through to a small room with chamber pots scattered across the floor. She pulled out a gemstone and noted a hole in the floor on one side of the room—it looked like they dumped waste in here, pouring it into some foul cesspit several stories below. This was her goal? A privy? She gagged, and was forced to start breathing through her mouth. “Here,” Ulim said, crackling on the side of one of the chamber pots. “So help me,” Venli said to Skepticism, “if I find human waste inside…” She removed the lid. Fortunately, the interior was clean and empty save for a folded piece of paper. Ulim pulsed to Exultation. He’d been worried, it seemed. Venli unfolded the paper, and knew the Alethi script well enough to figure out it was a list of cleaning instructions. “It’s ciphered,” Ulim said. “Do you think we’d be so stupid as to leave notes in the open where anyone could read them? Let me interpret.…” He formed into the shape of a human, standing on a table full of pots. She hated that he took a human form rather than that of a listener. He leaned forward, his eyes narrow. “Bother,” he said. “What?” “Let me think, femalen,” he snapped. “What does it say?” “Axindweth says she’s been discovered,” he said. “She’s a very specific and rare kind of specialist—the details need not concern you—but there is apparently another of her kind in the palace. An agent for someone else. They found her and turned the human king against her. She’s decided to pull out.” “… Pull out?” Venli said. “I don’t understand that phrasing.” “She’s leaving! Or left. Perhaps days ago.” “Left the palace?” “The planet, you idiot.” Ulim blurred, carapace-like barbs breaking his skin and jabbing out, then retracting. It seemed to happen to the beat of one of the new rhythms, perhaps Fury. Ulim told her so little. Venli
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knew there was a way to travel from this world to the place the humans called Damnation. The land of the Voidspren. Many thousands of spren waited there to help her people, but they couldn’t get free without some Surge or power. Something to … pull them across the void between worlds. So what did this mean? Had his agent returned to the world Ulim had come from? Or had she gone someplace else? Was she gone for good? How were they going to transfer spren across to this land, to build power for the storm? Most importantly, did Venli want that to happen? He’d promised her forms of power, but she’d assumed that she’d bring this to the Five after frightening them with how powerful the humans were. Everything was moving so quickly, slipping out of her control. She almost demanded answers, but the way those spikes broke Ulim’s skin—the way he pulsed—made her remain quiet. He was a force of nature come alive. And the particular force he exhibited now was destructive. Eventually his pulsing subsided. The spikes settled beneath his skin. He remained standing on the table, staring at the sheet of paper with the offending words. “What do we do?” Venli finally asked. “I don’t know. There is nothing here for us. I … I have to leave, see if I can find answers elsewhere.” “Leave?” Venli said. “What about your promises? What about our plans?” “We have no plans!” Ulim said, spinning on her. “You said coming here would intimidate your people. Is that happening? Because from what I’ve seen, they seem to be enjoying themselves! Planning to feast and laugh, maybe get into storming bed with the humans!” Venli attuned Determination, and then it faded to Reconciliation. She had to admit it; her people weren’t intimidated, not like she was. Even Eshonai had grown more relaxed—not more worried—as they’d interacted with the humans. These days, Venli’s sister didn’t even wear warform. Venli wanted to blame her alone, but the problems with the listeners were far bigger than Eshonai. No one else seemed to see what Venli did. They should have been terrified by all the parshmen—the enslaved singers—in the palace. Instead, Venli’s people seemed curious. No one saw the threat Venli did. She didn’t understand, or believe, some of the things Ulim said. But in coming here, Venli realized for herself that the humans could not be trusted. If she didn’t do anything, it would be her people—her mother—enslaved to the humans. Ulim formed into crackling lightning and zipped down the table leg and along the floor. She took a step after him, attuning the Terrors—but he was gone, out under the door. By the time she looked into the hall, he’d vanished. She closed the door and found herself breathing heavily. She was alone in the enemy’s stronghold, having snuck into forbidden hallways. What should she do? What could she do? Wait. Ulim would come back. He didn’t though. And each moment she stood there attuned to the Terrors was more excruciating than the last.
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She had to strike out on her own. Perhaps she could sneak back the way she’d come? She ripped up the note, then dumped it out the shaft with the waste. She attuned Determination and slipped from the room. “You there!” She cringed, attuning Mourning. One hallway. She hadn’t been able to cross even one hallway. A human soldier in a glistening breastplate marched up, a long, wicked weapon in his hand—a spear, but with an axe’s head. “Why are you here?” he asked her in the Alethi tongue. She played dumb, speaking in her own language. She pointed toward the steps. Perhaps if he thought she couldn’t speak Alethi, he’d simply let her go? Instead he took her roughly by the arm and marched her along the hallway. Each time she tried to pull away he yanked harder, leading her down the steps and through this maze of a palace. He eventually deposited her in a room where several women were writing with spanreeds—Venli still wished her people knew how to make those. A gruff older soldier with a proper beard took reports. “Found this one on the top floor,” the guard said, pushing Venli into a seat. “She was poking around in a suspicious way.” “Does she speak Alethi?” asked the man with the beard. “No, sir,” the man said. He saluted, then returned to his post. Venli sat quietly, trying not to attune rhythms with too much dread. Surely this wouldn’t look too bad. She could complain she got lost. And wandered up several flights of stairs … And snuck past guards … When they’d been told several times to stay away … When I find Ulim again, she thought, attuning Betrayal, I will … What? What could she do to a spren? What was she without him and his promises? She suddenly felt very, very small. She hated that feeling. “You look like one of their scholars,” the older man said, his arms folded. “You really can’t speak Alethi? Or were you playing dumb?” “I … was playing dumb.” She immediately regretted speaking. Why had she exposed herself? The man grunted. Their version of attuning Amusement, she thought. “And what were you doing?” “Looking for the privy.” Dead flat stare. The human version of attuning Skepticism. “I found it,” she said to Reconciliation. “Eventually. Room with all the pots.” “I’m going to note this,” he said, nodding to one of the scribes, who began writing. “Your name?” “Venli,” she said. “If you were a human, I’d lock you up until someone came for you—or I’d give you to someone who could get me answers. But that treaty is being signed tonight. I don’t want to cause any incidents. Do you?” “No, sir,” she said. “Then how about this? You sit here, in this room with us, for the next four hours. Once the feast happens and the treaty is signed, we’ll see. Everything happens without a problem, and you can go in for the after-feast. Something goes wrong … well, then we’ll have another conversation, won’t we?” Venli
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attuned Disappointment, but nothing was going to happen. She’d probably suffer nothing more than a talking-to from her sister. Part of her would rather be locked up. She nodded anyway. In truth, she found the man’s actions surprisingly rational. Keeping her close would stop anything she might have planned—and if she truly was a lost guest, he wouldn’t be in any real trouble for holding her for a few hours. She contemplated insisting she was too important for this. She discarded that idea. Caught so quickly after being abandoned by Ulim … Well, it was hard to keep pretending she was strong. The feeling of smallness persisted. The soldier left her to go talk quietly to the women, and Venli made out some of their conversation. He had them report to other guard stations in the palace, informing them he’d picked up a wandering “Parshendi” and asking if anyone else had seen individuals entering forbidden or suspicious locations. Venli found herself attuning Praise unexpectedly. It was … nice to be alone. Lately, Ulim had always been around. She began thinking about how she could clean this up. Go talk to the Five. Maybe—despite how much it hurt to admit it—go ask Eshonai for advice. Unfortunately, Ulim soon zipped in through the open door as a trail of red lightning. She hummed Confusion, then Betrayal, as he moved up her chair leg and formed into a person on her armrest. “We have a big problem,” Ulim said to her. She hummed a little louder. “Oh, get over yourself, girl,” he said. “Listen, there are Heralds in the palace tonight.” “Heralds?” she whispered. “Here? They’re dead!” “Hush!” he said, glancing over his shoulder at the humans. “They’re not dead. You have no idea how royally, colossally, incredibly ruined we are. I saw Shalash first and followed her—then ran across not only Kalak, but Nale. I think he saw me. He shouldn’t have been able to, but—” A figure darkened the doorway to the guard post. The bearded soldier looked up. Venli turned slowly, attuning Anxiety. The newcomer was an imposing figure with deep brown skin and a pale mark on his cheek, almost like a listener might have as part of their skin pattern. He was in uniform, though it wasn’t of the cut the Alethi wore. He looked at Venli, then pointedly at Ulim—who groaned. Then the man finally looked over at the soldier. “Ambassador?” the guardsman asked. “What do you need?” “I heard a report that you are holding one of the thinking parshmen here,” the newcomer said. “Is this her?” “Yes,” the guardsman said. “But—” “I request,” the man said, “to have this prisoner released into my care.” “I don’t think I can do that, Ambassador,” the guardsman said, glancing at the scribes for confirmation. “You … I mean, that is a very unusual request.” “This femalen is important to this night’s activities,” the man said. He stepped forward, placing something on the nearest scribe’s desk. “This is a seal of deputation. I have legal jurisdiction in this land, as granted
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by your king. You will authenticate it.” “I’m not sure…” the scribe woman said. “You will authenticate it,” the man repeated. Perfectly void of emotion or rhythm. He made Venli feel cold. Particularly as he turned toward her. Behind him, the scribes began scribbling with their spanreeds. The newcomer blocked most of Venli’s view of them. “Hello, Ulim,” the man said in a soft, steady voice. “Um … hello, Nale,” the spren said. “I … um. I didn’t expect to see you here. Um, today. Anytime, actually … Ever … How is, ah, Shalash?” “Small talk is unnecessary, Ulim,” Nale said. “We are not friends. You persist only because I cannot destroy spren.” The strange man affixed his unblinking gaze on Venli. “Listener. Do you know what this is?” “Just another spren,” she said. “You are wise,” Nale said. “He is just another spren, isn’t he? How long have you known him?” Venli didn’t reply—and she saw Ulim pulse to Satisfaction. He did not want her speaking. “Brightlord,” one of the scribes called. “It appears you are correct. You may requisition this prisoner. We were simply going to hold her until—” “Thank you,” Nale said, taking his seal from the scribe, then walked out into the hall. “Follow, listener.” Ulim hopped onto her shoulder and grabbed hold of her hair. “Go ahead,” he whispered. “But don’t tell him anything. I am in so much trouble.…” Venli followed the strange man from the guard room. She’d never seen a human that shade before, though it wasn’t a true onyx like a listener pattern. This was more the color of a rockbud shell. “How many are there?” Nale asked her. “Spren like him? How many have returned?” “We—” Ulim began. “I would hear the listener,” Nale said. She’d rarely known Ulim to be quiet, and he rarely did as she asked. At this man’s rebuke, however, Ulim fell immediately silent. Ulim was frightened of this being. So did that mean the songs about them were true? A Herald. Alive. Ulim was right. The Return had begun. The humans would soon be marching to destroy her people. It was the only conclusion she could come to, based on her knowledge of the songs. And based on meeting this man. Storms. Her people needed forms of power. And to get them, she somehow had to navigate this conversation without being murdered by this creature. “Answer my question,” the Herald said. “How many spren like him are there? How many Voidspren have returned?” “I have seen only this one,” Venli said. “It is impossible that he has remained on Roshar all these years,” Nale said. “It has been … a long time, I believe. Generations perhaps, since the last true Desolation?” How could this creature not remember how long it had been since the Returns ended? Perhaps he was so far above mortals that he didn’t measure time the same way. “I thought it impossible for them to cross the distance between worlds,” Nale said. “Could it have been … No. Impossible. I’ve been vigilant. I’ve been
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careful. You must tell me! How did you accomplish his return?” So cold. A voice with no rhythms, and no human emotions. Yet those words … He was raving. Perhaps it wasn’t that he measured time differently, but that he was addled? Though she’d been considering telling him the truth, that instinct retreated before his dead words. She might not trust Ulim completely, but she certainly couldn’t turn to this Herald instead. “We didn’t do anything to return them,” she said, taking a gamble based on what he’d said earlier. “It was what you did.” “Impossible,” Nale repeated. “Ishar said only a Connection between the worlds could cause a bridge to open. And Taln has not given in. I would know if he had.…” “Do not blame us,” Venli said, “for your failure.” Nale kept his eyes forward. “So, Gavilar’s plan is working. The fool. He will destroy us all.” Nale sneered, a sudden and unexpected burst of emotion. “That foolish idiot of a man. He lures us with promises, then breaks them by seeking that which I told him was forbidden! Yes. I heard it tonight. The proof I need. I know. I know.…” Storms, Venli thought. He really is mad. “I have been vigilant,” the man ranted. “But not vigilant enough. I must take care. If the bonds start forming again … if we let the pathway open…” He suddenly stopped in the hallway, making her halt beside him. His face became flat again. Emotionless. “I believe I must offer you a service, listener. The king is planning to betray your people.” “What?” she said. “You can prevent disaster,” Nale said. “There is a man here in the city tonight. I have been tracking him due to his unusual circumstances. He possesses an artifact that belonged to a friend of mine. I have sworn not to touch said artifact, for … reasons that are unimportant to you.” Confusion thrummed in Venli’s ears. But on her shoulder, Ulim had perked up. “I have legal jurisdiction here to act on behalf of the king,” Nale said. “I cannot, however, take specific action against him. Tonight I found reason to have him killed, but it will take me months of planning to achieve the proper legality. “Fortunately, I have read your treaty. There is a provision allowing one party to legally break it and attack the other—should they have proof the other is conspiring against them. I know for a fact that Gavilar is planning to use this very provision to assault your people in the near future. I give you this knowledge, sworn by a Herald of the Almighty. You have proof that he is conspiring against you, and may act. “The man who can help you is a slave for sale in the market. The person who owns him is hoping some of the king’s wealthy visitors will want to pick up new servants before the feast. You have little time remaining. The slave you want is the sole Shin man among the crowd. The gemstones your people wear as ornaments
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will be enough to buy him.” “I don’t understand,” Venli said. Nale looked at Ulim on her shoulder. “This Shin man bears Jezrien’s Blade. And he is expertly trained in its employ.” He looked back to Venli. “I judge you innocent of any crime, using provision eighty-seven of the Alethi code—pardon of a criminal who has a more vital task to perform for the good of the whole.” He then strode away, leaving them in the hall. “That was…” Ulim said. “Wow. He’s far gone. As bad as some of the Fused. But that was well done, Venli. I’m trying not to sound too surprised. I think you may have fooled someone who is basically a god.” “It’s an old trick, Ulim,” she said. “Everyone—humans, listeners, and apparently gods—deep down suspects that every failure is their own. If you reflect blame on them, most people will assume they are responsible.” “Maybe I gave up on you too easily,” he said. “Old Jezrien’s Blade is here, is it? Curious…” “What does that mean?” “Let’s say,” Ulim told her, “your people were to start a war with the humans. Would that lead your people to the desperation we want? Would they take the forms we offer?” “Attack the humans?” Venli said to Confusion. They stood alone in the hallway, but she still hushed her voice. “Why would we do what that Herald said? We’re not here to start a war, Ulim. I merely want to get my people ready to face one, should the humans try to destroy us!” Ulim crackled with lightning, then moved up her arm, toward her gemheart. She hesitated to let him in. He worked in strange ways, not according to the rules. He could move in and out of her without a highstorm to facilitate the transformation. He began to vibrate energy through her. You were so clever, Venli, tricking Nale. This is going to work. You and me. This bond. “But … a war?” I don’t care why Nale thought we should attack the king, Ulim said. It has given me a seed of an idea. It’s not his plan, but your plan we’re following. We came here to make your people see how dangerous the humans are. But they are foolish, and you are wise. You can see how much of a threat they are. You need to show them. “Yes,” Venli said. That was her plan. Ulim slipped into her gemheart. The humans are planning to betray you, Ulim said. A Herald confirmed it. We must strike at them first. “And in so doing, make our people desperate,” Venli said. “When the humans retaliate, it will threaten our destruction. Yes … Then I could persuade the listeners they need forms of power. They must accept our help, or be annihilated.” Exactly. “A war would … likely mean the deaths of thousands,” Venli said, attuning Anxiety. The rhythm felt small and weak. Distant. “On both sides.” Your people will be restored to their true place as rulers of this entire land, Ulim said. Yes, blood will spill
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first. But in the end you will rule, Venli. Can you pay this small price now, for untold glories in the future? If it meant being strong enough to never again be weak? Never again feeling as small as she had today? “Yes,” she said, attuning Destruction. “What do we do?” So, words. Why words, now? Why do I write? Shallan hurried into the room she shared with Adolin, putting the strange experience with Sixteen behind her. No need to think about … that other spren. The Cryptic deadeye. Stay focused, and don’t let Radiant slip out again. Pattern shadowed her, closing the door with a click. “Aren’t you supposed to be meeting with Adolin right now?” “Yes,” Shallan said, kneeling beside the bed and pulling out her trunk. “That makes this the best time to contact Mraize, as we don’t risk Adolin walking in on us.” “He will wonder where you are.” “I’ll make it up to him later,” Shallan said, unlocking the trunk and looking in. “Veil?” Pattern said, walking up. “No, I’m Shallan.” “Are you? You feel wrong, Shallan. Mmm. You must listen. I did use the cube. I have a copy of the key to your trunk. Wit helped me.” “It’s no matter,” Shallan said. “Done. Over. Don’t care. Let’s move on and—” Pattern took her hands, kneeling beside her. His pattern, once so alien to her eyes, was now familiar. She felt as if by staring at its shifting lines, she could see secrets about how the world worked. Maybe even about how she worked. “Please,” Pattern said. “Let me tell you. We don’t have to talk about your past; I was wrong to try to force you. Yes, I did take the cube. To talk to Wit. He has a cube like it too, Shallan! He told me. “I was so worried about you. I didn’t know what to do. So I went to him, and he said we could talk with the cube, if I was worried. Mmm … About what was happening with you. He said I was very funny! But when I talked to him last, he warned me. He’s been spied on by the Ghostbloods. The things I told him, another heard. That was how Mraize knew things.” “You talked to Wit,” Shallan whispered. “And a spy overheard? That … That means…” “None of your friends are traitors,” Pattern said. “Except me! Only a little though! I am sorry.” No spy. And Pattern … Was this another lie? Was she getting so wrapped up in them that she couldn’t see what was true? She gripped his too-long hands. She wanted so badly to trust again. Your trust kills, Shallan, the dark part of her thought. The part she named Formless. Except it wasn’t formless. She knew exactly what it was. For now, she retreated—and released Veil and Radiant. Veil immediately took control and gasped, putting her hand to her head. “Storms,” she whispered. “That was a … strange experience.” “I have made things worse,” Pattern said. “I am very foolish.” “You tried
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to help,” Veil said. “But you should have come to me. I’m Veil, by the way. I could have helped you.” Pattern hummed softly. Veil got the sense that he didn’t trust her completely. Well, she wasn’t certain she trusted her own mind completely, so there was that. “There’s a lot to think about in what you said,” Veil said. “For now, please don’t keep anything more from us. All right?” Pattern’s pattern slowed, then quickened, and he nodded. “Great.” Veil took a deep breath. Well, that was over. Who killed Ialai? Shallan whispered from inside. Veil hesitated. Perhaps Pattern was the one who moved the cube all those times, Shallan said. And he’s the reason Mraize knew about the seed we planted about the corrupted spren. But someone killed Ialai. Who was it? Storms. There was more to this mess. A lot more. Veil, however, needed time to digest it. So for now, she put all of that aside and picked up the communication cube. She repeated the incantation. “Deliver to me Mraize, cube, and transfer my voice to him.” It took longer this time than others; she didn’t know what the difference was. She sat there some ten minutes before Mraize finally spoke. “I trust you have only good news to report, little knife,” his voice said. “It’s bad news—but you’re getting it anyway,” she said. “This is Veil, with Pattern here. We’ve eliminated the final human in Lasting Integrity from consideration. Either Restares has learned to disguise himself beyond my ability to spot him, or he’s not here.” “How certain are you of this?” Mraize said, calm. She’d never seen him get upset at bad news. “Depends,” she said. “Like I said, he could have disguised himself. Or maybe your intel is wrong.” “It’s possible,” Mraize admitted. “Communication between realms is difficult, and information travels slowly. Have you asked if any humans left the fortress recently?” “They claim the last human who left was five months ago,” she said. “But that was Azure, not Restares. I know her. I’ve described our quarry to several honorspren, but they say the description is too vague, and that many humans look alike to them. I’m inclined to think they’re telling the truth. They completely neglected to mention that Sixteen—the person I’ve spent the last few days planning to intercept—was Shin.” “Troubling,” Mraize said. “You’ve been vague in your answers to me,” Veil said. “Let me ask clearly. Could Restares have become a Lightweaver? Cryptics have different requirements for bonding than most Radiants.” “I highly doubt Restares would have joined any Radiant order,” Mraize said. “It’s not in his nature. I suppose, however, that we can’t discount the possibility. There are variations on Lightweaving in the cosmere that do not require a spren—plus the Honorblades exist and are poorly tracked these days, even by our agents.” “I thought they were all in Shinovar, except the one Moash wields.” “They were.” Mraize said it simply, directly, with an implication: She wasn’t getting any more information on that topic. Not unless she finished this mission,
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whereupon he had promised to answer all her questions. “You should equip yourself with Stormlight,” Mraize suggested. “If you have not found Restares, there is a chance he knows you are there—and that could be dangerous. He is not the type to fight unless cornered, but once pushed, there are few beings as dangerous on this planet.” “Great, wonderful,” Veil said. “Nice to know I have to start sleeping with one eye open. You could have warned me.” “Considering your paranoia, would you have done anything differently?” Mraize sounded amused. “You’re probably right about the Stormlight,” Veil said. “The honorspren do have a store of it; they let us use it to heal Adolin. Makes me wonder where they obtained all the perfect gemstones to hold it for so long.” “They’ve had millennia to gather them, little knife,” Mraize said. “And they love gemstones, perhaps for the same reason we admire swords. During the days of the Radiants, some even believed the stories of the Stone of Ten Dawns, and spent lifetimes hunting it. How will you obtain Stormlight from these honorspren?” “I’ll begin working on a plan,” she said. “Excellent. And how is your … stability, little knife?” She thought about Shallan taking control, locking Veil and Radiant away somehow. “Could be better,” she admitted. “Answers will help free you,” Mraize said. “Once you’ve earned them.” “Perhaps,” Veil said. “Or perhaps you’ll be surprised at what I already know.” The trouble wasn’t getting answers. It was finding the presence of mind to accept them. Now, was there a way she could confirm what Pattern had said? About Wit, and the Ghostbloods spying on him? She toyed with the idea, but decided not to say anything. She didn’t want to tell Mraize too much. Her musings were interrupted by the sound of people shouting. That was uncommon here in honorspren territory. “I need to go,” she told Mraize. “Something’s happening.” * * * The honorspren had a multitude of reasons for delaying Adolin’s trial. Their first and most obvious excuse was the need to wait for the “High Judge,” a spren who was out on patrol. Adolin had spent weeks assuming this was the Stormfather, because of things they’d said. Yet when he’d mentioned that the other day, the honorspren had laughed. So now he had no idea who or what the High Judge was, and their answers to him were strange. The High Judge was some kind of spren, that seemed clear. But not an honorspren. The judge was of a variety that was very rare. In any case, waiting for the High Judge to return gave the honorspren time to prepare documentation, notes, and testimonies. Had that all been ready, though, they wouldn’t have allowed the trial to proceed yet. Because Adolin, they explained, was an idiot. Well, they didn’t say it in so many words. Still, he couldn’t help but suspect that was how they felt. He was woefully ignorant of what they considered proper trial procedure. Thus he found himself in today’s meeting. Every two days he had
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an appointment for instruction. The honorspren were quite clear: His offer, worded as it had been, let them condemn him as a traitor and murderer. Though that hadn’t completely been his intent, this trial would let them pin the sins of the ancient Radiants on him. Before they did so, they wanted him to understand proper trial procedure. What strange beings. He stepped softly through the library, a long flat building on the northern plane of Lasting Integrity. Honorspren liked their books, judging by the extensive collection—but he rarely saw them in here. They seemed to enjoy owning the books, treating them like relics to be hoarded. His tutor, on the other hand, was a different story. She stood on a step stool, counting through books on an upper shelf. Her clothing, made of her substance, was reminiscent of a Thaylen tradeswoman’s attire: a knee-length skirt with blouse and shawl. Unlike an honorspren, her coloring was an ebony black, with a certain sheen in the right light. Like the variegated colors oil made on a sword blade. She was an inkspren; Jasnah had bonded one, though Adolin had never seen him. This one called herself Blended—a name that felt peculiar to him. “Ah, Highprince,” she said, noting him. “You are.” “I am,” he said. During their weeks talking together, he’d grown mostly accustomed to her distinctive style of speaking. “Good, good,” she said, climbing down the steps. “Our time nearly is not. Come, we must talk.” “Our time nearly is not?” Adolin said, hurrying alongside her. She was shorter than most honorspren, and wore her hair—pure black like the rest of her—pinned up in something that wasn’t quite a braid. Though her skin was mostly monochrome black, faint variations outlined her features, making her round face and small nose more visible. “Yes,” she said. “The honorspren have set the date for your trial. It is.” “When?” “Three days.” “The High Judge is here, then?” Adolin asked as they reached their study table. “He must be returning soon,” she said. “Perhaps he already is in this place. So, we must make decisions.” She sat without ceasing her torrent of words. “You are not ready. Your progress is not, Highprince Adolin. I do not say this to be insulting. It simply is.” “I know,” he said, sitting down. “Honorspren law is … complex. I wish you could speak for me.” “It is not their way.” “It seems designed to be frustrating.” “Yes,” she agreed. “This is unsurprising, as it was devised by a stuck-up bunch of prim, overly polished buttons.” There was no love lost between inkspren and honorspren. And Blended was supposedly among the more diplomatic of her type—she was the official inkspren emissary to Lasting Integrity. “I know an honorspren in my realm,” Adolin said. “She can be … interesting at times, but I wouldn’t call her prim.” “The Ancient Daughter?” Blended asked. “She’s not the only one whose personality is as you speak. Many honorspren used to be like that. Others still are. But Lasting Integrity, and those who here are,
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have had a strong effect on many honorspren. They preach isolation. Others listen.” “It’s so extreme,” Adolin said. “They must see there is a better way of dealing with their anger at humans.” “Agreed. A better solution is. I would simply kill you.” Adolin started. “… Excuse me?” “If a human tries to bond me,” Blended said, flipping through the books in her stack, “I will attack him and kill him. This better solution is.” “I don’t think Radiants force bonds,” Adolin said. “They would coerce. I would strike first. Your kind are not trustworthy.” She set aside one of her books, shaking her head. “Regardless, I am worried about your training. It is weak, through no fault of yours. The honorspren will use the intricacies of their laws against you, to your detriment. You will be as a child trying to fight a duel. I believe trials among your kind are more direct?” “Basically, you go before the lighteyes in charge and plead your case,” Adolin said. “He listens, maybe confers with witnesses or experts, then renders judgment.” “Brief, simple,” she said. “Very flawed, but simple. The honorspren of this region like their rules. But perhaps a better solution is.” She held up one of the books she’d been looking through when he arrived. “We can motion for a trial by witness. A variety more akin to what you know already.” “That sounds great,” Adolin said, relaxing. If he had to listen to one more lecture including terms like “exculpatory evidence” and “compensatory restitution,” he would ask them to execute him and be done with it. Blended took notes as she spoke. “It is well I spent these weeks training you in basics. This will prepare you for your best hope of victory, which is this format. Therefore, before I explain, recite to me your general trial strategy.” They’d gone over this dozens of times, to the point that Adolin could have said it backward. He didn’t mind; you drilled your soldiers in battle formations until they could do maneuvers in their sleep. And this trial would be like a battle; Blended had repeatedly warned him to be wary of verbal ambushes. “I need to persuade them that I cannot be held accountable for the actions of the ancient Radiants,” Adolin said. “That they cannot shun me or my father because of things done by ancient humans. In order to accomplish this, I will prove my character, I will prove that the modern Radiants are unconnected to the old orders, and I will prove that our actions in the face of the current crisis are proof of the honor men display.” Blended nodded. “We will choose a trial by witness. Assuming your motion is accepted, the trial will happen in three phases over three days. The first day, the High Judge is presented with three testimonies against your cause. The next day, you give your testimony. The final day, accusers are allowed one rebuttal, then judgment is requested. This format is not often chosen, because it allows so much weight of
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testimony against you. However, factoring in how weak your grasp of legal systems is, well … this choice is best.” Adolin felt a tremble deep inside. He wished for a fight he could face with sword in hand—but that was the trouble. Any given Radiant could do better than he at such a fight, so his expertise with the sword was effectively obsolete. He could not train himself to the level of a Radiant; they could heal from wounds and strike with supernatural grace and strength. The world had entered an era where simply being good at swordplay was not enough. That left him to find a new place. Father always complained about being unsuited for diplomacy; Adolin was determined not to make the same complaint. “If I may plead my case on the second day,” he said, “then I’m for it. The other methods you suggested would require me to understand too much of their law.” “Yes,” Blended said. “Though I worry that in giving testimony, you will incriminate yourself. Worse, you risk asking questions of the audience, presenting an opening for their condemnations. You could end up one man facing a crowd of experts in the law and rhetoric.” “I have to speak for myself though,” Adolin said. “I fail to see how I can achieve what I want without talking to them. I need to prove myself and appeal to their honor.” Blended flipped through pages of notes. He’d noticed that when she wouldn’t look at him, it meant she had something difficult to say. “What?” Adolin asked her. “You believe much in their honor, Prince Adolin. Your sense of justice … is.” “They are honorspren,” he said. “Don’t they basically have to be honorable?” “A conundrum is in this thing,” Blended said. “Yes, they are honorspren. But honor … isn’t something that … that is.” “What do you mean?” “Men define honor,” Blended said. “And no god can enforce it, no longer. Beyond that, spren like us are not mindless things. Our will is strong. Our perceptions mold our definitions of concepts such as honor and right and wrong. Just as with humans.” “You’re saying that what they perceive as honorable might not be what I perceive as honorable. Syl warned me as much.” “Yes,” she said. “What they are defines honor to them. Whatever they are.” “That’s … frightening,” Adolin admitted. “But there is goodness to them. They care for the deadeyes, even Maya, with great concern and attention.” “Hmmm, yes,” Blended said. “That one. Did another spren tell you her name?” “No, she told me herself.” “Deadeyes don’t speak. This is.” “You all keep saying that, but you’re wrong,” Adolin said. “I heard her in my mind. Only once, true, but she said her name. Mayalaran. She’s my friend.” Blended cocked her head. “Curious. Very curious…” “Deep down, the honorspren must want to help. Surely they’ll listen to me. Surely I can make them see.” “I will give you the best chance I can,” she said. “But please understand. Spren—all spren—fear you with good reason. In
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order to prove you wrong, they need only prove that bonding men is a risk. That past failings of men justify wariness.” “Everything is a risk,” Adolin said. “Yes. Which is why this trial … is not strong for you. This truth is, Prince Adolin.” “To hear you say it like that,” he said, trying to laugh about it, “it sounds like I have no chance!” She closed her book. And did not respond. He took a deep breath. “All right. How do we proceed?” he asked. “I suspect the best thing is to discover if the High Judge’s return is.” Blended stood up, leaving the books on the table as she strode toward the doors. Adolin was expected to keep up. She claimed to hate the honorspren because of an ancient rivalry, but she sure did act like them. Neither gave much deference to human titles, for example. Adolin didn’t consider himself stuck-up, but couldn’t they treat him with a little more respect? Outside, as always, he had that moment of jarring disconnect—his brain trying to reconcile that down wasn’t down and up wasn’t up. That people walked along all four faces inside the rectangular tower. He doubted he could ever feel at ease in this place. The spren claimed it was not Surgebinding that let them walk on the walls here; the long-standing presence of the honorspren instead allowed the tower to choose a different type of natural law. Perhaps that sort of talk made sense to Shallan. Where was she anyway? She was often late to these tutoring meetings, but she usually showed up. Blended led him across to the corner where the northern plane met the western plane; most of the official buildings were on the western one. Adolin always found this part curious; he had to step out and put one leg on the wall. He followed that by leaning back as he lifted his other leg, feeling like he was about to fall. Instead everything seemed to rotate, and he found himself standing on another plane. “You do that better than most humans,” Blended noted. “They often seem nauseated by the process.” He shrugged, then followed as she walked him toward a row of short buildings clustered near the base of the tower. Most buildings in Lasting Integrity were only one story. He wasn’t certain what happened if they got too tall; were you in danger of falling off? They passed groups of honorspren, and he thought about what Blended had said regarding their natures. Not simply of honor—of honor as defined by the spren themselves. Well, maybe they weren’t all as stuffy as they seemed. He’d catch laughter or a hint of a mischievous grin. Then an older uniformed honorspren would walk past—and everyone would grow solemn again. These creatures seemed trapped between an instinct for playfulness and their natures as the spren of oaths. He anticipated another tedious discussion with the honorspren who managed his case—but before Adolin and Blended entered the building of justice, she stopped and cocked her head. She waved for
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him to follow in another direction, and he soon saw why. A disturbance was occurring on the ground plane, near the gates into the city. A moment of panic made him wonder if his friends had decided to rescue him against his wishes—followed by a deeper worry that all those deadeyes outside had snapped and decided to rush the fortress. It was neither. A group of spren crowded around a newly arrived figure. “The High Judge?” Adolin guessed. “Yes,” Blended said. “Excellent. You can make your petition to him.” She walked that direction, down along the face of the western plane. Adolin followed until he saw the details of the figure everyone was making such a fuss over. The High Judge, it appeared, was human. * * * “Human?” Veil said, stopping in place. “That’s impossible.” She squinted at the figure below, and didn’t need to get close to see what her gut was already telling her. A short Alethi man with thinning hair. That was him, the one she’d been hunting. The High Judge was Restares. “Mmm…” Pattern said. “They did say the High Judge was a spren. Perhaps the honorspren lied? Mmm…” Veil stepped up to a small crowd of honorspren who had gathered on the southern plane to gawk at the newcomer. One was Lusintia, the honorspren assigned to show Veil around on her first day in the fortress. She was a shorter spren, with hair kept about level with the point of her chin. She didn’t wear a uniform, but the stiff jacket and trousers she preferred might as well have been one. Veil elbowed her way over to Lusintia, earning shocked glances from the honorspren, who generally didn’t crowd in such a way. Pattern followed in her wake. “That can’t be the High Judge,” Veil said, pointing. “I specifically asked if the High Judge was human.” “He’s not,” Lusintia said. “But—” “He might have the form of a man,” Lusintia said. “But he is an eternal and immortal spren who blesses us with his presence. That is Kalak, called Kelek’Elin among your people. Herald of the Almighty. He commanded us not to tell people he was here—and ordered us specifically to not speak of him to humans, so we were not allowed to answer your questions until you saw him for yourself.” One of the Heralds. Damnation. The man Mraize had sent her to find—and, she suspected, the man he wanted her to kill—was one of the Heralds. Jezrien is gone. Despite being all the way out here in Lasting Integrity, I felt him being ripped away. The Oathpact was broken already, but the Connection remained. Each of us can sense the others, to an extent. And with further investigation, I know the truth of what happened to him. It felt like death at first, and I think that is what it ultimately became. Rlain stepped into the laundry room, and felt every single storming head in the place turn to look at him. The singer guards at the door perked up, one nudging the other and
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humming to Curiosity. Human women working the large tubs of sudsy water turned as they scrubbed. Men who were toiling at bleaching vats—with long poles to move the cloth inside—stopped and wiped brows. Chatter became whispers. Rlain. Traitor. Reject. Oddity. He kept his head high—he hadn’t lived through Bridge Four to be intimidated by a quiet room and staring eyes—but he couldn’t help feeling like he was the one gemstone in the pile that didn’t glow. Somehow, with the singers invading Urithiru, he’d become more of an outsider. He strode past the vats and tubs to the drying station. Some of the tower’s original fabrials—the lifts, the main wells, the air vents—had been altered to work with Voidlight. That meant the workers here could set out large racks for drying in this room where the vents blew a little stronger. There was talk that the Fused would get other fabrials in the tower working soon, but Rlain wasn’t privy to their timelines. Near the drying racks he found a small cart waiting for him, filled with clean bedding. He counted the sheets as the foreman—a lighteyed human who always seemed to be standing around when Rlain visited—leaned against the wall nearby, folding his arms. “So,” he said to Rlain, “what’s it like? Roaming the tower. Ruling the place. Pretty good, eh?” “I don’t rule anything,” Rlain said. “Sure, sure. Must feel good though, being in charge of all those people who used to own you.” “I’m a listener,” Rlain said to Irritation. “I was never an Alethi slave, just a spy pretending to be one.” Well, except for Bridge Four. That had felt like true slavery. “But your people are in charge now,” the man prodded, completely unable to take a hint. “They aren’t my people,” Rlain said. “I’m a listener—I come from an entirely different country. I’m as much one of them as you are an Iriali.” The man scratched his head at that. Rlain sighed and wheeled the cart over to pick up some pillows. The women there didn’t usually talk to him, so he was able to pile up the pillows without getting more than a few scowls. He could hear their whispers, unfortunately. Better than they probably thought he could. “… Don’t speak too loudly,” one was saying. “He’ll report you to them.” “He was here all along,” another hissed. “Watching the Windrunners, planning when best to strike. He’s the one who poisoned them.” “Hovers over them like a vengeful spren,” a third said. “Watching to kill any who wake up. Any who—” She squealed as Rlain spun toward the three women. Their eyes opened wide and they drew back. Rlain could feel their tension as he walked up to them. “I like cards,” he said. The three stared at him in horror. “Cards,” Rlain said to Longing. “I’m best at towers, but I like runaround too. I’m pretty good, you know. Bisig says it’s because I’m good at bluffing. I find it fun. I like it.” The three women exchanged looks, obviously confused. “I thought you should
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know something about me,” Rlain said. “I figured maybe if you did, you would stop making things up.” He nodded to them, then forcibly attuned Peace as he went back to tie the pillows into place on the top of his cart. As he began wheeling it away, the whispers started again. “You heard him,” the first woman hissed. “He’s a gambler! Of course. Those kind can see the future, you know. Foul powers of the Void. He likes to take advantage of those unwise enough to bet against him.…” Rlain sighed, but kept going. At the door, he knew to step to the side as one of the singer guards tried to trip him. They hadn’t tired of that same old terrible trick—no matter how many times he visited. He shoved his way out the door quickly, but not before one of them called, “See you tomorrow, traitor!” to the Rhythm of Reprimand. Rlain pushed the cart through the halls of Urithiru. There were a lot of people out, both human and singer. Bringing water from the wells was a full-time duty for many hundreds of workers. A lot of the population had moved away from the perimeter, which was growing too cold. Instead they crowded together into these interior rooms. Humans gave way for him. Most of the singers didn’t glance at him, but those who did usually noticed his tattoo. Their rhythms changed, and their eyes followed him. Some hated him for the treason of his ancestors. Others had been told the listeners were a brave frontrunner group who had prepared for Odium’s return. These treated Rlain with reverence. In the face of it all—the frightened humans, the mistrusting Regals, the occasionally awed ordinary singers—he wished he could simply be Rlain. He hated that to every one of them, he was some kind of representation of an entire people. He wanted to be seen as a person, not a symbol. The closest he’d come had been among the men of Bridge Four. Even though they’d named him “Shen,” of all things. That was like naming one of their children “Human.” But for all their faults, they had succeeded in giving him a home. Because they’d been willing to try to see him for himself. As he pushed his cart, he caught sight of that cremling again. The nondescript brown one that would scuttle along walls near the ceiling, blending in with the stonework. They were still watching him. Venli had warned him about this. Voidspren invisibility didn’t work properly in the tower. So it appeared that, to keep an eye on someone here, they’d begun entering an animal’s gemheart. He tried to pretend he hadn’t seen it. Eventually, it turned and scuttled down a different hallway. Voidspren weren’t fully able to control the animals they bonded; though apparently the dumber the animal, the easier they were to influence. So there was no way of telling if the Voidspren had decided it had seen enough for the day, or if its host was merely distracted. Rlain eventually reached the atrium,
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and like many people, he briefly basked in the light coming through the large eastern window. There was always a lot of traffic in here these days. Though only the privileged among the singers were allowed to use the lifts, people of both species came here for light. He crossed the atrium with his cart, then pushed it through into the Radiant infirmary. He still couldn’t relax—as a surprising number of humans moved through the room among the unconscious Radiants. Ostensibly they all had a reason to be there. Water carriers, people to change the bedpans, others recruited to help feed broth to the Radiants. There were always new volunteers—the men and women of the tower were turning coming here into some kind of pilgrimage. Look in on the Radiants. Care for them. Then go burn prayers for them to recover. None of the people working in here seemed bothered by the fact that—not two years ago—they would have cursed by the Lost Radiants. Eyes chased Rlain as he—forcing himself to walk to the beat of the Rhythm of Peace—delivered the cart of freshly laundered sheets and pillows to those changing them. A man with one arm and haunted eyes was overseeing this work today. Like most of the others in the room, he’d painted his forehead with the shash glyph. That baffled Rlain. A few days ago, Lezian the Pursuer had ordered his men to beat those who wore the forehead mark—though only a day later, that order had been reversed by Raboniel. Still seemed strange that so many humans would wear the thing. They had to realize they were singling themselves out. Though he’d been forced to rein in his men, and there had been fewer incidents recently, the Pursuer continued to push for more brutality in the tower. Unnervingly, he’d placed a few guards here in the infirmary: two stormform Regals currently, on rotation with several other Regals, who stood watch at all hours. Rlain felt their stares on him as he walked to the back of the room where Lirin and Hesina had used hanging sheets to section off a part as a kind of office and living quarters for themselves. Rlain forced himself to attune Confidence until he could step between the sheets. Inside he found Lirin peeking out at the stormforms. A small surgery station was set up behind him, where Lirin could see patients—because of course he needed to do that. Kaladin had spoken of his father, and Rlain felt he knew Lirin and Hesina, though he’d interacted with them in person for only a few weeks. “Well?” Rlain asked. “The stormforms have seen me and Hesina,” Lirin whispered. “We couldn’t stay hidden all the time. But I don’t think it matters. By this point, someone must have recognized us. I wouldn’t be surprised if those Regals were sent here in the first place because this ‘Pursuer’ discovered we were here.” “Maybe you should remain quiet,” Rlain said, searching the ceiling for cremlings. “Or maybe we should get you out.” “We’ve been watching for cremlings,”
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Lirin said. “And haven’t seen any. Nothing so far. As for the Pursuer, Venli says that we should be safe from him, so long as that Heavenly One, Leshwi, protects us.” “I don’t know how much I trust any of them, Lirin,” Rlain said. “Particularly Fused.” “Agreed,” Lirin said. “What games are they playing? Leshwi didn’t even ask after my son. Do you have any idea why they are acting this way?” “Sorry,” Rlain said. “I’m baffled. Our songs barely mention the Fused except to say to avoid them.” Lirin grunted. Like the others, he seemed to expect Rlain to understand the Fused and Regals more than he did—but to the surgeon’s credit, he and Hesina had accepted Rlain without suspicion, despite his race. For all that Lirin complained about Kaladin, it seemed he considered someone his son called a friend to be worthy of trust. “And Venli?” Lirin asked. “She wears a Regal form. Can we trust her?” “Venli could have left me in prison,” Rlain said. “I think she’s proven herself.” “Unless it’s a long con of some sort,” Lirin said, his eyes narrowing. Rlain hummed to Reconciliation. “I’m surprised to hear of your suspicion. Kaladin said you always saw the best in people.” “My son doesn’t know me nearly as well as he presumes,” Lirin said. He continued standing by the drapes. Rlain made his way past the surgery table to where Hesina had set out one of his stolen maps on the floor. There, he hummed to Anxiety. “Maybe we shouldn’t have these out,” he whispered. “With those Regals around.” “We can’t live our lives terrified of enemies at every corner, Rlain,” Hesina said. “If they wanted to take us, they’d have done it already. We have to assume we’re safe, for now.” Rlain hummed to Anxiety. But … there was wisdom in her words. He forced himself to calm. He had seen that cremling, yes, but didn’t know it had a Voidspren. Perhaps he was jumping at shadows. Likely, he was just on edge because of the way everyone treated him during his trips through the tower. “I keep thinking,” Hesina said, looking over the map, “that if we could get this to Kal, it might help.” Rlain glanced at Lirin, humming to Curiosity. Hesina wouldn’t catch the rhythm, but she clearly understood his body language. “Lirin’s dispute is not mine,” Hesina said. “He can play the stoic pacifist all he wants—and I’ll love him for it. But I’m not going to leave Kal out there alone with no help. You think if he had exact maps of the tower, he might have a better chance?” “Couldn’t hurt,” Rlain said, kneeling beside her. They’d all heard about what Kaladin had done the other day—appearing spectacularly in the Breakaway market, engaging the Fused, fighting in the air. The Fused were obviously frightened. They had immediately started publicizing that they’d killed him. Too quickly, and too forcefully, without a body to show. The people of the tower weren’t buying it, and neither was Rlain. He’d joined Bridge Four later
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than most, but he’d been there for Kaladin’s most dramatic transformations. Stormblessed was alive in the tower somewhere, planning his next move. Hesina continued to pore over the map of the tower’s sixth floor—but Rlain noticed something else. Hesina had set another map aside, one of the Shattered Plains. Rlain unrolled it fully and found himself attuning the Rhythm of the Lost. He’d never seen a full map, this detailed, of the entire Plains. The immensity didn’t surprise him. He’d been out there as both listener and bridgeman. He’d flown with the Windrunners. He understood the scope of the Shattered Plains, and was prepared for Narak to seem diminutive when compared to the expanse of plateaus stretching in all directions. But he wasn’t prepared for how symmetrical it all was, now that he could see it all at once. Yes, the Plains had most definitely been broken in a pattern. He hummed to Curiosity as he peered closer, and he picked out some cramped writing on the far eastern side of the Plains—where the plateaus were worn smaller by the winds. That was the direction the chasmfiends migrated after breeding or pupating. A dangerous area full of greatshells, herd animals, and predators as large as buildings. “Hesina?” Rlain said, turning the map in her direction. “Can you read this part to me?” She leaned over. “Scout report,” she said. “They found a camp out there, it seems. Some kind of large caravan or nomadic group. Maybe they’re Natans? A lot of this area is unexplored, Rlain.” He hummed to himself, wondering if he should learn to read. Sigzil was always talking about how useful it was, though Rlain didn’t like the idea of relying on written words that had no life, instead of on songs. A piece of paper could be burned, lost, destroyed in a storm—but an entire people and their songs could not be so easily … He trailed off. An entire people. It struck him anew that he was alone. No, Venli is here, he thought. There were two of them. He’d never particularly liked Venli, but at least he wasn’t the sole listener. It made him wonder. Should they … try to rebuild? The idea nauseated him for multiple reasons. For one, the times he’d tried mateform himself, things hadn’t gone the way he—or anyone really—had expected. Lirin abruptly pulled back from the curtains. His motion was so sudden that Hesina took it as a warning and immediately grabbed a sheet and pulled it over the maps. Then she laid out some bandages—to appear as if she’d spread the sheet onto the floor to keep the bandages clean as she rolled them. It was an excellent cover-up—one Rlain ruined by belatedly moving to tuck away his map of the Shattered Plains. “It’s not that,” Lirin said, grabbing Rlain by the shoulder. “Come look. I think I recognize one of the workers.” Lirin pointed out through the drapes, directing Rlain toward a short man. He had a mark on his forehead, but it wasn’t an inked shash glyph. It
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was a Bridge Four tattoo like Rlain’s own. Dabbid kept his eyes down, walking with his characteristic sense of mute subservience. “I think that man was one of Kaladin’s friends,” Lirin said. “Am I right?” Rlain nodded, then hummed softly to Anxiety and stepped out into the main room. He and Dabbid had often been set to work together as the only two members of Bridge Four who hadn’t gained Windrunner abilities. Seeing him opened that wound again for Rlain, and he hummed forcibly to Peace. It wasn’t his fault that spren were as racist as humans. Or as singers. As people. He quietly took Dabbid by the arm, steering him away from the Regals. “Storms, I’m glad to see you,” Rlain whispered. “I was worried about you, Dabbid. Where have you been? Were you frightened? Here, come help me bring some water to the others. Like the work we used to do, remember?” He could imagine the poor mute hiding in a corner, crying as enemies flooded the tower. Dabbid had become kind of a mascot for Bridge Four. One of the first men Kaladin had saved. Dabbid represented what had been done to them, and the fact that they’d survived it. Wounded, but still alive. Dabbid resisted as Rlain tugged him toward the water trough. The shorter bridgeman leaned in, then—remarkably—spoke. “Rlain,” Dabbid said. “Please help. Kaladin is asleep, and he won’t wake up. I think … I think he’s dying.” The singers first put Jezrien into a gemstone. They think they are clever, discovering they can trap us in those. It only took them seven thousand years. Kaladin existed in a place where the wind hated him. He remembered fighting in the market, then swimming through the well. He vaguely remembered running out into the storm—wanting to let go and drop away. But no, he couldn’t give up. He’d climbed the outside of the tower. Because he’d known that if he fled, he’d leave Dabbid and Teft alone. If he fled, he’d leave Syl—maybe forever. So he’d climbed and … And the Stormfather’s voice? No, Dalinar’s voice. That had been … days ago? Weeks? He didn’t know what had happened to him. He walked a place of constant winds. The faces of those he loved appeared in haunting shadows, each one begging for help. Flashes of light burned his skin, blinded him. The light was angry. And though Kaladin longed to escape the darkness, each new flash trained him to be more afraid of the light. The worst part was the wind. The wind that hated him. It flayed him, slamming him against the rocks as he tried to find a hiding place to escape it. Hate, it whispered. Hate. Hate hate. Each time the wind spoke, it broke something inside Kal. Ever since he could remember—since childhood—he had loved the wind. The feel of it on his skin meant he was free. Meant he was alive. It brought new scents, clean and fresh. The wind had always been there, his friend, his companion, his ally. Until one day
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it had come to life and started talking to him. Its hatred crushed him. Left him trembling. He screamed for Syl, then remembered that he’d abandoned her. He couldn’t remember how he’d come to this terrible place, but he remembered that. Plain as a dagger in his chest. He’d left Syl alone, to lose herself because he’d gotten too far away. He’d abandoned the wind. The wind crashed into him, pressing him against something hard. A rock formation? He was … somewhere barren. No sign of rockbuds or vines in the flashes of terrifying light. Only endless windswept, rocky crags. It reminded him of the Shattered Plains, but with far more variation to the elevations. Peaks and precipices, red and grey. So many holes and tunnels. Surely there was a place to hide. Please. Just let me rest. For a minute. He pushed forward, holding to the rock wall, trying not to stumble. He had to fight the wind. The terrible wind. Hate. Hate. Hate. Lightning flashed, blinding him. He huddled beside the rock as the wind blew stronger. When he started moving, he could see a bit better. Sometimes it was pure darkness. Sometimes he could see a little, though there was no light source he could locate. Merely a persistent directionless illumination. Like … like another place he couldn’t remember. Hide. He had to hide. Kal pushed off the wall, struggling against the wind. Figures appeared. Teft begging to know why Kal hadn’t rescued him. Moash pleading for help protecting his grandparents. Lirin dying as Roshone executed him. Kal tried to ignore them, but if he squeezed his eyes shut, their cries became louder. So he forced himself forward, searching for shelter. He struggled up a short incline—but as soon as he reached the top, the wind reversed and blew him from behind, casting him down the other side. He landed on his shoulder, scraping up his arm as he slid across the stone. Hate. Hate. Hate. Kal forced himself to his knees. He … he didn’t give up. He … wasn’t a person who was allowed to give up. Was that right? It was hard … hard to remember. He got to his feet, his arm hanging limp at his side, and kept walking. Against the wind again. Keep moving. Don’t let it stop you. Find a place. A place to hide. He staggered forward, exhausted. How long had it been since he’d slept? Truly slept? For years, Kal had stumbled from one nightmare to another. He lived on willpower alone. But what would happen when he ran out of strength? What would happen when he simply … couldn’t? “Syl?” he croaked. “Syl?” The wind slammed into him and knocked him off balance, shoving him right up to the rim of a chasm. He teetered on the edge, terrified of the darkness below—but the wind didn’t give him a choice. It pushed him straight into the void. He tumbled and fell, slamming into rocks along the chasm wall, denied peace even while falling. He hit the bottom with a
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solid crack to his head and a flash of light. Hate. Hate. Hate. He lay there. Letting it rail. Letting it pummel him. Was it time? Time to finally let go? He forced himself to look up. And there—in the distance along the bottom of the chasm—he saw something beautiful. A pure white light. A longing warmth. The sight of it made him weep and cry out, reaching for it. Something real. Something that didn’t hate him. He needed to get to that light. The fall had broken him. One arm didn’t work, and his legs were a mess of agony. He began crawling, dragging himself along with his working arm. The wind redoubled its efforts, trying to force him back, but now that Kaladin had seen the light, he had to keep going. He gritted his teeth against the pain and hauled himself forward. Inch after inch. Defying the screaming wind, ignoring the shadows of dying friends. Keep. Moving. The light drew closer, and he longed to enter it. That place of warmth, that place of peace. He heard … a sound. A serene tone that wasn’t spiteful wind or whispered accusations. Closer. Closer. A little … farther … He was just ten feet away. He could … Suddenly, Kaladin began to sink. He felt the ground change, becoming liquid. Crem. The rock had somehow become crem, and it was sucking him down, collapsing beneath him. He shouted, stretching his good arm toward the glowing pool of light. There was nothing to climb on, nothing to hold on to. He panicked, sinking deeper. The crem covered him, filling his mouth as he screamed—begging—reaching a trembling hand toward the light. Until he slipped under the surface and was again in the suffocating darkness. As he sank away, Kal realized that the light had never been there for him to reach. It had been a lie, meant to give him a moment of hope in this awful, horrible place. So that hope could be taken. So that he could finally. Be. Broken. A glowing arm plunged into the crem, burning it away like vapor. A hand seized Kaladin by the front of his vest, then heaved him up out of the pool. A glowing white figure pulled him close, sheltering him from the wind as it hauled him the last few feet toward the light. Kaladin clung to the figure, feeling cloth, warmth, living breath. Another person among the shadows and lies. Was this … was this Honor? The Almighty himself? The figure pulled him into the light, and the rest of the crem vanished, leaving a hint of a taste in Kaladin’s mouth. The figure deposited Kaladin on a small rock situated like a seat. As it stepped back, the figure drew in color, the light fading away, revealing … Wit. Kaladin blinked, glancing around. He was at the bottom of a chasm, yes, but inside a bubble of light. Outside, the wind still raged—but it couldn’t affect this place, this moment of peace. He put a hand to his head, realizing
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he didn’t hurt any longer. In fact, he could see now that he was in a nightmare. He was asleep. He must have fallen unconscious after fleeing into the tempest. Storms … What kind of fever did he have to prompt such terrible dreams? And why could he see it all so clearly now? Wit looked up at the tumultuous sky far above, beyond the chasm rims. “This isn’t playing fair. Not fair at all…” “Wit?” Kaladin asked. “How are you here?” “I’m not,” Wit said. “And neither are you. This is another planet, or it looks like one—and not a pleasant one, mind you. The kind without lights. No Stormlight ones, gaseous ones, or even electric ones. Damn place barely has an atmosphere.” He glanced at Kaladin, then smiled. “You’re asleep. The enemy is sending you a vision, similar to those the Stormfather sent Dalinar. I’m not certain how Odium isolated you though. It’s hard for Shards to invade minds like this except in a specific set of circumstances.” He shook his head, hands on his hips, as if he were regarding a sloppy painting. Then he settled down on a stool beside a fire that Kaladin only now saw. A warm, inviting fire that completely banished the chill, radiating straight through Kaladin’s bones to his soul. A pot of simmering stew sat on top, and Wit stirred it, sending spiced fragrances into the air. “Rock’s stew,” Kaladin said. “Old Horneater recipe.” “Take everything you have, and put him in pot,” Kaladin said, smiling as Wit handed him a bowl of steaming stew. “But it’s not real. You just told me.” “Nothing is real,” Wit said. “At least by one measure of philosophy. So enjoy what you seem to be able to eat and don’t complain.” Kaladin did so, taking the most wonderful bite of stew he’d ever tasted. It was hard to avoid glancing out past the glowing barrier of light at the storm outside. “How long can I stay with you?” Kaladin asked. “Not long, I fear,” Wit said, serving himself a bowl of stew. “Twenty minutes or so.” “I have to go back out into that?” Wit nodded. “I’m afraid it’s going to get worse, Kaladin. I’m sorry.” “Worse than this?” “Unfortunately.” “I’m not strong enough, Wit,” Kaladin whispered. “It has all been a lie. I’ve never been strong enough.” Wit took a bite of his stew, then nodded. “You … agree?” Kaladin asked. “You know better than I what your limits are,” Wit said. “It’s not such a terrible thing, to be too weak. Makes us need one another. I should never complain if someone recognizes their failings, though it might put me out of a job if too many share your wisdom, young bridgeman.” “And if all of this is too much for me?” Kaladin asked. “If I can’t keep fighting? If I just … stop? Give up?” “Are you close to that?” “Yes,” Kaladin whispered. “Then best eat your stew,” Wit said, pointing with his spoon. “A man shouldn’t lie down and die on an
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empty stomach.” Kaladin waited for more, some insight or encouragement. Wit merely ate, and so Kaladin tried to do the same. Though the stew was perfect, he couldn’t enjoy it. Not while knowing that the storm awaited him. That he wasn’t free of it, that it was going to get worse. “Wit?” Kaladin finally said. “Do you … maybe have a story you could tell me?” Wit froze, spoon in his mouth. He stared at Kaladin, lowering his hand, leaving the spoon between his lips—before eventually opening his mouth to stare slack-jawed, the spoon falling into his waiting hand. “What?” Kaladin asked. “Why are you so surprised?” “Well,” Wit said, recovering. “It’s simply that … I’ve been waiting for someone to actually ask. They never seem to.” He grinned, then leaned forward and lowered his voice. “There is an inn,” he whispered, “that you cannot find on your own. You must stumble across it on a misty street, late at night, lost and uncertain in a strange city. “The door has a wheel on it, but the sign bears no name. If you find the place and wander inside, you’ll meet a young man behind the bar. He has no name. He cannot tell it to you, should he want to—it’s been taken from him. But he’ll know you, as he knows everyone who enters the inn. He’ll listen to everything you want to tell him—and you will want to talk to him. And if you ask him for a story, he’ll share one. Like he shared with me. I will now share it with you.” “All right…” Kaladin said. “Hush. This isn’t the part where you talk,” Wit said. He settled in, then turned his hand to the side with a curt gesture, palm up. A Cryptic appeared beside him, forming as if from mist. This one wore a stiff robe like they did in Shadesmar, the head a lacy and intricate pattern somehow more … fine and graceful than that of Shallan’s Pattern. The Cryptic waved eagerly. Kaladin had heard that Wit was a Lightweaver now, but he hadn’t been surprised. He felt he’d seen Wit Lightweave long ago. Regardless, he didn’t act like he was in one of the Radiant orders. He was just … well, Wit. “This story,” Wit said, “is a meaningless one. You must not search for a moral. It isn’t that kind of story, you see. It’s the other kind of story.” The Cryptic held up a flute, and Kaladin recognized it. “Your flute!” he said. “You found it?” “This is a dream, idiot,” Wit said. “It’s not real.” “Oh,” Kaladin said. “Right.” “I’m real!” the Cryptic said with a musical, feminine voice. “Not imaginary at all! Unfortunately, I am irrational! Ha ha!” She began to play the flute, moving her fingers along it—and while soft music came out, Kaladin wasn’t certain what she was doing to produce the sounds. She didn’t have lips. “This story,” Wit said, “is called ‘The Dog and the Dragon.’” “The … what and the what?” Kaladin said. “Or is
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this not the part where I speak yet?” “You people,” Wit said. “A dog is a hound, like an axehound.” He held up his palm, and a creature appeared in it, four-legged and furry, like a mink—only larger, and with a different face shape. “It is funny, you can’t realize,” Wit said. “Humans will selectively breed for the same traits regardless of the planet they’re on. But you can’t be amazed at the convergent examples of domestication across the cosmere. You can’t know any of this, because you live on a giant ball of rock full of slime where everything is wet and cold all the time. This is a dog, Kaladin. They’re fluffy and loyal and wonderful. This, on the other hand, is a dragon.” A large beast appeared in his other hand, like a chasmfiend—except with enormous outstretched wings and only four legs. It was a brilliant pearlescent color, with silver running along the contours of its body. It also had smaller chitinous bits than a chasmfiend—in fact, its body was covered with little pieces of carapace that looked smooth to the touch. It stood proud, with a prominent chest and a regal bearing. “I know of just one on Roshar,” Wit noted, “and she prefers to hide her true form. This story isn’t about her, however, or any of the dragons I’ve met. In fact, the dragon is barely in the story, and I’d kindly ask you not to complain about that part, because there’s really nothing I can do about it and you’ll only annoy Design.” The Cryptic waved again. “I get annoyed easily!” she said. “It’s endearing.” “No it’s not,” Wit said. “It’s endearing!” Design said. “To everyone but him! I drew up a proof of it!” The music continued playing as she spoke, and the way she moved her fingers on the flute seemed completely random. “One day, the dog saw the dragon flying overhead,” Wit continued, sending the illusory dragon soaring above his hand. Kaladin was glad for the story. Anything to keep his attention off the hateful wind, which he could faintly hear outside, howling as if eager to rush into the bubble of light and assault him. “The dog marveled,” Wit said, “as one might expect. He had never seen anything so majestic or grand. The dragon soared in the sky, shimmering with iridescent colors in the sunlight. When it curved around and passed above the dog, it called out a mighty challenge, demanding in the human tongue that all acknowledge its beauty. “The dog watched this from atop a hill. Now, he wasn’t particularly large, even for a dog. He was white, with brown spots and floppy ears. Not of any specific breed or lineage, and small enough that the other dogs often mocked him. He was a common variety of a common species of a common animal that most people would rightfully ignore. “But when this dog stared at the dragon and heard the mighty boast, he came to a realization. Today, he had encountered something he’d always wished for but
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never known. Today he’d seen perfection, and had been presented with a goal. From today, nothing else mattered. “He was going to become a dragon.” “Hint,” Design whispered to Kaladin, “that’s impossible. A dog can’t become a dragon.” “Design!” Wit said, turning on her. “What did I tell you about spoiling the ending of stories!” “Something stupid, so I forgot it!” she said, her pattern bursting outward like a blooming flower. “Don’t spoil stories!” Wit said. “That’s stupid. The story is really long. He needs to hear the ending so he’ll know it’s worth listening all the way.” “That’s not how this works,” Wit said. “It needs drama. Suspense. Surprise.” “Surprises are dumb,” she said. “He should be informed if a product is good or not before being asked to commit. Would you like a similar surprise at the market? Oh, you can’t buy a specific food. You have to carry a sack home, cut it open, then find out what you bought. Drama. Suspense!” Wit gave Kaladin a beleaguered look. “I have bonded,” he said, “a literal monster.” He made a flourish, and a Lightweaving appeared between them again, showing the dog on a hilltop covered in grass that looked dead, since it didn’t move. The dog was staring upward at the dragon, which was growing smaller and smaller as it flew away. “The dog,” Wit continued, “sat upon that hilltop through an entire night and day, staring. Thinking. Dreaming. Finally, he returned to the farm where he lived among others of his kind. These farm dogs all had jobs, chasing livestock or guarding the perimeter, but he—as the smallest—was seldom given any duty. Perhaps to another this would be liberating. To him it had always been humiliating. “As any problem to overcome is merely a set of smaller problems to overcome in a sequence, he divided his goal of becoming a dragon into three steps. First, he would find a way to have colorful scales like the dragon. Second, he would learn to speak the language of men like the dragon. Third, he would learn to fly like the dragon.” Wit made the scene unfold in front of Kaladin. A colorful land, with thick green grass that wasn’t dead after all—it simply didn’t move except in the wind. Creatures unlike any Kaladin had ever seen, furry and strange. Exotic. The little dog walked into a wooden structure—a barn, though it hadn’t been built with stone on the east side to withstand storms. It barely looked waterproof. How would they keep the grain from spoiling? Kaladin cocked his head at this oddity as the dog encountered a tall man in work clothing sorting through bags of seeds. “The dog chose the scales first,” Wit continued, accompanied by the quiet flute music, “as it seemed the easiest, and he wanted to begin his transformation with an early victory. He knew the farmer owned many seeds in a variety of colors, and they were the shape of little scales. Because he was not a thief, the dog did not take these—but he asked
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the other animals where the farmer obtained new ones. “It turns out, the farmer could make seeds by putting them in the ground, waiting for plants to grow, then taking more seeds from the stalks. Knowing this, the dog borrowed some seeds and did the same, accompanying the farmer’s eldest son on his daily work. As the youth worked, the dog moved alongside him, digging holes for seeds with his paws and planting them carefully with his mouth.” It was an amusing scene, watching the dog work. Not only because the animal did all this with feet and snout—but because the ground parted when the dog pawed at it. It wasn’t made of stone, but something else. “This is in Shinovar, isn’t it?” Kaladin asked. “Sigzil told me about ground like that.” “Hush,” Wit said. “This isn’t the part where you talk. The farmer’s eldest son found the dog’s actions quite amusing—then incredible as the dog went out each day, gripping a watering can in his teeth. The little dog watered each seed, just as the farmer did. He learned to weed and fertilize. And eventually the dog was rewarded with his own small crop of colorful seeds. “After replacing what he’d borrowed from the farmer, the dog got himself wet and rolled in his seeds, sticking them all over his body. He then presented himself to the other dogs. “‘Do you admire my wonderful new scales?’ he asked his fellow animals. ‘Do I not look like a dragon?’ “They, in turn, laughed at him. ‘Those are not scales!’ they said. ‘You look stupid and silly. Go back to being a dog.’” Kaladin put a spoonful of stew into his mouth, staring at the illusion. The way the colors worked was mesmerizing, though he had to admit the dog did look silly covered in seeds. “The dog slunk away, feeling foolish and hurt. He had failed at his first task, to have scales like a dragon. The dog, however, was not daunted. Surely if he could speak with the grand voice of a dragon, they would all see. And so, the dog spent his free time watching the children of the farmer. There were three. The eldest son, who helped in the fields. The middle daughter, who helped with the animals, and the toddler—who was too young to help, but was learning to speak.” Wit made the family appear, working in the yard—the farmer’s wife, who was taller than the farmer. A youth, lanky and assiduous. A daughter who would someday share her mother’s height. A baby who toddled around the yard, tended by them all as they did their chores. “This,” Wit noted, “is almost too easy.” “Too easy?” Kaladin asked, absently taking another bite of stew. “For years, I’ve had to make do with hints of illusions. Suggesting scenes. Leaving most to the imagination. Now, having the power to do more, I find it less satisfying. “Anyway, the dog figured that the best way to learn the language of men was to study their youngest child. So the dog played
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with the baby, stayed with him, and listened as he began to form words. The dog played with the daughter too, helped her with yard work. He soon found he could understand her, if he tried hard. But he couldn’t form words. “He tried so hard to speak as they did, but his mouth could not make that kind of speech. His tongue did not work like a human tongue. Eventually, while watching the tall and serious daughter, he noticed she could make the words of humans on paper. “The dog was overjoyed by this. It was a way to speak without having a human tongue! The dog joined her at the table where she studied, inspecting the letters as she made them. He failed many times, but eventually learned to scratch the letters in the dirt himself. “The farmer and his family thought this an amazing trick. The dog was sure he had found a way to prove he was becoming a dragon. He returned to the other dogs in the field and showed them his writing ability by writing their names in the dirt. “They, however, could not read the words. When the dog explained what writing was, they laughed. ‘This is not the loud and majestic voice of a dragon!’ the dogs said. ‘This is speaking so quietly, nobody can hear it! You look silly and stupid. Go back to being a dog.’ “They left the dog to stare at his writing as rain began to fall, washing the words away. He realized they were correct. He had failed to speak with the proud and powerful voice of the dragon.” The image of the dog in the rain felt far too familiar to Kaladin. Far too personal. “But there was still hope,” Wit said. “If the dog could just fly. If he could achieve this feat, the dogs would have to acknowledge his transformation. “This task seemed even harder than the previous two. However, the dog had seen a curious device in the barn. The farmer would tie bales of hay with a rope, then raise or lower them using a pulley in the rafters. “This was essentially flying, was it not? The bales of hay soared in the air. And so, the dog practiced pulling on the rope himself, and learned the mechanics of the device. He found that the pulley could be balanced with a weight on the other side, which made the bales of hay lower slowly and safely. “The dog took his leash and tied it around him to make a harness, like the ones that wrapped up the hay. Then he tied a sack slightly lighter than he was to the rope, creating a weight to balance him. After using his mouth to tie the rope to his harness, he climbed to the top of the barn’s loft, and called for the other dogs to come in. When they arrived, he leaped gracefully off the loft. “It worked! The dog lowered down slowly, striking a magnificent pose in the air. He was flying! He
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soared like the dragon had! He felt the air around him, and knew the sensation of being up high, with everything below him. When he landed, he felt so proud and so free. “Then the other dogs laughed the loudest they had ever laughed. ‘That is not flying like a dragon!’ they said. ‘You fell slowly. You looked so stupid and silly. Go back to being a dog.’ “This, at long last, crushed the dog’s hopes. He realized the truth. A dog like him simply could not become a dragon. He was too small, too quiet, too silly.” Frankly, the sight of the dog being lowered on the rope had looked a bit silly. “They were right,” Kaladin said. “That wasn’t flying.” Wit nodded. “Oh, is this the place where I talk?” Kaladin said. “If you wish.” “I don’t wish. Get on with the story.” Wit grinned, then leaned forward, waving in the air and making the sounds of shouting come from a distant part of the illusion, not yet visible. “What was that? The dog looked up, confused. He heard noises. Sudden shouting? Yells of panic? “The dog raced out of the barn to find the farmer and his family huddled around the small farmyard well, which was barely wide enough for the bucket. The dog put his paws up on the edge of the well and looked down. Far below, in the deep darkness of the hole, he heard crying and splashing.” Kaladin leaned forward, staring into the darkness. A pitiful, gurgling cry was barely audible over the splashing. “The littlest child of the farmer and his wife had fallen into the well,” Wit whispered, “and was drowning. The family screamed and wept. There was nothing to be done. Or … was there? “In a flash, the dog knew what to do. He bit the bucket off the well’s rope, then had the eldest son tie the rope to his harness. He wrote ‘lower me’ in the dirt, then hopped up onto the rim of the well. Finally, he threw himself into the well as the farmer grabbed the crank. “Lowered down on this rope, the dog ‘flew’ into the darkness. He found the baby all the way underwater, but shoved his snout in and took hold of the baby’s clothing with his teeth. A short time later, when the family pulled him back up, the dog appeared holding the littlest child: wet, crying, but very much alive. “That night, the family set a place for the little dog at their table and gave him a sweater to keep him warm, his name written across the front with letters he could read. They served a feast with food the dog had helped grow. They gave him some of the cake celebrating the birthday of the child whose life he had saved. “That night, it rained on the other dogs, who slept outside in the cold barn, which leaked. But the little dog snuggled into a warm bed beside the fire, hugged by the farmer’s children, his belly full. And as
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he did, the dog sadly thought to himself, ‘I could not become a dragon. I am an utter and complete failure.’ “The end.” Wit clapped his hands, and the images vanished. He gave a seated bow. Design lowered her flute and flared out her pattern again, as if to give her own bow. Then Wit picked up his bowl of stew and continued eating. “Wait,” Kaladin said, standing. “That’s it?” “Did you miss ‘the end’ at the end?” Design said. “It indicates that is the end.” “What kind of ending is that?” Kaladin said. “The dog decides he’s a failure?” “Endings are an art,” Wit said loftily. “A precise and unquestionable art, bridgeman. Yes, that is the ending.” “Why did you tell me this?” Kaladin demanded. “You asked for a story.” “I wanted a useful story!” he said, waving his hand. “Like the story of the emperor on the island, or of Fleet who kept running.” “You didn’t specify that,” Wit said. “You said you wanted a story. I provided one. That is all.” “That’s the wrong ending,” Kaladin said. “That dog was incredible. He learned to write. How many animals can write, on any world?” “Not many, I should say,” Wit noted. “He learned to farm and to use tools,” Kaladin said. “He saved a child’s life. That dog is a storming hero.” “The story wasn’t about him trying to be a hero,” Wit said. “It was about him trying to be a dragon. In which, pointedly, he failed.” “I told you!” Design said happily. “Dogs can’t be dragons!” “Who cares?” Kaladin said, stalking back and forth. “By looking up at the dragon, and by trying to become better, he outgrew the other dogs. He achieved something truly special.” Kaladin stopped, then narrowed his eyes at Wit, feeling his anger turn to annoyance. “This story is about me, isn’t it? I said I’m not good enough. You think I have impossible goals, and I’m intentionally ignoring the things I’ve accomplished.” Wit pointed with his spoon. “I told you this story has no meaning. You promised not to assign it one.” “As a matter of fact,” Design said, “you didn’t give him a chance to promise! You simply kept talking.” Wit glared at her. “Blah blah blah blah blah!” she said, rocking her pattern head back and forth at each word. “Your stories always have a point,” Kaladin said. “I am an artist,” Wit said. “I should thank you not to demean me by insisting my art must be trying to accomplish something. In fact, you shouldn’t enjoy art. You should simply admit that it exists, then move on. Anything else is patronizing.” Kaladin folded his arms, then sat. Wit, playing games again. Couldn’t he ever be clear? Couldn’t he ever say what he meant? “Any meaning,” Wit said softly, “is for you to assign, Kaladin. I merely tell the stories. Have you finished your stew?” Kaladin realized he had—he’d eaten the entire bowl while listening. “I can’t keep this bubble up much longer, I’m afraid,” Wit said. “He’ll notice if I
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do—and then he’ll destroy me. I have violated our agreement, which exposes me to his direct action. I’d rather not be killed, as I have seven more people I wanted to insult today.” Kaladin nodded, standing up again. He realized that somehow, the story fired him up. He felt stronger, less for the words and more for how annoyed he’d grown at Wit. A little light, a little warmth, a little fire and he felt ready to walk out into the winds again. Yet he knew the darkness would return. It always did. “Can you tell me the real ending?” Kaladin asked, his voice small. “Before I go back out?” Wit stood and stepped over, then put his hand on Kaladin’s back and leaned in. “That night,” he said, “the little dog snuggled into a warm bed beside the fire, hugged by the farmer’s children, his belly full. And as he did, the dog thought to himself, ‘I doubt any dragon ever had it so good anyway.’” He smiled and met Kaladin’s eyes. “It won’t be like that for me,” Kaladin said. “You told me it would get worse.” “It will,” Wit said, “but then it will get better. Then it will get worse again. Then better. This is life, and I will not lie by saying every day will be sunshine. But there will be sunshine again, and that is a very different thing to say. That is truth. I promise you, Kaladin: You will be warm again.” Kaladin nodded in thanks, then turned to the hateful winds. He felt a push against his back as Wit sent him forward—then the light vanished, along with all it contained. Eshonai tipped her head back, feeling water stream off her carapace skullplate. Returning to warform after so long in workform felt like revisiting a familiar clearing hidden in the trees, rarely encountered but always waiting for her. She did like this form. She would not see it as a prison. She met Thude and Rlain as they emerged from hollows in the stone where they too had returned to this form. Many of her friends had never left it. Warform was convenient for many reasons, though Eshonai didn’t like it quite as well as workform. There was something about the aggression this form provoked in her. She worried she would seek excuses to fight. Thude stretched, humming to Joy. “Feels good,” he said. “I feel alive in this form.” “Too alive,” Rlain said. “Do the rhythms sound louder to you?” “Not to me,” Thude said. Eshonai shook her head. She didn’t hear the rhythms any differently. Indeed, she’d been wondering if—upon adopting this form again—she’d hear the pure tone of Roshar as she did the first time. She hadn’t. “Shall we?” she asked, gesturing toward the spreading plateaus. Rlain started toward one of the bridges, but Thude sang loudly to Amusement and charged the nearby chasm, leaping and soaring over it with an incredible bound. Eshonai dashed after him to do the same. Each form brought with it a certain level of instinctual
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understanding. When she reached the edge, her body knew what to do. She sprang in a powerful leap, the air whistling through the grooves in her carapace and flapping the loose robe she’d worn into the storm. She landed with a solid crunch, her feet grinding stone as she slid to a stop. The Rhythm of Confidence thrummed in her ears, and she found herself grinning. She had missed that. Rlain landed next to her, a hulking figure with black and red skin patterns forming an intricate marbling. He hummed to Confidence as well. “Come on!” Thude shouted from nearby. He leaped another chasm. Attuning Joy, Eshonai ran after him. Together the three of them chased and dashed, climbed and soared—spanning chasms, climbing up and over rock formations, sprinting across plateaus. The Shattered Plains felt like a playground. This must be what islands and oceans are like, she thought as she surveyed the Plains from up high. She’d heard about them in songs, and she’d always imagined an ocean as a huge network of streams moving between sections of land. But no, she’d seen Gavilar’s map. In that painting, the bodies of water had seemed as wide as countries. Water … with nothing to see but more water. She attuned Anxiety. And Awe. Complementary emotions, in her experience. She dropped from the rock formation and landed on the plateau, then bounded after Thude. How far would she have to travel to find those oceans? Judging by the map, only a few weeks to the east. Once such a distance would have been daunting, but now she’d made the trek all the way to Kholinar and back. The trip to the Alethi capital had been one of the sweetest and most exhilarating experiences of her life. So many new places. So many wonderful people. So many strange plants, strange sights, strange foods to taste. When they’d fled, the same wonders had become threats overnight. The entire trip home had been a blur of marching, sleeping, and foraging in human fields. Eshonai reached another chasm and leaped, trying to recapture her excitement. She increased her pace, coming up even with Thude and eventually passing him—before the two of them pulled to a halt to wait for Rlain, who had slowed a few plateaus back. He had always been a careful one, and he seemed better able to control the inclinations of the new form. Her heart racing, Eshonai reached out of habit to wipe her brow—but this form didn’t have sweat on her forehead to drip into her eyes. Instead, the carapace armor trapped air from her forward motion, then pushed it up underneath to cool her skin. The awesome energy of the form meant she could probably have kept running for hours before feeling any real strain. Perhaps longer. Indeed, the warforms during their flight from Alethkar had carried food for the others and still moved faster than the workforms. At the same time, Eshonai was getting hungry. She remembered well how much food this form required at each meal. Thude leaned against
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a high rock formation as they waited, watching some windspren play in the air. Eshonai wished she’d brought her book for drawing maps of the Plains. She’d found it in the human market of Kholinar—such a small, simple thing. It had been expensive by Alethi standards, but oh so cheap by her standards. An entire book of papers? All for a few little bits of emerald? She’d seen steel weapons there too. Sitting in the market. For sale. The listeners protected, polished, and revered each weapon they’d found on the Plains—keeping them for generations, passed down from parent to child. The humans had entire stalls of them. “This is going to go poorly for us, isn’t it?” Thude asked. Eshonai realized she’d been humming to the Lost. She stopped, but met his eyes and knew that he knew. Together they walked around the stone formation and looked westward, toward the cities that had for centuries been listener homes. Dark smoke filled the air—the Alethi burning wood as they set up enormous cookfires and settled into their camps. They’d arrived in force. Tens of thousands of them. Swarms of soldiers, with dozens of Shardbearers. Come to exterminate her people. “Maybe not,” Eshonai said. “In warform, we’re stronger than they are. They have equipment and skill, but we have strength and endurance. If we have to fight them, this terrain will heavily favor us.” “Did you really have to do it though?” Thude asked to Pleading. “Did you need to have him killed?” She’d answered this before, but she didn’t avoid the responsibility. She had voted for Gavilar to die. And she’d been the reason for the vote in the first place. “He was going to bring them back, Thude,” Eshonai said to Reprimand. “Our ancient gods. I heard him say it. He thought I’d be happy to hear of it.” “So you killed him?” Thude asked, to Agony. “Now they’ll kill us, Eshonai. How is this any better?” She attuned Tension. Thude, in turn, attuned Reconciliation. He seemed to recognize that bringing this up again and again was accomplishing nothing. “It is done,” Eshonai said. “So now, we need to hold out. We might not even have to fight them. We can harvest gemstones from the greatshells and speed crop growth. The humans can’t leap these chasms, and so they’ll have trouble ever getting to us. We’ll be safe.” “We’ll be trapped,” Thude said. “In the center of these Plains. For months, perhaps years. You’re fine with that, Eshonai?” Rlain finally caught up to them, jogging over and humming to Amusement—perhaps he thought the two of them silly for speeding ahead. Eshonai looked away from Thude and stared out across the Plains—not toward the humans, but toward the ocean, the Origin. Places she could have gone. Places she’d planned to go. Thude knew her too well. He understood how much it hurt to be trapped here. They will strike inward, she thought. The humans won’t come all this way to turn around because of a few chasms. They have resources we can only
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imagine, and there are so many of them. They’ll find a way to get to us. Escaping out the other side of the Plains wasn’t an option either. If the chasmfiends there didn’t get them, the humans eventually would. To flee would be to abandon the natural fortification of the Plains. “I’ll do what I have to, Thude,” Eshonai said to Determination. “I’ll do what is right whatever the cost. To us. To me.” “They have fought wars,” Thude said. “They have generals. Great military thinkers. We’ve had warform for only a year.” “We’ll learn,” Eshonai said, “and create our own generals. Our ancestors paid with their very minds to bring us freedom. If the humans find a way to come for us in here, we will fight. Until we persuade the humans that the cost is too high. Until they realize we won’t go meekly to slavery, like the poor beings they use as servants. Until they learn they cannot have us, our Blades, or our souls. We are a free people. Forever.” * * * Venli gathered her friends around, humming softly to Craving as she revealed the gemstones in her hands. Voidspren. Five of them, trapped as Ulim had been when first brought to her. Inside her gemheart, he hummed words of encouragement. Ever since the events at the human city, he’d treated her with far more respect. And he’d never again abandoned her. The longer he remained, the better she could hear the new rhythms. The rhythms of power. She had claimed this section of Narak—the city at the center of the Plains—for her scholars. Friends who she and Ulim had determined, after careful discussion, shared her hunger for a better world. Trustworthy enough, she hoped. Once they had Voidspren in their gemhearts, she’d be far more confident in their discretion. “What are they?” Demid asked, his hand resting on Venli’s shoulder. He’d been the first and most eager to listen. He didn’t know everything, naturally, but she was glad to have him. She felt stronger when he was around. Braver than Eshonai. After all, could Eshonai have ever taken this step? “These hold spren,” Venli explained. “When you accept one into your gemheart, they’ll hold your current spren with them, keeping you in your current form—but you’ll have a secret companion to help you. Guide you. Together, we’re going to solve the greatest challenge our people have ever known.” “Which is?” Tusa asked to Skepticism. “Our world is connected to another,” Venli explained, handing one gemstone to each of her friends. “A place called Shadesmar. Hundreds of spren exist there who can grant us the ability to harness the power of the storms. They’ve traveled a long way, as part of a great storm. They’ve gone as far as they can on their own, however. Getting gemstones like these to our side takes enormous effort, and is impossible on a large scale. “So we need another way to bring those spren across. We’re going to figure it out, then we’re going to persuade the rest of the
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listeners to join with us in adopting forms of power. We’ll be smart; we won’t be ruled by the spren this time around. We’ll rule them. “Eshonai and the others have foolishly thrown everyone into an unwanted war. So we have to take this step. We will be remembered as the ones who saved our people.” Oh … Father … Seven thousand years. “How could you not tell me this?” Radiant demanded as she knelt and shouted at the cube on the floor. “Restares is not only the honorspren’s High Judge, he’s one of the storming Heralds!” “You didn’t require the information at that time,” Mraize’s voice said. “Be Veil. She will understand.” “Veil is even more angry at you, Mraize,” Radiant said, standing up. “You sent us into a dangerous situation without proper preparation! Withholding this information wasted weeks while the three of us searched the fortress like an idiot.” “We didn’t want you asking after a Herald,” Mraize said, his voice frustratingly calm. “That might have alerted him. So far as we’re aware, he hasn’t figured out that we know his true identity. Gavilar may have known, but no others in the Sons of Honor had an inkling that they served one of the very beings they were seeking—in their naive ignorance—to restore to Roshar. The irony is quite poetic.” “Mmm…” Pattern said from beside the door, where he was watching for Adolin. “What?” Radiant asked him. “You like irony now too?” “Irony tastes good. Like sausage.” “And have you ever tasted sausage?” “I don’t believe I have a sense of taste,” Pattern said. “So irony tastes like what I imagine sausage would taste like when I’m imagining tastes.” Radiant rubbed her forehead, looking back at the cube. So unfair. She was accustomed to being able to stare down her troops, but one could not properly glare at a man who talked to you out of a box. “You told us we’d know what to do when we found Restares,” Radiant told Mraize. “Well, we are here now and we have no idea how to proceed.” “What did you do the moment you found out?” Mraize said. “Cursed your name.” “Then?” “Contacted you directly to curse at you some more.” “Which was the correct choice. See, you knew exactly what to do.” Radiant folded her arms, warm with anger. Frustration. And … admittedly … embarrassment. She bled into being Veil, and the anger returned. “The time has come,” she said, “for us to deal, Mraize.” “Deal? The deal has already been set. You do as I have requested, and you will receive the offered reward—in addition to the practice and training you are receiving under my hand.” “That is interesting,” Veil said. “Because I see this differently. I have come all this way, through great hardship. Because of Adolin’s sacrifice, I’ve gained access to one of the most remote fortresses on Roshar. I have succeeded where you explicitly told me your other agents have failed. “Now that I’m here, instead of receiving ‘training’ or ‘practice’ as you say, I find
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that you’ve been withholding vital information from me. From my perspective, there is no incentive to continue this arrangement, as the promised reward is of little interest to me. Even Shallan is questioning its value. “Your refusal to give me important information makes me question what else you held back. Now I’m questioning if what I’m to do here is possibly against my interests, and the interests of those I love. So let me ask plainly. Why am I really here? Why are you so interested in Kelek? And why—explicitly—should I continue on this path?” Mraize did not respond immediately. “Hello, Veil,” he finally said. “I’m glad you came out to speak with me.” “Answer my questions, Mraize.” “First, it is time to open the cube,” Mraize said. Veil frowned. “The communication cube? I thought you said that would ruin the thing.” “If you break into it, you will ruin it. Pick it up. Heft it. Listen for the side where my voice is weakest as I hum.” She knelt beside the cube again and picked it up, listening to Mraize’s humming voice. Yes … the sound was weaker from one direction. “I’ve found it,” she said. “Good,” Mraize said. “Put your hand on that plane of the cube and twist it to the right.” She felt it click as she touched it. She suspected Mraize had done something to unlock the device from wherever he was. When she twisted that plane of the cube, it turned easily and came off, revealing a small compartment that contained an intricate metal dagger with a gemstone on the end of the grip. “So you do want me to kill him,” she said. “One cannot kill a Herald,” Mraize said. “They are immortal. Do not think of Kelek as a person. He is an ageless, eternal spren formed of Honor’s substance and will. He is as gravity or light. Force, not man.” “And you want me to stab that force with this knife,” Veil said, undoing the straps and prying it out from the cube. The cavity was only a small part of the hollow portion in the cube, and a layer of steel sectioned off the rest. Mraize’s voice came from the sealed portion. How had he weighted the cube such that she didn’t feel one end was heavier than the other? “I want you,” he said, “to collect the soul of Kelek, also known as Restares. The knife will trap his essence in that gemstone.” “That seems overly cruel,” Veil said, looking over the knife. “Cruel like the spanreeds you so eagerly use, despite the spren trapped inside? It is no different. The being called Kelek is a receptacle of incredible knowledge. Gemstone imprisonment will not hurt him, and we will be able to communicate with him.” “We have two other Heralds in the tower,” Veil said. “I could ask them anything you want to know.” “You think they’d answer? How useful have they been, talking to Jasnah? Talenelat is completely insane, and Shalash is deceptively reticent. They talk of their Oathpact, yes,
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and fighting the Fused—but rarely reveal anything practical.” “This isn’t very persuasive,” Veil said. “Yes, I know what you want me to do—but I suspected it from the beginning. If you want me to do this, I need to know why. What specifically do you expect to learn from him?” “Our master, Thaidakar, has an … affliction similar to that of the Heralds. He needs access to a Herald to learn more about his state so he might save himself from the worst of its effects.” “That’s not good enough,” Veil said. “Radiant and Shallan won’t let me do your dirty work for such a petty reason.” She put the dagger back in the cube. “I came here to report on Restares’s location. Shallan specifically told you we wouldn’t kill him—and yes, I count stabbing him with this device as the same thing.” “Little knife,” Mraize said, his voice growing softer, “why did Sadeas need to die?” She hesitated, her hand still on the dagger, which she was trying to reattach to the straps in the cube. “This being,” Mraize continued, “that they call Kelek is a monster. He, along with the other eight, abandoned their Oathpact and stranded Talenelat—the Bearer of Agonies—alone in Damnation, to withstand torture for thousands of years. The enemy has returned, but have the Heralds come to help? No. At best they hide. At worst, their madness leads them to hasten the world’s destruction. “Kelek has become indecisive to the point of madness. And like most of them, he is afraid. He wants to escape his duties. He worked with Gavilar knowing full well that doing so would cause the return of the Fused and the end of our peace, because he hoped to find a way to escape this world. A way to abandon us as he had already abandoned his oaths and his friends. “He possesses knowledge essential to our fight against the invaders. However, he will not share it willingly. He hides himself away in the world’s most remote fortress and tries to pretend there is no war, that he is not culpable. He is. The only way to make him do his duty is to bring him back by force—and the best and easiest way to do that is to trap his soul.” Storms. That was a longer speech than she usually got out of Mraize. There was passion, conviction to his voice. Veil almost felt persuaded. “I can’t move against him,” she said. “He is set to judge Adolin in this trial. If Kelek vanished, that would throw all kinds of suspicion on us—and Adolin would most certainly be imprisoned. I can’t risk it.” “Hmm…” Mraize said. “If only there were a way that someone—having locked away Kelek’s soul—could take his place. Wear his face. Pass judgment, vindicating your husband and commanding the honorspren to join the war again. If only we had sent a person capable of single-handedly turning the tide of this war through the use of a targeted illusion.” In that moment, Veil lost control to Shallan. Because what
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Mraize said here … it made too much sense. Oh storms, Shallan thought, growing cold. Stormfather above and Nightwatcher below … He’s right. That is a solution to this problem. A way to let Adolin win. A way to bring the honorspren back. So this was how he manipulated her this time. She wanted to buck him for that reason alone. If only what he said weren’t so logical. It would be easy to replace Kelek, assuming she could get some Stormlight.… No, Veil warned. It’s not that easy. We’d have a difficult time impersonating a Herald. We’d do the replacement at the last moment, Shallan thought. On the final day of the trial—to reduce the amount of time we need to pretend, and to give us a few days to scout out his personality. “Killing Sadeas saved thousands of lives,” Mraize continued in his soft, oily voice. “Delivering Kelek to us, sending the honorspren to bond Windrunners, could save millions.” “Veil isn’t certain we could imitate a Herald,” Shallan said. “The Herald is erratic,” Mraize said. “All of them are now. With a few pointers, you could escape notice. Honorspren are not good at noticing subterfuge—or at distinguishing what is odd behavior for humans, or those who were once human. You can accomplish this. And after the trial, ‘Kelek’ could insist he has to visit Urithiru himself, leaving the spren completely ignorant of what you’ve done.” “It would be wrong, Mraize. It feels wrong.” “Earlier, Veil demanded a deal. Though I normally reject this sort of talk, I find it encouraging that she did not demand money, or power. She wanted information, to know why she was doing what she did. You three are worthy hunters. “So I will revise the deal as requested. Perform as I ask here, and I will release you from your apprenticeship. You will become a full member of our organization—you will not only have access to the knowledge you seek, but also have a say in what we are doing. Our grand plans.” Inside, Veil perked up at this. But Shallan was surprised by how much she responded to that offer. A full Ghostblood? That was the way … The way to … “Strike at a Herald,” she said. “It sounds wrong, Mraize. Very wrong.” “You are weak,” he said. “You know it.” She bowed her head. “But part of you is not,” he continued. “A part that can be that strong. Let that side of you do what needs to be done. Save your husband, your kingdom, and your world all at once. Become that hunter, Shallan. “Become the knife.” * * * The honorspren surrounding the High Judge made room for Adolin as he approached, Blended following behind. He didn’t miss the glares that many of them gave her. No, there was no love lost between the two varieties of spren. He should probably feel reverence for the High Judge. This was Kelek, though the spren called him Kalak for some reason. Either way, he was one of the Heralds—so Blended had explained.
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Many people back home thought of him as the Stormfather, and though that had never been true, he was one of the most ancient beings in all of creation. A god to many. An immortal soldier for justice and Honor. He was also short, with thinning hair. He felt like the type of man you’d find administering some minor city in the backwater of Alethkar. And if he was anything like Ash or Taln, the two Heralds who now resided at Urithiru … Well, his acquaintance with those two caused Adolin to lower his expectations in this particular case. Kelek spoke with several honorspren leaders as they strolled up the lower portion of the western plane, entering a stone pathway made up of a multitude of colored cobblestones vaguely in the pattern of a gust of wind. The group paused as they saw Adolin ahead. He removed his hand from his sword out of respect, then bowed to the Herald. “Hmm? A human?” Kelek said. “Why is he here? He looks dangerous, Sekeir.” “He is,” said the honorspren beside Kelek. Sekeir was a leader of the fortress, and appeared as an ancient honorspren with a long blue-white beard. “This is Adolin Kholin, son of Dalinar Kholin.” “The Bondsmith?” Kelek said, and shied away from Adolin. “Good heavens! Why have you let him in here?” “I have come, great one,” Adolin said, “to petition the honorspren for their aid in our current battle.” “Your current battle? Against Odium?” Kelek laughed. “Boy, you’re doomed. You realize that, right? Tanavast is dead. Like, completely dead. The Oathpact is broken somehow. The only thing left is to try to get off the ship before it sinks.” “Holy Lord,” Sekeir said, “we let this one in because he offered to stand trial in the stead of the humans, for the pain they have caused our people.” “You’re going to try him for the Recreance?” Kelek asked, looking around uncertainly at the others near him. “Isn’t that a bit extreme?” “He offered, Holy Lord.” “Not a smart one, is he?” Kelek looked to Adolin, who hesitantly pulled up from his bow. “Huh. You’ve gotten yourself in deep, boy. They take this kind of thing very seriously around here.” “I hope to show them, great one, that we are not their enemies. That the best course forward is for them to join us in our fight. It is, one might say, the honorable choice.” “Honor is dead,” Kelek snapped. “Aren’t you paying attention? This world belongs to Odium now. He has his own storm, for heaven’s sake.” Blended nudged Adolin. Right. He was so distracted by Kelek that he’d forgotten the purpose of meeting with him. “Great one,” Adolin said, “I’ve decided to petition for a trial by witness. Would you be willing to grant me this?” “Trial by witness?” Kelek said. “Well, that would make this mess end faster. What do you think, Sekeir?” “I don’t think this would be a wise—” “Hold on; I don’t care what you think,” Kelek said. “Here I am, years after joining
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you, and you still don’t have a way for me to get off this cursed world. Fine, boy, trial by witness it is. We can start it … um, the day after tomorrow? Is that acceptable for everyone?” No one objected. “Great,” Kelek said. “Day after tomorrow. Okay then. Um … let’s have it at the forum, shall we? I guess everyone will want to watch, and that has the most seats.” “Object to this,” Blended whispered to Adolin. “Do not let it be. You don’t want to have to persuade the audience as well as the judge.” “Great one,” Adolin said, “I had hoped this to be an intimate, personal discussion of—” “Tough,” Kelek said. “You should have thought of that before coming in here to create a storm. Everyone knows how this trial will end, so we might as well make a good time of it for them.” Adolin felt a sinking sensation as Kelek led the group of honorspren around him. Though few lighteyed judges were ever truly impartial, there was an expectation that they’d try to act with honor before the eyes of the Almighty. But this Herald basically told him the trial would be a sham. The man had made his judgment before hearing any arguments. How on Roshar was that ever considered a deity? Adolin thought, in a daze. The Heralds had fallen so far. Either that, or … perhaps these ten people had always been only that. People. After all, crowning a man a king or highprince didn’t necessarily make him anything grander than he’d been. Adolin knew that firsthand. “That could have gone better,” Blended said, “but at least a trial by witness is. Come. I have one day, it seems, to prepare you to be thrown into the angerspren’s den.…” A pewter cage will cause the spren of your fabrial to express its attribute in force—a flamespren, for example, will create heat. We call these augmenters. They tend to use Stormlight more quickly than other fabrials. —Lecture on fabrial mechanics presented by Navani Kholin to the coalition of monarchs, Urithiru, Jesevan, 1175 By the time Kaladin started to come to himself, the Fourth Bridge had already begun lifting into the air. He stood near the railing, watching Hearthstone—now abandoned—shrinking beneath them. From this distance, the houses resembled a group of discarded crab shells, shed as the creature grew. Their function served, they were now scattered refuse. Once, he’d imagined returning to this place triumphant. Instead, that return had eventually brought the town’s end. It surprised him how little it hurt, knowing he’d probably visited his birthplace for the last time. Well, it hadn’t been home to him in years. Instinctively, he searched out the soldiers of Bridge Four. They were mingled among the other Windrunners and squires on the upper deck, crowding around, talking about something Kaladin couldn’t make out. The group was so big now. Hundreds of Windrunners—far too many to function as the tight-knit group he’d formed in Sadeas’s army. A groan escaped his lips, and he blamed it on his
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fatigue. He settled down on the deck and put his back to the railing. One of the ardents brought him a cup of something warm, which he took gratefully—until he realized the drinks were distributed to the townspeople and refugees, not the other soldiers. Did he look so bad? Yes, he thought, glancing down at his bloodied and burned uniform. He vaguely remembered stumbling up to the ship with Renarin’s help, then barking at the flood of Windrunners who came to fawn over him. They kept offering him Stormlight, but he had plenty. It surged in his veins now, but for once the extra energy it lent seemed … wan. Faded. Stop, he thought forcibly. You’ve held yourself together in rougher winds than this, Kaladin. Breathe deeply. It will pass. It always does. He sipped his drink, which turned out to be broth. He welcomed its warmth, especially as the ship gained elevation. Many of the townspeople gathered near the sides, awespren bursting around them. Kaladin forced out a smile as he closed his eyes and leaned his head back, trying to recapture the wondrous feeling of taking to the air those first few times. Instead, he found himself reliving other darker times. When Tien had died, and when he’d failed Elhokar. Foolish though it was, the second one hurt almost as much as the first. He hadn’t particularly liked the king. Yet somehow, seeing Elhokar die as he nearly spoke the first Radiant Ideal … Kaladin opened his eyes as Syl flew up in the form of a miniature Fourth Bridge. She often took the shape of natural things, but this one seemed extra odd. It didn’t belong in the sky. One might argue that Kaladin didn’t either. She re-formed into the shape of a young woman, wearing her more stately dress, and landed at eye level. She waved toward the gathered Windrunners. “They’re congratulating Laran,” Syl explained. “She spoke the Third Ideal while we were in that burning building.” Kaladin grunted. “Good for her.” “Are you going to congratulate her?” “Later,” Kaladin said. “Don’t want to force my way through the crowd.” He sighed, pressing his head back against the railing again. Why didn’t I kill him? he thought. I’ll kill parshmen and Fused for existing, but when I face Moash, I lock up? Why? He felt so stupid. How had he been so easy to manipulate? Why hadn’t he simply rammed his spear into Moash’s too-confident face and saved the world a whole ton of hassle? At the least it would have shut the man up. Stopped the words that dripped from his mouth like sludge … They’re going to die … Everyone you love, everyone you think you can protect. They’re all going to die anyway. There’s nothing you can do about it. I can take away the pain.… Kaladin forced his eyes open and found Syl standing before him wearing her more usual dress—the flowing, girlish one that faded to mist around her knees. She seemed smaller than normal. “I don’t know what to do,” she said
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softly. “To help you.” He glanced down. “The darkness in you is better some times, worse others,” she said. “But lately … it’s grown into something different. You seem so tired.” “I just need some good rest,” Kaladin said. “You think I’m bad now? You should’ve seen me after Hav made me hike at double time across … across…” He turned away. Lying to himself was one thing. Lying to Syl was harder. “Moash did something to me,” he said. “Put me into some kind of trance.” “I don’t think he did, Kaladin,” she whispered. “How did he know about the Honor Chasm? And what you nearly did there?” “I told him a lot of things, back during better days. In Dalinar’s army, before Urithiru. Before…” Why couldn’t he remember those times, the warm times? Sitting at the fire with real friends? Real friends including a man who had just tried to persuade him to go kill himself. “Kaladin,” Syl said, “it’s getting worse. This … distance to your expression, this fatigue. It happens whenever you run out of Stormlight. As if … you can only keep going while it’s in you.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “You freeze whenever you hear reports of lost Windrunners.” When he heard of his soldiers dying, he always imagined running bridges again. He heard the screams, felt the arrows in the air.… “Please,” she whispered. “Tell me what to do. I can’t understand this about you. I’ve tried so hard. I can’t seem to make sense of how you feel or why you feel that way.” “If you ever do figure it out,” he said, “explain it to me, will you?” Why couldn’t he simply shrug off what Moash had said? Why couldn’t he stand up tall? Stride toward the sun like the hero everyone pretended he was? He opened his eyes and took a sip of his broth, but it had gone cold. He forced it down anyway. Soldiers couldn’t afford to be picky about nourishment. Before long, a figure broke from the crowd of Windrunners and ambled toward him. Teft’s uniform fit neatly and his beard was trimmed, but he seemed like an old stone now that he wasn’t glowing anymore. The type of mossy stone you found sitting at the base of a hill, marked by rain and the winds of time; it left you wondering what it had seen in its many days. Teft started to sit next to Kaladin. “I don’t want to talk,” Kaladin snapped. “I’m fine. You don’t need to—” “Oh, shut up, Kal,” Teft said, sighing as he settled down. He was in his early fifties, but sometimes acted like a grandfather some twenty years older. “In a minute here, you’re going to go congratulate that girl for saying her Third Ideal. It was rough on her, like it is on most of us. She needs to see your approval.” A protest died on Kaladin’s lips. Yes, he was highmarshal now. But the truth was, every officer worth his chips knew there was a time to shut
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your mouth and do what your sergeant told you. Even if he wasn’t your sergeant anymore; even if there wasn’t a squad anymore. Teft looked up at the sky. “So, the bastard is still alive, is he?” “We had a confirmed sighting of him two months ago, at that battle on the Veden border,” Kaladin said. “Aye, two months ago,” Teft said. “But I figured someone on their side would have killed him by now. Have to assume they can’t stand him either.” “They gave him an Honorblade,” Kaladin said. “If they can’t stand him, they have an odd way of showing it.” “What did he say?” “That you were all going to die,” Kaladin said. “Ha? Empty threats? He’s gone crazy, that one has.” “Yeah,” Kaladin said. “Crazy.” It wasn’t a threat though, Kaladin thought. I am going to lose everyone eventually. That’s how it works. That’s how it always works.… “I’ll tell the others he’s sniffing around,” Teft said. “He might try to attack some of us in the future.” Teft eyed him. “Renarin said he found you kneeling there. No weapon in hand. Like you’d frozen in battle.” Teft left the sentence dangling, implying a little more. Like you’d frozen in battle. Again. It hadn’t happened that often. Only this time, and that time in Kholinar. And the time when Lopen had nearly died a few months back. And … well, a few others. “Let’s go talk to Laran,” Kaladin said, standing up. “Lad…” “You told me I had to do this, Teft,” Kaladin said. “You can storming let me get to it.” Teft fell in behind him as Kaladin went and did his duty. He let them see him stand tall, let them be reassured he was still the brilliant leader they all knew. He had Laran summon her new Blade for him, and he congratulated her spren. They had few enough honorspren that he tried to always acknowledge them. Afterward, as he’d hoped, Dalinar requested Windrunners to fly him, Navani, and a few of the others to the Shattered Plains. Many of the Radiants would stay behind to guard the Fourth Bridge as it made its longer voyage, but the command staff was needed for other duties. After seeing to his parents—who of course decided to stay with the townspeople—Kaladin took off. At least with the wind rushing around them during flight, Teft couldn’t ask any more questions. * * * Navani both loved and detested contradictions. On one hand, contradictions in nature or science were testaments to the logical, reasonable order of all things. When a hundred items indicated a pattern, then one broke that pattern, it showcased how remarkable the pattern was in the first place. Deviation highlighted natural variety. On the other hand, that deviant stood out. Like a fraction on a page of integers. A seven within a sequence of otherwise sublime multiples of two. Contradictions whispered that her knowledge was incomplete. Or—worse—that maybe there was no sequence. Maybe everything was random chaos, and she pretended the world made sense for her own
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peace of mind. Navani flipped through her notes. Her featureless round chamber was too small to stand up in. It had a table—bolted to the floor—and a single chair. She could touch the walls to both sides simultaneously by stretching out her arms. A goblet to hold spheres was affixed to the table and fastened shut at the top. She’d brought only diamonds for light, naturally. She couldn’t stand when her light was made up of a hundred different colors and sizes of gems. She stretched her legs forward under the table, sighing. Hours spent in this room made her long to get up and go for a walk. That wasn’t a possibility, so instead she laid out the offending pages on her desk. Jasnah enjoyed finding inconsistencies in data. Navani’s daughter seemed to thrive on contradictions, little deviations in witness testimony, questions raised by a historical account’s biased recollections. Jasnah picked carefully at such threads, pulling at them to discover new insights and secrets. Jasnah loved secrets. Navani was more wary of them. Secrets had turned Gavilar into … whatever it was he’d been at the end. Even today, the greed of artifabrians across the world prevented the greater society from learning, growing, and creating—all in the name of preserving trade secrets. How many secrets had the ancient Radiants preserved for centuries, only to lose them in death—forcing Navani to have to discover everything anew? She reached down beside her chair and picked up the fabrial Kaladin and Lift had discovered. She had no idea what to make of the thing. A collection of four garnets? No spren appeared to be trapped in any of them. She didn’t recognize the metal of its cage, the cut of its gemstones.… Studying the thing was like trying to understand a foreign language. How had it suppressed the Radiants’ abilities? Was this related to the gemstones embedded in the weapons of the enemy soldiers, the ones that drained away Stormlight? So many storming secrets. She held up a sketch of the gemstone pillar at the heart of Urithiru. It is the same, she thought, turning the fabrial in her hand, then comparing it to a similar-looking construction of garnets in the picture. The ones in the pillar were enormous, but the cut, the arrangement of stones, the feel was the same. Why would the tower have a device to suppress the powers of Radiants? It was their home. Could it be the opposite? she thought, putting down the alien fabrial and making a note in the margins of the drawing. A way to suppress the abilities of the Fused? So much about the tower still didn’t make any sense. She had a Bondsmith in Dalinar. Shouldn’t he and the Stormfather be able to mimic whatever the long-dead tower spren had done to power the pillar and the tower? She held up a second picture, this one of a more familiar device—a construction of three gemstones connected by chains, meant to be worn on the back of the hand. A Soulcaster. Soulcasters had long bothered
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Navani. They were the proverbial flaw in the system, the fabrial that didn’t make sense. Navani wasn’t a scholar herself, but she had a strong working knowledge of fabrials. They produced certain effects, mostly amplifying, locating, or attracting specific elements or emotions—always tied to the type of spren trapped inside. The effects were so logical that theoretical fabrials had been correctly predicted years before their successful construction. A technological masterpiece like the Fourth Bridge was no more than a collection of smaller, simpler devices intertwined. Pair one set of gemstones, and you had a spanreed. Interwork hundreds, and you could make a ship fly. Assuming you’d discovered how to isolate planes of motion and reapply force vectors through conjoined fabrials. But even these discoveries had been more small tweaks than revolutionary changes. Each step built on the previous ones in logical ways. It made perfect sense, once you understood the fundamentals. But Soulcasters … they broke all the rules. For centuries, everyone had explained them as holy objects. Created by the Almighty and granted to men in an act of charity. They weren’t supposed to make sense, because they weren’t technological, but divine. But was that really true? Or could she, with study, eventually discover their secrets? For years, they’d assumed no spren were trapped in Soulcasting devices. But with the Oathgates, Navani could travel into Shadesmar—and everything in the Physical Realm reflected there. Human beings manifested as floating candle flames. Spren manifested as larger, or more complete versions of what was seen in the Physical Realm. Soulcasters manifested as small unresponsive spren, hovering with their eyes closed. So the Soulcasters did have a captured spren. A Radiant spren, judging by their shape. Intelligent, rather than the more animal-like spren captured to power normal fabrials. These spren were held captive in Shadesmar, and made to power Soulcasters. Is this the same, perhaps? Navani thought, holding up the gemstone device Kaladin had discovered. There had to be a connection. And perhaps a connection to the tower? The secret to making it function? Navani shuffled through pages in her notebook, looking at the multitude of schematics she’d drawn during the last year. She’d been able to piece together many of the tower’s mechanics. Though they were—like Soulcasters—created by somehow trapping spren in Shadesmar. Their functions, however, were similar to the ones designed by modern artifabrians. The moving lifts? A combination of conjoined fabrials and a hidden waterwheel that dipped into an underground river, which flowed from melting snow in the peaks. The city’s wells constantly replenished with fresh water? A clever manipulation of attractor fabrials, powered by ancient gemstones exposed to the air and the storms far beneath the tower. Indeed, the more she studied Urithiru, the more she saw the ancients using simple fabrial technology to create their marvels. Modern artifabrians had exceeded such constructs; her engineers had repaired, refitted, and streamlined the lifts, making them function at several times their original speed. They’d enhanced the wells and pipes, which could now draw water farther up the tower into long-abandoned waterways. She’d learned
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so much in the last year. She’d almost started to feel she could deduce it all—answer the questions pertaining to time and to creation itself. Then she remembered Soulcasters. Their armies ate and remained mobile because of Soulcasters. Urithiru depended on extra food from Soulcasters. The Soulcaster cache discovered in Aimia earlier in the year had brought an incredible boon to the coalition armies. They were among the most coveted, important devices in modern history. And she didn’t know how they worked. Navani sighed, snapping her notebook shut. Her little room trembled as she did so, and she frowned, leaning to the side and opening a small hatch in the wall. She looked out through the glass at an incongruous sight— a group of people flying in the air alongside her. The Windrunners held a loose formation, facing into the wind—which Navani had pointed out was a little ridiculous. Why not fly the other way? You didn’t need to see where you were going. They’d claimed that flying feet-first felt silly, and had refused, no matter how much sense it made. They did seem to sculpt the air around themselves and prevent their faces from being buffeted by the worst of the winds. Dalinar, however, had no such protection. He flew in the line—kept aloft by a Windrunner—and wore a face mask with goggles to keep his proud nose from freezing right off. Navani opted for a more comfortable conveyance. Her “room” was a person-size wooden sphere with long tapering points at either end to help with airflow. The simple vehicle was infused by a Windrunner, then Lashed into the sky. This way, Navani could ride in comfort and get some studying done during extended travel. Dalinar claimed that he liked the feeling of the wind in his face, but Navani suspected that he found her vehicle too close to an airborne version of a palanquin. A woman’s vehicle. One might assume that—in deciding to learn how to read—Dalinar would no longer worry about what was traditionally considered masculine or feminine. But the male ego could be as complicated as the most intricate fabrial. She smiled at his mask and three layers of coats. Nearby, lithe scouts in blue flitted one way or another. Dalinar looked like a chull that had found itself among a flock of skyeels and was doing its best to pretend to fit in. She loved that chull. Loved his stubbornness, the concern he took for every decision. The way he thought with intense passion. You never got half of Dalinar Kholin. When he put his mind to something, you got the whole man—and had to simply pray to the Almighty that you could handle him. She checked her clock. A trip like this, all the way from Alethkar to the Shattered Plains, still took close to six hours—and that was with a triple Lashing, using Dalinar’s power to provide Stormlight. Thankfully, they were nearing the end, and she saw the Shattered Plains approaching ahead. Her engineers had been busy; over the last year they’d constructed sturdy permanent
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bridges connecting many of the relevant plateaus. They desperately needed to be able to farm this region to supply Urithiru—and that meant dealing with Ialai Sadeas and her rebels. Hopefully Navani would soon hear good news from the Lightweavers and their mission to— Navani cocked her head, noticing something odd. The wall beside her reflected a faint shade of red, blinking on and off. Like the light of a spanreed. Her immediate thought was panic. Had she somehow activated the strange fabrial? If the powers of the Windrunners vanished, she’d drop from the air like a stone. Her heart leapt, and her breath caught. She didn’t start plummeting. And … the light wasn’t coming from the strange fabrial. She leaned back, then peeked under her table. There, stuck to the bottom with some wax, was a tiny ruby. No, half a ruby. Part of a spanreed, she thought, picking it free with her fingernail. She held it up between her fingers and studied the steady pulsing light. Yes, this was a spanreed ruby—when inserted into a spanreed, it would connect her to someone with the other half, allowing them to communicate. It had clearly been stuck here for her to find. But who would do it so sneakily? The Windrunners began lowering her vehicle down near the center of the Shattered Plains, and she found herself increasingly excited by the blinking light. A spanreed wouldn’t work if she was in a moving vehicle, but as they landed, she dug one of her own reeds from her supplies. She had the new ruby affixed and a piece of paper in place before anyone had time to check on her. She turned the ruby, eager to see what the unknown figure wanted to say to her. You must stop what you are doing, the pen wrote out, using a cramped, nearly illegible version of the Alethi women’s script. Immediately. It waited for a response. What a strange message. Navani turned the ruby and wrote her response, which would be copied for whoever had the other side of the ruby. I’m not sure what you mean, she wrote. Who are you? I don’t believe I’m doing anything that needs to be halted. Perhaps you don’t know the identity of the person you are writing to. Has this spanreed been misplaced? Navani set the spanreed into position for a response, then turned the ruby. When she removed her hand, the pen remained in position on the paper, upright. Then it started moving on its own, worked by the unseen person on the other end. I know who you are, it wrote. You are the monster Navani Kholin. You have caused more pain than any living person. She cocked her head. What on Roshar? I couldn’t watch any longer, the pen continued. I had to stop you. Was it a madwoman who wrote with the other reed? The ruby started blinking, indicating they wanted a response. All right, Navani wrote. Why don’t you tell me what it is you want me to stop? Also, you have neglected
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to give me your name. The response came quickly, written as if by a fervent hand. You capture spren. You imprison them. Hundreds of them. You must stop. Stop, or there will be consequences. Spren? Fabrials? This woman couldn’t seriously be concerned about such a simple thing, could she? What was next? Complaining about chulls that pull carts? I have spoken with intelligent spren, Navani wrote, such as those bonded to the Radiants. They agree that the spren we use for our fabrials are not people, but are as unthinking as animals. They may not like the idea of what we do, but they don’t think it monstrous. Even the honorspren accept it. The honorspren cannot be trusted, the pen wrote. Not anymore. You must stop creating this new kind of fabrial. I will make you stop. This is your warning. The pen halted, and try though she might, Navani couldn’t get any further responses from the mysterious woman or ardent who had written to her. * * * The Windrunners at Urithiru had been called to one of the battlefronts for air support, and Kaladin was still busy with his little enterprise in Alethkar. So in the end, Shallan and her team had to travel to Narak the hard way. Fortunately, the “hard way” wasn’t too bad these days. With permanent bridges and a direct path maintained by soldiers, a journey that had once taken days had been reduced to a few hours. At the first main fortified plateau where Dalinar kept standing troops to watch the warcamps, Shallan and Adolin were able to deliver up the prisoners—with instructions for them to be brought to Narak for questioning. Adolin and Shallan requisitioned a carriage, and left the rest of the troops to make their way back more slowly. Shallan passed the time looking out the carriage window, listening to the clopping of the horses and watching the fractured landscape of plateaus and chasms. Once this had all been so difficult to traverse. Now she did it in a plush carriage, and considered that inconvenient compared to being flown about by a Windrunner. How would it be once Navani got her flying devices working efficiently? Would flying by Windrunner be the inconvenience then? Adolin scooted over beside her, and she felt his warmth. She closed her eyes and melted into him, breathing him in—as if she could feel his soul brushing against her own. “Hey,” he said. “It’s not so bad. Really. Father knew this plan might come to fighting. If Ialai had been willing to quietly rule in the warcamps, we’d have left her alone. But we couldn’t ignore someone sitting in our backyard raising an army to depose us.” Shallan nodded. “That’s not what you’re worried about, is it?” Adolin asked. “No. Not completely.” She turned and pressed her face into his chest. He’d removed his jacket, and the shirt beneath reminded her of when he came to their rooms after sparring. He always wanted to bathe immediately, and she … well, she rarely let him. Not until she was
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done with him, at least. They rode in silence for some time, with Shallan snuggled against him. “You never push,” she eventually said. “Though you know I keep secrets from you.” “You’ll tell me eventually.” She gripped his shirt tight between her fingers. “It bothers you though, doesn’t it?” He didn’t reply at first, which was different from his normal cheery assurances. “Yeah,” he finally said. “How could it not? I trust you, Shallan. But sometimes … I wonder if I can trust all three of you. Veil especially.” “She’s trying to protect me in her own way,” Shallan said. “And if she does something you or I wouldn’t want her to? Gets … physical with someone?” “That’s not a worry,” Shallan said. “I promise, and she will too if you ask her. We have an understanding. I’m not worried about you and me, Adolin.” “What are you worried about, then?” She pulled closer, and couldn’t help imagining it. What he would do if he knew the real her. If he knew all the things she’d actually done. It wasn’t just about him. What if Pattern knew? Dalinar? Her agents? They would leave, and her life would become a wasteland. She’d be alone, as she deserved. Because of the truths she hid, her entire life was a lie. Shallan, the one they all knew best, was the fakest mask of them all. No, Radiant said. You can face it. You can fight it. You imagine only the worst possible outcome. But it’s possible, isn’t it? Shallan asked. It’s possible that they would leave me if they knew. Radiant had no reply. And deep within Shallan, something else stirred. Formless. She had told herself that she would never create a new persona, and she wouldn’t. Formless wasn’t real. But the possibility of it frightened Veil. And anything that frightened Veil terrified Shallan. “I will explain someday,” Shallan said softly to Adolin. “I promise. When I’m ready.” He squeezed her arm in reply. She didn’t deserve him—his goodness, his love. That was the trap she’d found herself in. The more he trusted her, the worse she felt. And she didn’t know how to get out. She couldn’t get out. Please, she whispered. Save me. Veil reluctantly emerged. She sat up, not pulling against Adolin any longer—and he seemed to understand, shifting his position in the seat. He had an uncanny ability to tell which of her was in control. “We’re trying to help,” Veil said to him. “And we think that this year has been good for Shallan, overall. But right now, it’s probably better if we discuss another topic.” “Sure,” Adolin said. “Can we talk about the fact that Ialai was more frightened of capture than death?” “She … didn’t kill herself, Adolin,” Veil said. “We are reasonably certain she died from a pinprick of poison.” He sat up straight. “So you’re saying someone in our team did it? One of my soldiers or one of your agents?” He paused. “Or … did you do it, Veil?” “I didn’t,” Veil said. “But would
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it have been so bad if I had? We both know she needed to die.” “She was a defenseless woman!” “And it’s that different from what you did to Sadeas?” “He was a soldier,” Adolin said. “That’s what makes it different.” He glanced out the window. “Maybe. Father thinks I did something terrible. But … I was right, Veil. I’m not going to let someone hide behind social propriety while threatening my family. I won’t let them use my honor against me. And … Stonefalls. I say things like that, and…” “And it doesn’t sound so different from killing Ialai,” Veil said. “Regardless, I didn’t kill her.” Shallan, having had a short breather, started to reemerge. Veil retreated, letting Shallan lean up against Adolin. He, though tense at first, let her do so. She rested her head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. His life. Pulsing within him like the thunder of a captive storm. Pattern seemed to sense the way that pulse calmed her, for he began humming from where he hung on the roof. She would tell Adolin everything, eventually. She’d told him some already. About her father, and her mother, and her life in Jah Keved. But not the deepest things, the things she didn’t even remember herself. How could she tell him things that were clouded in her own memory? She also hadn’t told him about the Ghostbloods. She wasn’t certain she could share that secret, but could … could she try? Begin, at least? At Veil and Radiant’s prompting, she searched for a way. After all, Dalinar kept saying that the next step was the most important one. “There’s something you need to know,” she said. “Before you came in, Ialai implied that if I took her captive, she would be killed. She knew the blow was coming—that’s why I was suspicious of her death. She also said she didn’t kill Thanadal. That it was another group called the Ghostbloods. She thought the Ghostbloods would send someone for her—which was why she was certain she’d die.” “We’ve been hunting them. Ialai was leading them.” “No, dear, she was leading the Sons of Honor. The Ghostbloods are a different group.” He scratched his head. “Are they the ones your … brother Helaran belonged to? The one that attacked Amaram, right? And Kaladin killed Helaran without knowing who he was?” “Those were the Skybreakers. They’re not so secret any longer. They joined with the enemy—” “Right. Radiants on the other team.” Those likely made sense to him, as he’d taken battlefield reports on them. The shadowy groups moving at night, on the other hand, were something he couldn’t fight directly. Dealing with them was to be her job. She dug in her pocket as the carriage rolled over a particularly robust series of bumps. This path hadn’t been graded or leveled, and though the carriage driver did his best to miss the larger rockbuds, there was only so much he could do. “The Ghostbloods,” Shallan said, “are the people who tried to kill Jasnah—and me by extension—by sinking
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our ship.” “So they’re on Odium’s side,” Adolin said. “It’s more complicated than that. Honestly, I’m not sure what they want, besides secrets. They were trying to get to Urithiru before Jasnah, but we beat them to it.” Led them to it might have been more accurate. “I’m not at all sure what they want those secrets for.” “Power,” Adolin said. That response—the same one she’d given to Ialai—now seemed so simplistic. Mraize, and his inscrutable master Iyatil, were deliberate, precise people. Perhaps they were merely seeking to glean leverage or wealth from the chaos of the end of the world. Shallan realized she would be disappointed to discover that their plans were so pedestrian. Any corpse robber on a battlefield could exploit the misfortune of others. Mraize was a hunter. He didn’t wait for opportunities. He went out and made them. “What’s that?” Adolin asked, nodding to the book in her hand. “Before she died,” Shallan said. “Ialai gave me a hint that led me to search the room and find this.” “That’s why you didn’t want the guards to do it,” he said. “Because one of them might be a spy or assassin. Storms.” “You might want to reassign your soldiers to boring, out-of-the-way posts for a season.” “These are some of my best men!” Adolin complained. “Highly decorated! They just pulled off an extremely dangerous covert operation.” “So give them a rest at some quiet post,” Shallan said. “Until we figure this out. I’ll watch my agents. If I discover it’s one of them, you can bring the men back.” He sulked at the suggestion; he hated the idea of punishing a group of good men because one of them might be a spy. Adolin might claim he was different from his father, but in fact they were two shades of the same paint. Often, two similar colors clashed worse than wildly different ones would. Shallan kicked the bag of notes and letters that Gaz had gathered, resting at their feet. “We’ll give that to your father’s scribes, but I’ll look through this book personally.” “What’s in it?” Adolin asked, leaning to the side so he could see—but there were no pictures. “I haven’t read the entire thing,” Shallan said. “It seems to be Ialai’s attempts to piece together what the Ghostbloods are planning. Like this page—a list of terms or names her spies had heard. She was trying to define what they were.” Shallan moved her finger down the page. “Nalathis. Scadarial. Tal Dain. Do you recognize any of those?” “They sound like nonsense to me. Nalathis might have something to do with Nalan, the Skybreaker Herald.” Ialai had noticed the same connection, but indicated these names might be places—ones she could not find in any atlas. Perhaps they were like Feverstone Keep, the place Dalinar had seen in his visions. Somewhere that had disappeared so long ago, no one remembered the name anymore. Circled several times on one page at the end of the list was the word “Thaidakar” with the note, He leads them. But who
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is he? The name seems a title, much like Mraize. But neither are in a language I know. Shallan was pretty sure she’d heard Mraize use the name Thaidakar before. “So, this is our new mission?” Adolin asked. “We find out what these Ghostblood people are up to, and we stop them.” He took the palm-size notebook from her and flipped through the pages. “Maybe we should give this to Jasnah.” “We will,” she said. “Eventually.” “All right.” He gave it back, then put his arm around her and pulled her close. “But promise me that you—and I mean all of you—will avoid doing anything crazy until you talk to me.” “Dear,” she said, “considering who you’re talking to, anything I am prone to try will be—by definition—crazy.” He smiled at that, but gave her another comforting hug. She settled into the nook between his arm and chest, though he was too muscly to make a good pillow. She continued reading, but it wasn’t until an hour or so later that she realized—despite dancing around the topic with him—she hadn’t revealed she was a member of the Ghostbloods. They were likely to put Shallan in the middle of whatever they were up to. So far—despite telling herself she was spying on them—she’d basically achieved every goal they’d asked of her. That meant a crisis was coming. The inflection point, past which she could not continue down this duplicitous path. Keeping secrets from Adolin was eating at her from the inside. Fueling Formless, pushing it toward a reality. She needed a way out. To leave the Ghostbloods, break ties. Otherwise they’d get inside her head. And it was way too crowded in there already. I didn’t kill Ialai though, Shallan thought. I was close to it, but I didn’t. So I’m not theirs entirely. Mraize would want to speak to her about the mission, and about some other things she’d been doing for him, so she could bet on him visiting her soon. Maybe when he did, she would finally find the strength to break with the Ghostbloods. I remember so few of those centuries. I am a blur. A smear on the page. A gaunt stretch of ink, made all the more insubstantial with each passing day. Venli knelt on the floor of a secluded hallway on the fifteenth floor of Urithiru. The stones whispered to her that the place had once been called Ur. The word meant “original” in the Dawnchant. An ancient place, with ancient stones. There was a spren that lived here. Not dead, as Raboniel had once proclaimed. This spren was the veins of the tower, its inner metal and crystal running through walls, ceilings, floors. The stones had not been created by that spren, though a grand project had reshaped them. Reshaped Ur, the original mountain that had been here before. The stones remembered being that mountain. They remembered so many things, which they expressed to Venli. Not with words. Rather as impressions, like those a hand left in crem before it dried. Or the impression Venli’s
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hands left in the floor as they sank into the eager stone. Remember, the stones whispered. Remember what you have forgotten. She remembered sitting at her mother’s feet as a child, listening to the songs. The music had flowed like water, etching patterns in her brain—memories—like the passage of time etched canals in stone. Listeners were not like humans, who grew slow as trees. Listeners grew like vines, quick and eager. By age three, she’d been singing with her mother. By age ten, she’d been considered an adult. Venli remembered those years—looking up to Eshonai, who seemed so big, although just a year older than Venli. She had vague memories of holding her father’s finger as he sang with her mother. She remembered love. Family. Grandparents, cousins. How had she forgotten? As a child, ambition and love had been like two sides of her face, each with its own vibrant pattern. To the sound of Odium’s rhythms, one side had shone, while the other withered. She had become a person who wanted only to achieve her goals—not because those goals would help others, but because of the goals themselves. It was in that moment that Venli saw for herself the depth of his lies. He claimed to be of all Passions, and yet where was the love she’d once felt? The love for her mother? Her sister? Her friends? For a while, she’d even forgotten her love for Demid, though it had helped to awaken her. It felt wrong to be using his Light to practice her Surgebinding, but the stones whispered that it was well. Odium and his tone had become part of Roshar, as Cultivation and Honor—who had not been created alongside the planet—had become part of it. His power was natural, and no more wrong or right than any other part of nature. Venli searched for something else. The tone of Cultivation. Odium’s song could suffuse her, fueling her powers and enflaming her emotions, but that tone … that tone had belonged to her people long before he’d arrived. While she searched for it, she listened to her mother’s songs in her mind. Like chains, spiked into the stone so they’d remain strong during storms, they reached backward through time. Through generations. To her people, leaving the battlefield. Walking away rather than continuing to squabble over the same ground over and over. They hadn’t merely rejected the singer gods, they’d rejected the conflict. Holding to family, singing to Love despite their dull forms, they’d left the war and gone a new way. The tone snapped into her mind, Cultivation and Odium mixing into a harmony, and it thrummed through Venli. She opened her eyes as power spread from her through the stones. They began to shake and vibrate to the sound of her rhythm, liquid, forming peaks and valleys in time with the music. The floor, ceiling, and walls before her rippled, and a trail of people formed from the stone. Moving, alive again, as they strode away from pain, and war, and killing. Freedom. The stones whispered to
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her of freedom. Rock seemed so stable, so unchangeable, but if you saw it on the timescale of spren, it was always changing. Deliberately. Over centuries. She had never known her ancestors, but she knew their songs. She could sing those and imitate their courage. Their love. Their wisdom. The power slipped from her, as it always did. The tone faded, and her control over the stone ended. She needed more practice and more Light. Still, she didn’t need Timbre’s encouraging thrum to keep her spirits high as she stood. For she had in front of her, in miniature, a sculpture of her ancestors striking out toward the unknown. More, she had their songs. Because of her mother’s diligent and insistent teaching, the songs had not died with the listeners. * * * An hour later, Venli walked the hallways much lower in the tower, waiting for Leshwi. She met with the Heavenly One almost every day. Raboniel knew the meetings were happening, of course. And Leshwi knew that Raboniel knew. Still, Venli and Leshwi met in secret; it was all part of the dance of politics between the Fused. They met as if by happenstance. Leshwi hovered solemnly through a corridor at the right time, her long black train rustling against the stone. Venli fell into step beside her mistress. “The Pursuer has found the Windrunner’s parents, Ancient One,” Venli said. “I’m certain of it. He posted two nightform Regals at the Radiant infirmary.” “Which ones?” “Urialin and Nistar.” “‘Light’ and ‘mystery,’” Leshwi said, translating their names from the ancient language. Like many of the Regals, they had taken new names for themselves upon their awakening. “Yes, this is a signal. But the Pursuer is not that subtle; if you look, I suspect that Raboniel is the one who suggested those two.” “What do we do?” Venli said to Anxiety. “Nothing, for now. My authority extends far enough to protect them. This is merely a warning.” “Raboniel threatens to let the Pursuer have the humans,” Venli said. “That is why she posted those two guards. To lord her advantage over us.” “Perhaps,” Leshwi said, floating with her hands behind her back. “Perhaps not. Raboniel does not think like other Fused, Venli. She hears a much grander song. A skewed and twisted one, but one she seeks to sing without traditional regard for Odium’s plans or those of Honor, now dead.” “She makes her own side then,” Venli said. “She seeks to play both armies against one another and profit herself.” “Do not transpose your mortal ambitions upon Raboniel,” Leshwi said to Ridicule. “You think too small, Venli, to understand her. I think too small to understand her. Regardless, you did well in bringing this to me. Watch for other signs like this.” They reached the atrium, the hallway they’d been following merging with it like a river flowing into a sea. Here, Heavenly Ones soared up and down, delivering supplies to the scouts and Masked Ones on the upper floors. Those continued to keep watch for Windrunners. The charade was wearing
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thin at this point; Raboniel was certain Dalinar Kholin had seen through it and knew something very wrong was happening at the tower. The supplies to the upper floors could have been delivered via the lifts. However, Raboniel had put the Heavenly Ones to work, making it very clear that she had both the authority and the inclination to keep them busy. This had driven off many of them, who preferred their sanctuaries in Kholinar. Perhaps that had been the point. Leshwi instead did as she was asked. She floated up and over the railing, her long train slipping over and then falling to drift in the open air beneath her. Another Heavenly One soared upward past them, trailing cloth of gold and red. “Ancient One,” Venli said to Craving, stepping up to the railing. “What are we watching Raboniel for, if not to understand how she’s trying to gain advantage over us? What is the purpose of my spying?” “We watch,” Leshwi said, floating down to eye level with Venli, “because we are frightened. To Raboniel, the games of men and singers are petty things—but so are their lives. We watch her, Venli, because we want a world to remain when she is finished with her plots.” Venli felt a chill, attuning the Terrors. As Leshwi flew off, Venli took a lift, haunted by those words. The games of men and singers are petty things … but so are their lives.… The ominous words pulled Venli down from her earlier optimism. After stepping off the lift, she decided to stop and check on Rlain and the others. She couldn’t help attuning Agony at the idea of those Regals in the infirmary. At least the surgeon and his wife had the good sense to mostly stay out of sight. Venli slipped into the draped-off section of the room, where Hesina was keeping watch today. She nodded as Venli entered, then grimaced and glanced toward the others inside. There was a new human here, one Venli didn’t recognize, who stood with his eyes down, not speaking. A tension in the room was coming entirely from Lirin and Rlain, who faced off at the rear, Rlain humming softly to Betrayal. What on Roshar? “I can’t believe I’m hearing this,” Rlain said. “I can’t believe it. He’s your son.” “My son is long dead, bridgeman,” Lirin said, quickly packing a small bag full of surgical implements. “Kaladin kept trying to explain this, and I only recently started understanding. He doesn’t want to be my son anymore. If that’s the case, it’s difficult for me to see him as anything other than a killer and an agitator. Someone who recklessly endangered not just my family, but the lives of every human in the tower, while pursuing a vengeful grudge.” “So you’re going to leave him to die?” Rlain demanded. “I didn’t say that,” Lirin snapped. “Do not put words in my mouth. I’ll go as I would for anyone wounded.” “And afterward?” he demanded. “You said—” “I said we’d see,” Lirin said. “It’s possible I’ll need
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to bring him down here to give him long-term care.” “You would give him up for execution!” “If that’s what is required, then so be it. I’ll do my job as a surgeon, then let Kaladin deal with the consequences of his actions. I’m finished being a pawn in games of death. For either side.” Rlain threw up his hands. “What is the point of trying to save him if you’re intending to have him killed!” “Quiet!” Venli hissed, glancing out the flimsy drapes toward the others in the room outside. “What is going on here?” Lirin glared at Rlain, who again hummed to Betrayal. “Our son survived the events of the other day,” Hesina said to Venli. “This is one of his friends. He says Kaladin’s powers aren’t working properly, and his wounds aren’t healing. He’s in a coma and is slowly dying of what sounds like internal bleeding.” “That or an infection,” Lirin said, stuffing a few more things into his bag. “Can’t tell from the description.” “We’re not taking you to him,” Rlain said, “unless you promise not to give him and Teft up to the enemy.” He looked to the other man in the room, the newcomer, who nodded in agreement. “Then he’ll die for certain,” Lirin snapped. “Blood on your hands.” The two glared at each other, and Venli attuned Irritation. As if she didn’t have enough to worry about. “I’ll go,” Hesina said, walking over and taking the surgery bag off the table. “Hesina—” “He’s my son too,” she said. “Let’s be on with this, Rlain. I can show you how to treat the fever and give him some anti-inflammatories, along with something to fight the infection.” “And if it is internal bleeding?” Lirin asked. “He will need surgery. You can’t perform an operation like that in the field, Hesina.” He sounded angry, but those were fearspren at his feet. Not angerspren. The surgeon turned away and pretended to arrange his instruments. But humans were so full of emotion, it spilled out of them. He couldn’t hide what he was feeling from Venli. Frustration. Worry. He could say what he wanted. But he loved his son. “He needs to be brought here,” Lirin said, his voice laden with pain as plain as any rhythm. “I will go with you to help him. Then … I want you to listen to my suggestion. If he’s in a coma, he will need long-term care. We can put him in this room and pretend he’s unconscious like the others. It’s the best way.” “He’d rather die,” the newcomer whispered. There was something odd about his voice that Venli couldn’t place. He slurred his words. The chamber fell silent. Save for one thing. Timbre vibrated with excitement inside Venli. The little spren was at it so loudly, Venli was certain the others would hear. How could they not? “It was going to catch up to Kal eventually,” Lirin said, his tone morose. “Most soldiers don’t die on the battlefield, you know. Far more die from wounds days later. My son
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taught you about triage, didn’t he? What did he say about people with wounds like his?” The two former bridgemen glanced at each other. “Make them comfortable,” the human with the slurred words said. “Give them drink. Pain medication, if you can spare it. So they are peaceful when they … when they die.” Again the room grew quiet. All save for Timbre, practically bursting with sound. It’s time. It’s time. It’s time! When Venli spoke, she almost believed it was Timbre saying the words and not her. “What if,” she said, “I knew about an Edgedancer whose powers still seem to work? One who I think we can rescue?” * * * It didn’t take much time to explain the plan. Venli had been thinking about this for days now; she’d only needed some practice with her powers, and a little help from Rlain. The Edgedancer was kept in the same cell Rlain had occupied not long ago. Venli could get through that wall with ease; she was in control of her powers enough for that. The real trick would be pulling off the rescue without revealing or implicating herself. Timbre pulsed in annoyance as Venli and Rlain hurried toward the cell. The human, Dabbid, was taking another route. Venli didn’t want to be seen walking with him. “How did you get a Shardblade?” Rlain asked softly, to Curiosity. “And how do they not know you have one?” “It’s a long story,” Venli said. Mostly because she hadn’t thought of a proper lie yet. “It’s Eshonai’s, isn’t it? Do you know what happened to her? I know you said she’s dead … but how?” She died controlled by a Voidspren, Venli thought, because I tricked her into inviting one into her gemheart. She fell into a chasm after fighting a human Shardbearer, then drowned. Alone. I found her corpse, and—under the direction of a Voidspren—desecrated it by stealing her Shards. But I don’t have them. There was a lot she could say. “No. I got it from a dead human. I bonded it while traveling to Kholinar, before the Fused found me and the others.” “That was when they … they…” Rlain attuned the Rhythm of the Lost. “Yes,” Venli said to the same rhythm. “When they took the rest of our friends. They left me because Odium wanted me to travel around, telling lies about our people to ‘inspire’ the newly awakened singers.” “I’m sorry,” Rlain said. “That must have been difficult for you, Venli.” “I survived,” Venli said. “But if we’re going to save this Radiant, we need to be certain the Fused can’t trace this break-in to us. You can’t intervene, Rlain. The human has to manage the distraction himself.” Rlain hummed to Consideration. “What?” Venli asked. “Dabbid isn’t the person I’d put in charge of something like this,” he said. “Until today, I thought he was completely mute.” “Is he trustworthy?” “Absolutely,” Rlain said. “He’s Bridge Four. But … well, I’d like to know why he spent so long without talking. The bridge runs hit him hard,
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I know, but there’s something else.” He hummed to Determination. “I won’t intervene unless something goes wrong.” “If you do, we all have to go into hiding,” Venli said to Skepticism. “So make sure before you do anything.” He nodded, still humming to Determination, and they split up at the next intersection. Venli found her way to a particular quiet section of hallway, lit only by her held sphere. Most humans stayed away from this area; the Pursuer’s troops were housed nearby. Raboniel’s occasional orders for peace to be maintained in the tower were barely enough to restrain those soldiers. She attuned Peace—sometimes used by listeners for measuring time. Beyond this wall was the cell. As the fourth movement of the rhythm approached, Venli pressed her hand against the stone and drew in Voidlight, requisitioned just earlier to replace what she’d used. Storms, she hoped news of her taking so much didn’t reach Raboniel. Timbre pulsed reassuringly. This stone, like the one earlier today, responded to Venli’s touch. It shivered and rippled, as if it were getting a good back-scratching. The stone whispered to her. Move to the side. It guided her to the correct spot to breach the cell. Timbre’s rhythms pulsed through the rock, making it vibrate with the Rhythm of Hope. The fourth movement of Peace arrived—the moment when Rlain would signal Dabbid to go in to the guards, bringing food for their lunch. Merely another servant doing his job. Nothing unusual, even if lunch came early today. Timbre exulted in the Rhythm of Hope as Venli pushed her hand into the stone. It felt good, warm and enveloping. Unlike what happened with the Deepest Ones, Venli displaced the rock. It became as crem in her fingers, soft to the touch. She wasn’t expert enough to get it to move on its own into the shapes she wanted. It usually did what it wanted in those cases, such as forming the tiny statues on the floor above. So for now, she simply pushed her hand forward until it hit air on the other side. Then she pressed with her other hand and pulled the two apart, forming an opening straight through the stone—the normally hard rock curling and bunching up before her touch. A surprised set of human eyes appeared at the other end of the foot-long hole, looking through at her. “I’m going to get you out,” Venli whispered to the Rhythm of Pleading, “but you have to promise you won’t tell anyone what I’ve done. You won’t tell them about the powers I’m using. Not even other Radiants. They think I’m cutting you out with a Shardblade.” “What are you?” the human whispered in Alethi. “Promise me.” “Fine, promised. Done. Hurry. The guards are eating, and they didn’t even share none of it.” Venli continued shoving aside the stone. It took a ton of Light, and Timbre pulsed to Consolation—apparently she thought Venli’s efforts crude, lacking finesse and skill. Well, it did the job. She managed to form a hole big enough for the human girl. When
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Venli let go of the stone, it hardened instantly—she had to shake a few chips of it free of her fingers. The girl poked it, then hopped through. Hopefully the guards would assume a human Stoneward had survived and saved the girl. Venli gestured for the Edgedancer to follow her—but the girl wavered. She seemed as if she was going to bolt away in another direction. “Please,” Venli said. “We need you. To save a life. If you run now, he’ll die.” “Who?” “Stormblessed,” Venli said. “Please, hurry with me.” “You’re one of them,” the girl said. “How’d you get Radiant powers?” “I … am not Radiant,” Venli said. “I have powers from the Fused that are like Radiant powers. I’m a friend of Rlain. The listener who was a bridgeman? Please. I wouldn’t free you only to put you in danger, but we need to go, now!” The girl cocked her head, then nodded for Venli to go first. The Edgedancer followed on silent feet, sticking to the shadows. Eshonai used to walk like that, Venli thought. Quietly in the wilderness, to not disturb the wildlife. This girl didn’t have that same air about her though. Timbre was pulsing contentedly to Hope. Venli couldn’t feel the same yet, not until she was certain Rlain and Dabbid hadn’t been caught. She led the little Radiant girl to a room nearby to wait. “You’re a traitor to them, then?” the girl asked her. “I don’t know what I am,” Venli said. “Other than someone who didn’t want to see a child kept in a cage.” Venli jumped almost to the ceiling when Rlain finally strode in with Dabbid. The quiet bridgeman ran over and hugged the human girl, who grinned. “Eh, moolie,” she said. “Strange friends ya got these days. You seen a chicken around here? Big red one? I lost ’im when I was running away.” Dabbid shook his head, then knelt before the girl. “Healing. It works?” “Eh!” she said. “You can talk!” He nodded. “Say ‘buttress,’” she told him. “It’s my favorite word.” “Healing?” he asked. “Yeah, I can still heal,” she said. “I think. I should be able to help him.” He took her hand, insistent. “I’ll go with you,” Rlain said. He glanced at Venli and she hummed to Skepticism, indicating she wouldn’t go. She had to attend Raboniel. “I won’t stay away too long,” Rlain promised her. “I don’t want to draw suspicion.” The other two left, but he lingered, then hummed to Appreciation. “I’m sorry about what I said when you first saw me in the cell. You’re not selfish, Venli.” “I am,” she said. “A lot of things are confusing to me these days—but of that fact I’m certain.” “No,” he said. “Today you’re a hero. I know you’ve been through rough times, but today…” He grinned and hummed to Appreciation again, then ducked out after the others. If only he knew the whole story. Still, she felt upbeat as she headed toward the scholar rooms below. “Can I say the words now?” she asked
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Timbre. The pulse indicated the negative. Not yet. “When?” Venli asked. A simple, straightforward pulse was her answer. You’ll know. Midius once told me … told me we could use Investiture … to enhance our minds, our memories, so we wouldn’t forget so much. Raboniel made good on her promise to leave Navani to her own designs. The Fused studied the shield that protected the Sibling—but without Navani to accidentally act as a spy, Raboniel’s progress wasn’t nearly as rapid as before. Occasionally—when pacing so she could glance out past the guard—Navani would catch Raboniel sitting on the floor beside the blue shield, holding up the sphere full of Warlight and staring at it. Navani found herself in a curious situation. Forbidden to take part in the administration of the tower, forbidden direct contact with her scholars, she had only her research to occupy her. In a way, she had been given the gift she’d always wished for: a chance to truly see if she could become a scholar. Something had always prevented her from full dedication. After Gavilar’s death, she’d been too busy guiding Elhokar and then Aesudan. Perhaps Navani could have focused on scholarship when she’d first come to the Shattered Plains—but there had been a Blackthorn to seduce and then a new kingdom to forge. For all she complained about politics and the distractions of administering a kingdom, she certainly did find her way into the middle of both with frightful regularity. Perhaps Navani should go do menial labor. At least that way she’d be among the people. And wouldn’t risk doing any more damage. Except … Raboniel would certainly never let her go around unsupervised. Plus, the lure of unknown secrets called to Navani. She had information Raboniel did not. Navani had seen a sphere that warped air, filled with what seemed to be some kind of anti-Voidlight. She knew about the explosion. The thing Raboniel wanted to create was possible. So … why not try to find out how to make it? Why not see what she could actually do? The power to destroy a god. Negative Light. Can I crack the secret? What if Navani was thinking too small in trying to save the tower? What if there was a way to end the war once and for all? What if Navani really could find a way to destroy Odium? She needed to try. But how to even start? Well … the best way to encourage discoveries from her scholars was usually to cultivate the proper environment and attitude. Keep them studying, keep them experimenting. Oftentimes the greatest discoveries came not because a woman was looking for them, but because she was so engrossed in some other topic that she started making connections she never would have otherwise. So, over the next few days, Navani tried to replicate this state in herself. She ordered parts, supplies, fabrial mechanisms—some all the way from Kholinar—and they were delivered without a word of complaint. That included, most importantly, many gemstones bearing corrupted spren to power fabrials. To warm up,
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she spent time creating weapons that wouldn’t look like weapons. Traps she could use, if she grew truly desperate, to defend her room or the pillar room. She wasn’t certain how she would deploy them—or if she would need to. For now, it was something scholarly to do, something familiar, and she threw herself wholeheartedly into the work. She hid painrials inside other fabrials, constructed to appear innocuous. She made alarms to distract, using technology they’d discovered from the gemstones left by the old Radiants in Urithiru. She used conjoined rubies to make spring traps that would release spikes. She put Voidlight spheres in her fabrial traps, then set them to be armed by a simple trick. A magnet against the side of the cube, in precisely the right place, would move a metal lever and arm the traps. This way they wouldn’t activate until she needed them. She had these boxes stored out in the hallway, as if they were half-completed experiments she intended to return to in a few days. The space was already lined with boxes from the other scholars, so Navani’s additions didn’t feel out of place. Afterward, she had Raboniel help her make more Warlight for experiments. Navani couldn’t create it by herself, unfortunately. No combination of tuning forks or instruments replicated Raboniel’s presence—but so far as Navani could tell, the Fused also couldn’t create it without a human’s help. Navani got better at humming the tone, mastering the rhythm. In those moments, she felt as if she could hear the very soul of Roshar speaking to her. She’d never been particularly interested in music, but—like her growing obsession with Light—she found it increasingly fascinating. Waves, sounds, and what they meant for science. Underlying all the work she did was a singular question: How would one make the opposite of Voidlight? What had been in that sphere of Gavilar’s? In Vorinism, pure things were said to be symmetrical. And all things had an opposite. It was easy to see why Raboniel had assumed the dark Light of the Void would be the opposite of Stormlight, but darkness wasn’t truly an opposite of light. It was simply the absence of light. She needed some way to measure Investiture, the power in a gemstone. And she needed some kind of model, a form of energy that she knew had an opposite. What things in nature had a provable, measurable opposite? “Magnets,” she said, pushing aside her chair and standing up from her notes. She walked up to the guard at her chamber door. “I need more magnets. Stronger ones this time. We kept some in the chemical supplies storehouse on the second floor.” The guard hummed a tone, and accompanied it with a long-suffering sigh for Navani’s benefit. He glanced around for support, but the only other singer nearby was Raboniel’s daughter, who sat outside the room with her back to the wall, holding a sword across her lap and staring off into the distance while humming. It wasn’t a rhythm, Navani realized, but a tune she recognized—a human
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one sung sometimes at taverns. How did the Fused know it? “I suppose I can see it done,” the guard said to Navani. “Though some of our people are growing annoyed by your persistent demands.” “Take it up with Raboniel,” Navani said, walking to her seat. “Oh, and the Fused use some kind of weapon that draws Stormlight out of Radiants they stab. Get me some of that metal.” “I’ll need the Lady of Wishes to approve that,” the guard said. “Then ask her. Go on. I’m not going to run off. Where do you think I’d go?” The guard—a stormform Regal—grumbled and moved off to do as she asked. Navani had teased out a few things about him during her incarceration. He’d been a parshman slave in the palace at Kholinar. He thought she should recognize him, and … well, perhaps she should. Parshmen had always been so invisible though. She tried a different experiment while she waited. She had two halves of a conjoined ruby on the desk. That meant a split gemstone—and a split spren, divided right through the center. She was trying to see if she could use the tuning fork method to draw out the halves of the spren and rejoin them in a larger ruby. She thought that might please the Sibling, who still wouldn’t talk to her. She put a magnifying lens on one half of the gemstone and watched as the spren within reacted to the tuning fork. This was a corrupted flamespren; that shouldn’t change the nature of the experiment, or so she hoped. It was moving in there, trying to reach the sound. It pressed against the wall of the gemstone, but couldn’t escape. Stormlight can leak through micro-holes in the structure, Navani thought. But the spren is too large. A short time later, someone stepped up to the doorway; Navani noticed the darkening light of someone moving in front of the lamp. “My magnets?” Navani asked, holding out her hand while still peering at the spren. “Bring them here.” “Not the magnets,” Raboniel said. “Lady of Wishes,” Navani said, turning and bowing from her seat. “I apologize for not recognizing you.” Raboniel hummed a rhythm Navani couldn’t distinguish, then walked over to inspect the experiment. “I’m trying to rejoin a split spren,” Navani explained. “Past experience shows that breaking a gemstone in half lets the flamespren go—but in that case, the two halves grow into separate flamespren. I’m trying to see if I can merge them back together.” Raboniel placed something on the desk—a small dagger, ornate, with an intricately carved wooden handle and a large ruby set at the base. Navani picked it up, noting that the center of the blade—running like a vein from tip to hilt—was a different kind of metal than the rest. “We use these for collecting the souls of Heralds,” Raboniel noted. “Or that was the plan. We’ve taken a single one so far, and … there have been complications with that capture. I had hoped to harvest the two you reportedly had here, but
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they left with your expeditionary force.” Navani flipped the weapon over, feeling cold. “We’ve used this metal for several Returns to drain Stormlight from Radiants,” Raboniel said. “It conducts Investiture, drawing it from a source and pulling it inward. We used it to fill gemstones, but didn’t realize until the fall of Ba-Ado-Mishram that capturing spren in gemstones was possible. It was then that one of us—She Who Dreams—realized it might be possible to trap a Herald’s soul in the same way.” Navani licked her lips. So it was true. Shalash had told them Jezerezeh’Elin had fallen. They hadn’t realized how. This was better than absolute destruction though. Could he be recovered this way? “What will you do with their souls?” Navani asked. “Once you have them?” “Same thing you’ve done with the soul of Nergaoul,” Raboniel said. “Put them somewhere safe, so they can never be released again. Why did you want this metal? The guard told me you’d asked after it.” “I thought,” Navani said, “this might be a better way to conduct Stormlight and Voidlight—to transfer it out of gemstones.” “It would work,” Raboniel said. “But it isn’t terribly practical. Raysium is exceptionally difficult to obtain.” She nodded to the dagger she’d given Navani. “That specific weapon, you should know, contains only a small amount of the metal—not enough to harvest a Herald’s soul. It would not, therefore, be of any danger to me—should you consider trying such an act.” “Understood, Ancient One,” Navani said. “I want it only for my experiments. Thank you.” She touched the tip of the dagger—with the white-gold metal—to one half of the divided ruby. Nothing happened. “Generally, you need to stab someone with it for it to work,” Raboniel said. “You need to touch the soul.” Navani nodded absently, resetting her equipment with the tuning fork and the magnifying lens, then watching the spren inside move to the sound. She set the tip of the dagger against it again, watching for any different behavior. “You seem to be enjoying yourself,” Raboniel noted. “I would enjoy myself more if my people were free, Lady of Wishes,” Navani said. “But I intend to use this time to some advantage.” Their defense of the tower, frail though it was, had utterly collapsed. She couldn’t reach Kaladin, hear the Sibling, or plan with her scholars. There was only one node left to protect the heart of the tower from corruption. Navani had a solitary hope remaining: that she could imitate a scholar well enough to build a new weapon. A weapon to kill a god. In her experiment, nothing happened. The spren couldn’t get out of the ruby, even with the tone calling it. The spren was vivid blue, as it was corrupted, and appeared as half a spren: one arm, one leg. Why continue to manifest that way? Flamespren often changed forms—and they were infamous for noticing they were being watched. Navani had read some very interesting essays on the topic. She picked up a small jeweler’s hammer. Carefully, she cracked the half ruby, letting the
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spren escape. It sprang free, but was immediately captured by the dagger. Light traveled along the blade, then the ruby at the base began to glow. Navani confirmed that the half spren was inside. Interesting, Navani thought. So, what if I break the other half of the ruby and capture that half in the same gemstone? Excited, she reached to grab the other half of the ruby—but when she moved it, the dagger skidded across the table. Navani froze. The two halves of the spren were still conjoined? She’d expected that to end once the original imprisonment did. Curious, she moved the dagger. The other half of the ruby flew out several feet toward the center of the room. Too far. Much too far. She’d moved the dagger half a foot, while the paired ruby had moved three times as far. Navani stared at the hovering ruby, her eyes wide. Raboniel hummed a loud rhythm, looking just as startled. “How?” she asked. “Is it because the spren is corrupted?” “Possibly,” Navani said. “Though I’ve been experimenting with conjoined spren, and corrupted ones seem to generally behave the same as uncorrupted ones.” She eyed the dagger. “The gemstone on the dagger is larger than the one it was in before. Always before, you had to split a gemstone in two equal halves to conjoin them. Perhaps by moving one half to a larger gemstone, I have created something new.…” “Force multiplication?” Raboniel asked. “Move a large gemstone a short distance, and cause the small gemstone to go a very long one?” “Energy will be conserved, if our understanding of fabrial laws is correct,” Navani said. “Greater Light will be required, and moving the larger gemstone will be more difficult in equivalency to the work done by the smaller gemstone. But storms … the implications…” “Write this down,” Raboniel said. “Record your observations. I will do the same.” “Why?” Navani asked. “The Rhythm of War, Navani,” Raboniel said as an explanation—though it didn’t seem one to Navani. “Do it. And continue your experiments.” “I will,” she said. “But Lady of Wishes, I’m running into another problem. I need a way to measure the strength of Stormlight in a gemstone.” Raboniel didn’t press for details. “There is sand that does this,” she said. “Sand?” “It is black naturally, but turns white in the presence of Stormlight. It can, therefore, be used to measure the strength of Investiture—the more powerful the source of power nearby, the quicker the sand changes. I will get some for you.” She hummed loudly. “This is amazing, Navani. I don’t think I’ve known a scholar so capable, not in many Returns.” “I’m not a…” Navani trailed off. “Thank you,” she said instead. Why would I want to remember? Dabbid had been different all his life. That was the word his mother had used. “Different.” He liked that word. It didn’t try to pretend. Something was different about him. He had been six when he started talking. He still couldn’t do adding in his head. He could follow instructions, but he forgot
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steps if they were too long. He was different. The surgeons hadn’t been able to say the reason. They said some people are just different. He was always going to be like this. The midwife, when she heard about him later, said the cord was wrapped around his neck when he was born. Maybe that was why. When he’d been young, Dabbid had tried putting a rope around his neck to see how it felt. He hadn’t jumped off a ledge. He hadn’t tied the other end to anything. He hadn’t tried to die. He’d just tightened it a little, so he could know what baby Dabbid had felt. When someone saw, everyone had panicked. They called him stupid. They took ropes away from him for years. They thought he was too dumb to know it would hurt him. He often got into trouble like that. Doing things others wouldn’t do. Not understanding it would make people panic. He had to be very careful not to make regular people frightened. They liked to be scared of him. He did not know why. He was different. But not scary different. It had gotten worse when his mother died. People had become meaner on that day. It wasn’t his fault. He hadn’t even been there. But suddenly, everyone was meaner. He ended up at war, serving a lighteyes. Washing his clothing. When a darkeyed baby was born to the man’s wife, everyone had gotten angry at Dabbid. He’d explained that they were wrong. Everybody was wrong sometimes. It hadn’t been until much later that he’d realized the brightlady had lied. To punish someone other than her secret lover. He could understand things, if he had time to think about them. Sometimes. He’d ended up running bridges. Dabbid didn’t remember much from that time. He’d lost track of the days. He’d barely spoken back then. He had been confused. He had been frightened. He had been angry. But he didn’t let people know he was angry. People got scared and hurt him when he was angry. He’d done his job, terrified more each day, certain he would die. In fact, he’d figured he must already be dead. So when a horse—from one of Sadeas’s own soldiers—had all but trampled him, shoving him and hurling him to the ground, his arm broken, he’d curled up and waited to die. Then … Kaladin. Kaladin Stormblessed. He hadn’t cared that Dabbid was different. He hadn’t cared that Dabbid had given up. Kaladin hauled him out of Damnation and gave him another family. Dabbid couldn’t quite recall when he’d started to come out of his battle shock. He hadn’t ever really lost it. Who could? People clapping sounded like bowstrings snapping. Footfalls sounded like hooves. Or he’d hear singing, like the Parshendi, and he was there again. Dying. Still, he had started to feel better. Somewhere along the way, he’d started to feel like his old self. Except he’d had a new family. He’d had friends. And none of them had known he was different. Well, they thought he
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was another kind of different. They thought he had been hurt by the battle, like all of them. He was one of them. They hadn’t known about his mind. How he’d been born. He didn’t like it when people used the word “stupid” for the way he was. People called one another stupid when they made mistakes. Dabbid wasn’t a mistake. He could make mistakes. Then he was stupid. But not always. He couldn’t think fast like others. But that made him different, not stupid. Stupid was a choice. In the past, his speech had told people he was different. He’d figured that out when he was moving from job to job after his mother died. When he’d spoken, they’d known. So … with Bridge Four … he’d just kept on not speaking. That way they wouldn’t know. That way they wouldn’t realize he was Dabbid different. He could just be Bridge Four different. Then everyone had started getting spren. Except him. And then the tower had started talking to him. And … he still wasn’t certain if he’d done something stupid or not. But going to Rlain, that hadn’t been stupid. He was certain of it. So today, he tried not to think about his mistakes. He tried not to think about how if he’d been stronger, he could have helped Kaladin fight. He tried not to think about how he’d lied to the others by pretending he couldn’t speak. He tried to focus on what he could do to help. He led Rlain up through the tunnels. They met singers a couple of times. Rlain talked, his voice calm with rhythms, and the singers let them go. They went up and up, and Dabbid showed him a hidden stairwell. They snuck past the guard patrols on the sixth floor. Up and up. Dabbid’s heart thumped. Worrying. Would Lift meet them, like she’d promised? Lift knew the tower better than they did. She said she could make it on her own. But would she run away? When they reached the meeting place on the tenth floor, they found her waiting. She sat on the ground, eating some curry and bread. “Where did you get that?” Rlain asked. “Fused,” she said, gesturing. “Funny. They need to eat. Suppose that means they poop, right?” “I suppose,” Rlain said, sounding disapproving. “Ain’t that a kick in the bits?” Lift asked. “You get made immortal; you can live through the centuries. You can fly, or walk through rock, or something like that. But you still gotta piss like everyone else.” “I don’t see the point of this conversation,” Rlain said. “Hurry. We need to get to Kaladin.” Lift rolled her eyes in an exaggerated way, then stood up and handed Dabbid some flatbread. He nodded in thanks and tucked it away for later. “When didya start talkin’?” Lift asked him. “I was six,” he said. “Mom said.” “No, I mean…” She gestured at him. Dabbid felt himself blush, and he looked at his feet. “I could for a long time. Just didn’t.” “Didn’t want to
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talk? I’ve never felt like that. Except this once, when I ate the queen’s dinner, but it had been sitting out, see, and she didn’t put it away like she should have. It’s her fault, I told her, because it’s like leavin’ a sword out where a baby could step on it and cut up her foot or somethin’.” “Can we please keep moving?” Rlain demanded. Dabbid led them the rest of the way. He felt more anxious now. Was he too late? Had Kaladin died while he was gone? Was he too slow to help? Too different to have realized earlier what he should have done? Dabbid led them to the place on the eleventh floor, but the door had stopped working. It had been too long since Kaladin infused it. They had Lift though, and when she pressed her hand to the gemstone, the door opened. It smelled of sweat and blood in there. Dabbid hurried past the place where Teft lay unconscious, reaching Kaladin. On the floor, wrapped in blankets. Thrashing. Still alive. Still alive. “Storms,” Lift said, stepping over. Kaladin’s face was coated in sweat. His teeth were gritted, his eyes squeezed shut. He flailed in his blankets, growling softly. Dabbid had cut off his shirt to look for wounds. While there were scabs all along Kaladin’s side, the worst part was the infection. It spread across the skin from the cut. A violent redness. Hateful, covered in little rotspren. Lift stepped back, wrapping her arms around herself. “Storms.” “I’ve … never seen a fever like that,” Rlain said, towering over the two of them. Did he know how large he was in warform? “Have you?” Lift shook her head. “Please,” Dabbid said. “Please help.” Lift held out her hand, palm forward, and burst alight with power. Stormlight rose from her skin like white smoke, and she knelt. She shied away as Kaladin thrashed again, then she lunged forward and pressed her hand to his chest. The redness immediately retreated, and the rotspren fled, as if they couldn’t stand the presence of her touch. Kaladin’s back arched. He was hurting! Then he collapsed into the blankets. Lift pressed her other hand against his side, and the wound continued to heal, the redness fleeing. She furrowed her brow and bit her lip. Dabbid did the same. Maybe it would help. She pushed so much Stormlight into Kaladin he started glowing himself. When she sat back, the scabs flaked off his side, leaving smooth new skin. “That … was hard,” she whispered. “Even harder than when I saved Gawx.” She wiped her brow. “I’m sweating.” “Thank you,” Dabbid said, taking her hand. “Ew,” she said. Oh. It was the hand she’d just used to wipe her head. “Thank you,” he said. She shrugged. “My awesomeness—the slippery part—doesn’t work anymore. But this does. Wonder why.” Rlain went to close the door. Dabbid tried to make Kaladin comfortable, bunching up a blanket to make a pillow. His friend was still unconscious, but sleeping peacefully now. “I have a lot of questions, Dabbid,”
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