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appeared behind her. She dropped the tray and reached to the side of Kaladin’s face with a soft touch. Syl zipped around in a ribbon of light, laughing. Kaladin couldn’t laugh. Not until it had been said. He took a deep breath, choked on it the first time, then finally forced it out. “I’m sorry, Father, Mother,” he whispered. “I joined the army to protect him, but I could barely protect myself.” He found himself shaking, and he put his back to the wall, letting himself sink down until he was seated. “I let Tien die. I’m sorry. It’s my fault.…” “Oh, Kaladin,” Hesina said, kneeling down beside him and pulling him into an embrace. “We got your letter, but over a year ago they told us you had died as well.” “I should have saved him,” Kaladin whispered. “You shouldn’t have gone in the first place,” Lirin said. “But now … Almighty, now you’re back.” Lirin stood up, tears leaking down his cheeks. “My son! My son is alive!” * * * A short time later, Kaladin sat among the wounded, holding a cup of warm soup in his hands. He hadn’t had a hot meal since … when? “That’s obviously a slave’s brand, Lirin,” a soldier said, speaking with Kaladin’s father near the doorway into the room. “Sas glyph, so it happened here in the princedom. They probably told you he’d died to save you the shame of the truth. And then the shash brand—you don’t get that for mere insubordination.” Kaladin sipped his soup. His mother knelt beside him, one hand on his shoulder, protective. The soup tasted of home. Boiled vegetable broth with steamed lavis stirred in, spiced as his mother always made it. He hadn’t spoken much in the half hour since he’d arrived. For now, he just wanted to be here with them. Strangely, his memories had turned fond. He remembered Tien laughing, brightening the dreariest of days. He remembered hours spent studying medicine with his father, or cleaning with his mother. Syl hovered before his mother, still wearing her little havah, invisible to everyone but Kaladin. The spren had a perplexed look on her face. “The wrong-way highstorm did break many of the town’s buildings,” Hesina explained to him softly. “But our home still stands. We had to dedicate your spot to something else, Kal, but we can make space for you.” Kaladin glanced at the soldier. Captain of Roshone’s guard; Kaladin thought he remembered the man. He almost seemed too pretty to be a soldier, but then, he was lighteyed. “Don’t worry about that,” Hesina said. “We’ll deal with it, whatever the … trouble is. With all these wounded pouring in from the villages around, Roshone will need your father’s skill. Roshone won’t go making a storm and risk Lirin’s discontent—and you won’t be taken from us again.” She talked to him as if he were a child. What a surreal sensation, being back here, being treated like he was still the boy who had left for war five years ago. Three men bearing
their son’s name had lived and died in that time. The soldier who had been forged in Amaram’s army. The slave, so bitter and angry. His parents had never met Captain Kaladin, bodyguard to the most powerful man in Roshar. And then … there was the next man, the man he was becoming. A man who owned the skies and spoke ancient oaths. Five years had passed. And four lifetimes. “He’s a runaway slave,” the guard captain hissed. “We can’t just ignore that, surgeon. He probably stole the uniform. And even if for some reason he was allowed to hold a spear despite his brands, he’s a deserter. Look at those haunted eyes and tell me you don’t see a man who has done terrible things.” “He’s my son,” Lirin said. “I’ll buy his writ of slavery. You’re not taking him. Tell Roshone he can either let this slide, or he can go without a surgeon. Unless he assumes Mara can take over after just a few years of apprenticeship.” Did they think they were speaking softly enough that he couldn’t hear? Look at the wounded people in this room, Kaladin. You’re missing something. The wounded … they displayed fractures. Concussions. Very few lacerations. This was not the aftermath of a battle, but of a natural disaster. So what had happened to the Voidbringers? Who had fought them off? “Things have gotten better since you left,” Hesina promised Kaladin, squeezing his shoulder. “Roshone isn’t as bad as he once was. I think he feels guilty. We can rebuild, be a family again. And there’s something else you need to know about. We—” “Hesina,” Lirin said, throwing his hands into the air. “Yes?” “Write a letter to the highprince’s administrators,” Lirin said. “Explain the situation; see if we can get a forbearance, or at least an explanation.” He looked to the soldier. “Will that satisfy your master? We can wait upon a higher authority, and in the meantime I can have my son back.” “We’ll see,” the soldier said, folding his arms. “I’m not sure how much I like the idea of a shash-branded man running around my town.” Hesina rose to join Lirin. The two had a hushed exchange as the guard settled back against the doorway, pointedly keeping an eye on Kaladin. Did he know how little like a soldier he looked? He didn’t walk like a man acquainted with battle. He stepped too hard, and stood with his knees too straight. There were no dents in his breastplate, and his sword’s scabbard knocked against things as he turned. Kaladin sipped his soup. Was it any wonder that his parents still thought of him as a child? He’d come in looking ragged and abandoned, then had started sobbing about Tien’s death. Being home brought out the child in him, it seemed. Perhaps it was time, for once, to stop letting the rain dictate his mood. He couldn’t banish the seed of darkness inside him, but Stormfather, he didn’t need to let it rule him either. Syl walked up to him in
the air. “They’re like I remember them.” “Remember them?” Kaladin whispered. “Syl, you never knew me when I lived here.” “That’s true,” she said. “So how can you remember them?” Kaladin said, frowning. “Because I do,” Syl said, flitting around him. “Everyone is connected, Kaladin. Everything is connected. I didn’t know you then, but the winds did, and I am of the winds.” “You’re honorspren.” “The winds are of Honor,” she said, laughing as if he’d said something ridiculous. “We are kindred blood.” “You don’t have blood.” “And you don’t have an imagination, it appears.” She landed in the air before him and became a young woman. “Besides, there was … another voice. Pure, with a song like tapped crystal, distant yet demanding…” She smiled, and zipped away. Well, the world might have been upended, but Syl was as impenetrable as ever. Kaladin set aside his soup and climbed to his feet. He stretched to one side, then the other, feeling satisfying pops from his joints. He walked toward his parents. Storms, but everyone in this town seemed smaller than he remembered. He hadn’t been that much shorter when he’d left Hearthstone, had he? A figure stood right outside the room, speaking with the guard with the rusty helmet. Roshone wore a lighteyes’ coat that was several seasons out of fashion—Adolin would have shaken his head at that. The citylord wore a wooden foot on his right leg, and had lost weight since Kaladin had last seen him. His skin drooped on his figure like melted wax, bunching up at his neck. That said, Roshone had the same imperious bearing, the same angry expression—his light yellow eyes seemed to blame everyone and everything in this insignificant town for his banishment. He’d once lived in Kholinar, but had been involved in the deaths of some citizens—Moash’s grandparents—and had been shipped out here as punishment. He turned toward Kaladin, lit by candles on the walls. “So, you’re alive. They didn’t teach you to keep yourself in the army, I see. Let me have a look at those brands of yours.” He reached over and held up the hair in front of Kaladin’s forehead. “Storms, boy. What did you do? Hit a lighteyes?” “Yes,” Kaladin said. Then punched him. He bashed Roshone right in the face. A solid hit, exactly like Hav had taught him. Thumb outside of his fist, he connected with the first two knuckles of his hand across Roshone’s cheekbone, then followed through to slide across the front of the face. Rarely had he delivered such a perfect punch. It barely even hurt his fist. Roshone dropped like a felled tree. “That,” Kaladin said, “was for my friend Moash.” I worry about my fellow Truthwatchers. —From drawer 8-21, second emerald The storm did not belong to Kaladin. He claimed the skies, and to an extent the winds. Highstorms were something different, like a country in which he was a visiting dignitary. He retained some measure of respect, but he also lacked real authority. While fighting the Assassin in White, Kaladin had traveled
with the highstorm by flying at the very front of the stormwall, like a leaf caught in a wave. That method—with the full force of the highstorm raging at his feet—seemed far too risky to use when bringing others. Fortunately, during their trip to Thaylenah, he and Shallan had tested other methods. It turned out he could still draw upon the storm’s power while flying above it, so long as he stayed within a hundred feet or so of the stormclouds. He soared there now, with two bridgemen and Elhokar’s chosen team. The sun shone brightly above, and the eternal storm extended in all directions below. Swirling black and grey, lit by sparks of lightning. Rumbling, as if angry at the small group of stowaways. They couldn’t see the stormwall now; they’d lagged far behind that. Their angle to Kholinar required them to travel more northward than westward as they cut across the Unclaimed Hills toward northern Alethkar. There was a mesmerizing beauty to the storm’s churning patterns, and Kaladin had to forcibly keep his attention on his charges. There were six of those, which made their team nine in total, counting himself, Skar, and Drehy. King Elhokar was at the front. They couldn’t bring their suits of Shardplate; Lashings didn’t work on those. Instead, the king wore thick clothing and a strange kind of glass-fronted mask to block the wind. Shallan had suggested those; they were apparently naval equipment. Adolin came next. Then two of Shallan’s soldiers—the sloppy deserters she’d collected like wounded axehound pups—and one maidservant. Kaladin didn’t understand why they’d brought those three, but the king had insisted. Adolin and the others were bundled up as much as the king, which made Shallan look even more odd. She flew in only her blue havah—which she’d pinned to keep it from fluttering too much—with white leggings underneath. Stormlight surged from her skin, keeping her warm, sustaining her. Her hair streamed behind her, a stark auburn red. She flew with arms outstretched and eyes closed, grinning. Kaladin had to keep adjusting her speed to keep her in line with the others, as she couldn’t resist reaching out to feel the wind between her freehand fingers, and waving to windspren as they passed. How does she smile like that? Kaladin wondered. During their trip through the chasms together, he’d learned her secrets. The wounds she hid. And yet … she could simply ignore them somehow. Kaladin had never been able to do that. Even when he wasn’t feeling particularly grim, he felt weighed down by his duties or the people he needed to care for. Her heedless joy made him want to show her how to really fly. She didn’t have Lashings, but could still use her body to sculpt the wind and dance in the air.… He snapped himself back to the moment, banishing silly daydreams. Kaladin tucked his arms against himself, making a narrower profile for the wind. This made him move up the line of people, so he could renew their Stormlight each in turn. He didn’t use Stormlight
to maneuver so much as the wind itself. Skar and Drehy handled their own flight about twenty feet below the group, watching in case anyone dropped for some reason. Lashings renewed, Kaladin maneuvered himself into line between Shallan and King Elhokar. The king stared forward through the mask, as if oblivious to the wondrous storm beneath. Shallan drifted onto her back, beaming as she looked up at the sky, the hem of her pinned skirts rippling and fluttering. Adolin was a different story. He glanced at Kaladin, then closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. At least he’d stopped flailing each time they hit a change in the winds. They didn’t speak, as their voices would only be lost to the rushing wind. Kaladin’s instincts said he could probably lessen the force of the wind while flying—he’d done so before—but there were some abilities he had trouble deliberately reproducing. Eventually, a line of light flitted from the storm below. It soon looped into a ribbon of light and spun up toward him. “We just passed the Windrunner River,” Syl said. The words were more of a mental impression than actual sound. “We’re near Kholinar then,” he said. “She clearly likes the sky,” Syl said, glancing at Shallan. “A natural. She almost seems like a spren, and I consider that high praise.” He sighed, and did not look at Shallan. “Come on…” Syl said, zipping around to his other side. “You need to be with people to be happy, Kaladin. I know you do.” “I have my bridge crew,” he muttered, voice lost to the winds—but Syl would be able to hear, as he could hear her. “Not the same. And you know it.” “She brought her handmaid on a scouting mission. She couldn’t go a week without someone to do her hair. You think I’d be interested in that?” “Think?” Syl said. She took the shape of a tiny young woman in a girlish dress, flying through the sky before him. “I know. Don’t think I don’t spot you stealing looks.” She smirked. “Time to stop so we don’t overshoot Kholinar,” Kaladin said. “Go tell Skar and Drehy.” Kaladin took his charges one at a time, canceling their Lashing forward, replacing it with a half Lashing upward. There was a strange effect to the Lashings that frustrated Sigzil’s scientific attempts at terminology. All of his numbers had assumed that once Lashed, a person would be under the influence of both the ground and the Lashing. That wasn’t the case. Once you used a Basic Lashing on someone, their body completely forgot about the pull of the ground, and they fell in the direction you indicated. Partial Lashings worked by making part of the person’s weight forget the ground, though the rest continued to be pulled downward. So a half Lashing upward made a person weightless. Kaladin situated the groups so he could speak to the king, Adolin, and Shallan. His bridgemen and Shallan’s attendants hovered a short distance off. Even Sigzil’s new explanations had trouble accounting for everything that Kaladin did. He’d
somehow made a kind of … channel around the group, like in a river. A current, sweeping them along, keeping them closer together. “It really is beautiful,” Shallan said, surveying the storm, which blanketed everything but the tips of some very distant peaks to their left. Probably the Sunmaker Mountains. “Like mixing paint—if dark paint could somehow spawn new colors and light within its swirls.” “So long as I can continue to watch it from a safe distance,” Adolin said. He held Kaladin’s arm to keep from drifting away. “We’re close to Kholinar,” Kaladin said. “Which is good, as we’re getting near the back edge of the storm, and I’ll soon lose access to its Stormlight.” “What I feel like I’m about to lose,” Shallan said, looking down, “is my shoes.” “Shoes?” Adolin said. “I lost my lunch back there.” “I can’t help imagining something sliding off and dropping into it,” Shallan whispered. “Vanishing. Gone forever.” She glanced at Kaladin. “No wisecracks about missing boots?” “I couldn’t think of anything funny.” He hesitated. “Though that hasn’t ever stopped you.” Shallan grinned. “Have you ever considered, bridgeman, that bad art does more for the world than good art? Artists spend more of their lives making bad practice pieces than they do masterworks, particularly at the start. And even when an artist becomes a master, some pieces don’t work out. Still others are somehow just wrong until the last stroke. “You learn more from bad art than you do from good art, as your mistakes are more important than your successes. Plus, good art usually evokes the same emotions in people—most good art is the same kind of good. But bad pieces can each be bad in their own unique way. So I’m glad we have bad art, and I’m sure the Almighty agrees.” “All this,” Adolin said, amused, “to justify your sense of humor, Shallan?” “My sense of humor? No, I’m merely trying to justify the creation of Captain Kaladin.” Ignoring her, Kaladin squinted eastward. The clouds behind them were lightening from deep, brooding black and grey to a more general blandness, the color of Rock’s morning mush. The storm was near to ending; what arrived with a fanfare ended with an extended sigh, gales giving way to peaceful rain. “Drehy, Skar,” Kaladin called. “Keep everyone in the air. I’m going to go scout below.” The two gave him salutes, and Kaladin dropped through the clouds, which—from within—looked like dirty fog. Kaladin came out crusted in frost, and rain began pelting him, but it was growing weak. Thunder rumbled softly above. Enough light seeped through the clouds for him to survey the landscape. Indeed, the city was close, and it was majestic, but he forced himself to look for enemies before marveling. He noted a broad plain before the city—a killing field kept free of trees or large boulders, so that neither could offer cover to an invading army. That was empty, which wasn’t unexpected. The question was who held the city—Voidbringers or humans? He cautiously descended. The place glowed with a sprinkling
of Stormlight from cages left out in the storm to recharge the gems. And … yes, from guard posts flew Alethi flags, raised now that the worst of the storm had passed. Kaladin let out a relieved sigh. Kholinar had not fallen, though if their reports were right, all surrounding towns were occupied. In fact, looking closely, he could see that the enemy had begun building stormshelters on the killing field: bunkers from which they could prevent resupply to Kholinar. They were mere foundations of brick and mortar for now. During the times between storms, they were likely guarded—and built up—by large enemy forces. He finally let himself stare at Kholinar. He knew it was coming, inevitable as a budding yawn; he couldn’t keep it down forever. First assess the area for danger, get the lay of the land. Then gawk. Storms, that city was beautiful. He’d flown high above it once in a half dream where he’d seen the Stormfather. That hadn’t affected him the way it did to float here, looking over the vast metropolis. He’d seen proper cities now—the warcamps together were probably larger than Kholinar—so it wasn’t the size that amazed him, really, but the variety. He was accustomed to functional bunkers, not stone buildings of many shapes and roofing styles. Kholinar’s defining feature, of course, was the windblades: curious rock formations that rose from the stone like the fins of some giant creature mostly hidden beneath the surface. The large curves of stone glittered with red, white, and orange strata, their hues deepened by the rain. He hadn’t realized that the city walls were partially constructed on the tops of the outer windblades. There, the lower sections of the walls literally sprouted from the ground, while men had built fortifications atop them, evening out the heights and filling spaces between the curves. Towering over the northern side of the city was the palace complex, which rose high and confident, as if in defiance of the storms. The palace was like a little city unto itself, with bright columns, rotundas, and turrets. And something was very, very wrong with it. A cloud hung over the palace, a darkness that—at first glance—seemed like nothing more than a trick of the light. Yet the feeling of wrongness persisted, and seemed strongest around a portion at the east of the palace complex. This flat, raised plaza was filled with small buildings. The palace monastery. The Oathgate platform. Kaladin narrowed his eyes, then Lashed himself back upward, passing into the clouds. He’d probably let himself gape for too long—he didn’t want to start talk of a glowing person in the sky. Still … that city. In Kaladin’s heart still lived a country boy who had dreamed of seeing the world. “Did you see that darkness around the palace?” Kaladin asked Syl. “Yeah,” she whispered. “Something’s very wrong.” Kaladin emerged from the clouds and found that his crew had drifted off to the west in the breeze. He Lashed himself toward them, and noticed—for the first time—that his Stormlight was no longer being
renewed by the storm. Drehy and Skar looked visibly relieved when he arrived. “Kal—” Skar started. “I know. We don’t have much time left. Your Majesty, the city is right below us—and our forces still control the walls. The Parshendi are building storm bunkers and besieging the area, though the bulk of their army probably retreated to nearby towns in anticipation of the storm.” “The city stands!” Elhokar said. “Excellent! Captain, take us down.” “Your Majesty,” Kaladin said. “If we drop from the sky like this, the enemy scouts will see us entering.” “So?” Elhokar said. “The need for subterfuge was predicated on a fear that we might have to sneak in. If our forces still hold the city, we can march up to the palace, assert command, and activate the Oathgate.” Kaladin hesitated. “Your Majesty, something is … wrong with the palace. It looks dark, and Syl saw it too. I advise caution.” “My wife and child are inside,” Elhokar said. “They might be in danger.” You didn’t seem to worry much about them during six years away at war, Kaladin thought. “Let’s go down anyway,” the king said. “We want to get to the Oathgate as soon as possible…” He trailed off, looking from Kaladin to Shallan, to Adolin. “Don’t we?” “I advise caution,” Kaladin repeated. “The bridgeman isn’t the jumpy type, Your Majesty,” Adolin said. “We don’t know what’s going on in the city, or what happened since the reports of chaos and a revolt. Caution sounds good to me.” “Very well,” Elhokar said. “This is why I brought the Lightweaver. What do you recommend, Brightness?” “Let’s land outside the city,” Shallan said. “Far enough away that the glow of Stormlight doesn’t give us away. We can use illusions to sneak in and find out what is going on without revealing ourselves.” “Very well,” Elhokar said, nodding curtly. “Do as she suggests, Captain.” We can record any secret we wish, and leave it here? How do we know that they’ll be discovered? Well, I don’t care. Record that then. —From drawer 2-3, smokestone The enemy army was letting refugees approach the city. At first, this surprised Kaladin. Wasn’t the point of a siege to prevent people from getting in? And yet, a constant stream of people was allowed to approach Kholinar. The gates stood closed against an army invasion, but the side doors—which were still large—were wide open. Kaladin handed the spyglass to Adolin. They’d landed in an inconspicuous location, then hiked back to the city on foot—but it had been dark by the time they’d arrived. They’d decided to spend the night outside the city, hidden by one of Shallan’s illusions. Impressively, her Lightweaving had lasted all night on very little Stormlight. Now that morning had arrived, they were surveying the city, which was maybe a mile away. From the outside, their hideout would seem like merely another knob of stone ground. Shallan couldn’t make it transparent from only one side, so they had to see out using a slit that—if someone walked close by—would be visible. The
illusion felt like a cave—except for the fact that wind and rain went right through it. The king and Shallan had grumbled all morning, complaining of a damp, cold night. Kaladin and his men had slept like stones. There were advantages to having lived through Bridge Four. “They let refugees in so they can drain the city’s resources,” Adolin said, watching through the spyglass. “A solid tactic.” “Brightness Shallan,” Elhokar said, accepting the spyglass from Adolin, “you can give us each illusions, right? We can pretend to be refugees and enter the city easily.” Shallan nodded absently. She sat sketching near a shaft of light pouring through a small hole in the ceiling. Adolin turned his spyglass toward the palace, the top of which surmounted the city in the distance. The day was perfectly sunny, bright, and crisp, with only a hint of moisture in the air from the highstorm the day before. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. But somehow, the palace was still in shadow. “What could it be?” Adolin said, lowering his spyglass. “One of them,” Shallan whispered. “The Unmade.” Kaladin looked back at her. She’d sketched the palace, but it was twisted, with odd angles and distorted walls. Elhokar studied the palace. “You were right to recommend caution, Windrunner. My instinct is still to rush in. That’s wrong, isn’t it? I must be prudent and careful.” They gave Shallan time to finish sketches—she claimed to need them for complex illusions. Eventually she stood, flipping pages in her sketchpad. “All right. Most of us won’t need disguises, as nobody will recognize me or my attendants. Same goes for Kaladin’s men, I assume.” “If someone does recognize me,” Skar said, “it won’t cause any problems. Nobody here knows what happened to me at the Shattered Plains.” Drehy nodded. “All right,” Shallan said, turning to Kaladin and Adolin. “You two will get new faces and clothing, making you into old men.” “I don’t need a disguise,” Kaladin said. “I—” “You spent time with those parshmen earlier in the month,” Shallan said. “Best to be safe. Besides, you scowl at everyone like an old man anyway. You’ll be a great fit.” Kaladin glowered at her. “Perfect! Keep it up.” Shallan stepped over and breathed out, and Stormlight wreathed him. He felt he should be able to take it in, use it—but it resisted him. It was a strange sensation, as if he’d found a glowing coal that gave off no heat. The Stormlight vanished and he held up a hand, which now appeared wizened. His uniform coat had been changed to a homespun brown jacket. He touched his face, but didn’t feel anything different. Adolin pointed at him. “Shallan, that is positively wretched. I’m impressed.” “What?” Kaladin looked at his men. Drehy winced. Shallan wrapped Adolin in Light. He resolved into a sturdy, handsome man in his sixties, with dark brown skin, white hair, and a lean figure. His clothing was no longer ornate, but in good repair. He looked like the kind of old rogue you’d find in a pub,
with handy tales about the brilliant things he’d done in his youth. The kind of man that made women think they preferred older men, when in reality they just preferred him. “Oh, now that’s unfair,” Kaladin said. “If I stretch a lie too far, people are more likely to be suspicious,” Shallan said lightly, then stepped over to the king. “Your Majesty, you’re going to be a woman.” “Fine,” Elhokar said. Kaladin started. He’d have expected an objection. Judging by the way that Shallan seemed to stifle a quip, she’d been expecting one too. “You see,” she said instead, “I don’t think you can keep from carrying yourself like a king, so I figure that if you look like a highborn lighteyed woman, it’s less likely that you’ll be memorable to the guards who—” “I said it was fine, Lightweaver,” Elhokar said. “We mustn’t waste time. My city and nation are in peril.” Shallan breathed out again, and the king was transfigured into a tall, stately Alethi woman with features reminiscent of Jasnah’s. Kaladin nodded appreciatively. Shallan was right; there was something about the way Elhokar held himself that bespoke nobility. This was an excellent way to deflect people who might wonder who he was. As they gathered their packs, Syl zipped into the enclosure. She took the shape of a young woman and flitted up to Kaladin, then stepped back in the air—aghast. “Oh!” she said. “Wow!” Kaladin glared at Shallan. “What did you do to me?” “Oh, don’t be that way,” she said. “This will only highlight your excellent personality.” Don’t let her get to you, Kaladin thought. She wants to get to you. He hefted his pack. It didn’t matter what he looked like; it was only an illusion. But what had she done? He led the way out of their enclosure, and they fell into a line. The rock illusion melted away behind them. Kaladin’s men had brought generic blue uniforms with no insignias. They could have belonged to any minor house guard within the Kholin princedom. Shallan’s two had on generic brown uniforms, and with Elhokar wearing the dress of a lighteyed woman, they actually looked like a real refugee group. Elhokar would be seen as a brightlady who had fled—without even a palanquin or carriage—before the enemy’s advance. She’d brought a few guards, some servants, and Shallan as her young ward. And Kaladin was her … what? Storms. “Syl,” he growled, “could I summon you not as a sword, but as a flat, shiny piece of metal?” “A mirror?” she asked, flying along beside him. “Hmmm.…” “Not sure if it’s possible?” “Not sure if it’s dignified.” “Dignified? Since when have you cared about dignity?” “I’m not to be toyed with. I’m a majestic weapon to be used only in majestic ways.” She hummed to herself and flitted away. Before he could call her back to complain, Elhokar caught up to him. “Slow down, Captain,” the king said. Even his voice had changed to sound womanly. “You’ll outpace us.” Reluctantly, Kaladin slowed. Elhokar didn’t show what he
thought of Kaladin’s face; the king kept his eyes forward. He never did think much about other people, so that was normal. “They call it the Windrunner, you know,” the king said softly. It took Kaladin a moment to realize that Elhokar was referring to the river that ran past Kholinar. Their path took them across it on a wide stone bridge. “The Alethi lighteyes rule because of you. Your order was prominent here, in what was then Alethela.” “I—” “Our quest is vital,” Elhokar continued. “We can’t afford to let this city fall. We cannot afford mistakes.” “I assure you, Your Majesty,” Kaladin said, “I don’t intend to make mistakes.” Elhokar glanced at him, and for a moment Kaladin felt he could see the real king. Not because the illusion was failing, but because of the way Elhokar’s lips tightened, his brow creased, and his gaze became so intense. “I wasn’t speaking of you, Captain,” the king said quietly. “I was referring to my own limitations. When I fail this city, I want to make sure you are there to protect it.” Kaladin looked away, ashamed. Had he really just been thinking of how selfish this man was? “Your Majesty…” “No,” Elhokar said firmly. “This is a time to be realistic. A king must do whatever he can for the good of his people, and my judgment has proven … deficient. Anything I have ‘accomplished’ in life has been handed to me by my father or my uncle. You are here, Captain, to succeed when I fail. Remember that. Open the Oathgate, see that my wife and child are ushered through it to safety, and return with an army to reinforce this city.” “I’ll do my best, Your Majesty.” “No,” Elhokar said. “You’ll do what I command. Be extraordinary, Captain. Nothing else will suffice.” Storms. How was it that Elhokar could give a compliment and yet be insulting at the same time? Kaladin felt a weight at hearing words that reminded him of his days in Amaram’s army, back when people had first started talking about him, expecting things from him. Those rumors had become a challenge, creating for everyone the notion of a man who was like Kaladin, but at the same time greater than he could ever be. He’d used that fictional man, relied upon him, to equip his team and to get soldiers transferred to his squad. Without it, he’d never have met Tarah. It was useful to have a reputation, so long as it didn’t crush you. The king dropped back farther into the line. They crossed the killing field under the watchful eyes of bowmen atop the wall. It made Kaladin’s back itch, though they were Alethi soldiers. He tried to ignore it by focusing on studying the wall as they stepped into its shadow. Those strata, he thought, remind me of the tunnels in Urithiru. Could there be some connection? He glanced over his shoulder as Adolin came up to him. The disguised prince winced as he looked at Kaladin. “Hey,” Adolin said. “Um …
wow. That’s really distracting.” Storming woman. “What do you want?” “I’ve been thinking,” Adolin said. “We’ll want a place inside the city to hole up, right? We can’t follow either of our original plans—we can’t simply stride up to the palace, but we don’t want to assault it either. Not until we’ve done a little scouting.” Kaladin nodded. He hated the prospect of spending too much time in Kholinar. None of the other bridgemen had gotten far enough to swear the Second Ideal, so Bridge Four would be unable to practice with their powers until he returned. At the same time, the shadowed palace was disquieting. They did need to spend a few days gathering intelligence. “Agreed,” Kaladin said. “Do you have any ideas for where we can set up?” “I’ve got just the place. Run by people I trust, and close enough to the palace to do some scouting, but far enough away not to get caught in … whatever is going on there. Hopefully.” He looked concerned. “What was it like?” Kaladin asked. “The thing beneath the tower that you and Shallan fought?” “Shallan has pictures. You should ask her.” “I’ve seen them in the reports Dalinar’s scribes gave me,” Kaladin said. “What was it like?” Adolin turned his blue eyes back to their path. The illusion was so real, it was hard to believe it was actually him—but he did walk the same way, with that inborn confidence only a lighteyes had. “It was … wrong,” Adolin finally said. “Haunting. A nightmare made manifest.” “Kind of like my face?” Kaladin asked. Adolin glanced at him, then grinned. “Fortunately, Shallan covered it up for you with that illusion.” Kaladin found himself smiling. The way Adolin said things like that made it clear he was joking—and not only at your expense. Adolin made you want to laugh with him. They drew close to the entrance. Though dwarfed by the main city gates, the side doors were wide enough to admit a cart. Unfortunately, the entrance was blocked by soldiers, and a crowd was accumulating, angerspren boiling on the ground around them. The refugees shook their fists and shouted at being barred entrance. They’d been letting people in earlier. What was happening? Kaladin glanced at Adolin, then gestured with his chin. “Check it out?” “We’ll go have a look,” Adolin said, turning toward the others of their group. “Wait here.” Skar and Drehy stopped, but Elhokar followed as Kaladin and Adolin continued forward—and so did Shallan. Her servants hesitated briefly, then trailed after her. Storms, the command structure in this expedition was going to be a nightmare. Elhokar imperiously marched forward and barked at people to move out of his way. Reluctantly, they did—a woman with his bearing was not someone to cross. Kaladin exchanged a wearied glance with Adolin, then both fell in beside the king. “I demand entry,” Elhokar said, reaching the front of the crowd—which had swelled to some fifty or sixty people, with more steadily arriving. The small group of guards looked over Elhokar, and their captain spoke.
“How many fighting men can you provide for the city defense?” “None,” Elhokar snapped. “They are my personal guard.” “Then, Brightness, you should march them personally on to the south and try another city.” “Where?” Elhokar demanded, the sentiment echoed by many in the crowd. “There are monsters everywhere, Captain.” “Word is that there are fewer to the south,” the soldier said, pointing. “Regardless, Kholinar is full to bursting. You won’t find sanctuary here. Trust me. Move on. The city—” “Who is your superior?” Elhokar cut in. “I serve Highmarshal Azure, of the Wall Guard.” “Highmarshal Azure? I’ve never heard of such a man. Do these people look like they can walk farther? I command you to let us enter the city.” “I’m under orders to only let a set number in each day,” the guard said with a sigh. Kaladin recognized that sense of exasperation; Elhokar could bring it out in the most patient of guards. “We’ve passed the limit. You’ll need to wait until tomorrow.” People growled, and more angerspren appeared around them. “It’s not that we’re callous,” the guard captain called. “Will you just listen? The city is low on food, and we’re running out of room in stormshelters. Every person we add strains our resources further! But the monsters are focused here; if you flee to the south, you can take refuge there, maybe even get to Jah Keved.” “Unacceptable!” Elhokar said. “You’ve gotten these inane orders from that Azure fellow. Who commands him?” “The highmarshal has no commander.” “What?” Elhokar demanded. “What of Queen Aesudan?” The guard just shook his head. “Look, are those two men yours?” He pointed at Drehy and Skar, still standing near the back of the crowd. “They look like good soldiers. If you assign them to the Wall Guard, I’ll give you immediate entry, and we’ll see that you get a grain ration.” “Not that one though,” another guard said, nodding toward Kaladin. “He looks sick.” “Impossible!” Elhokar demanded. “I need my guards with me at all times.” “Brightness…” the captain said. Storms, but Kaladin empathized with the poor man. Syl suddenly grew alert, zipping into the sky as a ribbon of light. Kaladin immediately stopped paying attention to Elhokar and the guards. He searched the sky until he saw figures flying toward the wall in a V formation. There were at least twenty Voidbringers, each trailing a plume of dark energy. Above, soldiers began to scream. The urgent call of drums followed, and the guard captain cursed in response. He and his men charged in through the open doors, then ran toward the nearest stairs leading up to the wall walk. “In!” Adolin said as other refugees surged forward. He grabbed the king and towed him inside. Kaladin fought against the press, refusing to be pushed into the city. He instead craned his neck to look upward, watching the Voidbringers hit the wall. Kaladin’s angle at the base was terrible for making sense of the action directly above. A few men got tossed off the wall farther along. Kaladin took a
step toward them, but before he could do anything, they crashed to the ground with strikingly loud impacts. Storms! He was shoved farther toward the city by the crowd, and barely restrained himself from drawing in Stormlight. Steady, he told himself. The point is to get in without being seen. You would ruin that by flying to the defense of the city? But he was supposed to protect. “Kaladin,” Adolin called, fighting back through the crowd to where Kaladin stood right outside. “Come on.” “They’re dominating that wall, Adolin. We should go help.” “Help how?” Adolin said. He leaned in, speaking softly. “Summon Shardblades and swing them wildly in the air, like a farmer chasing skyeels? This is merely a raid to test our defenses. It’s not a full-on assault.” Kaladin drew in a breath, then let Adolin pull him into the city. “Two dozen of the Fused. They could take this city with ease.” “Not alone,” Adolin said. “Everyone knows that Shardbearers can’t hold ground—it should be the same for Radiants and those Fused. You need soldiers to take a city. Let’s move.” They went inside and met with the others, then moved away from the walls and gates. Kaladin tried to close his ears to the distant shouts of the soldiers. As Adolin had guessed, the raid ended as abruptly as it had begun, the Fused soaring away from the wall after only a few minutes of fighting. Kaladin sighed, watching them go, then steeled himself and followed with the rest as Adolin led them down a wide thoroughfare. Kholinar was both more impressive and more depressing from the inside. They passed endless side streets packed with tall, three-story homes built like stone boxes. And storms, the guard at the wall had not been exaggerating. People crowded every street. Kholinar didn’t have many alleyways; the stone buildings were built right up against each other in long rows. But people sat in the gutters, clinging to blankets and meager possessions. Too many doors were closed; often on nice days like this, people in the warcamps would leave the thick stormdoors and shutters open to the breeze. Not here. They were locked up tightly, for fear of being overwhelmed by refugees. Shallan’s soldiers pulled tight around her, hands carefully on their pockets. They seemed familiar with the underbelly of city life. Fortunately, she’d accepted Kaladin’s pointed suggestion and hadn’t brought Gaz. Where are the patrols? Kaladin thought as they walked through curving streets, up and down slopes. With all these people clogging the streets, surely they needed as many men as possible keeping the peace. He didn’t see anything until they passed out of the section of city nearest the gates and entered a more wealthy area. This part was dominated by larger homes, with grounds marked by iron fences anchored into the stone with hardened crem. Behind those were guards, but the streets were devoid of anything similar. Kaladin felt the gaze of the refugees. The wondering. Was it worth robbing him? Did it matter? Did they have food? Fortunately, the
spears Skar and Drehy carried—along with the cudgels held by Shallan’s two men—seemed enough to deter any would-be robbers. Kaladin quickened his pace to catch up to Adolin at the front of their little group. “Is this safehouse of yours close? I don’t like the feeling on these streets.” “It’s a way yet,” Adolin said. “But I agree. Storms, I should have brought a side sword. Who knew I’d be worried about summoning my Blade?” “Why can’t Shardbearers hold a city?” Kaladin asked. “Basic military theory,” Adolin said. “Shardbearers do a great job killing people—but what are they going to do against the population of an entire city? Murder everyone who disobeys? They’d get overwhelmed, Shards or not. Those flying Voidbringers will need to bring in the entire army to take the city. But first they’ll test the walls, maybe weaken the defenses.” Kaladin nodded. He liked to think he knew a great deal about warfare, but the truth was, he didn’t have the training of a man like Adolin. He’d participated in wars, but he’d never run any. The farther they got from the walls, the better things seemed to be in the city—fewer refugees, more sense of order. They passed a market that was actually open, and inside he finally spotted a policing force: a tight group of men wearing unfamiliar colors. This area would have looked nice, under other circumstances. Ridges of shalebark along the street, manicured with a variety of colors: some like plates, others like knobby branches reaching upward. Cultivated trees—which rarely pulled in their leaves—sprouted in front of many of the buildings, gripping the ground with thick roots that melded into the stone. Refugees huddled in family groups. Here, the buildings were built in large square layouts, with windows facing inward and courtyards at the centers. People crowded into these, turning them into improvised shelters. Fortunately, Kaladin saw no obvious starvation, so the city’s food stores hadn’t given out yet. “Did you see that?” Shallan asked softly, joining him. “What?” Kaladin asked, looking over his shoulder. “Performers in that market over there, dressed in very odd clothing.” Shallan frowned, pointing down an intersecting street as they passed. “There’s another one.” It was a man dressed all in white, with strips of cloth that streamed and fluttered as he moved. Head down, he stood on a street corner, leaping back and forth from one position to another. When he looked up and met Kaladin’s eyes, he was the first stranger that day who didn’t immediately look away. Kaladin watched until a chull pulling a wagon of storm refuse blocked his view. Then, ahead of them, people started clearing the street. “To the side,” Elhokar said. “I’m curious about what this could be.” They joined the crowds pressed up against the buildings, Kaladin shoving his hands in his pack to protect the large number of spheres he had tucked away in a black purse there. Soon, a strange procession came marching down the center of the street. These men and women were also dressed like performers—their clothes augmented
with brightly colored strips of red, blue, or green fabric. They walked past, calling out nonsense phrases. Words Kaladin knew, but which didn’t belong together. “What in Damnation is happening in this city?” Adolin muttered. “This isn’t normal?” Kaladin whispered. “We have buskers and street performers, but nothing like this. Storms. What are they?” “Spren,” Shallan whispered. “They’re imitating spren. Look, those are like flamespren, and the ones of white and blue with the flowing ribbons—windspren. Emotion spren too. There’s pain, that’s fear, anticipation…” “So it’s a parade,” Kaladin said, frowning. “But nobody is having any fun.” The heads of spectators bowed, and people murmured or … prayed? Nearby an Alethi refugee—wrapped in rags and holding a sniveling baby in her arms—leaned against a building. A burst of exhaustionspren appeared above her, like jets of dust rising in the air. Only these were bright red instead of the normal brown, and seemed distorted. “This is wrong, wrong, wrong,” Syl said from Kaladin’s shoulder. “Oh … oh, that spren is from him, Kaladin.” Shallan watched the rising not-exhaustionspren with widening eyes. She took Adolin by the arm. “Keep us moving,” she hissed. He started pushing through the crowd toward a corner where they could cut away from the strange procession. Kaladin grabbed the king by the arm, while Drehy, Skar, and Shallan’s two guards instinctively formed up around them. The king let Kaladin pull him away, and a good thing too. Elhokar had been fishing in his pocket, perhaps for a sphere to give the exhausted woman. Storms! In the middle of the crowd! “Not far now,” Adolin said once they had breathing room on the side street. “Follow me.” He led them to a small archway, where the buildings had been built around a shared courtyard garden. Of course, refugees had taken shelter there, many of them huddled in blanket tents that were still wet from the storm the day before. Lifespren bobbed among the plants. Adolin carefully wound his way through all the people to get to the door he wanted, and then knocked. It was the back door, facing the courtyard instead of the street. Was this a rich person’s winehouse, perhaps? It seemed more like a home though. Adolin knocked again, looking worried. Kaladin stepped up beside him, then froze. On the door was a shiny steel plate with engraved numbers. In it, he could see his reflection. “Almighty above,” Kaladin said, poking at the scars and bulges on his face, some with open sores. Fake teeth jutted from his mouth, and one eye was higher in his head than the other. His hair grew out in patches, and his nose was tiny. “What did you do to me, woman?” “I’ve recently learned,” Shallan said, “that a good disguise can be memorable, so long as it makes you memorable for the wrong reason. You, Captain, have a way of sticking in people’s heads, and I worried you would do so no matter what face you wore. So I enveloped it with something even more memorable.” “I look like some
kind of hideous spren.” “Hey!” Syl said. The door finally opened, revealing a short, matronly Thaylen woman in an apron and vest. Behind her stood a burly man with a white beard, cut after the Horneater style. “What?” she said. “Who are you?” “Oh!” Adolin said. “Shallan, I’ll need…” Shallan rubbed his face with a towel from her pack, as if to remove makeup—covering the transformation as his face became his own again. Adolin grinned at the woman, and her jaw dropped. “Prince Adolin?” she said. “Hurry, hurry. Get in here. It’s not safe outside!” She ushered them in and quickly shut the door. Kaladin blinked at the sphere-lit chamber, its walls lined with bolts of cloth and dummies with half-finished coats on them. “What is this place?” Kaladin asked. “Well, I figured we’d want someplace safe,” Adolin said. “We’d need to stay with someone I’d trust with my life, or more.” He looked at Kaladin, then gestured toward the woman. “So I brought us to my tailor.” I wish to submit my formal protest at the idea of abandoning the tower. This is an extreme step, taken brashly. —From drawer 2-22, smokestone Secrets. This city was brimming with them. It was stuffed with them, so tightly they couldn’t help but ooze out. The only thing for Shallan to do, then, was punch herself in the face. That was harder than it seemed. She always flinched. Come on, she thought, making a fist. With eyes squeezed shut, she braced herself, then smacked her freehand into the side of her head. It barely hurt; she simply wasn’t capable of hitting herself hard enough. Maybe she could get Adolin to do it for her. He was in the back workroom of the tailor’s shop. Shallan had excused herself to step into the front showroom, as she figured the others would react poorly to her trying to actively attract a painspren. She could hear their voices as they interrogated the polite tailor. “It started with the riots, Your Majesty,” the woman said in response to a question from Elhokar. “Or maybe before, with the … Well, it’s complicated. Oh, I can’t believe that you’re here. I’ve had Passion for something to happen, true, but to finally … I mean…” “Take a deep breath, Yokska,” Adolin said gently. Even his voice was adorable. “Once you’ve taken all this in, we can continue.” Secrets, Shallan thought. Secrets caused all of this. Shallan peeked into the other room. The king, Adolin, Yokska the tailor, and Kaladin sat inside, all wearing their own faces again. They’d sent Kaladin’s men—along with Red, Ishnah, and Vathah—off with the tailor’s housemaid to prepare the upper rooms and attic to accommodate guests. Yokska and her husband would be sleeping on pallets in the back room here; naturally, Elhokar had been given their room. Right now, the small group had arranged a circle of wooden chairs under the heedless watch of tailor’s dummies wearing a variety of half-finished coats. Similar finished coats were displayed around the showroom. They were made in bright colors—even brighter
than the Alethi wore at the Shattered Plains—with gold or silver thread, shiny buttons, and elaborate embroidery on the large pockets. The coats didn’t close at the front except for a few buttons right below the collar, while the sides flared out, then split into tails at the back. “It was the execution of the ardent, Brightlord,” Yokska said. “The queen had her hanged, and … Oh! It was so gruesome. Blessed Passion, Your Majesty. I don’t want to speak ill of your wife! She must not have realized—” “Just tell us,” Elhokar said. “Do not fear reprisal. I must know what the city’s people think.” Yokska trembled. She was a small, plump woman who wore her long Thaylen eyebrows curled in twin ringlets, and was probably very fashionable in that skirt and blouse. Shallan lingered in the doorway, curious as to what the tailor had to say. “Well,” Yokska continued, “during the riots, the queen … the queen basically vanished. We’d get proclamations from her, now and then, but they often didn’t make much sense. It all went wrong at the ardent’s death. The city was already in an uproar.… She wrote such awful things, Your Majesty. About the state of the monarchy, and the queen’s faith and…” “And Aesudan condemned her to death,” Elhokar said. Lit by only a few spheres at the center of their circle, his face was half shadowed. It was a most intriguing effect, and Shallan took a Memory for later sketching. “Yes, Your Majesty.” “It was the dark spren, obviously, who gave the actual order,” Elhokar said. “The dark spren that is controlling the palace. My wife would never be so imprudent as to publicly execute an ardent during such parlous times.” “Oh! Yes, of course. Dark spren. In the palace.” Yokska sounded relieved to have a rationale for not blaming the queen. Shallan considered, then noticed a pair of fabric scissors on a ledge nearby. She snatched them, then ducked back into the showroom. She pulled her skirt to the side, then stabbed herself in the leg with the scissors. The sharp pain seared up her leg and through her body. “Mmmm,” Pattern said. “Destruction. This … this is not normal for you, Shallan. Too far.” She trembled at the pain. Blood welled from the wound, but she pressed her hand against it to limit its spread. There! That had done it. Painspren appeared around her, as if crawling out of the ground—like little disembodied hands. They looked skinless, made of sinew. Normally they were bright orange, but these were a sickly green. And they were also wrong … instead of human hands, these seemed to be from some kind of monster—too distorted, with claws jutting from the sinew. Shallan eagerly took a Memory, still holding her havah skirt up to keep it from the blood. “Does that not hurt?” Pattern asked, from where he’d moved onto the wall. “Of course it does,” Shallan said, her eyes watering. “That was the point.” “Mmmm…” He buzzed, worried, but he needn’t have been, as Shallan had
what she wanted. Satisfied, she took in a little Stormlight and healed up, then used some cloth from her satchel to wipe the blood from her leg. She rinsed her hands and the cloth in the washroom basin. She was surprised at the running water; she hadn’t thought Kholinar had such things. She took out her drawing pad and returned to the back room’s doorway, where she leaned against the jamb, doing a quick sketch of the strange, twisted painspren. Jasnah would tell her to put down her sketchpad and go sit with the others—but Shallan often paid better attention with a sketchpad in her hands. People who didn’t draw never seemed to understand that. “Tell us about the palace,” Kaladin said. “The … dark spren, as His Majesty put it.” Yokska nodded. “Oh, yes, Brightlord.” Shallan glanced up to catch Kaladin’s reaction at being called Brightlord, but he didn’t show one. His illusory disguise was gone—though Shallan had tucked that sketch away, for possible further use. He’d summoned his Blade earlier in the morning, and he now had eyes as blue as any she’d seen. They hadn’t faded yet. “There was that unexpected highstorm,” Yokska continued. “And after that, the weather went insane. The rains started going in fits and starts. But oh! When that new storm came, the one with the red lightning, it left a gloom over the palace. So nasty! Dark times. I suppose … suppose those haven’t ended.” “Where were the royal guards?” Elhokar said. “They should have augmented the Watch, restored order during the rioting!” “The Palace Guard retreated into the palace, Your Majesty,” Yokska said. “And she ordered the City Watch to barricade into the barracks. They eventually moved to the palace on the queen’s orders. They … haven’t been seen since.” Storms, Shallan thought, continuing her sketch. “Oh, I guess I’m jumping about, but I forgot!” Yokska continued. “In the middle of the rioting, a proclamation came from the queen. Oh, Your Majesty. She wanted to execute the city’s parshmen! Well, we all thought she must be—I’m sorry—but we thought she must be mad. Poor things. What have they ever done? That’s what we thought. We didn’t know. “Well, the queen posted criers all over the city, proclaiming the parshmen to be Voidbringers. And I must say, about that she was right. Yet it was still so strange. She didn’t even seem to notice that half the city was rioting!” “The dark spren,” Elhokar said, making a fist. “It must be blamed, not Aesudan.” “Were there reports of any strange murders?” Adolin asked. “Murders, or violence, that came in pairs—a man would die, and then a few days later someone else would be killed in the exact same way?” “No, Brightlord. Nothing … nothing like that, though there were many who were killed.” Shallan shook her head. It was a different Unmade here; another ancient spren of Odium. Religion and lore spoke of them vaguely at best, tending to simplistically conflate them into one evil entity. Navani and Jasnah had begun to research them
over the last weeks, but they still didn’t know very much. She finished her sketch of the painspren, then did one of the exhaustionspren they’d seen earlier. She’d managed to glimpse some hungerspren around a refugee on their way. Oddly, those didn’t look any different. Why? Need more information, Shallan thought. More data. What was the most embarrassing thing she could think of? “Well,” Elhokar said, “though we didn’t order the parshmen executed, only exiled, at least that order seems to have reached Aesudan. She must have been free enough from the control of the dark forces to heed our words via spanreed.” Of course, he didn’t mention the logical problems. If the tailor was correct about the dark spren arriving during the Everstorm, then Aesudan had executed the ardent on her own—as that had happened before. Likewise, the order to exile the parshmen would also have come before the Everstorm. And who knew if an Unmade could even influence someone like the queen? The spren in Urithiru had mimicked people, not controlled them. Yokska did seem to be a little scattered in her retelling of events, so maybe Elhokar could be forgiven for mixing up the timeline. Either way, Shallan needed something embarrassing. When I spilled wine the first time Father gave me some at a dinner party. No … no … something more … “Oh!” Yokska said. “Your Majesty, you should know. The proclamation requiring the execution of the parshmen … well, a coalition of important lighteyes didn’t follow it. Then, after that terrible storm, the queen started giving other orders, so the lighteyes went to meet with her.” “Let me guess,” Kaladin said. “They never came back from the palace.” “No, Brightlord, they did not.” How about when I woke and faced Jasnah, after I’d almost died, and she’d discovered that I’d betrayed her? Surely remembering that event would be enough. No? Bother. “So the parshmen,” Adolin said. “Did they get executed?” “No,” Yokska continued. “Like I said, everyone was concerned with the riots—save for the servants posting the queen’s orders, I suppose. The Wall Guard eventually took action. They restored some measure of order in the city, then rounded up the parshmen and exiled them to the plain outside. And then…” “The Everstorm came,” Shallan said, covertly undoing the button on her safehand sleeve. Yokska seemed to shrink down in her seat. The others fell silent, which provided the perfect opportunity for Shallan. She took a deep breath, then strolled forward, holding her sketchpad as if distracted. She tripped herself over a roll of cloth on the floor, yelped, and tumbled into the center of the ring of chairs. She ended up sprawled on the floor, skirts up about her waist—and she wasn’t even wearing the leggings today. Her safehand bulged out from between the sleeve buttons, poking into the open right in front of not just the king, but Kaladin and Adolin. Perfectly, horribly, incredibly mortifying. She felt a deep blush come on, and shamespren dropped around her in a wave. Normally, they took the shape of
falling red and white flower petals. These were like pieces of broken glass. The men, of course, were more distracted by the position she’d gotten herself into. She squawked, managed to take a Memory of the shamespren, and righted herself, blushing furiously and tucking her hand in her sleeve. That, she thought, might be the craziest thing you’ve ever done. Which is saying a lot. She grabbed her sketchbook and bustled away, passing Yokska’s white-bearded husband—Shallan still hadn’t heard him speak a word—standing in the doorway with a tray of wine and tea. Shallan grabbed the darkest cup of wine and downed it in a single gulp, feeling the stares of the men on her back. “Shallan?” Adolin piped up. “Um…” “I’mfinethatwasanexperiment,” she said, ducking into the showroom and throwing herself into a seat placed there for customers. Storms, that was humiliating. She could still see partway into the other room. Yokska’s husband walked with his silver tray to the group. He stopped by Yokska—though serving the king first would have been the correct protocol—and rested a hand on her shoulder. She put her own on his. Shallan flipped open her sketchpad, and was pleased to see more shamespren dropping around her. Still glass. She started a drawing, burying herself in it to keep from thinking about what she’d just done. “So…” Elhokar said in the next room. “We were talking about the Wall Guard. They obeyed the queen’s orders?” “Well, that was around the time that the highmarshal appeared. I’ve never seen him either. He doesn’t come down from the wall much. He restored order, so that’s good, but the Wall Guard doesn’t have the numbers to police the city and watch the wall—so they’ve taken to watching the wall and mostly leaving us to just … survive in here.” “Who rules now?” Kaladin asked. “Nobody,” Yokska said. “Various highlords … well, they basically seized sections of the city. Some argued that the monarchy had fallen, that the king—I beg pardon, Your Majesty—had abandoned them. But the real power in the city is the Cult of Moments.” Shallan looked up from her drawing. “Those people we saw on the street?” Adolin asked. “Dressed like spren.” “Yes, Your Highness,” Yokska said. “I don’t … I don’t know what to tell you. Spren look strange sometimes in the city, and people think it has to do with the queen, the weird storm, the parshmen … They’re scared. Some have started claiming they can see a new world coming, a truly strange new world. One ruled by spren. “The Vorin church has declared the Cult of Moments a heresy, but so many of the ardents were in the palace when it grew dark. Most of those remaining took refuge with one of the highlords who claimed small sections of Kholinar. Those are increasingly isolated, ruling their districts on their own. And then … and then there are the fabrials.…” Fabrials. Shallan scrambled to her feet and stuck her head into the next room. “What about the fabrials?” “If you use a fabrial,” Yokska said,
“of any sort—from spanreed, to warmer, to painrial—you’ll draw them. Screaming yellow spren that ride the wind like streaks of terrible light. They shout and swirl about you. That then usually brings the creatures from the sky, the ones with the loose clothing and long spears. They seize the fabrial, and sometimes kill the one trying to use it.” Storms … Shallan thought. “Have you seen this?” Kaladin asked. “What did the spren look like? You heard them speak?” Shallan glanced at Yokska, who had sunk down farther in her seat. “I think … maybe we should give the good tailor a break,” Shallan noted. “We’ve shown up on her doorstep out of nowhere, stolen her bedroom, and are now interrogating her. I’m sure the world won’t fall apart if we let her have a few minutes to drink her tea and recover.” The woman looked at Shallan with an expression of pure gratitude. “Storms!” Adolin said, leaping to his feet. “Of course you’re right, Shallan. Yokska, forgive us, and thank you so much for—” “No need for thanks, Your Highness,” she said. “Oh, I did have Passion that help would come. And here it is! But if it pleases the king, a little rest … Yes, a little rest would be much appreciated.” Kaladin grunted and nodded, and Elhokar waved a hand in a way that wasn’t quite dismissive. More just … self-absorbed. The three men left Yokska to rest and joined Shallan in the showroom, where light from the setting sun streamed between the drapes on the front windows. Those would normally be open to show off the tailor’s creations, but no doubt they’d lately spent most of their time closed. The four gathered together to digest what they’d discovered. “Well?” Elhokar asked, speaking—for once—in a soft, thoughtful tone. “I want to know what’s going on with the Wall Guard,” Kaladin said. “Their leader … none of you have heard of him?” “Highmarshal Azure?” Adolin asked. “No. But I’ve been away for years. There are bound to be many officers in the city who were promoted while the rest of us were at war.” “Azure might be the one feeding the city,” Kaladin said. “Someone is providing grain. This place would have eaten itself to starvation without some source of food.” “At least we’ve learned something,” Shallan said. “We know why the spanreeds cut off.” “The Voidbringers are trying to isolate the city,” Elhokar said. “They locked down the palace to prevent anyone from using the Oathgate, then cut off communication via spanreeds. They’re stalling until they can gather a large enough army.” Shallan shivered. She held up her sketchpad, showing them the drawings she’d done. “Something is wrong with the city’s spren.” The men nodded as they saw her drawings, though only Kaladin seemed to catch what she’d been doing. He looked from the drawing of the shamespren to her hand, then raised an eyebrow at her. She shrugged. Well, it worked, didn’t it? “Prudence,” the king said softly. “We mustn’t simply rush in and fall to whatever darkness
seized the palace, but we also can’t afford to be inactive.” He stood up straighter. Shallan had grown so accustomed to seeing Elhokar as an afterthought—a fault of the way Dalinar, increasingly, had been treating him. But there was an earnest determination to him, and yes, even a regal bearing. Yes, she thought, taking another Memory of Elhokar. Yes, you are king. And you can live up to your father’s legacy. “We must have a plan,” Elhokar said. “I would gladly hear your wisdom on this matter, Windrunner. How should we approach this?” “Honestly, I’m not sure we should. Your Majesty, it might be best to catch the next highstorm, return to the tower, and report back to Dalinar. He can’t reach us with his visions here, and one of the Unmade could very well be beyond our mission’s parameters.” “We don’t need Dalinar’s permission to act,” Elhokar said. “I didn’t mean—” “What is my uncle going to do, Captain? Dalinar won’t know any more than we will. We either do something about Kholinar ourselves now, or give the city, the Oathgate, and my family up to the enemy.” Shallan agreed, and even Kaladin nodded slowly. “We should at least scout the city and get a better feel for things,” Adolin noted. “Yes,” Elhokar said. “A king needs accurate information to act correctly. Lightweaver, could you take on the look of a messenger woman?” “Of course,” Shallan said. “Why?” “Let us say I were to dictate a letter to Aesudan,” the king said, “then seal it with the royal seal. You could act the part of a messenger who had come personally from the Shattered Plains, traveling through great hardship to reach the queen to deliver my words. You could present yourself at the palace, and see how the guards there react.” “That’s … not a bad idea,” Kaladin said. He sounded surprised. “It could be dangerous,” Adolin said. “The guards might bring her into the palace itself.” “I’m the only one here who has confronted one of the Unmade directly,” Shallan said. “I’m most likely to be able to spot their influence, and I have the resources to get out. I agree with His Majesty—eventually someone must go into the palace and see what is happening there. I promise to back off quickly if my gut says something is happening.” “Mmmm…” Pattern said unexpectedly from her skirts. He generally preferred to remain silent when others were near. “I will watch and warn. We will be careful.” “See if you can assess the state of the Oathgate,” the king said. “Its platform is part of the palace complex, but there are ways up other than through the palace itself. The best thing for the city might be to go in quietly, activate it, and bring in reinforcements, then decide how to rescue my family. But do reconnaissance only, for now.” “And the rest of us just sit around tonight?” Kaladin complained. “Waiting and trusting those whom you have empowered is the soul of kingship, Windrunner,” Elhokar said. “But I suspect that Brightness
Shallan would not object to your company, and I’d rather have someone watching to help get her out, in an emergency.” He wasn’t exactly correct; she would object to Kaladin’s presence. Veil wouldn’t want him looking over her shoulder, and Shallan wouldn’t want him asking questions about that persona. However, she could find no reasonable objection. “I want to get a feel for the city,” she said, looking to Kaladin. “Have Yokska scribe the king’s letter, then meet me. Adolin, is there a good spot we could find each other?” “The grand steps up to the palace complex, maybe?” he said. “They’re impossible to miss, and have a little square out in front of them.” “Excellent,” Shallan said. “I’ll be wearing a black hat, Kaladin. You can wear your own face, I suppose, now that we’re past the Wall Guard. But that slave brand…” She reached up to create an illusion to make it vanish from his forehead. He caught the hand. “No need. I’ll keep my hair down over it.” “It peeks out,” she said. “Then let it. In a city full of refugees, nobody is going to care.” She rolled her eyes, but didn’t push. He was probably right. In that uniform, he’d probably just be taken for a slave someone bought, then put in their house guard. Even though the shash brand was odd. The king went to prepare his letter, and Adolin and Kaladin stayed in the showroom to talk quietly about the Wall Guard. Shallan headed up the steps. Her own room was a smaller one on the second floor. Inside were Red, and Vathah, and Ishnah the assistant spy, chatting quietly. “How much did you eavesdrop on?” Shallan asked them. “Not much,” Vathah said, thumbing over his shoulder. “We were too busy watching Ishnah ransack the tailor’s bedroom to see if she was hiding anything.” “Tell me you didn’t make a mess.” “No mess,” Ishnah promised. “And nothing to report either. The woman might actually be as boring as she seems. The boys did learn some good search procedures though.” Shallan walked past the small guest bed and looked out the window at a daunting view down a city street. So many homes, so many people. Intimidating. Fortunately, Veil wouldn’t see it that way. There was only one problem. I can’t work with this team, she thought, without them eventually asking questions. This Kholinar mission would bring it to a head, as Veil hadn’t flown with them. She’d been dreading this. And … kind of … anticipating it? “I need to tell them,” she whispered. “Mmm,” Pattern said. “It’s good. Progress.” Rather, she’d been backed into a corner. Still, it had to be done eventually. She walked to her pack and removed a white coat and a hat, which folded up on its side. “Some privacy, boys,” she said to Vathah and Red. “Veil needs to get dressed.” They looked from the coat to Shallan, then back. Red slapped the side of his head and laughed. “You’re kidding. Well, I feel like an idiot.” She’d expected
Vathah to feel betrayed. Instead he nodded—as if this made perfect sense. He saluted her with one finger, then the two men retreated. Ishnah lingered. Shallan had—after some debate—decided to bring the woman. Mraize had vetted her, and in the end, Veil needed the training. “You don’t look surprised about this,” Shallan said as she started changing. “I was suspicious when Veil … when you told me to go on this mission,” she said. “Then I saw the illusions, and guessed.” She paused. “I had it reversed. I thought Brightness Shallan was the persona. But the spy—that’s the false identity.” “Wrong,” Shallan said. “They’re both equally false.” Once dressed, she flipped through her sketchbook and found a drawing of Lyn in her scouting uniform. Perfect. “Go tell Brightlord Kaladin I’m already out and exploring, and that he should meet me in about an hour.” She climbed out the window and dropped one story to the ground, relying on her Stormlight to keep her legs from breaking. Then she struck off down the street. I returned to the tower to find squabbling children, instead of proud knights. That’s why I hate this place. I’m going to go chart the hidden undersea caverns of Aimia; find my maps in Akinah. —From drawer 16-16, amethyst Veil enjoyed being in a proper city again, even if it was half feral. Most cities lived on the very edge of civilization. Everyone talked about towns and villages out in the middle of nowhere as if they were uncivilized, but she’d found people in those places pleasant, even-tempered, and comfortable with their quieter way of life. Not in cities. Cities balanced on the edge of sustainability, always one step from starvation. When you pressed so many people together, their cultures, ideas, and stenches rubbed off on one another. The result wasn’t civilization. It was contained chaos, pressurized, bottled up so it couldn’t escape. There was a tension to cities. You could breathe it, feel it in every step. Veil loved it. Once a few streets from the tailor’s shop, she pulled down the brim of her hat and held up a page from her sketchbook as if consulting a map. This covered her as she breathed out Stormlight, transforming her features and hair to match those of Veil, instead of Shallan. No spren came, screaming to warn of what she’d done. So Lightweaving was different from using fabrials. She’d been fairly certain it was safe, as they’d worn disguises into the city, but she’d wanted to be away from the tailor’s shop in case. Veil strolled down the thoroughfare, long coat rippling around her calves. She decided immediately that she liked Kholinar. She liked how the city rolled across its hills, a lumpy blanket of buildings. She liked how it smelled of Horneater spices in one gust of wind, then of Alethi steamed crabs in the next. Admittedly, those probably weren’t proper crabs today, but cremlings. That part she didn’t like. These poor people. Even in this more affluent area, she could barely walk a quarter block without having
to weave around huddles of people. The midblock courtyards were clogged with what had probably been normal villagers not long ago, but who were now impoverished wretches. There wasn’t much wheeled traffic on the streets. Some palanquins ringed by guards. No carriages. Life, however, did not stop for a war—or even for a second Aharietiam. There was water to draw, clothes to clean. Women’s work mostly, as she could see from the large groups of men standing around. With no one really in charge in the city, who would pay men to work forges? To clean streets or chip crem? Even worse, in a city this size, much of the menial labor would have been done by parshmen. Nobody would be eager to leap in to take their place. The bridgeboy is right though, Veil thought, loitering at an intersection. The city is still being fed. A place like Kholinar could consume itself quickly, once the food or water ran out. No, cities were not civilized places. No more than a whitespine was domesticated just because it had a collar around its neck. A small group of cultists dressed as rotspren limped down the street, the wet red paint on their clothing evocative of blood. Shallan considered these people extreme and alarming, probably crazy, but Veil wasn’t convinced. They were too theatrical—and there were too many of them—for all to be truly deranged. This was a fad. A way of dealing with unexpected events and giving some shape to lives that had been turned upside down. That didn’t mean they weren’t dangerous. A group of people all trying to impress one another was always more dangerous than the lone psychopath. So she gave the cultists a wide berth. Over the next hour, Veil surveyed the city while wending her way in the general direction of the palace. The area with the tailor’s shop was the most normal. It had a good functioning market, which she intended to investigate further when not pressed for time. It had parks, and though these had been appropriated by the crowds, the people in them were lively. Family groups—even communities transplanted from outer villages—doing the best they could. She passed bunkerlike mansions of the wealthy. Several had been ransacked: gates broken down, window shutters cracked, grounds draped with blankets or shanties. Some lighteyed families, it seemed, hadn’t maintained enough guards to withstand the riots. Anytime Veil’s path took her closer to the city walls, she entered sections of the city that were the most cramped, and the most despondent. Refugees just sitting on the streets. Vacant eyes, ragged clothing. People without homes or community. The closer she drew to the palace though, the emptier the city became. Even the unfortunates who populated the streets near the walls—where the Voidbringers were raiding—knew to stay away from this area. That made the homes of the wealthy here in the palace district seem … out of place. In normal times, living close to the palace would have been a privilege, and every large compound here had private walls that sheltered
delicate gardens and ostentatious windows. But now, Veil felt the wrongness of the area as a prickling sensation on her skin. The families living here must have felt it, but they stubbornly remained in their mansions. She peeked through the iron gate of one such mansion, and found soldiers on sentry duty: men in dark uniforms whose colors and heraldry she couldn’t discern. In fact, when one glanced at her, she couldn’t make out his eyes. It was probably just a trick of the light, but … storms. The soldiers had a wrongness about them; they moved oddly, rushing in bursts, like prowling predators. They didn’t stop to talk to each other as they passed. She backed away and continued down the street. The palace was right ahead. Straight on in front of it were the wide steps where she’d meet Kaladin, but she had some time left. She slipped into a park nearby, the first she’d seen in the city that wasn’t clogged with refugees. Towering stumpweight trees—bred over time for height and spread of leaves—gave a shadowed canopy. Away from potential prying eyes, she used Stormlight to overlay Veil’s features and clothing with those of Lyn. A stronger, more sturdy build, a blue scout’s uniform. The hat became a black rain hat, of the type often worn during the Weeping. She left the park as Veil playing a part. She tried to keep this distinction sharp in her mind. She was still Veil. Merely in disguise. Now, to see what she could find out about the Oathgate. The palace was built on a rise overlooking the city, and she slipped through the streets to its eastern side, where she indeed found the Oathgate platform. It was covered in buildings, and was as high as the palace—maybe twenty feet up. It connected to the main palace by a covered walkway that rested atop a small wall. They built that walkway right over the ramp, she thought with displeasure. The only other paths up onto the platform were sets of steps cut into the rock, and those were guarded by people in spren costumes. Veil watched from a safe distance. So the cult was involved in this somehow? Above on the platform, smoke trailed from a large fire, and Veil could hear sounds rising from that direction. Were those … screams? The whole place was unnerving, and she shivered, then retreated. She found Kaladin leaning against the base of a statue in a square before the palace steps. Soulcast out of bronze, the statue depicted a figure in Shardplate rising as if from waves. “Hey,” she said softly. “It’s me. Do you like the boots on this outfit?” She raised her foot. “Do we have to keep bringing that up?” “I was giving you a passcode, bridgeboy,” she said. “To prove I’m who I say I am.” “Lyn’s face made that clear,” he said, handing her the king’s letter, inside a sealed envelope. I like him, Veil thought. An … odd thought, in how much stronger that feeling was to Veil than
it had been to Shallan. I like that brooding sense he has about him, those dangerous eyes. Why did Shallan focus so much on Adolin? He was nice, but also bland. You couldn’t tease him without feeling bad, but Kaladin, he glared at you in the most satisfying of ways. The part of her that was still Shallan, deep down, was bothered by this line of thinking. So instead, Veil turned her attention to the palace. It was a grand structure, but more like a fortress than she’d pictured. Very Alethi. The bottom floor was a massive rectangle, with the short side facing toward the storm. The upper levels were successively thinner, and a dome rose from the center of the building. From up close, she couldn’t make out exactly where the sunlight stopped and the shadow began. Indeed, the air of darkness felt … different from how Urithiru had when the dark spren was there. She kept feeling that she wasn’t seeing it all. When she’d glance away and look back, she could swear that something was different. Had that planter moved, the one running along the grand entry steps? Or … had that door always been painted blue? She took a Memory, then looked away and back, and took another Memory. She wasn’t certain what good it would do, as she’d had trouble drawing the palace earlier. “Do you see them?” Kaladin whispered. “The soldiers, standing between the pillars?” She hadn’t. The front of the palace—at the top of the long set of stairs—was set with pillars. Looking closer into the shadows, she saw men in there, gathered beneath the overhang supported by the columns. They stood like statues, their spears upright, never moving. Anticipationspren rose around Veil, and she jumped. While two of the spren looked normal—like flat streamers—the others were wrong. They waved long, thin tendrils that looked like lashes to whip a servant. She shared a glance with Kaladin, then took a Memory of the spren. “Shall we?” Kaladin asked. “I shall. You stay here.” He glanced at her. “If something goes wrong, I’d rather you be ready out here to come in and help. Best not to potentially get us both stuck in the grip of one of the Unmade. I’ll shout if I need you.” “And if you can’t shout? Or if I can’t hear you?” “I’ll send Pattern.” Kaladin folded his arms, but nodded. “Fine. Just be careful.” “I’m always careful.” He raised an eyebrow at her, but he was thinking of Shallan. Veil wasn’t as foolhardy. The climb up those steps seemed to take far too long. For a moment she could have sworn they stretched into the sky, toward the eternal void. And then she was atop them, standing before those pillars. A group of guards approached her. “I have a message from the king!” she said, holding it up. “To be delivered directly to Her Majesty. I’ve traveled all the way from the Shattered Plains!” The guards didn’t break stride. One opened a door into the palace while the others formed
up behind Veil, prodding her forward. She swallowed, sweat chilling her brow, and let them force her to that door. That maw … She walked into a grand entryway, marked by marble and a brilliant sphere chandelier. No Unmade. No darkness waiting to consume her. She breathed out, though she could feel something. That phantom eeriness was indeed stronger here. The wrongness. She jumped when one of the soldiers put his hand on her shoulder. A man in a captainlord’s knots left a small room beside the grand chamber. “What is this?” “Messenger,” a soldier said. “From the Shattered Plains.” Another plucked the letter from her fingers and handed it toward the captainlord. She could see their eyes now, and they seemed ordinary—darkeyed grunts, lighteyed officer. “Who was your commander there?” the captain asked her, looking over the letter, then squinting at the seal. “Well? I served on the Plains for a few years.” “Captain Colot,” she said, naming the officer who had joined the Windrunners. He wasn’t Lyn’s actual commander, but he did have scouts in his team. The captainlord nodded, then handed the letter to one of his men. “Take it to Queen Aesudan.” “I was supposed to deliver it in person,” Veil said, though she itched to be out of this place. To flee madly, if she were being honest. She had to stay. Whatever she learned here would be of— One of the soldiers ran her through. It happened so quickly, she was left gaping at the sword blade protruding through her chest—wet with her blood. He yanked the weapon back out, and Veil collapsed with a groan. She reached for Stormlight, by instinct. No … no, do as … as Jasnah did … Pretend. Feign. She stared up at the men in horror, in betrayal, painspren rising around her. One soldier jogged off with the message, but the captain merely walked back toward his post. Not one of the rest said a word as she bled all over the floor, her vision fading … She let her eyes close, then took in a short, sharp breath of Stormlight. Just a tiny amount, which she kept within, holding her breath. Enough to keep her alive, heal the wounds inside … Pattern. Please don’t go. Don’t do anything. Don’t hum, don’t buzz. Quiet. Stay quiet. One of the soldiers picked her up and slung her over his shoulder, then carried her through the palace. She dared cracking a single eye, and found the wide hallway here was lined with dozens upon dozens of soldiers. Just … standing there. They were alive; they’d cough, or shift position. Some leaned back against the wall, but they all kind of stayed in place. Human, but wrong. The guard carrying her passed a floor-to-ceiling mirror rimmed in a fancy bronze frame. In it, she glimpsed the guard with Lyn thrown over his shoulder. And beyond that, deep within the mirror, something turned—the normal image fading—and looked toward Shallan with a sudden and surprised motion. It looked like a shadow of a person, only
with white spots for eyes. Veil quickly closed her peeking eye. Storms, what had that been? Don’t shift. Stay perfectly still. Don’t even breathe. Stormlight allowed her to survive without air. The guard carried her down some steps, then opened a door and walked down a few more. He dropped her none too gently onto the stone and tossed her hat on top of her, then turned and left, closing a door behind him. Veil waited as long as she could stand before opening her eyes and finding herself in darkness. She took a breath, and nearly choked at the rotten, musty stench. Dreading and suspecting what she might find, she drew in Stormlight and made herself glow. She’d been dropped beside a small line of corpses. There were seven of them, three male and four female, wearing fine clothing—but covered in rotspren, their flesh chewed at by cremlings. Holding in a scream, she scrambled to her feet. Perhaps … perhaps these were some of those lighteyes who’d come to the palace to talk to the queen? She snatched her hat and scrambled to the steps. This was the wine cellar, a stone vault cut right into the rock. At the door she finally heard Pattern, who had been talking, though his voice had seemed distant. “Shallan? I felt what you told me. Don’t go. Shallan, are you well? Oh! The destruction. You destroy some things, but seeing others destroyed upsets you. Hmmmm.…” He seemed pleased to have figured it out. She focused on his voice, something familiar. Not the memory of a sword protruding from her own chest, not the callous way she’d been dumped here and left to rot, not the line of corpses with exposed bones, haunted faces, chewed-out eyes … Don’t think. Don’t see it. She shoved it all away, and rested her forehead against the door. Then she carefully eased it open and found an empty stone hallway beyond, with more steps leading upward. There were too many soldiers that way. She put on a new illusion, of a servant woman from her sketchbook. Maybe that would be less suspicious. It covered the blood, at least. She didn’t head back upstairs, but instead took a separate path farther into the tunnels. This turned out to be the Kholin mausoleum, which was lined with another kind of corpse: old kings turned to statues. Their stone eyes chased her down empty tunnels until she found a door that, judging from the sunlight underneath, led out into the city. “Pattern,” she whispered. “Check for guards outside.” He hummed and slid under the door, then returned a moment later. “Mmm … There are two.” “Go back, then along the wall slowly to the right,” she said, infusing him. He did so, sliding under the door. A sound she’d created rose from him as he moved away, imitating the captainlord’s voice from above, calling for the guards. It wasn’t perfect, as she hadn’t sketched the man, but it seemed to work as she heard booted feet move off. She slipped out, and
found herself at the base of the rise that the palace sat upon, a cliff of some twenty feet above her. The guards were distracted, walking to her right, so Veil slipped onto a street nearby, then ran for a short time, thankful to finally have a chance to work off some of her energy. She collapsed in the shadow of a hollow building, with the windows broken open and the door missing. Pattern scooted along the ground nearby, joining her. The guards didn’t seem to have noticed her. “Go find Kaladin,” she said to Pattern. “Bring him here. Warn him that soldiers might be watching him from the palace, and they might come for him.” “Mmmm.” Pattern slid away from her. She huddled against herself, back to a stone wall, her coat still covered in blood. After a nerve-racking wait, Kaladin stepped onto the street, then hurried up to her. “Storms!” he said, kneeling beside her. Pattern slipped off his coat, humming happily. “Shallan, what happened to you?” “Well,” she said, “as a connoisseur of things that have killed me, I think a sword happened.” “Shallan…” “The evil force that rules the palace did not think highly of someone coming with a letter from the king.” She smiled at him. “You could say, um, it made that point quite clear.” Smile. I need you to smile. I need what happened to be all right. Something that can simply roll off me. Please. “Well…” Kaladin said. “I’m glad we … took a stab at this anyway.” He smiled. It was all right. Just another day, another infiltration. He helped her to her feet, then looked to check on her wound, and she slapped his hand. The cut was not in an appropriate location. “Sorry,” he said. “Surgeon’s instincts. Back to the hideout?” “Yes, please,” she said. “I’d rather not be killed again today. It’s quite draining.…” The disagreements between the Skybreakers and the Windrunners have grown to tragic levels. I plead with any who hear this to recognize you are not so different as you think. —From drawer 27-19, topaz Dalinar reached into the dark stone shaft where he’d hidden the assassin’s Honorblade. It was still there; he felt the hilt under the lip of stone. He expected to feel more upon touching it. Power? A tingling? This was a weapon of Heralds, a thing so ancient that common Shardblades were young by comparison. Yet, as he slipped it free and stood up, the only thing he felt was his own anger. This was the weapon of the assassin who had killed his brother. The weapon used to terrorize Roshar, murder the lords of Jah Keved and Azir. It was shortsighted of him to see such an ancient weapon merely as the sword of the Assassin in White. He stepped out into the larger room next door, then regarded the sword in the light of the spheres he had placed on a stone slab there. Sinuous and elegant, this was the weapon of a king. Jezerezeh’Elin. “There are some who assumed you
were one of the Heralds,” Dalinar noted to the Stormfather, who rumbled in the back of his mind. “Jezerezeh, Herald of Kings, Father of Storms.” Men say many foolish things, the Stormfather replied. Some name Kelek Stormfather, others Jezrien. I am neither of them. “But Jezerezeh was a Windrunner.” He was before Windrunners. He was Jezrien, a man whose powers bore no name. They were simply him. The Windrunners were named only after Ishar founded the orders. “Ishi’Elin,” Dalinar said. “Herald of Luck.” Or of mysteries, the Stormfather said, or of priests. Or of a dozen other things, as men dubbed him. He is now as mad as the rest. More, perhaps. Dalinar lowered the Honorblade, looking eastward toward the Origin. Even through the stone walls, he knew that was where to find the Stormfather. “Do you know where they are?” I have told you. I do not see all. Only glimpses in the storms. “Do you know where they are?” Only one, he said with a rumble. I … have seen Ishar. He curses me at night, even as he names himself a god. He seeks death. His own. Perhaps that of every man. It clicked. “Stormfather!” Yes? “Oh. Uh, that was a curse.… Never mind. Tezim, the god-priest of Tukar? Is it him? Ishi, Herald of Luck, is the man who has been waging war against Emul?” Yes. “For what purpose?” He is insane. Do not look for meaning in his actions. “When … when were you thinking of informing me of this?” When you asked. When else would I speak of it? “When you thought of it!” Dalinar said. “You know things that are important, Stormfather!” He just rumbled his reply. Dalinar took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. Spren did not think like men. Anger would not change what the Stormfather told him. But what would? “Did you know about my powers?” Dalinar asked. “Did you know that I could heal the stone?” I knew it once you did it, the Stormfather said. Yes, once you did it, I always knew. “Do you know what else I can do?” Of course. Once you discover it, I will know. “But—” Your powers will come when you are ready for them, not before, the Stormfather said. They cannot be hurried or forced. But do not look toward the powers of others, even those who share your Surges. Their lot is not yours, and their powers are small, petty things. What you did in reknitting those statues was a mere trifle, a party trick. Yours is the power Ishar once held. Before he was Herald of Luck, they called him Binder of Gods. He was the founder of the Oathpact. No Radiant is capable of more than you. Yours is the power of Connection, of joining men and worlds, minds and souls. Your Surges are the greatest of all, though they will be impotent if you seek to wield them for mere battle. The words washed over Dalinar, seeming to press him backward with their force. When the Stormfather was
done, Dalinar found himself out of breath, a headache coming on. He reflexively drew in Stormlight to heal it, and the small chamber dimmed. That stopped the pain, but it did nothing for his cold sweat. “Are there others like me out there?” he finally asked. Not right now, and there can ever be only three. One for each of us. “Three?” Dalinar said. “Three spren who make Bondsmiths. You … and Cultivation are two?” The Stormfather actually laughed. You would have a difficult time making her your spren. I should like to see you try it. “Then who?” My siblings need not concern you. They seemed of compelling concern, but Dalinar had learned when to avoid pressing an issue. That would only cause the spren to withdraw. Dalinar took the Honorblade in a firm grip, then collected his spheres, one of which had gone dun. “Have I ever asked how you renew these?” Dalinar held up the sphere, inspecting the ruby at the center. He’d seen these loose, and had always been surprised by how small they actually were. The glass made them look far larger. Honor’s power, during a storm, is concentrated in one place, the Stormfather said. It pierces all three realms and brings Physical, Cognitive, and Spiritual together momentarily in one. The gemstones, exposed to the wonder of the Spiritual Realm, are lit by the infinite power there. “Could you renew this sphere, now?” I … do not know. He sounded intrigued. Hold it forth. Dalinar did so, and felt something happen, a tugging on his insides, like the Stormfather straining against their bond. The sphere remained dun. It is not possible, the Stormfather said. I am close to you, but the power is not—it still rides the storm. That was far more than he usually got from the Stormfather. He hoped he could remember it exactly to repeat to Navani—of course, if the Stormfather was listening, he’d correct Dalinar’s mistakes. The Stormfather hated to be misquoted. Dalinar stepped out into the hallway to meet Bridge Four. He held up the Honorblade—a powerful, world-changing artifact. But, like the Shardblades modeled after it, the weapon was useless if he left it hidden. “This,” he said to the men of Bridge Four, “is the Honorblade your captain recovered.” The twenty-odd men gathered closer, their curious faces reflecting in the metal. “Anyone who holds this,” Dalinar said, “will immediately gain the powers of a Windrunner. Your captain’s absence is interrupting your training. Perhaps this, though only one can use it at a time, can mitigate that.” They gaped at the weapon, so Dalinar held it out toward Kaladin’s first lieutenant—the bearded older bridgeman named Teft. Teft reached out, then drew his hand back. “Leyten,” he barked. “You’re our storming armorer. You take the thing.” “Me?” a stocky bridgeman said. “That’s not armor.” “Close enough.” “I…” “Airsick lowlanders,” Rock the Horneater said, shoving forward and taking the weapon. “Your soup is cold. That is idiom for ‘You are all stupid.’ ” The Horneater hefted it, curious, and his eyes bled to a
glassy blue. “Rock?” Teft asked. “You? Holding a weapon?” “I am not going to swing this thing,” Rock said, rolling his eyes. “I will keep him safe. This is all.” “It’s a Shardblade,” Dalinar warned. “You’ve trained on those, correct?” “We have, sir,” Teft said. “Doesn’t mean one of this lot won’t storming cut their own feet off. But … I suppose we can use this to heal it if they do. Sigzil, come up with a rotation so we can practice.” Heal … Dalinar felt stupid. He’d missed it again. Anyone holding this Blade had the powers of a Radiant. Did that mean they could use Stormlight to heal themselves? If so, that might be a valuable extra use of the weapon. “Don’t let anyone know you have this,” Dalinar told them. “I assume you can learn to dismiss and summon it like an ordinary Shardblade. See what you can discover, then report to me.” “We’ll put it to good use, sir,” Teft promised. “Good.” The clock fabrial on his forearm dinged, and Dalinar stifled a sigh. She’d learned to make it ding? “If you’ll all excuse me, I have to prepare for an appointment with an emperor a thousand miles away.” * * * A short time later, Dalinar stood on his balcony. Hands clasped behind his back, he stared out toward the Oathgate transport platforms. “I did a great deal of business with the Azish when I was younger,” Fen said from behind him. “This might not work, but it is a much better plan than traditional Alethi strutting.” “I don’t like him going alone,” Navani replied. “By all reports,” Fen said dryly, “he got stabbed through the chest, lifted a stone roughly the weight of ten men, then started putting my city back together one rock at a time. I think he’ll be fine.” “No amount of Stormlight will help if they simply imprison him,” Navani said. “We could be sending him to become a hostage.” They were arguing for his benefit. He had to understand the risks. And he did. He walked over to give Navani a light kiss. He smiled at her, then turned and extended his hand toward Fen, who gave him a paper packet, like a large envelope. “This is it, then?” he asked. “All three are in here?” “They’re marked with appropriate glyphs,” Navani said. “And the spanreed is inside too. They’ve promised to speak in Alethi during the meeting—you won’t have an interpreter from our side, as you insist on going alone.” “I do,” Dalinar said, starting toward the door. “I want to try Fen’s suggestion.” Navani quickly rose and took his arm with her freehand. “I assure you,” he said. “I will be safe.” “No you won’t. But this is no different from a hundred other times you’ve ridden off to battle. Here.” She handed him a small box sheathed in cloth. “Fabrial?” “Lunch,” she said. “There’s no telling when those people will feed you.” She’d wrapped it in a glyphward. Dalinar cocked his eyebrow at it, and she shrugged. Can’t
hurt, right? that seemed to say. She took him in an embrace, held on an extra moment—more than another Alethi might—then stepped back. “We’ll be watching the spanreed. One hour with no communication, and we’re coming for you.” He nodded. He couldn’t write to them of course, but he could flip the reed on and off to send signals, an old general’s trick for when you lacked a scribe. A short time later, he strode out onto Urithiru’s western plateau. Crossing it on his way to the Oathgate, he passed men marching in formations, sergeants shouting orders, runners carrying messages. Two of his Shardbearers—Rust and Serugiadis, men who had the Plate only—practiced with massive Shardbows, launching thick arrows hundreds of yards toward a large straw target that Kaladin had placed for them on a nearby mountainside. A significant number of the common soldiers sat around holding spheres, staring at them intently. Word had spread that Bridge Four was recruiting. He’d lately noticed numerous men in the hallways holding a sphere “for luck.” Dalinar even passed a group out here who were talking about swallowing spheres. The Stormfather rumbled with displeasure. They go about this backward. Foolish men. They can’t draw in Light and become Radiant; they first must be approaching Radiance, and look for Light to fulfill the promise. Dalinar barked at the men to get back to training, and to not swallow any spheres. They obeyed with a scrambling rush, shocked to find the Blackthorn looming over them. He shook his head, then continued. His path, unfortunately, took him through a mock battle. Two blocks of spearmen pressed against each other on the plateau, straining and grunting, training to hold their formations under stress. Though they carried blunt practice spears, this was mostly shield work. Dalinar saw the warning signs of things going too far. Men were shouting with real acrimony, and angerspren were boiling at their feet. One of the lines wavered, and instead of pulling back, their opponents rammed their shields against them repeatedly. Green and white on one side, black and maroon on the other. Sadeas and Aladar. Dalinar cursed and approached the men, shouting for them to pull back. Soon, his call was taken up by captains and commanders. The rear ranks of the two practice blocks pulled away—leaving the contestants at the center to devolve into a brawl. Dalinar shouted, and Stormlight shimmered along the stones before him. Those who hadn’t gotten caught up in the fighting jumped back. The rest got stuck in the Stormlight, which glued them to the ground. This caused all but the most furious to stop their fighting. He pulled the last few apart and pushed them down, sticking them by their seats to the stone next to their angerspren. The men thrashed, then saw him and froze, looking appropriately chagrined. I remember being that wrapped up in battle, Dalinar thought. Is it the Thrill? He couldn’t remember feeling it for … for a long time. He would have the men questioned to determine whether any could feel it. Dalinar let
the Stormlight evaporate away like luminescent steam. Aladar’s officers withdrew their group in an orderly fashion, shouting for the men to start calisthenics. The soldiers from Sadeas’s army, however, spat at the ground and heaved themselves to their feet, retreating in sullen bunches, cursing and muttering. They’re getting worse, Dalinar thought. Under Torol Sadeas, they’d been slovenly and sadistic, but still soldiers. Yes, they tended to brawl, but they’d been quick to obey in battle. So they’d been effective, just not exemplary. The new Sadeas banner flew above these men. Meridas Sadeas—Amaram—had changed the glyphpair’s design, as was traditional: Sadeas’s squat tower had elongated, and the hammer had changed to an axe. Despite his reputation for running a crisp army, it was obvious he was having trouble controlling these men. He’d never commanded a force this large—and perhaps the murder of their highprince had upset the men to the point that there was nothing Amaram could do. Aladar hadn’t been able to provide anything of substance about Torol’s murder. The investigation was supposed to be ongoing … but there were no leads. The spren hadn’t done it, but they had no idea who had. I’ll need to take action about those soldiers, Dalinar thought. They need something to tire them out, keep them from getting into fights.… Perhaps he had just the thing. He considered that as he finally made his way up the ramp to the proper Oathgate platform, then crossed the empty field to the control building. Jasnah waited within, reading a book and making notes. “What took you?” she asked. “Almost had a riot out on the parade ground,” he said. “Two training formations got interlocked and started bashing one another.” “Sadeas?” Dalinar nodded. “We’ll have to do something about them.” “I’ve been thinking. Maybe some hard labor—strictly supervised—in a ruined city might be just the thing.” Jasnah smiled. “How convenient that we’re currently providing exactly such assistance to Queen Fen. Work Sadeas’s troops to exhaustion, assuming we can keep them under control there.” “I’ll start with small batches, to be certain we’re not sending more trouble Fen’s direction,” Dalinar said. “Have you had any news from the king’s infiltration team at Kholinar?” As anticipated, the Stormfather was unable to reach anyone on the team to bring them into a vision—nor would Dalinar dare risk it—but they’d sent several spanreeds with Elhokar and Shallan. “None. We’ll keep watch and tell you the moment we get any sort of response.” Dalinar nodded, and shoved down his worry for Elhokar and his son. He had to trust that they’d eventually either accomplish their task, or find a way to report what was stopping them. Jasnah summoned her Shardblade. Odd how natural it looked to see Jasnah with a sword. “You ready?” “I am.” The Reshi girl, Lift, had obtained permission from the Azish court to unlock the Oathgate on their side. The emperor was—at long last—willing to meet with Dalinar in the flesh. Jasnah engaged the device, rotating the inner wall, the floor shimmering. Light flashed outside, and immediately, stuffy heat
surged in through the doorways. Apparently a season of summer was well under way in Azir. It smelled different here. Of exotic spices and more subtle things like unfamiliar woods. “Good luck,” Jasnah said as he stepped out of the room. It flashed behind him as she returned to Urithiru, leaving him to meet the Azish imperial court on his own. Now that we abandon the tower, can I finally admit that I hate this place? Too many rules. —From drawer 8-1, amethyst Memories churned in Dalinar’s head as he walked down a long corridor outside the Oathgate control building in Azimir, which was covered by a magnificent bronze dome. The Grand Market, as it was called, was an enormous indoor shopping district. That would prove inconvenient when Dalinar needed to use the full Oathgate. He couldn’t see any of the market currently; the control building—which had been treated as some kind of monument in the market—was now surrounded by a wooden set of walls, and a new corridor. Empty of people, it was lit by sphere lamps along the walls. Sapphires. Coincidence, or a gesture of respect to a Kholin visitor? At the end, the hallway opened into a small room populated by a line of Azish soldiers. They wore plated mail, with colorful caps on their heads, greatshields, and very long-handled axes with small heads. The whole group jumped as Dalinar entered, and then shied back, weapons held threateningly. Dalinar held his arms out to the sides, packet from Fen in one hand, food bundle in the other. “I am unarmed.” They spoke quickly in Azish. He didn’t see the Prime or the little Radiant, though the people in patterned robes were viziers and scions—both were, essentially, Azish versions of ardents. Except here, the ardents were involved in the government far more than was proper. A woman stepped forward, the many layers of her long, extravagant robes rustling as she walked. A matching hat completed the outfit. She was important, and perhaps planned to interpret for him herself. Time for my first attack, Dalinar thought. He opened the packet that Fen had given him and removed four pieces of paper. He presented them to the woman, and was pleased at the shock in her eyes. She hesitantly took them, then called to some of her companions. They joined her before Dalinar, which made the guards distinctly anxious. A few had drawn triangular kattari, a popular variety of short sword here in the west. He’d always wanted one. The ardents withdrew behind the soldiers, speaking animatedly. The plan was to exchange pleasantries in this room, then for Dalinar to immediately return to Urithiru—whereupon they intended to lock the Oathgate from their side. He wanted more. He intended to get more. Some kind of alliance, or at least a meeting with the emperor. One of the ardents started reading the papers to the others. The writing was in Azish, a funny language made of little markings that looked like cremling tracks. It lacked the elegant, sweeping verticals of the Alethi women’s script.
Dalinar closed his eyes, listening to the unfamiliar language. As in Thaylen City, he had a moment of feeling he could almost understand. Stretching, he felt that meaning was close to him. “Would you help me understand?” he whispered to the Stormfather. What makes you think I can? “Don’t be coy,” Dalinar whispered. “I’ve spoken new languages in the visions. You can make me speak Azish.” The Stormfather rumbled in discontent. That wasn’t me, he finally said. It was you. “How do I use it?” Try touching one of them. With Spiritual Adhesion, you can make a Connection. Dalinar regarded the group of hostile guards, then sighed, waving and miming the act of dumping a drink into his mouth. The soldiers exchanged sharp words, then one of the youngest was pushed forward with a canteen. Dalinar nodded in thanks, then—as he took a drink from the water bottle—grabbed the young man by the wrist and held on. Stormlight, the rumbling in his mind said. Dalinar pressed Stormlight into the other man, and felt something—like a friendly sound coming from another room. All you had to do was get in. After a careful shove, the door opened, and sounds twisted and undulated in the air. Then, like music changing keys, they modulated from gibberish to sense. “Captain!” cried the young guard that Dalinar held. “What do I do? He’s got me!” Dalinar let go, and fortunately his understanding of the language persisted. “I’m sorry, soldier,” Dalinar said, handing back the canteen. “I didn’t mean to alarm you.” The young soldier stepped back among his fellows. “The warlord speaks Azish?” He sounded as surprised as if he’d met a talking chull. Dalinar clasped his hands behind his back and watched the ardents. You insist on thinking of them as ardents, he told himself, because they can read, both male and female. But he was no longer in Alethkar. Despite those bulky robes and large hats, the Azish women wore nothing on their safehands. Sunmaker, Dalinar’s ancestor, had argued that the Azish had been in need of civilizing. He wondered if anyone had believed that argument even in those days, or if they’d all seen it for the rationalization it was. The viziers and scions finished reading, then turned toward Dalinar, lowering the pages he’d given them. He had heeded Queen Fen’s plan, trusting that he couldn’t bully his way through Azir with a sword. Instead, he had brought a different kind of weapon. An essay. “Do you truly speak our language, Alethi?” the lead vizier called. She had a round face, dark brown eyes, and a cap covered in bright patterns. Her greying hair came out the side in a tight braid. “I’ve had the opportunity to learn it recently,” Dalinar said. “You are Vizier Noura, I assume?” “Did Queen Fen really write this?” “With her own hand, Your Grace,” Dalinar said. “Feel free to contact Thaylen City to confirm.” They huddled to consult again in quiet tones. The essay was a lengthy but compelling argument for the economic value of the Oathgates to
the cities that hosted them. Fen argued that Dalinar’s desperation to forge an alliance made for the perfect opportunity to secure beneficial and lasting trade deals through Urithiru. Even if Azir had no plans to fully join the coalition, they should negotiate use of the Oathgates and send a delegation to the tower. It spent a lot of words saying what was obvious, and was exactly the sort of thing Dalinar had no patience for. Which, hopefully, would make it perfect for the Azish. And if it wasn’t quite sufficient … well, Dalinar knew never to go into battle without fresh troops in reserve. “Your Highness,” Noura said, “as impressed as we are that you cared to learn our language—and even considering the compelling argument presented here—we think it best if…” She trailed off as Dalinar reached in his packet and withdrew a second sheaf of papers, six pages this time. He held them up before the group like a raised banner, then proffered them. A nearby guard jumped back, making his mail jingle. The small chamber grew quiet. Finally, a guard accepted the papers and took them to the viziers and scions. A shorter man among them began reading quietly—this one was an extended treatise from Navani, talking about the wonders they’d discovered in Urithiru, formally inviting the Azish scholars to visit and share. She made clever arguments about the importance of new fabrials and technology in fighting the Voidbringers. She included diagrams of the tents she’d made to help them fight during the Weeping, and explained her theories for floating towers. Then, with Dalinar’s permission, she offered a gift: detailed schematics that Taravangian had brought from Jah Keved, explaining the creation of so-called half-shards, fabrial shields that could withstand a few blows from Shardblades. The enemy is united against us, went her essay’s final argument. They have the unique advantages of focus, harmony, and memories that extend far into the past. Resisting them will require our greatest minds, whether Alethi, Azish, Veden, or Thaylen. I freely give state secrets, for the days of hoarding knowledge are gone. Now, we either learn together or we fall individually. The viziers finished, then they passed around the schematics, studying them for an extended time. When the group looked back at Dalinar, he could see that their attitude was changing. Remarkably, this was working. Well, he didn’t know much about essays, but he had an instinct for combat. When your opponent was gasping for breath, you didn’t let him get back up. You rammed your sword right into his throat. Dalinar reached into his packet and removed the last paper inside: a single sheet written on front and back. He held it up between his first two fingers. The Azish watched it with wide eyes, as if he’d revealed a glowing gemstone of incalculable wealth. This time Vizier Noura herself stepped forward and took it. “ ‘Verdict,’ ” she read from the top. “ ‘By Jasnah Kholin.’ ” The others pushed through the guards, gathering around, and began reading it to themselves. Though this
was the shortest of the essays, he heard them whispering and marveling over it. “Look, it incorporates all seven of Aqqu’s Logical Forms!” “That’s an allusion to the Grand Orientation. And … storms … she quotes Prime Kasimarlix in three successive stages, each escalating the same quote to a different level of Superior Understanding.” One woman held her hand to her mouth. “It’s written entirely in a single rhythmic meter!” “Great Yaezir,” Noura said. “You’re right.” “The allusions…” “Such wordplay…” “The momentum and rhetoric…” Logicspren burst around them in the shape of little stormclouds. Then, practically as one, the scions and viziers turned to Dalinar. “This is a work of art,” Noura said. “Is it … persuasive?” Dalinar asked. “It provokes further consideration,” Noura said, looking to the others, who nodded. “You actually came alone. We are shocked by that—aren’t you worried for your safety?” “Your Radiant,” Dalinar said, “has proven to be wise for one so young. I am certain I can depend on her for my safety.” “I don’t know that I’d depend on her for anything,” said one of the men, chuckling. “Unless it’s swiping your pocket change.” “All the same,” Dalinar said, “I have come begging you to trust me. This seemed the best proof of my intentions.” He spread his hands to the sides. “Do not send me back immediately. Let us talk as allies, not men in a battlefield tent of parley.” “I will bring these essays before the Prime and his formal council,” Vizier Noura finally said. “I admit he seems fond of you, despite your inexplicable invasion of his dreams. Come with us.” That would lead him away from the Oathgate, and any chance he had at transferring home in an emergency. But that was what he’d been hoping for. “Gladly, Your Grace.” * * * They walked along a twisting path through the dome-covered market—which was now empty, like a ghost town. Many of the streets ended at barricades manned by troops. They’d turned the Azimir Grand Market into a kind of reverse fortress, intended to protect the city from whatever might come through the Oathgate. If troops left the control building, they would find themselves in a maze of confusing streets. Unfortunately for the Azish, the control building alone was not the gate. A Radiant could make this entire dome vanish, replaced with an army in the middle of Azimir. He’d have to be delicate about how he explained that. He walked with Vizier Noura, followed by the other scribes, who passed the essays around again. Noura didn’t make small talk with him, and Dalinar maintained no illusions. This trip through the dark indoor streets—with packed market buildings and twisting paths—was meant to confuse him, should he try to remember the way. They eventually climbed up to a second level and left through a doorway out onto a ledge along the outside rim of the dome. Clever. From up here, he could see that the ground-floor exits from the market were barricaded or sealed off. The only clear way out was up
that flight of steps, onto this platform around the circumference of the large bronze dome, then down another set of steps. From this upper ramp, he could see some of Azimir—and was relieved by how little destruction he saw. Some of the neighborhoods on the west side of the city seemed to have collapsed, but all in all, the city had weathered the Everstorm in good shape. Most of the structures were stone here, and the grand domes—many overlaid with reddish-gold bronze—reflected the sunlight like molten marvels. The people wore colorful clothing, of patterns that scribes could read like a language. This summer season was warmer than he was accustomed to. Dalinar turned east. Urithiru lay somewhere in that direction, in the border mountains—far closer to Azir than to Alethkar. “This way, Blackthorn,” Noura said, starting down the wooden ramp. It was constructed upon a woodwork lattice. Seeing those wooden stilts, Dalinar had a moment of surreal memory. It vaguely reminded him of something, of perching above a city and looking down at wooden lattices.… Rathalas, he thought. The Rift. The city that had rebelled. Right. He felt a chill, and the pressure of something hidden trying to thrust itself into his consciousness. There was more to remember about that place. He walked down the ramp, and took it as a mark of respect that two entire divisions of troops surrounded the dome. “Shouldn’t those men be on the walls?” Dalinar asked. “What if the Voidbringers attack?” “They’ve withdrawn through Emul,” Noura said. “Most of that country is on fire by now, due to either the parshmen or Tezim’s armies.” Tezim. Who was a Herald. Surely he wouldn’t side with the enemy, would he? Perhaps the best thing they could hope for was a war between the Voidbringers and the armies of a mad Herald. Rickshaws waited for them below. Noura joined him in one. It was novel, being pulled by a man acting like a chull. Though it was faster than a palanquin, Dalinar found it far less stately. The city was laid out in a very orderly manner. Navani had always admired that. He watched for more signs of destruction, and while he found few, a different oddity struck him. Masses of people standing in clumps, wearing colorful vests, loose trousers or skirts, and patterned caps. They shouted about unfairness, and though they looked angry, they were surrounded by logicspren. “What’s all this?” Dalinar asked. “Protestors.” She looked to him, and obviously noted his confusion. “They’ve lodged a formal complaint, rejecting an order to exit the city and work the farms. This gives them a one-month period to make their grievances known before being forced to comply.” “They can simply disobey an imperial order?” “I suppose you’d merely march everyone out at swordpoint. Well, we don’t do things that way here. There are processes. Our people aren’t slaves.” Dalinar found himself bristling; she obviously didn’t know much about Alethkar, if she assumed all Alethi darkeyes were like chulls to be herded around. The lower classes had a long and proud
tradition of rights related to their social ranking. “Those people,” he said, realizing something, “have been ordered to the fields because you lost your parshmen.” “Our fields haven’t yet been planted,” Noura said, eyes growing distant. “It’s like they knew the very best time to cripple us by leaving. Carpenters and cobblers must be pressed into manual labor, just to prevent a famine. We might feed ourselves, but our trades and infrastructure will be devastated.” In Alethkar, they hadn’t been as fixated on this, as reclaiming the kingdom was more pressing. In Thaylenah, the disaster had been physical, the city ravaged. Both kingdoms had been distracted from a more subversive disaster, the economic one. “How did it happen?” Dalinar asked. “The parshmen leaving?” “They gathered in the storm,” she said. “Leaving homes and walking right out into it. Some reports said the parshmen claimed to hear the beating of drums. Other reports—these are all very contradictory—speak of spren guiding the parshmen. “They swarmed the city gates, threw them open in the rain, then moved out onto the plain surrounding the city. The next day, they demanded formal economic redress for improper appropriation of their labors. They claimed the subsection of the rules exempting parshmen from wages was extralegal, and put a motion through the courts. We were negotiating—a bizarre experience, I must say—before some of their leaders got them marching off instead.” Interesting. Alethi parshmen had acted Alethi—immediately gathering for war. The Thaylen parshmen had taken to the seas. And the Azish parshmen … well, they’d done something quintessentially Azish. They had lodged a complaint with the government. He had to be careful not to dwell on how amusing that sounded, if only because Navani had warned him not to underestimate the Azish. Alethi liked to joke about them—insult one of their soldiers, it was said, and he’d submit a form requesting an opportunity to swear at you. But that was a caricature, likely about as accurate as Noura’s own impression of his people always doing everything by the sword and spear. Once at the palace, Dalinar tried to follow Noura and the other scribes into the main building—but soldiers instead gestured him toward a small outbuilding. “I was hoping,” he called after Noura, “to speak with the emperor in person.” “Unfortunately, this petition cannot be granted,” she said. The group left him and strode into the grand palace itself, a majestic bronze building with bulbous domes. The soldiers sequestered him in a narrow chamber with a low table at the center and nice couches along the sides. They left him inside the small room alone, but took up positions outside. It wasn’t quite a prison, but he obviously wasn’t to be allowed to roam either. He sighed and sat on a couch, dropping his lunch to the table beside some bowls of dried fruit and nuts. He took the spanreed out and sent a brief signal to Navani that meant time, the agreed sign that he was to be given another hour before anyone panicked. He rose and began pacing. How
did men suffer this? In battle, you won or lost based on strength of arms. At the end of the day, you knew where you stood. This endless talking left him so uncertain. Would the viziers dismiss the essays? Jasnah’s reputation seemed to be powerful even here, but they’d seemed less impressed by her argument than by the way she expressed it. You’ve always worried about this, haven’t you? the Stormfather said in his mind. “About what?” That the world would come to be ruled by pens and scribes, not swords and generals. “I…” Blood of my fathers. That was true. Was that why he insisted on negotiating himself? Why he didn’t send ambassadors? Was it because deep down, he didn’t trust their gilded words and intricate promises, all contained in documents he couldn’t read? Pieces of paper that were somehow harder than the strongest Shardplate? “The contests of kingdoms are supposed to be a masculine art,” he said. “I should be able to do this myself.” The Stormfather rumbled, not truly in disagreement. Just in … amusement? Dalinar finally settled onto one of the couches. Might as well eat something … except his cloth-wrapped lunch lay open, crumbs on the table, the wooden curry box empty save for a few drips. What on Roshar? He slowly looked up at the other couch. The slender Reshi girl perched not on the seat, but up on the backrest. She wore an oversized Azish robe and cap, and was gnawing on the sausage Navani had packed with the meal, to be cut into the curry. “Kind of bland,” she said. “Soldier’s rations,” Dalinar said. “I prefer them.” “’Cuz you’re bland?” “I prefer not to let a meal become a distraction. Were you in here all along?” She shrugged, continuing to eat his food. “You said something earlier. About men?” “I … was beginning to realize that I’m uncomfortable with the idea of scribes controlling the fates of nations. The things women write are stronger than my military.” “Yeah, that makes sense. Lots of boys is afraid of girls.” “I’m not—” “They say it changes when you grow up,” she said, leaning forward. “I wouldn’t know, because I ain’t going to grow. I figured it out. I just gotta stop eatin’. People that don’t eat, don’t get bigger. Easy.” She said it all around mouthfuls of his food. “Easy,” Dalinar said. “I’m sure.” “I’m gonna start any day now,” she said. “You want that fruit, or…” He leaned forward, pushing the two bowls of dried fruit toward her. She attacked them. Dalinar leaned back in the seat. This girl seemed so out of place. Though she was lighteyed—with pale, clear irises—that didn’t matter as much in the west. The regal clothing was too big on her, and she didn’t take care to keep her hair pulled back and tucked up under the cap. This entire room—this entire city, really—was an exercise in ostentation. Metal leaf coated domes, the rickshaws, even large portions of the walls of this room. The Azish owned only a few Soulcasters,
and famously one could make bronze. The carpeting and couches displayed bright patterns of orange and red. The Alethi favored solid colors, perhaps some embroidery. The Azish preferred their decorations to look like the product of a painter having a sneezing fit. In the middle of it all was this girl, who looked so simple. She swam through ostentation, but it didn’t stick to her. “I listened to what they’re sayin’ in there, tight-butt,” the girl said. “Before comin’ here. I think they’re gonna deny you. They gots a finger.” “I should think they have many fingers.” “Nah, this is an extra one. Dried out, looks like it belonged to some gramma’s gramma, but it’s actually from an emperor. Emperor Snot-a-Lot or—” “Snoxil?” Dalinar asked. “Yeah. That’s him.” “He was Prime when my ancestor sacked Azimir,” Dalinar said with a sigh. “It’s a relic.” The Azish could be a superstitious lot, for all their claims about logic and essays and codes of law. This relic was probably being used during their discussions as a reminder of the last time the Alethi had been in Azir. “Yeah, well, all I know is he’s dead, so he ain’t got to worry about … about…” “Odium.” The Reshi girl shivered visibly. “Could you go and talk to the viziers?” Dalinar asked. “Tell them that you think supporting my coalition is a good idea? They listened to you when you asked to unlock the Oathgate.” “Nah, they listened to Gawx,” she said. “The geezers that run the city don’t like me much.” Dalinar grunted. “Your name is Lift, right?” “Right.” “And your order?” “More food.” “I meant your order of Knights Radiant. What powers do you have?” “Oh. Um … Edgedancer? I slip around and stuff.” “Slip around.” “It’s real fun. Except when I run into things. Then it’s only kinda fun.” Dalinar leaned forward, wishing—again—he could go in and talk to all those fools and scribes. No. For once, trust in someone else, Dalinar. Lift cocked her head. “Huh. You smell like her.” “Her?” “The crazy spren who lives in the forest.” “You’ve met the Nightwatcher?” “Yeah … You?” He nodded. They sat there, uncomfortable, until the young girl handed one of her bowls of dried fruit toward Dalinar. He took a piece and chewed it in silence, and she took another. They ate the entire bowl, saying nothing until the door opened. Dalinar jumped. Noura stood in the doorway, flanked by other viziers. Her eyes flickered toward Lift, and she smiled. Noura didn’t seem to think as poorly of Lift as the little girl indicated. Dalinar stood up, feeling a sense of dread. He prepared his arguments, his pleas. They had to— “The emperor and his council,” Noura said, “have decided to accept your invitation to visit Urithiru.” Dalinar cut off his objection. Did she say accept? “The Prime of Emul has almost reached Azir,” Noura said. “He brought the Sage with him, and they should be willing to join us. Unfortunately, following the parshman assault, Emul is a fraction of what it once
was. I suspect he will be eager for any and every source of aid, and will welcome this coalition of yours. “The prince of Tashikk has an ambassador—his brother—in the city. He’ll come as well, and the princess of Yezier is reportedly coming in person to plead for aid. We’ll see about her. I think she simply believes Azimir will be safer. She lives here half the year anyway. “Alm and Desh have ambassadors in the city, and Liafor is always eager to join whatever we do, as long as they can cater the storming meetings. I can’t speak for Steen—they’re a tricky bunch. I doubt you want Tukar’s priest-king, and Marat is overrun. But we can bring a good sampling of the empire to join your discussions.” “I…” Dalinar stammered. “Thank you!” It was actually happening! As they’d hoped, Azir was the linchpin. “Well, your wife writes a good essay,” Noura said. He started. “Navani’s essay was the one that convinced you? Not Jasnah’s?” “Each of the three arguments were weighed favorably, and the reports from Thaylen City are encouraging,” Noura said. “That had no small part in our decision. But while Jasnah Kholin’s writing is every bit as impressive as her reputation suggests, there was something … more authentic about Lady Navani’s plea.” “She is one of the most authentic people I know.” Dalinar smiled like a fool. “And she is good at getting what she wants.” “Let me lead you back to the Oathgate. We will be in contact about the Prime’s visit to your city.” Dalinar collected his spanreed and bade farewell to Lift, who stood on the back of the couch and waved to him. The sky looked brighter as the viziers accompanied him back to the dome that housed the Oathgate. He could hear them speaking eagerly as they entered the rickshaws; they seemed to be embracing this decision with gusto, now that it had been made. Dalinar passed the trip quietly, worried that he might say something brutish and ruin things. Once they entered the market dome, he did take the opportunity to mention to Noura that the Oathgate could be used to transport everything there, including the dome itself. “I’m afraid that it’s a larger security threat than you know,” he finished saying to her as they reached the control building. “What would it do,” she said, “if we built a structure halfway across the plateau perimeter? Would it slice the thing in two? What if a person is half on, half off?” “That we don’t know yet,” Dalinar said, fumbling the spanreed on and off in a pattern to send the signal that would bring Jasnah back through the Oathgate to fetch him. “I’ll admit,” Noura said softly as the other viziers chatted behind, “I’m … not pleased at being overruled. I am the emperor’s loyal servant, but I do not like the idea of your Radiants, Dalinar Kholin. These powers are dangerous, and the ancient Radiants turned traitor in the end.” “I will convince you,” Dalinar said. “We will prove ourselves to
you. All I need is a chance.” The Oathgate flashed, and Jasnah appeared inside. Dalinar bowed to Noura in respect, then stepped backward into the building. “You are not what I expected, Blackthorn,” Noura said. “And what did you expect?” “An animal,” she said frankly. “A half-man creature of war and blood.” Something about that struck him. An animal … Echoes of memories shuddered inside of him. “I was that man,” Dalinar said. “I’ve merely been blessed with enough good examples to make me aspire to something more.” He nodded to Jasnah, who repositioned her sword, rotating the inner wall to initiate the transfer and take them back to Urithiru. Navani waited outside the building. Dalinar stepped out and blinked at the sunlight, chilled by the mountain cold. He smiled broadly at her, opening his mouth to tell her what her essay had done. An animal … An animal reacts when it is prodded … Memories. You whip it, and it becomes savage. Dalinar stumbled. He vaguely heard Navani crying out, yelling for help. His vision spun, and he fell to his knees, feeling an overwhelming nausea. He clawed at the stone, groaning, breaking fingernails. Navani … Navani was calling for a healer. She thought he’d been poisoned. It wasn’t that. No, it was far, far worse. Storms. He remembered. It came crashing down on him, the weight of a thousand boulders. He remembered what had happened to Evi. It had started in a cold fortress, in highlands once claimed by Jah Keved. It had ended at the Rift. ELEVEN YEARS AGO Dalinar’s breath misted as he leaned on the stone windowsill. In the room behind him, soldiers set up a table with a map on it. “See there,” Dalinar said, pointing out the window. “That ledge down there?” Adolin, now twelve years old—nearly thirteen—leaned out the window. The outside of the large stone keep bulged here at the second floor, which would make scaling it challenging—but the stonework provided a convenient handhold in the form of a ledge right below the window. “I see it,” Adolin said. “Good. Now watch.” Dalinar gestured into the room. One of his guards pulled a lever, and the stonework ledge retracted into the wall. “It moved!” Adolin said. “Do that again!” The soldier obliged, using the lever to make the ledge stick out, then retract again. “Neat!” Adolin said. So full of energy, as always. If only Dalinar could harness that for the battlefield. He wouldn’t need Shards to conquer. “Why did they build that, do you think?” Dalinar asked. “In case people climb it! You could make them drop back down!” “Defense against Shardbearers,” Dalinar said, nodding. “A fall this far would crack their Plate, but the fortress also has interior corridor sections that are too narrow to maneuver in properly with Plate and Blade.” Dalinar smiled. Who knew that such a gem had been hiding in the highlands between Alethkar and Jah Keved? This solitary keep would provide a nice barrier if true war ever did break out with the Vedens. He gestured
for Adolin to move back, then shuttered the window and rubbed his chilled hands. This chamber was decorated like a lodge, hung with old forgotten greatshell trophies. At the side, a soldier stoked a flame in the hearth. The battles with the Vedens had wound down. Though the last few fights had been disappointing, having his son with him had been an absolute delight. Adolin hadn’t gone into battle, of course, but he’d joined them at tactics meetings. Dalinar had at first assumed the generals would be annoyed at the presence of a child, but it was hard to find little Adolin annoying. He was so earnest, so interested. Together, he and Adolin joined a few of Dalinar’s lesser officers at the room’s table map. “Now,” Dalinar said to Adolin, “let’s see how well you’ve been paying attention. Where are we now?” Adolin leaned over, pointing at the map. “This is our new keep, which you won for the crown! Here’s the old border, where it used to be. Here’s the new border in blue, which we won back from those thieving Vedens. They’ve held our land for twenty years.” “Excellent,” Dalinar said. “But it’s not merely land we’ve won.” “Trade treaties!” Adolin said. “That’s the point of the big ceremony we had to do. You and that Veden highprince, in formal dress. We won the right to trade for tons of stuff for cheap.” “Yes, but that’s not the most important thing we won.” Adolin frowned. “Um … horses…” “No, son, the most important thing we’ve won is legitimacy. In signing this new treaty, the Veden king has recognized Gavilar as the rightful king of Alethkar. We’ve not just defended our borders, we’ve forestalled a greater war, as the Vedens now acknowledge our right to rule—and won’t be pressing their own.” Adolin nodded, understanding. It was gratifying to see how much one could accomplish in both politics and trade by liberally murdering the other fellow’s soldiers. These last years full of skirmishes had reminded Dalinar of why he lived. More, they’d given him something new. In his youth, he’d warred, then spent the evenings drinking with his soldiers. Now he had to explain his choices, vocalize them for the ears of an eager young boy who had questions for everything—and expected Dalinar to know the answers. Storms, it was a challenge. But it felt good. Incredibly good. He had no intention of ever returning to a useless life spent wasting away in Kholinar, going to parties and getting into tavern brawls. Dalinar smiled and accepted a cup of warmed wine, surveying the map. Though Adolin had been focused on the region where they were fighting the Vedens, Dalinar’s eyes were instead drawn to another section. It included, written in pencil, the numbers he’d requested: projections of troops at the Rift. “Viim cachi eko!” Evi said, stepping into the room, holding her arms tight to her chest and shivering. “I had thought central Alethkar was cold. Adolin Kholin, where is your jacket?” The boy looked down, as if suddenly surprised that he
wasn’t wearing it. “Um…” He looked to Teleb, who merely smiled, shaking his head. “Run along, son,” Dalinar said. “You have geography lessons today.” “Can I stay? I don’t want to leave you.” He wasn’t speaking merely of today. The time was approaching when Adolin would go to spend part of the year in Kholinar, to drill with the swordmasters and receive formal training in diplomacy. He spent most of the year with Dalinar, but it was important he get some refinement in the capital. “Go,” Dalinar said. “If you pay attention in your lesson, I’ll take you riding tomorrow.” Adolin sighed, then saluted. He hopped off his stool and gave his mother a hug—which was un-Alethi, but Dalinar suffered the behavior. Then he was out the door. Evi stepped up to the fire. “So cold. What possessed someone to build a fortress way up here?” “It’s not that bad,” Dalinar said. “You should visit the Frostlands in a season of winter.” “You Alethi cannot understand cold. Your bones are frozen.” Dalinar grunted his response, then leaned down over the map. I’ll need to approach from the south, march up along the lake’s coast.… “The king is sending a message via spanreed,” Evi noted. “It’s being scribed now.” Her accent is fading, Dalinar noticed absently. When she sat down in a chair by the fire, she supported herself with her right hand, safehand tucked demurely against her waist. She kept her blonde hair in Alethi braids, rather than letting it tumble about her shoulders. She’d never be a great scribe—she didn’t have the youthful training in art and letters of a Vorin woman. Besides, she didn’t like books, and preferred her meditations. But she’d tried hard these last years, and he was impressed. She still complained that he didn’t see Renarin enough. The other son was unfit for battle, and spent most of his time in Kholinar. Evi spent half the year back with him. No, no, Dalinar thought, writing a glyph on the map. The coast is the expected route. What then? An amphibious assault across the lake? He’d need to see if he could get ships for that. A scribe eventually entered bearing the king’s letter, and everyone but Dalinar and Evi left. Evi held the letter and hesitated. “Do you want to sit, or—” “No, go ahead.” Evi cleared her voice. “ ‘Brother,’ ” the letter began, “ ‘the treaty is sealed. Your efforts in Jah Keved are to be commended, and this should be a time of celebration and congratulations. Indeed, on a personal note, I wish to express my pride in you. The word from our best generals is that your tactical instincts have matured to full-fledged strategic genius. I never counted myself among their ranks, but to a man, they commend you as their equal. “ ‘As I have grown to become a king, it seems you have found your place as our general. I’m most interested to hear your own reports of the small mobile team tactics you’ve been employing. I would like to speak
in person at length about all of this—indeed, I have important revelations of my own I would like to share. It would be best if we could meet in person. Once, I enjoyed your company every day. Now I believe it has been three years since we last spoke face to face.’ ” “But,” Dalinar said, interrupting, “the Rift needs to be dealt with.” Evi broke off, looking at him, then back down at the page. She continued reading. “ ‘Unfortunately, our meeting will have to wait a few storms longer. Though your efforts on the border have certainly helped solidify our power, I have failed to dominate Rathalas and its renegade leader with politics. “ ‘I must send you to the Rift again. You are to quell this faction. Civil war could tear Alethkar to shreds, and I dare not wait any longer. In truth, I wish I’d listened when we spoke—so many years ago—and you challenged me to send you to the Rift. “ ‘Sadeas will gather reinforcements and join you. Please send word of your strategic assessment of the problem. Be warned, we are certain now that one of the other highprinces—we don’t know who—is supporting Tanalan and his rebellion. He may have access to Shards. I wish you strength of purpose, and the Heralds’ own blessings, in your new task. With love and respect, Gavilar.’ ” Evi looked up. “How did you know, Dalinar? You’ve been poring over those maps for weeks—maps of the Crownlands and of Alethkar. You knew he was going to assign you this task.” “What kind of strategist would I be if I couldn’t foresee the next battle?” “I thought we were going to relax,” Evi said. “We were going to be done with the killing.” “With the momentum I have? What a waste that would be! If not for this problem in Rathalas, Gavilar would have found somewhere else for me to fight. Herdaz again, perhaps. You can’t have your best general sitting around collecting crem.” Besides. There would be men and women among Gavilar’s advisors who worried about Dalinar. If anyone was a threat to the throne, it would be the Blackthorn—particularly with the respect he’d gained from the kingdom’s generals. Though Dalinar had decided years ago that he would never do such a thing, many at court would think the kingdom safer if he were kept away. “No, Evi,” he said as he made another notation, “I doubt we will ever settle back in Kholinar again.” He nodded to himself. That was the way to get the Rift. One of his mobile bands could round and secure the lake’s beach. He could move the entire army across it then, attacking far faster than the Rift expected. Satisfied, he looked up. And found Evi crying. The sight stunned him, and he dropped his pencil. She tried to hold it back, turning toward the fire and wrapping her arms around herself, but the sniffles sounded as distinct and disturbing as breaking bones. Kelek’s breath … he could face soldiers and storms, falling boulders
and dying friends, but nothing in his training had ever prepared him to deal with these soft tears. “Seven years,” she whispered. “Seven years we’ve been out here, living in wagons and waystops. Seven years of murder, of chaos, of men crying to their wounds.” “You married—” “Yes, I married a soldier. It’s my fault for not being strong enough to deal with the consequences. Thank you, Dalinar. You’ve made that very clear.” This was what it was like to feel helpless. “I … thought you were growing to like it. You now fit in with the other women.” “The other women? Dalinar, they make me feel stupid.” “But…” “Conversation is a contest to them,” Evi said, throwing her hands up. “Everything has to be a contest to you Alethi, always trying to show up everyone else. For the women it’s this awful, unspoken game to prove how witty they each are. I’ve thought … maybe the only answer, to make you proud, is to go to the Nightwatcher and ask for the blessing of intelligence. The Old Magic can change a person. Make something great of them—” “Evi,” Dalinar cut in. “Please, don’t speak of that place or that creature. It’s blasphemous.” “You say that, Dalinar,” she said. “But no one actually cares about religion here. Oh, they make sure to point out how superior their beliefs are to mine. But who actually ever worries about the Heralds, other than to swear by their names? You bring ardents to battle merely to Soulcast rocks into grain. That way, you don’t have to stop killing each other long enough to find something to eat.” Dalinar approached, then settled down into the other seat by the hearth. “It is … different in your homeland?” She rubbed her eyes, and he wondered if she’d see through his attempt to change the subject. Talking about her people often smoothed over their arguments. “Yes,” she said. “True, there are those who don’t care about the One or the Heralds. They say we shouldn’t accept Iriali or Vorin doctrines as our own. But Dalinar, many do care. Here … here you just pay some ardent to burn glyphwards for you and call it done.” Dalinar took a deep breath and tried again. “Perhaps, after I’ve seen to the rebels, I can persuade Gavilar not to give me another assignment. We could travel. Go west, to your homeland.” “So you could kill my people instead?” “No! I wouldn’t—” “They’d attack you, Dalinar. My brother and I are exiles, if you haven’t forgotten.” He hadn’t seen Toh in a decade, ever since the man had gone to Herdaz. He reportedly liked it quite well, living on the coast, protected by Alethi bodyguards. Evi sighed. “I’ll never see the sunken forests again. I’ve accepted that. I will live my life in this harsh land, so dominated by wind and cold.” “Well, we could travel someplace warm. Up to the Steamwater. Just you and I. Time together. We could even bring Adolin.” “And Renarin?” Evi asked. “Dalinar, you have two sons,
in case you have forgotten. Do you even care about the child’s condition? Or is he nothing to you now that he can’t become a soldier?” Dalinar grunted, feeling like he’d taken a mace to the head. He stood up, then walked toward the table. “What?” Evi demanded. “I’ve been in enough battles to know when I’ve found one I can’t win.” “So you flee?” Evi said. “Like a coward?” “The coward,” Dalinar said, gathering his maps, “is the man who delays a necessary retreat for fear of being mocked. We’ll go back to Kholinar after I deal with the rebellion at the Rift. I’ll promise you at least a year there.” “Really?” Evi said, standing up. “Yes. You’ve won this fight.” “I … don’t feel like I’ve won.…” “Welcome to war, Evi,” Dalinar said, heading toward the door. “There are no unequivocal wins. Just victories that leave fewer of your friends dead than others.” He left and slammed the door behind him. Sounds of her weeping chased him down the steps, and shamespren fell around him like flower petals. Storms, I don’t deserve that woman, do I? Well, so be it. The argument was her fault, as were the repercussions. He stomped down the steps to find his generals, and continue planning his return assault on the Rift. This generation has had only one Bondsmith, and some blame the divisions among us upon this fact. The true problem is far deeper. I believe that Honor himself is changing. —From drawer 24-18, smokestone A day after being murdered in a brutal fashion, Shallan found that she was feeling much better. The sense of oppression had left her, and even her horror seemed distant. What lingered was that single glimpse she’d seen in the mirror: a glimmer of the Unmade’s presence, beyond the plane of the reflection. The mirrors in the tailor’s shop didn’t show such proclivities; she had checked every one. Just in case, she’d given a drawing of the thing she’d seen to the others, and warned them to watch. Today, she strolled into the little kitchen, which was beside the rear workroom. Adolin ate flatbread and curry while King Elhokar sat at the room’s table, earnestly … writing something? No, he was drawing. Shallan rested fond fingers on Adolin’s shoulder and enjoyed his grin in response. Then she rounded to peek over the king’s shoulder. He was doing a map of the city, with the palace and the Oathgate platform. It wasn’t half bad. “Anyone seen the bridgeman?” Elhokar asked. “Here,” Kaladin said, strolling in from the workroom. Yokska, her husband, and her maid were out shopping for more food, using spheres that Elhokar had provided. Food was apparently still for sale in the city, if you had the spheres to pay. “I,” Elhokar said, “have devised a plan for how to proceed in this city.” Shallan shared a look with Adolin, who shrugged. “What do you suggest, Your Majesty?” “Thanks to the Lightweaver’s excellent reconnaissance,” the king said, “it is evident my wife is being held captive by her
own guards.” “We don’t know that for certain, Your Majesty,” Kaladin said. “It sounded like the queen has succumbed to whatever is affecting the guards.” “Either way, she is in need of rescue,” Elhokar said. “Either we must sneak into the palace for her and little Gavinor, or we must rally a military force to help us capture the location by strength of arms.” He tapped his map of the city with his pen. “The Oathgate, however, remains our priority. Brightness Davar, I want you to investigate this Cult of Moments. Find out how they’re using the Oathgate platform.” Yokska had confirmed that each night, some members of the cult set a blazing fire on top of the platform. They guarded the place all hours of the day. “If you could join whatever ritual or event they are performing,” the king said, “you would be within feet of the Oathgate. You could transport the entire plateau to Urithiru, and let our armies there deal with the cult. “In case that is not viable, Adolin and I—in the guise of important lighteyes from the Shattered Plains—shall contact the lighteyed houses in the city who maintain private guard forces. We shall gather their support, perhaps revealing our true identities, and put together an army for assaulting the palace, if needed.” “And me?” Kaladin asked. “I don’t like the sound of this Azure person. See what you can find out about him and his Wall Guard.” Kaladin nodded, then grunted. “It’s a good plan, Elhokar,” Adolin said. “Nice work.” A simple compliment probably should not have made a king beam like it did. Elhokar even drew a gloryspren—and notably, it didn’t seem different from ordinary ones. “But there is something we have to face,” Adolin continued. “Have you listened to the list of charges that ardent—the one who got executed—made against the queen?” “I … Yes.” “Ten glyphs,” Adolin said, “denouncing Aesudan’s excess. Wasting food while people starved. Increasing taxes, then throwing lavish parties for her ardents. Elhokar, this started long before the Everstorm.” “We can … ask her,” the king said. “Once she is safe. Something must have been wrong. Aesudan was always proud, and always ambitious, but never gluttonous.” He eyed Adolin. “I know that Jasnah says I shouldn’t have married her—that Aesudan was too hungry for power. Jasnah never understood. I needed Aesudan. Someone with strength…” He took a deep breath, then stood up. “We mustn’t waste time. The plan. Do you agree with it?” “I like it,” Shallan said. Kaladin nodded. “It’s too general, but it’s at least a line of attack. Additionally, we need to trace the grain in the city. Yokska says the lighteyes provide it, but she also says the palace stores are closed.” “You think someone has a Soulcaster?” Adolin asked. “I think this city has too many secrets,” Kaladin said. “Adolin and I shall ask the lighteyes, and see if they know,” Elhokar said, then looked to Shallan. “The Cult of Moments?” “I’ll get on it,” she said. “I need a new coat anyway.” * *
* She slipped out of the building again as Veil. She wore the trousers and her coat, though that now had a hole in the back. Ishnah had been able to wash the blood off, but Veil still wanted to replace it. For now, she covered the hole with a Lightweaving. Veil sauntered down the street, and found herself feeling increasingly confident. Back in Urithiru, she’d still been struggling to get her coat on straight, so to speak. She winced as she thought of her trips through the bars, making a fool of herself. You didn’t need to prove how much you could drink in order to look tough—but that was the sort of thing you couldn’t learn without wearing the coat, living in it. She turned toward the market, where she hoped to get a feel for Kholinar’s people. She needed to know how they thought before she could begin to understand how the Cult of Moments had come to be, and therefore how to infiltrate it. This market was very different from those at Urithiru, or the night markets of Kharbranth. First off, this one was obviously ancient. These worn, weathered shops felt like they’d been here for the first Desolation. These were stones smoothed by the touch of a million fingers, or indented by the press of thousands of passing feet. Awnings bleached by the progression of day after day. The street was wide, and not crowded. Some stalls were empty, and the remaining merchants didn’t shout at her as she passed. These seemed effects of the smothered sensation everyone felt—the feeling of a city besieged. Yokska served only men, and Veil wouldn’t have wanted to reveal herself to the woman anyway. So she stopped at a clothier and tried on some new coats. She chatted with the woman who ran the accounts—her husband was the actual tailor—and got some suggestions on where to look for a coat matching her current one, then stepped back out onto the street. Soldiers in light blue patrolled here, the glyphs on their uniforms proclaiming them to be of House Velalant. Yokska had described their brightlord as a minor player in the city until so many lighteyes had vanished into the palace. Veil shivered, remembering the line of corpses. Adolin and Elhokar were fairly certain those were the remnants of a distant Kholin and his attendants—a man named Kaves, who had often tried to gain power in the city. Neither were sad to see him go, but it whispered of a continuing mystery. More than thirty people had gone to meet with the queen, many more powerful than Kaves. What had happened to them? She passed an assortment of vendors peddling the usual range of necessities and curiosities, from ceramics to dining wares, to fine knives. It was nice to see that here, the soldiers had imposed some semblance of order. Perhaps rather than fixating on the closed stalls, Veil should have appreciated how many were still open. The third clothing shop finally had a coat she liked, of the same style as
her old one—white and long, past her knees. She paid to have it taken in, then casually asked the seamstress about the city’s grain. The answers led her one street over to a grain station. It had formerly been a Thaylen bank, with the words Secure Keeps across the top in Thaylen and the women’s script. The proprietors had long ago fled—moneylenders seemed to have a sixth sense for impending danger, the way some animals could sense a storm hours before it arrived. The soldiers in light blue had appropriated it, and the vaults now protected precious grain. People waited in line outside, and at the front, soldiers doled out enough lavis for one day’s flatbread and gruel. It was a good sign—if a distinct and terrible reminder of the city’s situation. She would have applauded Velalant’s kindness, save for his soldiers’ blatant incompetence. They shouted at everyone to stay in line, but didn’t do anything to enforce the order. They did have a scribe watching to make sure nobody got in line twice, but they didn’t exclude people who were obviously too well-to-do to need the handout. Veil glanced around the market, and noted people watching from the crannies and hollows of abandoned stalls. The poor and unwanted, those destitute beyond even the refugees. Tattered clothing, dirty faces. They watched like spren drawn by a powerful emotion. Veil settled down on a low wall beside a drainage trough. A boy huddled nearby, watching the line with hungry eyes. One of his arms ended in a twisted, unusable hand: three fingers mere nubs, the other two crooked. She fished in her trouser pocket. Shallan didn’t carry food, but Veil knew the importance of having something to chew on. She could have sworn she’d tucked something in while getting ready.… There it was. A meat stick, Soulcast but flavored with sugar. Not quite large enough to be a sausage. She bit off an end, then wagged the rest toward the urchin. The boy sized her up, probably trying to determine her angle. Finally he crept over and took the offering, quickly stuffing the whole thing into his mouth. He waited, eyeing her to see if she had more. “Why don’t you get in line?” Veil asked. “They got rules. Gotta be a certain age. And if you’re too poor, they shove ya out of line.” “For what reason?” The boy shrugged. “Don’t need one, I guess. They say you’ve already been through, ’cept you haven’t.” “Many of those people … they’re servants from wealthy homes, aren’t they?” The urchin nodded. Storming lighteyes, Veil thought as she watched. Some of the poor were shoved out of line for one infraction or another, as the urchin had claimed. The others waited patiently, as it was their job. They’d been sent by wealthy homes to collect food. Many bore the lean, strong look of house guards, though they didn’t wear uniforms. Storms. Velalant’s men really had no idea how to do this. Or maybe they know exactly what they’re doing, she thought. And Velalant is just
keeping the local lighteyes happy and ready to support his rule, should the winds turn his way. It made Veil sick. She fished out a second meat stick for the urchin, then started to ask him how far Velalant’s influence reached—but the kid was gone in a heartbeat. The grain distribution ended, and a lot of unhappy people called out in despair. The soldiers said they’d do another handout in the evening, and counseled people to line up and wait. Then the bank closed its doors. But where did Velalant get the food? Veil rose and continued through the market, passing pools of angerspren. Some looked like the normal pools of blood; others were more like tar, pitch-black. When the bubbles in these popped, they showed a burning red within, like embers. Those vanished as people settled down to wait—and exhaustionspren appeared instead. Her optimism about the market evaporated. She passed crowds milling about, looking lost, and read depression in people’s eyes. Why try to pretend life could go on? They were doomed. The Voidbringers were going to rip this city apart—if they didn’t simply let everyone starve. Someone needed to do something. Veil needed to do something. Infiltrating the Cult of Moments suddenly seemed too abstract. Couldn’t she do something directly for these poor people? Except … she hadn’t even been able to save her own family. She had no idea what Mraize had done with her brothers, and she refused to think about them. How would she save an entire city? She shouldered through the crowd, seeking freedom, suddenly feeling trapped. She needed out. She— What was that sound? Shallan pulled up short, turning, hearing. Storms. It couldn’t be, could it? She drifted toward the sound, that voice. “You say that, my dear man,” it proclaimed, “but everyone thinks they know the moons. How could they not? We live beneath their gaze each night. We’ve known them longer than our friends, our wives, our children. And yet … and yet…” Shallan pushed through the milling crowd to find him sitting on the low wall around a storm cistern. A metal brazier burned before him, emitting thin lines of smoke that twisted in the wind. He was dressed, strangely, in a soldier’s uniform—Sadeas’s livery, with the coat unbuttoned and a colored scarf around his neck. The traveler. The one they called the King’s Wit. Angular features, a sharp nose, hair that was stark black. He was here. “There are still stories to tell.” Wit leaped to his feet. Few people were paying attention. To them, he was just another busker. “Everyone knows that Mishim is the cleverest of the three moons. Though her sister and brother are content to reign in the sky—gracing the lands below with their light—Mishim is always looking for a chance to escape her duty.” Wit tossed something into the brazier, producing a bright green puff of smoke the color of Mishim, the third and slowest of the moons. “This story takes place during the days of Tsa,” Wit continued. “The grandest queen of Natanatan, before that
kingdom’s fall. Blessed with grand poise and beauty, the Natan people were famous across all of Roshar. Why, if you’d lived back then, you’d have viewed the east as a place of great culture, not an empty wasteland! “Queen Tsa, as you’ve doubtless heard, was an architect. She designed high towers for her city, built to reach ever upward, grasping toward the sky. One night, Tsa rested in her greatest tower, enjoying the view. So it was that Mishim, that clever moon, happened to pass in the sky close by. (It was a night when the moons were large, and these—everyone knows—are nights when the moons pay special attention to the actions of mortals.) “ ‘Great Queen!’ Mishim called. ‘You build such fine towers in your grand city. I enjoy viewing them each night as I pass.’ ” Wit dropped powder into the brazier, this time in clumps that caused two lines of smoke—one white, one green—to stream upward. Shallan stepped forward, watching the smoke curl. The marketgoers slowed, and began to gather. “Now,” Wit said, thrusting his hands into the smoke lines, twisting them so that the smoke swirled and contorted, giving the sense of a green moon spinning in the center, “Queen Tsa was hardly ignorant of Mishim’s crafty ways. The Natans were never fond of Mishim, but rather revered the great Nomon. “Still, one does not ignore a moon. ‘Thank you, Great Celestial One,’ Tsa called. ‘Our engineers labor ceaselessly to erect the most splendid of mortal accomplishments.’ “ ‘Almost they reach to my domain,’ Mishim called. ‘One wonders if you are trying to obtain it.’ “ ‘Never, Great Celestial One. My domain is this land, and the sky is yours.’ ” Wit thrust his hand high in his smoke, drawing the line of white into the shape of a straight pillar. His other hand swirled a pocket of green above it, like a whirlpool. A tower and a moon. That can’t be natural, can it? Shallan thought. Is he Lightweaving? Yet she saw no Stormlight. There was something more … organic about what he did. She couldn’t be completely certain it was supernatural. “As always, Mishim was hatching a scheme. She loathed being hung in the sky each night, far from the delights of the world below, and the pleasures that only mortals know. The next night, Mishim again passed Queen Tsa in her tower. ‘It is a pity,’ Mishim said, ‘that you cannot see the constellations from up close. For they are truly beautiful gemstones, shaped by the finest of gem cutters.’ “ ‘It is a pity,’ Tsa said. ‘But all know that the eyes of a mortal would burn to see such a lofty sight.’ “On the next night, Mishim tried again. ‘It is a pity,’ she said, ‘that you cannot converse with the starspren, as they tell delightsome stories.’ “ ‘It is a pity,’ Tsa agreed. ‘But everyone knows that the language of the heavens would drive a mortal mad.’ “The next night, Mishim tried a third time. ‘It is a pity that you cannot
see the beauty of your kingdom from above. For the pillars and domes of your city are radiant.’ “ ‘It is a pity,’ Tsa agreed. ‘But those sights are meant for the great ones of heaven, and to behold them myself would be blasphemous.’ ” Wit dropped another powder into the brazier, bringing up yellow-gold smoke. By now, dozens of people had gathered to watch. He swept his hands to the sides, sending the smoke spraying out in a flat plane. Then it crept upward again in lines—forming towers. A city? He continued to swirl with one hand, drawing the green smoke up into a ring that—with a thrust of his hand—he sent spinning across the top of the yellow-golden city. It was remarkable, and Shallan found her jaw dropping. This was an image that lived. Wit glanced to the side, where he’d put his pack. He started, as if surprised. Shallan cocked her head as he quickly recovered, jumping back into the story so fast that it was easy to miss his lapse. But now, as he spoke, he searched the audience with careful eyes. “Mishim,” he said, “was not finished. The queen was pious, but the moon was crafty. I will leave it to you to decide which is the more powerful. The fourth night, as Mishim passed the queen, she tried a different ploy. “ ‘Yes,’ Mishim said, ‘your city is grand, as only a god can see from above. That is why it is so, so sad that one of the towers has a flawed roof.’ ” Wit swept to the side, destroying the lines of smoke that made up the city. He let the smoke dwindle, the powders he’d thrown running out, all save the line of green. “ ‘What?’ Tsa said. ‘A flawed tower? Which one?’ “ ‘It is but a minor blemish,’ Mishim said. ‘Do not let it worry you. I appreciate the effort your craftsmen, however incompetent, put into their work.’ She continued on her way, but knew that she had trapped the queen. “Indeed, on the next night, the beautiful queen stood waiting on her balcony. ‘Great One of the Heavens!’ Tsa called. ‘We have inspected the roofs, and cannot find the imperfection! Please, please tell me which tower it is, so I can break it down.’ “ ‘I cannot say,’ Mishim said. ‘To be mortal is to be flawed; it is not right to expect perfection of you.’ “This only made the queen more worried. On the next night, she asked, ‘Great One of the Sky, is there a way that I could visit the heavens? I will close my ears to the stories of the starspren and turn my eyes away from the constellations. I would look only upon the flawed works of my people, not the sights meant for you, so that I may see with my own eyes what must be fixed.’ “ ‘It is a forbidden thing that you ask,’ Mishim said, ‘for we would have to trade places, and hope that Nomon does not notice.’ She said
it with much glee, though hidden, for this request was the very thing she desired. “ ‘I will feign that I am you,’ Tsa promised. ‘And I will do all that you do. We will switch back once I am done, and Nomon will never know.’ ” Wit grinned broadly. “And so, the moon and the woman traded places.” His raw enthusiasm for the story was infectious, and Shallan found herself smiling. They were at war, the city was falling, but all she wanted to do was listen to the end of this story. Wit used powders to send up four different smoke lines—blue, yellow, green, and intense orange. He swirled them together in a transfixing vortex of hues. And as he worked, his blue eyes fell on Shallan. They narrowed, and his smile became sly. He just recognized me, she realized. I’m still wearing Veil’s face. But how … how did he know? When he finished his swirling colors, the moon had become white, and the single straight tower he made by swiping up in the smoke was instead pale green. “Mishim came down among the mortals,” he proclaimed, “and Tsa climbed the heavens to sit in the place of the moon! Mishim spent the remaining hours of the night drinking, and courting, and dancing, and singing, and doing all the things she had watched from afar. She lived frantically during her few hours of freedom. “In fact, she was so captivated that she forgot to return, and was shocked by the dawning of sunlight! She hurriedly climbed to the queen’s high tower, but Tsa had already set, and the night had passed. “Mishim now knew not only the delights of mortality, but the anxiety as well. She passed the day in great disquiet, knowing that Tsa would be trapped with her wise sister and solemn brother, spending the day in the place where moons rest. When night again came, Mishim hid inside the tower, expecting that Salas would call out and chide her for her appetites. Yet Salas passed without comment. “Surely, when Nomon rose, he would lash out against her foolishness. Yet Nomon passed without comment. Finally, Tsa rose in the sky, and Mishim called to her. ‘Queen Tsa, mortal, what has happened? My siblings did not call to me. Did you somehow go undiscovered?’ “ ‘No,’ Tsa replied. ‘Your siblings knew me as an impostor immediately.’ “ ‘Then let us trade places quickly!’ Mishim said. ‘So that I may tell them lies and placate them.’ “ ‘They are placated already,’ Tsa said. ‘They think I am delightful. We spent the daylight hours feasting.’ “ ‘Feasting?’ Her siblings had never feasted with her before. “ ‘We sang sweet songs together.’ “ ‘Songs?’ Her siblings had never sung with her before. “ ‘It is truly wonderful up here,’ Tsa said. ‘The starspren tell amazing tales, as you promised, and the gemstone constellations are grand from up close.’ “ ‘Yes. I love those stories, and those sights.’ “ ‘I think,’ Tsa said, ‘that I might stay.’ ” Wit let the smoke
fail until only a single line of green remained. It shrank down, dwindling, almost out. When he spoke, his voice was soft. “Mishim,” he said, “now knew another mortal emotion. Loss. “The moon began to panic! She thought of her grand view from up so high, where she could see all lands and enjoy—if from afar—their art, buildings, and songs! She remembered the kindness of Nomon and the thoughtfulness of Salas!” Wit made a swirl of white smoke, and pushed it slowly to his left, the new moon Tsa close to setting. “ ‘Wait!’ Mishim said. ‘Wait, Tsa! Your word is broken! You spoke to the starspren and gazed upon the constellations!’ ” Wit caught the smoke ring with one hand, somehow making it stay, swirling in one place. “ ‘Nomon said that I could,’ Tsa explained. ‘And I was not harmed.’ “ ‘You broke your word nonetheless!’ Mishim cried. ‘You must come back to earth, mortal, for our bargain is at an end!’ ” Wit let the ring hang there. Then vanish. “To Mishim’s eternal relief, Tsa relented. The queen climbed back down into her tower, and Mishim scrambled up into the heavens. With great pleasure, she sank toward the horizon. Though just before she set, Mishim heard a song.” Oddly, Wit added a small line of blue smoke to the brazier. “It was a song of laughter, of beauty. A song Mishim had never heard! It took her long to understand that song, until months later, she passed in the sky at night and saw the queen in the tower again. Holding a child with skin that was faintly blue. “They did not speak, but Mishim knew. The queen had tricked her. Tsa had wanted to spend one day in the heavens, to know Nomon for a night. She had given birth to a son with pale blue skin, the color of Nomon himself. A son born of the gods, who would lead her people to glory. A son who bore the mantle of the heavens. “And that is why to this day, the people of Natanatan have skin of a faintly blue shade. And it is why Mishim, though still crafty, has never again left her place. Most importantly, it is the story of how the moon came to know the one thing that before, only mortals had known. Loss.” The last line of blue smoke dwindled, then went out. Wit didn’t bow for applause or ask for tips. He sat back down on the cistern wall that had been his stage, looking exhausted. People waited, stunned, until a few started yelling for more. Wit remained silent. He bore their requests, their pleas, then their curses. Slowly, the audience drifted away. Eventually, only Shallan stood before him. Wit smiled at her. “Why that story?” she asked. “Why now?” “I don’t give the meanings, child,” he said. “You should know that by now. I just tell the tale.” “It was beautiful.” “Yes,” he said. Then he added, “I miss my flute.” “Your what?” He hopped up and began gathering his
things. Shallan slipped forward and glanced inside his pack, catching sight of a small jar, sealed at the top. It was mostly black, but the side pointed toward her was instead white. Wit snapped the pack closed. “Come. You look like you could use the opportunity to buy me something to eat.” My research into the cognitive reflections of spren at the tower has been deeply illustrative. Some thought that the Sibling had withdrawn from men by intent—but I find counter to that theory. —From drawer 1-1, first zircon Wit led Shallan to a squat tavern that was so grown over with crem, it gave the impression of having been molded from clay. Inside, a fabrial ceiling fan hung motionless; starting it up would have drawn the attention of the strange screaming spren. Despite the large signs outside offering chouta for sale, the place was empty. The prices raised Shallan’s eyebrows, but the scents emanating from the kitchen were inviting. The innkeeper was a short, heavyset Alethi man with a paunch so thick he looked like a big chull egg. He scowled as Wit entered. “You!” he said, pointing. “Storyteller! You were supposed to draw customers here! The place would be full, you said!” “My tyrannical liege, I believe you misunderstood.” Wit gave a flowery bow. “I said that you would be full. And you are. Of what, I did not say, as I did not wish to sully my tongue.” “Where are my patrons, you idiot!” Wit stepped to the side, holding out his hands toward Shallan. “Behold, mighty and terrible king, I have recruited you a subject.” The innkeeper squinted at her. “Can she pay?” “Yes,” Wit said, holding up Shallan’s purse and poking through it. “She’ll probably leave a tip too.” With a start, Shallan felt at her pocket. Storms, she’d even kept her hand on that purse most of the day. “Take the private room then,” the innkeeper said. “It’s not like anyone else is using it. Idiot bard. I’ll expect a good performance out of you tonight!” Wit sighed, tossing Shallan her purse. He seized his pack and brazier, leading her to a chamber beside the main dining room. As he ushered her in, he raised a fist toward the innkeeper. “I’ve had enough of your oppression, tyrant! Secure your wine well this evening, for the revolution will be swift, vengeful, and intoxicated!” Closing the door behind him, Wit shook his head. “That man really should know better by now. I have no idea why he continues to put up with me.” He set his brazier and pack by the wall, then settled at the room’s dining table, where he leaned back and put his boots up on the seat next to him. Shallan sat at the table more delicately, Pattern slipping off her coat and across to dimple the tabletop next to her. Wit didn’t react to the spren. The room was nice, with painted wood panels set into the walls and rockbuds along a ledge near the small window. The table even had a yellow
silk tablecloth. The room was obviously meant for lighteyes to enjoy private dining, while unsavory darkeyes ate out in the main chamber. “That’s a nice illusion,” Wit said. “You got the back of the head right. People always flub the back. You’ve broken character though. You’re walking like a prim lighteyes, which looks silly in that costume. You’ll only be able to pull off a coat and hat if you own them.” “I know,” she said, grimacing. “The persona … fled once you recognized me.” “Shame about the dark hair. Your natural red would be arresting with the white coat.” “This guise is supposed to be less memorable than that.” He glanced at the hat, which she’d set on the table. Shallan blushed. She felt like a girl nervously showing her first drawings to her tutor. The innkeeper entered with drinks, a mild orange, as it was still early in the day. “Many thanks, my liege,” Wit said. “I vow to compose another song about you. One without so many references to the things you’ve mistaken for young maidens…” “Storming idiot,” the man said. He set the drinks on the table, and didn’t notice that Pattern rippled out from under one. The innkeeper bustled out, closing the door. “Are you one of them?” Shallan blurted out. “Are you a Herald, Wit?” Pattern hummed softly. “Heavens no,” Wit said. “I’m not stupid enough to get mixed up in religion again. The last seven times I tried it were all disasters. I believe there’s at least one god still worshipping me by accident.” She eyed him. It was always hard to tell which of Wit’s exaggerations were supposed to mean something and which were confusing distractions. “Then what are you?” “Some men, as they age, grow kinder. I am not one of those, for I have seen how the cosmere can mistreat the innocent—and that leaves me disinclined toward kindness. Some men, as they age, grow wiser. I am not one of those, for wisdom and I have always been at cross-purposes, and I have yet to learn the tongue in which she speaks. Some men, as they age, grow more cynical. I, fortunately, am not one of those. If I were, the very air would warp around me, sucking in all emotion, leaving only scorn.” He tapped the table. “Other men … other men, as they age, merely grow stranger. I fear that I am one of those. I am the bones of a foreign species left drying on the plain that was once, long ago, a sea. A curiosity, perhaps a reminder, that all has not always been as it is now.” “You’re … old, aren’t you? Not a Herald, but as old as they are?” He slid his boots off the chair and leaned forward, holding her eyes. He smiled in a kindly way. “Child, when they were but babes, I had already lived dozens of lifetimes. ‘Old’ is a word you use for worn shoes. I’m something else entirely.” She trembled, looking into those blue eyes. Shadows played within them.
Shapes moved, and were worn down by time. Boulders became dust. Mountains became hills. Rivers changed course. Seas became deserts. “Storms,” she whispered. “When I was young…” he said. “Yes?” “I made a vow.” Shallan nodded, wide-eyed. “I said I’d always be there when I was needed.” “And you have been?” “Yes.” She breathed out. “It turns out I should have been more specific, as ‘there’ is technically anywhere.” “It … what?” “To be honest, ‘there’ has—so far—been a random location that is of absolutely no use to anyone.” Shallan hesitated. In an instant, whatever she seemed to have sensed in Wit was gone. She flopped back in her seat. “Why am I talking to you of all people?” “Shallan!” he said, aghast. “If you were talking to someone else, they wouldn’t be me.” “I happen to know plenty of people who aren’t you, Wit. I even like some of them.” “Be careful. People who aren’t me are prone to spontaneous bouts of sincerity.” “Which is bad?” “Of course! ‘Sincerity’ is a word people use to justify their chronic dullness.” “Well, I like sincere people,” Shallan said, raising her cup. “It’s delightful how surprised they look when you push them down the stairs.” “Now, that’s unkind. You shouldn’t push people down the stairs for being sincere. You push people down the stairs for being stupid.” “What if they’re sincere and stupid?” “Then you run.” “I quite like arguing with them instead. They do make me look smart, and Vev knows I need the help.…” “No, no. You should never debate an idiot, Shallan. No more than you’d use your best sword to spread butter.” “Oh, but I’m a scholar. I enjoy things with curious properties, and stupidity is most interesting. The more you study it, the further it flees—and yet the more of it you obtain, the less you understand about it!” Wit sipped his drink. “True, to an extent. But it can be hard to spot, as—like body odor—you never notice your own. That said … put two smart people together, and they will eventually find their common stupidity, and in so doing become idiots.” “Like a child, it grows the more you feed it.” “Like a fashionable dress, it can be fetching in youth, but looks particularly bad on the aged. And unique though its properties may be, stupidity is frighteningly common. The sum total of stupid people is somewhere around the population of the planet. Plus one.” “Plus one?” Shallan asked. “Sadeas counts twice.” “Um … he’s dead, Wit.” “What?” Wit sat up straight. “Someone murdered him. Er … we don’t know who.” Aladar’s investigators had continued hunting the culprit, but the investigation had stalled by the time Shallan left. “Someone offed old Sadeas, and I missed it?” “What would you have done? Helped him?” “Storms, no. I’d have applauded.” Shallan grinned and let out a deep sigh. Her hair had reverted to red—she’d let the illusion lapse. “Wit,” she said, “why are you here? In the city?” “I’m not completely sure.” “Please. Could you just answer?” “I did—and
I was honest. I can know where I’m supposed to be, Shallan, but not always what I’m supposed to do there.” He tapped the table. “Why are you here?” “To open the Oathgate,” Shallan said. “Save the city.” Pattern hummed. “Lofty goals,” Wit said. “What’s the point of goals, if not to spur you to something lofty?” “Yes, yes. Aim for the sun. That way if you miss, at least your arrow will fall far away, and the person it kills will likely be someone you don’t know.” The innkeeper chose that moment to arrive with some food. Shallan didn’t feel particularly hungry; seeing all those starving people outside had stolen her appetite. The small plates held crumbly cakes of Soulcast grain topped with a single steamed cremling—a variety known as a skrip, with a flat tail, two large claws, and long antennae. Eating cremlings wasn’t uncommon, but it wasn’t particularly fine dining. The only difference between Shallan’s meal and Wit’s was the sauce—hers sweet, his spicy, though his had the sauce in a cup at the side. Food supplies were tight, and the kitchen wasn’t preparing both masculine and feminine dishes. The innkeeper frowned at her hair, then shook his head and left. She got the impression he was accustomed to oddities around Wit. Shallan looked down at her food. Could she give this to someone else? Someone who deserved it more than she did? “Eat up,” Wit said, rising and walking to the small window. “Don’t waste what you’re given.” Reluctantly, she did as he instructed. It wasn’t particularly good, but it wasn’t terrible. “Aren’t you going to eat?” she asked. “I’m smart enough not to follow my own advice, thank you very much.” He sounded distracted. Outside the window, a procession from the Cult of Moments was passing. “I want to learn to be like you,” Shallan said, feeling silly as she said it. “No you don’t.” “You’re funny, and charming, and—” “Yes, yes. I’m so storming clever that half the time, even I can’t follow what I’m talking about.” “—and you change things, Wit. When you came to me, in Jah Keved, you changed everything. I want to be able to do that. I want to be able to change the world.” He didn’t seem at all interested in his food. Does he eat? she wondered. Or is he … like some kind of spren? “Who came with you to the city?” he asked her. “Kaladin. Adolin. Elhokar. Some of our servants.” “King Elhokar? Here?” “He’s determined to save the city.” “Most days, Elhokar has trouble saving face, let alone cities.” “I like him,” Shallan said. “Despite his … Elhokarness.” “He does grow on you, I suppose. Like a fungus.” “He really wants to do what is right. You should hear him talk about it lately. He wants to be remembered as a good king.” “Vanity.” “You don’t care about how you’ll be remembered?” “I’ll remember myself, which is enough. Elhokar though, he worries about the wrong things. His father wore a simple crown because he needed no
reminder of his authority. Elhokar wears a simple crown because he worries that something more lavish might make people look at it, instead of at him. He doesn’t want the competition.” Wit turned away from his inspection of the hearth and chimney. “You want to change the world, Shallan. That’s well and good. But be careful. The world predates you. She has seniority.” “I’m a Radiant,” Shallan said, shoving another forkful of crumbly, sweet bread into her mouth. “Saving the world is in the job description.” “Then be wise about it. There are two kinds of important men, Shallan. There are those who, when the boulder of time rolls toward them, stand up in front of it and hold out their hands. All their lives, they’ve been told how great they are. They assume the world itself will bend to their whims as their nurse did when fetching them a fresh cup of milk. “Those men end up squished. “Other men stand to the side when the boulder of time passes, but are quick to say, ‘See what I did! I made the boulder roll there. Don’t make me do it again!’ “These men end up getting everyone else squished.” “Is there not a third type of person?” “There is, but they are oh so rare. These know they can’t stop the boulder. So they walk beside it, study it, and bide their time. Then they shove it—ever so slightly—to create a deviation in its path. “These are the men … well, these are the men who actually change the world. And they terrify me. For men never see as far as they think they do.” Shallan frowned, then looked at her empty plate. She hadn’t thought she was hungry, but once she’d started eating … Wit walked past and deftly lifted her plate away, then swapped it with his full one. “Wit … I can’t eat that.” “Don’t be persnickety,” he said. “How are you going to save the world if you starve yourself?” “I’m not starving myself.” But she took a little bite to satisfy him. “You make it sound like having the power to change the world is a bad thing.” “Bad? No. Abhorrent, depressing, ghastly. Having power is a terrible burden, the worst thing imaginable, except for every other alternative.” He turned and studied her. “What is power to you, Shallan?” “It’s…” Shallan cut at the cremling, separating it from its shell. “It’s what I said earlier—the ability to change things.” “Things?” “Other people’s lives. Power is the ability to make life better or worse for the people around you.” “And yourself too, of course.” “I don’t matter.” “You should.” “Selflessness is a Vorin virtue, Wit.” “Oh, bother that. You’ve got to live life, Shallan, enjoy life. Drink of what you’re proposing to give everyone else! That’s what I do.” “You … do seem to enjoy yourself a great deal.” “I like to live every day like it’s my last.” Shallan nodded. “And by that I mean lying in a puddle of my own urine, calling for the
nurse to bring me more pudding.” She almost choked on a bite of cremling. Her cup was empty, but Wit walked past and put his in her hand. She gulped it down. “Power is a knife,” Wit said, taking his seat. “A terrible, dangerous knife that can’t be wielded without cutting yourself. We joked about stupidity, but in reality most people aren’t stupid. Many are simply frustrated at how little control they have over their lives. They lash out. Sometimes in spectacular ways…” “The Cult of Moments. They reportedly claim to see a transformed world coming upon us.” “Be wary of anyone who claims to be able to see the future, Shallan.” “Except you, of course. Didn’t you say you can see where you need to be?” “Be wary,” he repeated, “of anyone who claims to be able to see the future, Shallan.” Pattern rippled on the table, not humming, only changing more quickly, forming new shapes in a rapid sequence. Shallan swallowed. To her surprise, her plate was empty again. “The cult has control of the Oathgate platform,” she said. “Do you know what they do up there every night?” “They feast,” Wit said softly, “and party. There are two general divisions among them. The common members wander the streets, moaning, pretending to be spren. But others up on the platform actually know the spren—specifically, the creature known as the Heart of the Revel.” “One of the Unmade.” Wit nodded. “A dangerous foe, Shallan. The cult reminds me of a group I knew long ago. Equally dangerous, equally foolish.” “Elhokar wants me to infiltrate them. Get onto that platform and activate the Oathgate. Is it possible?” “Perhaps.” Wit settled back. “Perhaps. I can’t make the gate work; the spren of the fabrial won’t obey me. You have the proper key, and the cult takes new members eagerly. Consumes them, like a fire needing new logs.” “How? What do I do?” “Food,” he said. “Their proximity to the Heart drives them to feast and celebrate.” “Drinking in life?” she said, quoting his sentiment from earlier. “No. Hedonism has never been enjoyment, Shallan, but the opposite. They take the wonderful things of life and indulge until they lose savor. It’s listening to beautiful music, performed so loud as to eliminate all subtlety—taking something beautiful and making it carnal. Yet their feasting does give you an opening. I’ve brushed against their leaders—despite my best efforts. Bring them food for the revel, and I can get you in. A warning, however, simple Soulcast grain won’t satisfy them.” A challenge, then. “I should get back to the others.” She looked up to Wit. “Would you … come with me? Join us?” He stood, then walked to the door and pressed his ear against it. “Unfortunately, Shallan,” he said, glancing at her, “you’re not why I am here.” She took a deep breath. “I am going to learn how to change the world, Wit.” “You already know how. Learn why.” He stepped back from the door and pressed himself against the wall. “Also, tell the innkeeper I
disappeared in a puff of smoke. It will drive him crazy.” “The inn—” The door opened suddenly, swinging inward. The innkeeper entered, and hesitated as he found Shallan sitting alone at the table. Wit slipped deftly around the door and out behind the man, who didn’t notice. “Damnation,” the innkeeper said, searching around. “I don’t suppose he’s going to work tonight?” “I have no idea.” “He said he’d treat me like a king.” “Well, he’s keeping that promise…” The innkeeper took the plates, then bustled out. Conversations with Wit had a way of ending in an odd manner. And, well, starting in an odd manner. Odd all around. “Do you know anything about Wit?” she asked Pattern. “No,” Pattern said. “He feels like … mmm … one of us.” Shallan fished in her pouch for some spheres—Wit had stolen a few, she noted—as a tip for the poor innkeeper. Then she made her way back to the tailor’s shop, planning how to use her team to get the requisite food. The wilting of plants and the general cooling of the air is disagreeable, yes, but some of the tower’s functions remain in place. The increased pressure, for example, persists. —From drawer 1-1, second zircon Kaladin drew in a small amount of Stormlight and stoked the tempest within. That little storm raged inside him, rising from his skin, haunting the space behind his eyes and making them glow. Fortunately—though he stood in a busy market square—this tiny amount of Stormlight wouldn’t be enough for people to see in the bright sunlight. The storm was a primal dance, an ancient song, an eternal battle that had raged since Roshar was new. It wanted to be used. He acquiesced, kneeling to infuse a small stone. He Lashed it upward just enough to make it tremble, but not enough to send it zipping into the air. The eerie screams came soon after. People started to shout in panic. Kaladin ducked away, exhaling his Stormlight and becoming—hopefully—merely another bystander. He crouched with Shallan and Adolin behind a planter. This plaza—with pillared archways on all four sides, sheltering what had once been a great variety of shops—was several blocks away from the tailor’s shop. People squeezed into buildings or slipped out onto other streets. The slow ones simply huddled down beside the walls, hands over their heads. The spren arrived as two lines of bright yellow-white, twisting about one another above the plaza. Their inhuman screeches were awful. Like … like the sound of a wounded animal, dying alone in the wilderness. Those weren’t the spren he’d seen while traveling with Sah and the other parshmen. That one had seemed more akin to a windspren; these looked like vivid yellow spheres crackling with energy. They didn’t seem to be able to pinpoint the rock directly, and spun over the courtyard as if confused, still screaming. A short time later, a figure descended from the sky. A Voidbringer in loose red and black clothing that rippled and churned in the breeze. He carried a spear and a tall, triangular
shield. That spear, Kaladin thought. Long, with a slender point for puncturing armor, it was like a horseman’s lance. He found himself nodding. That would be an excellent weapon for using in flight, where you’d need extra reach to attack men on the ground, or even enemies soaring around you. The spren ceased screaming. The Voidbringer looked about, fluttering through the air, then glared at the spren and said something. Again, they seemed confused. They’d sensed Kaladin’s use of Stormlight—likely interpreted it as a fabrial being used—but now couldn’t pinpoint the location. Kaladin had used such a small amount of Stormlight, the rock had lost its charge almost immediately. The spren dispersed, vanishing as emotion spren often did. The Voidbringer lingered, surrounded by dark energy, until horns nearby announced the Wall Guard approaching. The creature finally shot back into the air. People who had been hiding scuttled away, looking relieved to have escaped with their lives. “Huh,” Adolin said, standing. He wore an illusion, imitating—as per Elhokar’s instructions—Captainlord Meleran Khal, Teshav’s youngest son, a powerfully built balding man in his thirties. “I can hold Stormlight as long as I want without drawing attention,” Kaladin said. “The moment I Lash something, they come screaming.” “And yet,” Adolin said, glancing at Shallan, “the disguises draw no attention.” “Pattern says we’re quieter than him,” Shallan said, thumbing toward Kaladin. “Come on, let’s get back. Don’t you boys have an appointment tonight?” * * * “A party,” Kaladin said, pacing back and forth in the tailor shop’s showroom. Skar and Drehy leaned by the doorway, each with a spear in the crook of his arm. “This is what they’re like,” Kaladin said. “Your city is practically burning. What should you do? Throw a party, obviously.” Elhokar had suggested parties as a way of contacting the city’s lighteyed families. Kaladin had laughed at the idea, assuming that there wouldn’t be such a thing. Yet, with minimal searching, Adolin had scrounged up half a dozen invitations. “Good darkeyed people slave away, growing and preparing food,” Kaladin said. “But the lighteyes? They have so much storming time they have to make up things to do.” “Hey Skar,” Drehy said. “You ever go out drinking, even when at war?” “Sure,” Skar said. “And back in my village, we’d have a dance in the stormshelter twice a month, even while boys were off fighting in border skirmishes.” “It’s not the same,” Kaladin said. “You taking their side?” “Are there sides?” Drehy asked. A few minutes later, Adolin came tromping down the stairs and grinning like a fool. He was wearing a ruffled shirt under a powder-blue suit with a jacket that didn’t close all the way and tails at the back. Its golden embroidery was the finest the shop could provide. “Please tell me,” Kaladin said, “that you didn’t bring us to live with your tailor because you wanted a new wardrobe.” “Come on, Kal,” Adolin said, inspecting himself in a showroom mirror. “I need to look the part.” He checked his cuffs and grinned again. Yokska came out and looked
him over, then dusted his shoulders. “I think it pulls too tightly through the chest, Brightlord.” “It’s wonderful, Yokska.” “Take a deep breath.” It was like she was a storming surgeon, the way she lifted his arm and felt at his waist, muttering to herself. Kaladin had seen his father give physicals that were less invasive. “I thought that straight coats were still the style,” Adolin said. “I have a folio out of Liafor.” “Those aren’t up to date,” Yokska said. “I was in Liafor last Midpeace, and they’re moving away from military styles. But they made those folios to sell uniforms at the Shattered Plains.” “Storms! I had no idea how unfashionable I was being.” Kaladin rolled his eyes. Adolin saw that in the mirror, but just turned around, giving a bow. “Don’t worry, bridgeboy. You can continue to wear clothing to match your scowl.” “You look like you tripped and fell into a bucket of blue paint,” Kaladin said, “then tried to dry off with a handful of parched grass.” “And you look like what the storm leaves behind,” Adolin said, passing by and patting Kaladin on the shoulder. “We like you anyway. Every boy has a favorite stick he found out in the yard after the rains.” Adolin stepped over to Skar and Drehy, clasping hands with each of them in turn. “You two looking forward to tonight?” “Depends on how the food is in the darkeyed tent, sir,” Skar said. “Swipe me something from the inner party,” Drehy said. “I hear they’ve got storming good pastries at those fancy lighteyes parties.” “Sure. You need anything, Skar?” “The head of my enemy, fashioned into a tankard for drinking,” Skar said. “Barring that, I’ll take a pastry or seven.” “I’ll see what I can do. Keep your ears open for any good taverns that are still open. We can go out tomorrow.” He strode past Kaladin and tied on a side sword. Kaladin frowned, looking to him, then to his bridgemen, then back at Adolin. “What?” “What what?” Adolin asked. “You’re going to go out drinking with bridgemen?” Kaladin said. “Sure,” Adolin said. “Skar, Drehy, and I go way back.” “We spent some time keeping His Highness from falling into chasms,” Skar said. “He repaid us with a bit of wine and good conversation.” The king entered, wearing a more muted version of the same style of uniform. He bustled past Adolin, heading toward the stairs. “Ready? Excellent. Time for new faces.” The three stopped by Shallan’s room, where she was sketching and humming to herself, surrounded by creationspren. She gave Adolin a kiss that was more intimate than Kaladin had seen from the two of them before, then changed him back into Meleran Khal. Elhokar became an older man, also bald, with pale yellow eyes. General Khal, one of Dalinar’s highest officers. “I’m fine,” Kaladin said as she eyed him. “Nobody is going to recognize me.” He wasn’t sure what it was, but wearing another face like that … to him it felt like lying. “The scars,” Elhokar said.
“We need you not to stand out, Captain.” Reluctantly, Kaladin nodded, and allowed Shallan to add a Lightweaving to his head to make the slave brands vanish. Then, she handed each of them a sphere. The illusions were tied to the Stormlight inside of those—if the sphere ran out, their false faces would vanish. The group set out, Skar and Drehy joining them, spears at the ready. Syl flitted out from an upper window of the shop, soaring on ahead of them along the street. Kaladin had tested summoning her as a Blade earlier, and that hadn’t drawn the screamers, so he felt well-armed. Adolin immediately started joking with Skar and Drehy. Dalinar wouldn’t have liked to hear they’d gone out drinking. Not because of any specific prejudice, but there was a command structure to an army. Generals weren’t supposed to fraternize with the rank and file; it threw wrinkles into how armies worked. Adolin could get away with things like that. As he listened, Kaladin found himself feeling ashamed of his earlier attitude. The truth was, he was feeling pretty good these days. Yes, there was a war, and yes, the city was seriously stressed—but ever since he’d found his parents alive and well, he’d been feeling better. That wasn’t so uncommon a feeling for him. He felt good lots of days. Trouble was, on the bad days, that was hard to remember. At those times, for some reason, he felt like he had always been in darkness, and always would be. Why was it so hard to remember? Did he have to keep slipping back down? Why couldn’t he stay up here in the sunlight, where everyone else lived? It was nearing evening, maybe two hours from sunset. They passed several plazas like the one where they’d tested his Surgebinding. Most had been turned into living space, with people crowding in. Just sitting and waiting for whatever would happen next. Kaladin trailed a little behind the others, and when Adolin noticed, he excused himself from the conversation and dropped back. “Hey,” he said. “You all right?” “I’m worried that summoning a Shardblade would make me stand out too much,” Kaladin said. “I should have brought a spear tonight.” “Maybe you should let me teach you how to use a side sword. You’re pretending to be head of our bodyguards tonight, and you’re lighteyed today. It looks strange for you to walk around without a side sword.” “Maybe I’m one of those punchy guys.” Adolin stopped in place and grinned at Kaladin. “Did you just say ‘punchy guys’?” “You know, ardents who train to fight unarmed.” “Hand to hand?” “Hand to hand.” “Right,” Adolin said. “Or ‘punchy guys,’ as everyone calls them.” Kaladin met his eyes, then found himself grinning back. “It’s the academic term.” “Sure. Like swordy fellows. Or spearish chaps.” “I once knew a real axalacious bloke,” Kaladin said. “He was great at psychological fights.” “Psychological fights?” “He could really get inside someone’s head.” Adolin frowned as they walked. “Get inside … Oh!” Adolin chuckled, slapping Kaladin on the
back. “You talk like a girl sometimes. Um … I mean that as a compliment.” “Thanks?” “But you do need to practice the sword more,” Adolin said, growing excited. “I know you like the spear, and you’re good with it. Great! But you’re not simply a spearman anymore; you’re going to be an irregular. You won’t be fighting in a line, holding a shield for your buddies. Who knows what you’ll be facing?” “I trained a little with Zahel,” Kaladin said. “I’m not completely useless with a sword. But … part of me doesn’t see the point.” “You’ll be better if you practice with a sword, trust me. Being a good duelist is about knowing one weapon, and being a good foot soldier—that’s probably more about training than it is about any single weapon. But you want to be a great warrior? For that you need to be able to use the best tool for the job. Even if you’re never going to use a sword, you’ll fight people who do. The best way to learn how to defeat someone wielding a weapon is to practice with it yourself.” Kaladin nodded. He was right. It was strange to look at Adolin in that bright outfit, stylish and glittering with golden thread, and hear him speak real battle sense. When I was imprisoned for daring to accuse Amaram, he was the only lighteyes who stood up for me. Adolin Kholin was simply a good person. Powder-blue clothing and all. You couldn’t hate a man like him; storms, you kind of had to like him. Their destination was a modest home, by lighteyed standard. Tall and narrow, at four stories high it could have housed a dozen darkeyed families. “All right,” Elhokar said as they drew near. “Adolin and I will feel out the lighteyes for potential allies. Bridgemen, chat with those in the darkeyed guard tent, and see if you can discover anything about the Cult of Moments, or other oddities in the city.” “Got it, Your Majesty,” Drehy said. “Captain,” he said to Kaladin, “you’ll go to the lighteyed guard tent. See if you can—” “—find out anything about this Highmarshal Azure person,” Kaladin said. “From the Wall Guard.” “Yes. We will plan to stay relatively late, as intoxicated party guests might share more than sober ones.” They broke, Adolin and Elhokar presenting invitations to the doorman, who let them in—then gestured Drehy and Skar toward the darkeyed guards’ feast, happening in a tent set up on the grounds. There was a separate tent for people who were lighteyed but not landowners. Privileged, but not good enough to get in the doors to the actual party. In his role as a lighteyed bodyguard, that would be the place for Kaladin—but for some reason the thought of going in there made him feel sick. Instead he whispered to Skar and Drehy—promising to be back soon—and borrowed Skar’s spear, just in case. Then Kaladin left, walking the block. He’d return to do as told by Elhokar. But while there was enough light, he thought
he’d maybe survey the wall and see if he could get an idea of the Wall Guard’s numbers. More, he wanted to walk a little longer. He strolled to the foot of the nearby city wall, counting guard posts on top, looking at the large lower portion that was a natural part of the local rock. He rested his hand on the smooth, strata-lined formation of stone. “Hey!” a voice called. “Hey, you!” Kaladin sighed. A squad of soldiers from the Wall Guard was patrolling here. They considered this road around the city—next to the foot of the wall—to be their jurisdiction, but they didn’t patrol any farther inward. What did they want? He wasn’t doing anything wrong. Well, running would only stir up a ruckus, so he dropped his spear and turned around, extending his arms out to the sides. In a city full of refugees, certainly they wouldn’t harass one man too much. A squad of five tromped over to him, led by a man with a wispy dark beard and bright, light blue eyes. The man took in Kaladin’s uniform, with no insignia, and glanced at the fallen spear. Then he looked at Kaladin’s forehead and frowned. Kaladin raised his hands to the brands there, which he could feel. But Shallan had put an illusion over those. Hadn’t she? Damnation. He’s going to assume I’m a deserter. “Deserter, I assume?” the soldier asked sharply. Should have just gone to the storming party. “Look,” Kaladin said. “I don’t want trouble. I just—” “Do you want a meal?” “A … meal?” “Free food for deserters.” That’s unexpected. Reluctantly, he lifted the hair from his forehead, testing to see that the brands were still visible. Mostly, the hair prevented one from seeing the details. The soldiers started visibly. Yes, they could see the brands. Shallan’s illusion had worn off for some reason? Hopefully the other disguises fared better. “A lighteyes with a shash brand?” their lieutenant asked. “Storms, friend. You’ve got to have some story.” He slapped Kaladin on the back and pointed toward their barracks ahead. “I’d love to hear it. Free meal, no strings. We won’t press you into service. I give my oath.” Well, he’d wanted information about the leader of the Wall Guard, hadn’t he? What better place to get it than from these men? Kaladin picked up his spear and let them lead him away. I did not die. I experienced something worse. —From Oathbringer, preface “Kaladin!” Lirin exclaimed, grabbing him by the shoulder. “What are you doing, son?” Roshone sputtered on the ground, his nose bleeding. “Guards, take him! You hear me!” Syl landed on Kaladin’s shoulder, hands on her hips. She tapped her foot. “He probably deserved that.” The darkeyed guard scrambled to help Roshone to his feet while the captain leveled his sword at Kaladin. A third joined them, running in from another room. Kaladin stepped one foot back, falling into a guard position. “Well?” Roshone demanded, holding his handkerchief to his nose. “Strike him down!” Angerspren boiled up from the ground in pools.
“Please, no,” Kaladin’s mother cried, clinging to Lirin. “He’s just distraught. He—” Kaladin held out a hand toward her, palm forward, in a quieting motion. “It’s all right, Mother. That was only payment for a little unsettled debt between Roshone and me.” He met the eyes of the guards, each in turn, and they shuffled uncertainly. Roshone blustered. Unexpectedly, Kaladin felt in complete control of the situation—and … well, more than a little embarrassed. Suddenly, the perspective of it crashed down on him. Since leaving Hearthstone, Kaladin had met true evil, and Roshone hardly compared. Hadn’t he sworn to protect even those he didn’t like? Wasn’t the whole point of what he had learned to keep him from doing things like this? He glanced at Syl, and she nodded to him. Do better. For a short time, it had been nice to just be Kal again. Fortunately, he wasn’t that youth any longer. He was a new person—and for the first time in a long, long while, he was happy with that person. “Stand down, men,” Kaladin said to the soldiers. “I promise not to hit your brightlord again. I apologize for that; I was momentarily distracted by our previous history. Something he and I both need to forget. Tell me, what happened to the parshmen? Did they not attack the town?” The soldiers shifted, glancing toward Roshone. “I said stand down,” Kaladin snapped. “For storm’s sake, man. You’re holding that sword like you’re going to chop a stumpweight. And you? Rust on your cap? I know Amaram recruited most of the able-bodied men in the region, but I’ve seen messenger boys with more battle poise than you.” The soldiers looked to one another. Then, red-faced, the lighteyed one slid his sword back into its sheath. “What are you doing?” Roshone demanded. “Attack him!” “Brightlord, sir,” the man said, eyes down. “I may not be the best soldier around, but … well, sir, trust me on this. We should just pretend that punch never happened.” The other two soldiers nodded their heads in agreement. Roshone sized Kaladin up, dabbing at his nose, which wasn’t bleeding badly. “So, they did make something out of you in the army, did they?” “You have no idea. We need to talk. Is there a room here that isn’t clogged full of people?” “Kal,” Lirin said. “You’re speaking foolishness. Don’t give orders to Brightlord Roshone!” Kaladin pushed past the soldiers and Roshone, walking farther down the hallway. “Well?” he barked. “Empty room?” “Up the stairs, sir,” one of the soldiers said. “Library is empty.” “Excellent.” Kaladin smiled to himself, noting the “sir.” “Join me up there, men.” Kaladin started toward the stairs. Unfortunately, an authoritative bearing could only take a man so far. Nobody followed, not even his parents. “I gave you people an order,” Kaladin said. “I’m not fond of repeating myself.” “And what,” Roshone said, “makes you think you can order anyone around, boy?” Kaladin turned back and swept his arm before him, summoning Syl. A bright, dew-covered Shardblade formed from mist into his hand.
He spun the Blade and rammed her down into the floor in one smooth motion. He held the grip, feeling his eyes bleed to blue. Everything grew still. Townspeople froze, gaping. Roshone’s eyes bulged. Curiously, Kaladin’s father just lowered his head and closed his eyes. “Any other questions?” Kaladin asked. * * * “They were gone when we went back to check on them, um, Brightlord,” said Aric, the short guard with the rusty helm. “We’d locked the door, but the side was ripped clean open.” “They didn’t attack a soul?” Kaladin asked. “No, Brightlord.” Kaladin paced through the library. The room was small, but neatly organized with rows of shelves and a fine reading stand. Each book was exactly flush with the others; either the maids were extremely meticulous, or the books were not often moved. Syl perched on one shelf, her back to a book, swinging her legs girlishly over the edge. Roshone sat on one side of the room, periodically pushing both hands along his flushed cheeks toward the back of his head in an odd nervous gesture. His nose had stopped bleeding, though he’d have a nice bruise. That was a fraction of the punishment the man deserved, but Kaladin found he had no passion for abusing Roshone. He had to be better than that. “What did the parshmen look like?” Kaladin asked of the guardsmen. “They changed, following the unusual storm?” “Sure did,” Aric said. “I peeked when I heard them break out, after the storm passed. They looked like Voidbringers, I tell you, with big bony bits jutting from their skin.” “They were taller,” the guard captain added. “Taller than me, easily as tall as you are, Brightlord. With legs thick as stumpweights and hands that could have strangled a whitespine, I tell you.” “Then why didn’t they attack?” Kaladin asked. They could have easily taken the manor; instead, they’d run off into the night. It spoke of a more disturbing goal. Perhaps Hearthstone was too small to be bothered with. “I don’t suppose you tracked their direction?” Kaladin said, looking toward the guards, then Roshone. “Um, no, Brightlord,” the captain said. “Honestly, we were just worried about surviving.” “Will you tell the king?” Aric asked. “That storm ripped away four of our silos. We’ll be starving afore too long, with all these refugees and no food. When the highstorms start coming again, we won’t have half as many homes as we need.” “I’ll tell Elhokar.” But Stormfather, the rest of the kingdom would be just as bad. He needed to focus on the Voidbringers. He couldn’t report back to Dalinar until he had the Stormlight to fly home, so for now it seemed his most useful task would be to find out where the enemy was gathering, if he could. What were the Voidbringers planning? Kaladin hadn’t experienced their strange powers himself, though he’d heard reports of the Battle of Narak. Parshendi with glowing eyes and lightning at their command, ruthless and terrible. “I’ll need maps,” he said. “Maps of Alethkar, as detailed as you
have, and some way to carry them through the rain without ruining them.” He grimaced. “And a horse. Several of them, the finest you have.” “So you’re robbing me now?” Roshone asked softly, staring at the floor. “Robbing?” Kaladin said. “We’ll call it renting instead.” He pulled a handful of spheres from his pocket and dropped them on the table. He glanced toward the soldiers. “Well? Maps? Surely Roshone keeps survey maps of the nearby areas.” Roshone was not important enough to have stewardship over any of the highprince’s lands—a distinction Kaladin had never realized while he lived in Hearthstone. Those lands would be watched over by much more important lighteyes; Roshone would only be a first point of contact with surrounding villages. “We’ll want to wait for the lady’s permission,” the guard captain said. “Sir.” Kaladin raised an eyebrow. They’d disobey Roshone for him, but not the manor’s lady? “Go to the house ardents and tell them to prepare the things I request. Permission will be forthcoming. And locate a spanreed connected to Tashikk, if any of the ardents have one. Once I have the Stormlight to use it, I’ll want to send word to Dalinar.” The guards saluted and left. Kaladin folded his arms. “Roshone, I’m going to need to chase those parshmen and see if I can figure out what they’re up to. I don’t suppose any of your guards have tracking experience? Following the creatures would be hard enough without the rain swamping everything.” “Why do they matter so much?” Roshone asked, still staring at the floor. “Surely you’ve guessed,” Kaladin said, nodding to Syl as her ribbon of light flitted over to his shoulder. “Weather in turmoil and terrors transformed from common servants? That storm with the red lightning, blowing the wrong direction? The Desolation is here, Roshone. The Voidbringers have returned.” Roshone groaned, leaning forward, arms wrapped around himself as if he were going to be sick. “Syl?” Kaladin whispered. “I might need you again.” “You sound apologetic,” she replied, cocking her head. “I am. I don’t like the idea of swinging you about, smashing you into things.” She sniffed. “Firstly, I don’t smash into things. I am an elegant and graceful weapon, stupid. Secondly, why would you be bothered?” “It doesn’t feel right,” Kaladin replied, still whispering. “You’re a woman, not a weapon.” “Wait … so this is about me being a girl?” “No,” Kaladin said immediately, then hesitated. “Maybe. It just feels strange.” She sniffed. “You don’t ask your other weapons how they feel about being swung about.” “My other weapons aren’t people.” He hesitated. “Are they?” She looked at him with head cocked and eyebrows raised, as if he’d said something very stupid. Everything has a spren. His mother had taught him that from an early age. “So … some of my spears have been women, then?” he asked. “Female, at least,” Syl said. “Roughly half, as these things tend to go.” She flitted up into the air in front of him. “It’s your fault for personifying us, so no complaining. Of course,
some of the old spren have four genders instead of two.” “What? Why?” She poked him in the nose. “Because humans didn’t imagine those ones, silly.” She zipped out in front of him, changing into a field of mist. When he raised his hand, the Shardblade appeared. He strode to where Roshone sat, then stooped down and held the Shardblade before the man, point toward the floor. Roshone looked up, transfixed by the weapon’s blade, as Kaladin had anticipated. You couldn’t be near one of these things and not be drawn by it. They had a magnetism. “How did you get it?” Roshone asked. “Does it matter?” He didn’t reply, but they both knew the truth. Owning a Shardblade was enough—if you could claim it, and not have it taken from you, it was yours. With one in his possession, the brands on his head were meaningless. No man, not even Roshone, would imply otherwise. “You,” Kaladin said, “are a cheat, a rat, and a murderer. But as much as I hate it, we don’t have time to oust Alethkar’s ruling class and set up something better. We are under attack by an enemy we do not understand, and which we could not have anticipated. So you’re going to have to stand up and lead these people.” Roshone stared at the blade, looking at his reflection. “We’re not powerless,” Kaladin said. “We can and will fight back—but first we need to survive. The Everstorm will return. Regularly, though I don’t know the interval yet. I need you to prepare.” “How?” Roshone whispered. “Build homes with slopes in both directions. If there’s not time for that, find a sheltered location and hunker down. I can’t stay. This crisis is bigger than one town, one people, even if it’s my town and my people. I have to rely on you. Almighty preserve us, you’re all we have.” Roshone slumped down farther in his seat. Great. Kaladin stood and dismissed Syl. “We’ll do it,” a voice said from behind him. Kaladin froze. Laral’s voice sent a shiver down his spine. He turned slowly, and found a woman who did not at all match the image in his head. When he’d last seen her, she’d been wearing a perfect lighteyed dress, beautiful and young, yet her pale green eyes had seemed hollow. She’d lost her betrothed, Roshone’s son, and had instead become engaged to the father—a man more than twice her age. The woman he confronted was no longer a youth. Her face was firm, lean, and her hair was pulled back in a no-nonsense tail of black peppered with blonde. She wore boots and a utilitarian havah, damp from the rain. She looked him up and down, then sniffed. “Looks like you went and grew up, Kal. I was sorry to hear the news of your brother. Come now. You need a spanreed? I’ve got one to the queen regent in Kholinar, but that one hasn’t been responsive lately. Fortunately, we do have one to Tashikk, as you asked about. If you think that the
king will respond to you, we can go through an intermediary.” She walked back out the doorway. “Laral…” he said, following. “I hear you stabbed my floor,” she noted. “That’s good hardwood, I’ll have you know. Honestly. Men and their weapons.” “I dreamed of coming back,” Kaladin said, stopping in the hallway outside the library. “I imagined returning here a war hero and challenging Roshone. I wanted to save you, Laral.” “Oh?” She turned back to him. “And what made you think I needed saving?” “You can’t tell me,” Kaladin said softly, waving backward toward the library, “that you’ve been happy with that.” “Becoming a lighteyes does not grant a man any measure of decorum, it appears,” Laral said. “You will stop insulting my husband, Kaladin. Shardbearer or not, another word like that, and I’ll have you thrown from my home.” “Laral—” “I am quite happy here. Or I was, until the winds started blowing the wrong direction.” She shook her head. “You take after your father. Always feeling like you need to save everyone, even those who would rather you mind your own business.” “Roshone brutalized my family. He sent my brother to his death and did everything he could to destroy my father!” “And your father spoke against my husband,” Laral said, “disparaging him in front of the other townspeople. How would you feel, as a new brightlord exiled far from home, only to find that the town’s most important citizen is openly critical of you?” Her perspective was skewed, of course. Lirin had tried to befriend Roshone at first, hadn’t he? Still, Kaladin found little passion to continue the argument. What did he care? He intended to see his parents moved from this city anyway. “I’ll go set up the spanreed,” she said. “It might take some time to get a reply. In the meantime, the ardents should be fetching your maps.” “Great,” Kaladin said, pushing past her in the hallway. “I’m going to go speak with my parents.” Syl zipped over his shoulder as he started down the steps. “So, that’s the girl you were going to marry.” “No,” Kaladin whispered. “That’s a girl I was never going to marry, no matter what happened.” “I like her.” “You would.” He reached the bottom of the steps and looked back up. Roshone had joined Laral at the top of the stairs, carrying the gems Kaladin had left on the table. How much had that been? Five or six ruby broams, he thought, and maybe a sapphire or two. He did the calculations in his head. Storms … That was a ridiculous sum—more money than the goblet full of spheres that Roshone and Kaladin’s father had spent years fighting over back in the day. That was now mere pocket change to Kaladin. He’d always thought of all lighteyes as rich, but a minor brightlord in an insignificant town … well, Roshone was actually poor, just a different kind of poor. Kaladin searched back through the house, passing people he’d once known—people who now whispered “Shardbearer” and got out of his
way with alacrity. So be it. He’d accepted his place the moment he’d seized Syl from the air and spoken the Words. Lirin was back in the parlor, working on the wounded again. Kaladin stopped in the doorway, then sighed and knelt beside Lirin. As the man reached toward his tray of tools, Kaladin picked it up and held it at the ready. His old position as his father’s surgery assistant. The new apprentice was helping with wounded in another room. Lirin eyed Kaladin, then turned back to the patient, a young boy who had a bloodied bandage around his arm. “Scissors,” Lirin said. Kaladin proffered them, and Lirin took the tool without looking, then carefully cut the bandage free. A jagged length of wood had speared the boy’s arm. He whimpered as Lirin palpated the flesh nearby, covered in dried blood. It didn’t look good. “Cut out the shaft,” Kaladin said, “and the necrotic flesh. Cauterize.” “A little extreme, don’t you think?” Lirin asked. “Might want to remove it at the elbow anyway. That’s going to get infected for sure—look how dirty that wood is. It will leave splinters.” The boy whimpered again. Lirin patted him. “You’ll be fine. I don’t see any rotspren yet, and so we’re not going to take the arm off. Let me talk to your parents. For now, chew on this.” He gave the boy some bark as a relaxant. Together, Lirin and Kaladin moved on; the boy wasn’t in immediate danger, and Lirin would want to operate after the anesthetic took effect. “You’ve hardened,” Lirin said to Kaladin as he inspected the next patient’s foot. “I was worried you’d never grow calluses.” Kaladin didn’t reply. In truth, his calluses weren’t as deep as his father might have wanted. “But you’ve also become one of them,” Lirin said. “My eye color doesn’t change a thing.” “I wasn’t speaking of your eye color, son. I don’t give two chips whether a man is lighteyed or not.” He waved a hand, and Kaladin passed him a rag to clean the toe, then started preparing a small splint. “What you’ve become,” Lirin continued, “is a killer. You solve problems with the fist and the sword. I had hoped that you would find a place among the army’s surgeons.” “I wasn’t given much choice,” Kaladin said, handing over the splint, then preparing some bandages to wrap the toe. “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you sometime.” The less soul-crushing parts of it, at least. “I don’t suppose you’re going to stay.” “No. I need to follow those parshmen.” “More killing, then.” “And you honestly think we shouldn’t fight the Voidbringers, Father?” Lirin hesitated. “No,” he whispered. “I know that war is inevitable. I just didn’t want you to have to be a part of it. I’ve seen what it does to men. War flays their souls, and those are wounds I can’t heal.” He secured the splint, then turned to Kaladin. “We’re surgeons. Let others rend and break; we must not harm others.” “No,” Kaladin said. “You’re a surgeon, Father,
but I’m something else. A watcher at the rim.” Words spoken to Dalinar Kholin in a vision. Kaladin stood up. “I will protect those who need it. Today, that means hunting down some Voidbringers.” Lirin looked away. “Very well. I am … glad you returned, son. I’m glad you’re safe.” Kaladin rested his hand on his father’s shoulder. “Life before death, Father.” “See your mother before you leave,” Lirin said. “She has something to show you.” Kaladin frowned, but made his way out of the healing chamber to the kitchens. The entire place was lit only by candles, and not many of them. Everywhere he went, he saw shadows and uncertain light. He filled his canteen with fresh water and found a small umbrella. He’d need that for reading maps in this rain. From there, he went hiking up to check on Laral in the library. Roshone had retreated to his room, but she was sitting at a writing table with a spanreed before her. Wait. The spanreed was working. Its ruby glowed. “Stormlight!” Kaladin said, pointing. “Well, of course,” she said, frowning at him. “Fabrials require it.” “How do you have infused spheres?” “The highstorm,” Laral said. “Just a few days back.” During the clash with the Voidbringers, the Stormfather had summoned an irregular highstorm to match the Everstorm. Kaladin had flown before its stormwall, fighting the Assassin in White. “That storm was unexpected,” Kaladin said. “How in the world did you know to leave your spheres out?” “Kal,” she said, “it’s not so hard to hang some spheres out once a storm starts blowing!” “How many do you have?” “Some,” Laral said. “The ardents have a few—I wasn’t the only one to think of it. Look, I’ve got someone in Tashikk willing to relay a message to Navani Kholin, the king’s mother. Wasn’t that what you implied you wanted? You really think she’ll respond to you?” The answer, blessedly, came as the spanreed started writing. “ ‘Captain?’ ” Laral read. “ ‘This is Navani Kholin. Is it really you?’ ” Laral blinked, then looked up at him. “It is,” Kaladin said. “The last thing I did before leaving was speak with Dalinar at the top of the tower.” Hopefully that would be enough to authenticate him. Laral jumped, then wrote it. “ ‘Kaladin, this is Dalinar,’ ” Laral read as the message came back. “ ‘What is your status, soldier?’ ” “Better than expected, sir,” Kaladin said. He outlined what he’d discovered, in brief. He ended by noting, “I’m worried that they left because Hearthstone wasn’t important enough to bother destroying. I’ve ordered horses and some maps. I figure I can do a little scouting and see what I can find about the enemy.” “ ‘Careful,’ ” Dalinar responded. “ ‘You don’t have any Stormlight left?’ ” “I might be able to find a little. I doubt it will be enough to get me home, but it will help.” It took a few minutes before Dalinar replied, and Laral took the opportunity to change the paper on the spanreed board.
“ ‘Your instincts are good, Captain,’ ” Dalinar finally sent. “ ‘I feel blind in this tower. Get close enough to discover what the enemy is doing, but don’t take unnecessary risks. Take the spanreed. Send us a glyph each evening to know you are safe.’ ” “Understood, sir. Life before death.” “ ‘Life before death.’ ” Laral looked to him, and he nodded that the conversation was over. She packed up the spanreed for him without a word, and he took it gratefully, then hurried out of the room and down the steps. His activities had drawn quite a crowd of people, who had gathered in the small entry hall before the steps. He intended to ask if anyone had infused spheres, but was interrupted by the sight of his mother. She was speaking with several young girls, and held a toddler in her arms. What was she doing with … Kaladin stopped at the foot of the steps. The little boy was perhaps a year old, chewing on his hand and babbling around his fingers. “Kaladin, meet your brother,” Hesina said, turning toward him. “Some of the girls were watching him while I helped with the triage.” “A brother,” Kaladin whispered. It had never occurred to him. His mother would be forty-one this year, and … A brother. Kaladin reached out. His mother let him take the little boy, hold him in hands that seemed too rough to be touching such soft skin. Kaladin trembled, then pulled the child tight against him. Memories of this place had not broken him, and seeing his parents had not overwhelmed him, but this … He could not stop the tears. He felt like a fool. It wasn’t as if this changed anything—Bridge Four were his brothers now, as close to him as any blood relative. And yet he wept. “What’s his name?” “Oroden.” “Child of peace,” Kaladin whispered. “A good name. A very good name.” Behind him, an ardent approached with a scroll case. Storms, was that Zeheb? Still alive, it seemed, though she’d always seemed older than the stones themselves. Kaladin handed little Oroden back to his mother, then wiped his eyes and took the scroll case. People crowded at the edges of the room. He was quite the spectacle: the surgeon’s son turned slave turned Shardbearer. Hearthstone wouldn’t see this much excitement for another hundred years. At least not if Kaladin had any say about it. He nodded to his father—who had stepped out of the parlor room—then turned to the crowd. “Does anyone here have infused spheres? I will trade you, two chips for one. Bring them forth.” Syl buzzed around him as a collection was made, and Kaladin’s mother made the trades for him. What he ended up with was only a pouch’s worth, but it seemed vast riches. At the very least, he wasn’t going to need those horses any longer. He tied the pouch closed, then looked over his shoulder as his father stepped up. Lirin took a small glowing diamond chip from his pocket, then handed
it toward Kaladin. Kaladin accepted it, then glanced at his mother and the little boy in her arms. His brother. “I want to take you to safety,” he said to Lirin. “I need to leave now, but I’ll be back soon. To take you to—” “No,” Lirin said. “Father, it’s the Desolation,” Kaladin said. Nearby, people gasped softly, their eyes haunted. Storms; Kaladin should have done this in private. He leaned in toward Lirin. “I know of a place that is safe. For you, Mother. For little Oroden. Please don’t be stubborn, for once in your life.” “You can take them, if they’ll go,” Lirin said. “But I’m staying here. Particularly if … what you just said is true. These people will need me.” “We’ll see. I’ll return as soon as I can.” Kaladin set his jaw, then walked to the front door of the manor. He pulled it open, letting in the sounds of rain, the scents of a drowned land. He paused, looked back at the room full of dirtied townspeople, homeless and frightened. They’d overheard him, but they’d known already. He’d heard them whispering. Voidbringers. The Desolation. He couldn’t leave them like this. “You heard correctly,” Kaladin said loudly to the hundred or so people gathered in the manor’s large entry hall—including Roshone and Laral, who stood on the steps up to the second floor. “The Voidbringers have returned.” Murmurs. Fright. Kaladin sucked in some of the Stormlight from his pouch. Pure, luminescent smoke began to rise from his skin, distinctly visible in the dim room. He Lashed himself upward so he rose into the air, then added a Lashing downward, leaving him to hover about two feet above the floor, glowing. Syl formed from mist as a Shardspear in his hand. “Highprince Dalinar Kholin,” Kaladin said, Stormlight puffing before his lips, “has refounded the Knights Radiant. And this time, we will not fail you.” The expressions in the room ranged from adoring to terrified. Kaladin found his father’s face. Lirin’s jaw had dropped. Hesina clutched her infant child in her arms, and her expression was one of pure delight, an awespren bursting around her head in a blue ring. You I will protect, little one, Kaladin thought at the child. I will protect them all. He nodded to his parents, then turned and Lashed himself outward, streaking away into the rain-soaked night. He’d stop at Stringken, about half a day’s walk—or a short flight—to the south and see if he could trade spheres there. Then he’d hunt some Voidbringers. Something is happening to the Sibling. I agree this is true, but the division among the Knights Radiant is not to blame. Our perceived worthiness is a separate issue. —From drawer 1-1, third zircon The Wall Guard’s barracks smelled like home to Kaladin. Not his father’s house—which smelled of antiseptic and the flowers his mother crushed to season the air. His true home. Leather. Boiling stew. Crowded men. Weapon oil. Spheres hung on the walls, white and blue. The place was big enough to house two platoons, a fact
confirmed by the shoulder patches he saw. The large common room was filled with tables, and a few armorers worked in the corner, sewing jerkins or uniforms. Others sharpened weapons, a rhythmic, calming sound. These were the noises and scents of an army well maintained. The stew didn’t smell anywhere near as good as Rock’s; Kaladin had been spoiled by the Horneater’s cooking. Still, when one of the men went to fetch him a bowl, he found himself smiling. He settled onto a long wooden bench, near a fidgety little ardent who was scribing glyphwards onto pieces of cloth for the men. Kaladin instantly loved this place, and the state of the men spoke highly of Highmarshal Azure. He would likely be some middling officer who had been thrust into command during the chaos of the riots, which made him all the more impressive. Azure had secured the wall, gotten the parshmen out of the city, and seen to the defense of Kholinar. Syl zipped around the rafters as soldiers called out questions about the newcomer. The lieutenant who had found him—his name was Noromin, but his men called him Noro—answered readily. Kaladin was a deserter. He had a shash brand, an ugly one. You should see it. Sadeas’s mark. On a lighteyes no less. The others in the barrack found this curious, but not worrisome. Some even cheered. Storms. Kaladin couldn’t imagine any force of Dalinar’s soldiers being so welcoming of a deserter, let alone a dangerous one. Considering that, Kaladin now picked out another undercurrent in the room. Men sharpening weapons that had chips in them. Armorers repairing cuts in leather—cuts made by lances in battle. Conspicuously empty seats at most of the tables, with cups set at them. These men had suffered losses. Not huge ones yet. They could still laugh. But storms, there was a tension to this room. “So,” Noro said. “Shash brand?” The rest of the squad settled in, and a short man with hair on the backs of his hands set a bowl of thick stew and flatbread in front of Kaladin. Standard fare, with steamed tallew and cubed meat. Soulcast, of course, and lacking flavor—but hearty and nutritious. “I had a squabble,” Kaladin said, “with Highlord Amaram. I felt he’d gotten some of my men killed needlessly. He disagreed.” “Amaram,” said one of the men. “You aim high, friend.” “I know Amaram,” the man with hairy hands said. “I did secret missions for him, back in my operative days.” Kaladin looked at him, surprised. “Best to ignore Beard,” Lieutenant Noro said. “It’s what the rest of us do.” “Beard” didn’t have a beard. Maybe the hairy hands were enough. He nudged Kaladin. “It’s a good story. I’ll tell it to you sometime.” “You can’t just brand a lighteyed man a slave,” Lieutenant Noro said. “You need a highprince’s permission. There’s more to this story.” “There is,” Kaladin said. Then he continued eating his stew. “Oooh,” said a tall member of the squad. “Mystery!” Noro chuckled, then waved at the room. “So what do you
think?” “You said you weren’t going to press me,” Kaladin said between bites. “I’m not pressing you, but you won’t find a place out there in the city where you’ll eat as well as you do here.” “Where do you get it?” Kaladin asked, spooning the stew into his mouth. “You can’t use Soulcasters. The screamers will come after you. Stockpile? I’m surprised one of the highlords in the city hasn’t tried to appropriate it.” “Astute,” Lieutenant Noro said with a smile. He had a disarming way about him. “That’s a Guard secret. But in here there’s always a stew bubbling and bread baking.” “It’s my recipe,” Beard added. “Oh please,” the tall man said. “You’re a cook now too, Beard?” “A chef, thank you very much. I learned that flatbread recipe from a Horneater mystic at the top of a mountain. The real story is how I got there.…” “It’s where you landed, obviously,” the tall soldier said, “after someone in your last squad kicked you.” The men laughed. It felt warm in here, on this long bench, a well-laid fire burning steadily in the corner. Warm and friendly. As Kaladin ate, they gave him some space, chatting among themselves. Noro … he seemed less a soldier and more a chummy merchant trying to sell you earrings for your beloved. He dropped very obvious dangling hints for Kaladin. Reminders of how well-fed they were, of how good it was to be part of a squad. He spoke of warm beds, of how they didn’t have to go on watch duty that often. Of playing cards while the highstorm blew. Kaladin got a second bowl of stew, and as he settled back into his place, he realized something with a shock. Storms. They’re all lighteyes, aren’t they? Every person in the room, from the cook to the armorers, to the soldiers doing dishes. In a group like this, everyone had a secondary duty, like armoring or field surgery. Kaladin hadn’t noticed their eyes. The place had felt so natural, so comfortable, that he’d assumed they were all darkeyed like him. He knew that most lighteyed soldiers weren’t high officers. He’d been told that they were basically just people—he’d been told it over and over. Somehow, sitting in that room finally made the fact real to him. “So, Kal…” Lieutenant Noro asked. “What do you think? Maybe reenlist? Give this another try?” “Aren’t you afraid I’ll desert?” Kaladin asked. “Or worse, that I can’t control my temper? I might be dangerous.” “Not as dangerous as being short manned,” Beard said. “You know how to kill people? That’s good enough for us.” Kaladin nodded. “Tell me about your commander. That will be a big part of any group. I only just got into town. Who is this Highmarshal Azure?” “You can meet him yourself!” Beard said. “He does rounds every night around dinner time, checking on each barracks.” “Um, yes,” Noro said. Kaladin eyed him. The lieutenant seemed uncomfortable. “The highmarshal,” Noro said quickly, “is incredible. We lost our former commander during the riots,
and Azure led a group who held the wall when the Cult of Moments tried—in the chaos—to seize the city gates.” “He fought like a Voidbringer,” another squad member said. “I was there. We were almost overwhelmed, then Azure joined us, holding aloft a gleaming Shardblade. He rallied our numbers, inspired even the wounded to keep fighting. Storms. Felt like we had spren at our backs, holding us up, helping us fight.” Kaladin narrowed his eyes. “You don’t say…” He pried more from them as he finished his bowl. They had nothing but praise for Azure, though the man hadn’t displayed any other … odd abilities that Kaladin could discover. Azure was a Shardbearer, maybe a foreigner, who had been previously unknown to the Guard—but with the fall of their commander, and the subsequent disappearance of their highlord patron at the palace, Azure had ended up in command. There was something else. Something they weren’t saying. Kaladin helped himself to a third bowl of stew, more to delay to see if the highmarshal really would make an appearance or not. Soon, a disturbance near the door sent men standing up. Kaladin followed suit, turning. A senior officer entered wearing a glittering chain and a bright tabard, accompanied by attendants, inspiring a round of salutes. The highmarshal wore an appropriately azure cloak—a lighter shade than the traditional Kholin blue—with a mail coif down around the neck and a helm carried in hand. She was also a she. Kaladin blinked in surprise, and heard a gasp from Syl up above. The highmarshal was of average height for an Alethi woman, maybe just under, and wore her hair straight and short, reaching halfway down her cheeks. Her eyes were orange, and she wore a side sword with a glistening silver basket hilt. That wasn’t Alethi design. Was it the aforementioned Shardblade? It did have an otherworldly look about it, but why wear it instead of dismissing it? Regardless, the highmarshal was lean and grim, and had a couple of serious scars on her face. She wore gloves on both hands. “The highmarshal is a woman?” Kaladin hissed. “We don’t talk about the marshal’s secret,” Beard said. “Secret?” Kaladin said. “It’s pretty storming obvious.” “We don’t talk about the marshal’s secret,” Beard repeated, and the others nodded. “Hush, all right?” Hush about it? Storms. This sort of thing simply didn’t happen in Vorin society. Not like in the ballads and stories. He’d been in three armies, and had never seen a woman holding a weapon. Even the Alethi scouts carried only knives. He’d half expected a riot when he’d armed Lyn and the others, although for Radiants, Jasnah and Shallan had already supplied precedent. Azure told the men they could sit down. One of the men offered her a bowl of stew, and she accepted. The men cheered after she took a bite and complimented the cook. She handed the bowl to one of her attendants, and things returned to normal—men chatting, working, eating. Azure walked to speak with the various officers. First the platoon leader,
who would be a captain. The other lieutenants next. When she stopped at their table, she took in Kaladin with a discerning gaze. “Who’s the new recruit, Lieutenant Noro?” she asked. “This is Kal, sir!” Noro said. “Found him haunting the street outside. Deserter, with a shash brand.” “On a lighteyes? Storms, man. Who did you kill?” “It’s not the one that I killed that got me my brands, sir. It’s the one I didn’t kill.” “That has the sound of a practiced explanation, soldier.” “That’s because it is.” Kaladin figured she, at last, would push for more information. She merely grunted. He couldn’t place her age, though the scars probably made her look older than she really was. “You joining up?” she said. “We have food for you.” “Frankly, sir, I don’t know. On one hand, I can’t believe nobody cares about my past. On the other, you’re obviously desperate, which also makes me reluctant.” She turned toward Lieutenant Noro. “You haven’t shown him?” “No, sir. We just got some stew in him.” “I’ll do it. Kal, come with me.” * * * Whatever they wanted to show him was at the top of the wall, as they hiked him up an enclosed stone stairwell. Kaladin wanted to learn more about the supposed “secret” that Azure was a woman. But when he asked, Lieutenant Noro shook his head quickly and made a hushing motion. Soon they’d assembled atop the fortifications. The Kholinar wall was a powerful defensive structure, reportedly over sixty feet tall at points, with a wide wall walk on the top, ten feet across. The wall rolled across the landscape, enclosing all of Kholinar. It had actually been built on top of the outer windblades, fitting onto them like an inverted crown, the raised portions matching crevasses between windblades. The wall was interrupted by guard towers every three hundred feet or so. These large structures were big enough to house squads, perhaps entire platoons, on watch. “Guessing from that brand,” Azure said to him, “you were in one of the armies that recruits in the north. You joined up to fight on the Shattered Plains, didn’t you? But Sadeas used that army up north to funnel him veterans, plus maybe seize some land now and then from rival highprinces. You ended up fighting other Alethi, scared farmboys, instead of shipping off to avenge the king. Something like that?” “Something like that,” Kaladin admitted. “Damnation me if I blame a man for deserting that,” Azure said. “I don’t hold it against you, soldier.” “And the brand?” Azure pointed northward. Night had finally fallen, and in the distance, Kaladin could see a glow. “They advance back into place after each storm,” Azure said softly. “And camp a portion of their army out there. That’s good battle sense, to prevent us from being resupplied—and to make sure we don’t know when they’ll attack. Nightmares, Kal. A real Voidbringer army. “If that were an Alethi force, the people in this city wouldn’t have much to worry about. Sure, there would be casualties on
the wall, but no would-be king of Alethkar is going to burn and pillage the capital. But those aren’t Alethi. They’re monsters. At best, they’ll enslave the entire populace. At worst…” She let the thought dangle, then looked at him. “I’m glad you have a brand. It says you’re dangerous, and we have narrow confines up here on the wall. We can’t simply press every eligible man; I need real soldiers, men who know what they’re doing.” “So that’s why I’m here?” Kaladin asked. “To see that?” “I want you to think,” Azure said. “I tell the men—this Wall Guard, this is redemption. If you fight here, nobody will care what you did before. Because they know if we fall, this city and this nation will be no more. “Nothing matters, except holding this wall when that assault comes. You can go hide in the city and pray that we are strong enough without you. But if we aren’t, you’ll be no more than another corpse. Up here, you can fight. Up here, you have a chance. “We won’t press you. Walk away tonight. Lie down and think about what is coming; imagine another night when men are up here dying, bleeding for you. Think about how powerless you’ll feel if the monsters get in. Then when you come back tomorrow, we’ll get you a Wall Guard patch.” It was a potent speech. Kaladin glanced to Syl, who landed on his shoulder, then took a long look at the lights on the horizon. Are you out there, Sah? Did they bring you and the others here? What of Sah’s little daughter, who had collected flowers and clutched playing cards like a treasured toy? Was Khen there, the parshwoman who had demanded Kaladin retain his freedom, despite being angry at him for the entire trip? Winds send that they hadn’t been dragged further into this mess. He joined the others in clattering back down the stairwell. Afterward, Noro and the rest of the squad bade him a happy farewell, as if certain he’d return. And he probably would, though not for the reasons they assumed. He went back to the mansion and forced himself to chat with some of the guards at the lighteyed tent, though he learned nothing, and his brands made something of a stir among them. Adolin and Elhokar finally emerged, their illusions intact. So what was wrong with Kaladin’s? The sphere Shallan had given him was still infused. Kaladin gathered Drehy and Skar, then joined the king and Adolin as they started the walk home. “What has you so thoughtful, Captain?” Elhokar asked. “I think,” Kaladin said, eyes narrowed, “I might have found us another Radiant.” ELEVEN YEARS AGO There weren’t enough boats for an amphibious attack on Rathalas, so Dalinar was forced to use a more conventional assault. He marched down from the west—having sent Adolin back to Kholinar—and assigned Sadeas and his forces to come in from the east. They converged toward the Rift. Dalinar spent much of the trip passing through pungent smoke trails from the
incense Evi burned in a small censer attached to the side of her carriage. A petition to the Heralds to bless her marriage. He often heard her weeping inside the vehicle, though whenever she left it she was perfectly composed. She read letters, scribed his responses, and took notes at his meetings with generals. In every way, she was the perfect Alethi wife—and her unhappiness crushed his soul. Eventually they reached the plains around the lake, crossing the riverbed—which was dry, except during storms. The rockbuds drank so fully of the local water supply, they’d grown to enormous sizes. Some were taller than a man’s waist, and the vines they produced were as thick as Dalinar’s wrist. He rode alongside the carriage—his horse’s hooves beating a familiar rhythm on the stones beneath—and smelled incense. Evi’s hand reached out of her carriage’s side window, and she placed another glyphward into the censer. He didn’t see her face, and her hand retreated quickly. Storming woman. An Alethi would be using this as a ploy to guilt him into bending. But she wasn’t Alethi, for all her earnest imitations. Evi was far too genuine, and her tears were real. She sincerely thought their spat back in the Veden fortress boded ill for their relationship. That bothered him. More than he wanted to admit. A young scout jogged up to give him the latest report: The vanguard had secured his desired camp ground near the city. There had been no fighting yet, and he hadn’t expected any. Tanalan would not abandon the walls around the Rift to try to control ground beyond bowshot. It was good news, but Dalinar still wanted to snap at the messenger—he wanted to snap at someone. Stormfather, this battle couldn’t come soon enough. He restrained himself and sent the messenger woman away with a word of thanks. Why did he care so much about Evi’s petulance? He’d never let his arguments with Gavilar bother him. Storms, he’d never let his arguments with Evi bother him this way before. It was strange. He could have the accolades of men, fame that stretched across a continent, but if she didn’t admire him, he felt that he had somehow failed. Could he really ride into combat feeling like this? No. He couldn’t. Then do something about it. As they wound through the plain of rockbuds, he called to the driver of Evi’s carriage, having him stop. Then, handing his horse’s reins to an attendant, he climbed into the carriage. Evi bit her lip as he settled down on the seat across from her. It smelled nice within—the incense was fainter here, while the crem dust of the road was blocked by wood and cloth. The cushions were plush, and she had some dried fruit in a dish, even some chilled water. “What is wrong?” she demanded. “I was feeling saddle sore.” She cocked her head. “Perhaps you could request a salve—” “I want to talk, Evi,” Dalinar said with a sigh. “I’m not actually sore.” “Oh.” She pulled her knees up against her chest.
In here, she had undone and rolled back her safehand sleeve, displaying her long, elegant fingers. “Isn’t this what you wanted?” Dalinar said, looking away from the safehand. “You’ve been praying nonstop.” “For the Heralds to soften your heart.” “Right. Well, they’ve done that. Here I am. Let’s talk.” “No, Dalinar,” she said, reaching across to fondly touch his knee. “I wasn’t praying for myself, but for those of your countrymen you are planning to kill.” “The rebels?” “Men no different from you, who happened to be born in another city. What would you have done, had an army come to conquer your home?” “I’d have fought,” Dalinar said. “As they will. The better men will dominate.” “What gives you the right?” “My sword.” Dalinar shrugged. “If the Almighty wants us to rule, we’ll win. If He doesn’t, then we’ll lose. I rather think He wants to see which of us is stronger.” “And is there no room for mercy?” “Mercy landed us here in the first place. If they don’t want to fight, they should give in to our rule.” “But—” She looked down, hands in her lap. “I’m sorry. I don’t want another argument.” “I do,” Dalinar said. “I like it when you stand up for yourself. I like it when you fight.” She blinked tears and looked away. “Evi…” Dalinar said. “I hate what this does to you,” she said softly. “I see beauty in you, Dalinar Kholin. I see a great man struggling against a terrible one. And sometimes, you get this look in your eyes. A horrible, terrifying nothingness. Like you have become a creature with no heart, feasting upon souls to fill that void, dragging painspren in your wake. It haunts me, Dalinar.” Dalinar shifted on the carriage seat. What did that even mean? A “look” in his eyes? Was this like when she’d claimed that people stored bad memories in their skin, and needed to rub them off with a stone once a month? Westerners had some curiously superstitious beliefs. “What would you have me do, Evi?” he asked softly. “Have I won again?” she said, sounding bitter. “Another battle where I’ve bloodied you?” “I just … I need to know what you want. So I can understand.” “Don’t kill today. Hold back the monster.” “And the rebels? Their brightlord?” “You spared that boy’s life once before.” “An obvious mistake.” “A sign of humanity, Dalinar. You asked what I want. It is foolish, and I can see there is trouble here, that you have a duty. But … I do not wish to see you kill. Do not feed it.” He rested his hand on hers. Eventually the carriage slowed again, and Dalinar stepped out to survey an open area not clogged by rockbuds. The vanguard waited there, five thousand strong, assembled in perfect ranks. Teleb did like to put on a good show. Across the field, outside of bowshot, a wall broke the landscape with—seemingly—nothing to protect. The city was hidden in the rift in the stone. From the southwest, a breeze off the
lake brought the fecund scent of weeds and crem. Teleb strode up, wearing his Plate. Well, Adolin’s Plate. Evi’s Plate. “Brightlord,” Teleb said, “a short time ago, a large guarded caravan left the Rift. We hadn’t the men to besiege the city, and you had ordered us not to engage. So I sent a scout team to tail them, men who know the area, but otherwise let the caravan escape.” “You did well,” Dalinar said, taking his horse from a groom. “Though I’d have liked to know who was bringing supplies to the Rift, that might have been an attempt to draw you away into a skirmish. However, gather the vanguard now and bring them in behind me. Pass the word to the rest of the men. Have them form ranks, just in case.” “Sir?” Teleb asked, shocked. “You don’t want to rest the army before attacking?” Dalinar swung into the saddle and rode past him at a trot, heading toward the Rift. Teleb—usually so unflappable—cursed and shouted orders, then hurried to the vanguard, gathering them and marching them hastily behind Dalinar. Dalinar made sure not to get too far ahead. Soon he approached the walls of Rathalas, where the rebels had gathered, primarily archers. They wouldn’t be expecting an attack so soon, but of course Dalinar wouldn’t camp for long outside either, not exposed to the storms. Do not feed it. Did she know that he considered this hunger inside of him, the bloodlust, to be something strangely external? A companion. Many of his officers felt the same. It was natural. You went to war, and the Thrill was your reward. Dalinar’s armorers arrived, and he climbed out of the saddle and stepped into the boots they provided, then held out his arms, letting them quickly strap on his breastplate and other sections of armor. “Wait here,” he told his men, then climbed back onto his horse and set his helm on his pommel. He walked his horse out onto the killing field, summoning his Shardblade and resting it on his shoulder, reins in the other hand. Years had passed since his last assault on the Rift. He imagined Gavilar racing ahead of him, Sadeas cursing from behind them and demanding “prudence.” Dalinar picked his way forward until he was about halfway to the gates. Any closer and those archers were likely to start shooting; he was already well within their range. He stilled his horse and waited. There was some discussion on the walls; he could see the agitation among the soldiers. After about thirty minutes of him sitting there, his horse calmly licking the ground and nibbling at the grass that peeked out, the gates finally creaked open. A company of infantrymen poured out, accompanying two men on horseback. Dalinar dismissed the bald one with the purple birthmark across half his face; he was too old to be the boy Dalinar had spared. It had to be the younger man riding the white steed, cape streaming behind him. Yes, he had an eagerness to him, his horse threatening to
outstrip his guards. And the way he stared daggers at Dalinar … this was Brightlord Tanalan, son of the old Tanalan, whom Dalinar had bested after falling down into the Rift itself. That furious fight across wooden bridges and then in a garden suspended from the side of the chasm. The group stopped about fifty feet from Dalinar. “Have you come to parley?” called the man with the birthmark on his face. Dalinar walked his horse closer so he wouldn’t have to shout. Tanalan’s guards raised shields and spears. Dalinar inspected them, then the fortifications. “You’ve done well here. Polemen on the walls to push me off, should I come in alone. Netting draped down at the top, which you can cut free to entangle me.” “What do you want, tyrant?” Tanalan snapped. His voice had the typical nasal accent of the Rifters. Dalinar dismissed his Blade and swung free of his horse, Plate grinding on stone as he hit the ground. “Walk with me a moment, Brightlord. I promise not to harm you unless I’m attacked first.” “I’m supposed to take your word?” “What did I do, the last time we were together?” Dalinar asked. “When I had you in my hand, how did I act?” “You robbed me.” “And?” Dalinar asked, meeting the younger man’s violet eyes. Tanalan measured him, tapping one finger against his saddle. Finally he dismounted. The man with the birthmark put a hand on his shoulder, but the youthful brightlord pulled free. “I don’t see what you hope to accomplish here, Blackthorn,” Tanalan said, joining Dalinar. “We have nothing to say to one another.” “What do I want to accomplish?” Dalinar said, musing. “I’m not certain. My brother is normally the talker.” He started walking along the corridor between the two hostile armies. Tanalan lingered, then jogged to catch up. “Your troops look good,” Dalinar said. “Brave. Arrayed against a stronger force, yet determined.” “They have strong motivation, Blackthorn. You murdered many of their fathers.” “It will be a pity to destroy them in turn.” “Assuming you can.” Dalinar stopped and turned to regard the shorter man. They stood on a too-quiet field, where even the rockbuds and the grass had the sense to withdraw. “Have I ever lost a battle, Tanalan?” Dalinar asked softly. “You know my reputation. Do you think it exaggerated?” The younger man shifted, looking over his shoulder toward where he had left his guards and advisors. When he looked back, he was more resolved. “Better to die trying to bring you down than to surrender.” “You’d better be sure of that,” Dalinar said. “Because if I win here, I’m going to have to make an example. I’ll break you, Tanalan. Your sorry, weeping city will be held up before all who would defy my brother. Be absolutely certain you want to fight me, because once this starts, I will be forced to leave only widows and corpses to populate the Rift.” The young nobleman’s jaw slowly dropped. “I…” “My brother attempted words and politics to bring you into line,” Dalinar said.
“Well, I’m good at only one thing. He builds. I destroy. But because of the tears of a good woman, I have come—against my better judgment—to offer you an alternative. Let’s find an accommodation that will spare your city.” “An accommodation? You killed my father.” “And someday a man will kill me,” Dalinar said. “My sons will curse his name as you curse mine. I hope they don’t throw away thousands of lives in a hopeless battle because of that grudge. You want vengeance. Fine. Let’s duel. Me and you. I’ll lend you a Blade and Plate, and we’ll face each other on equal grounds. I win, and your people surrender.” “And if I beat you, will your armies leave?” “Hardly,” Dalinar said. “I suspect they’ll fight harder. But they won’t have me, and you’ll have won your father’s Blade back. Who knows? Maybe you’ll defeat the army. You’ll have a better storming chance, at least.” Tanalan frowned at Dalinar. “You aren’t the man I thought you were.” “I’m the same man I’ve always been. But today … today that man doesn’t want to kill anyone.” A sudden fire inside him raged against those words. Was he really going to such lengths to avoid the conflict he’d been so anticipating? “One of your own is working against you,” Tanalan suddenly said. “The loyal highprinces? There’s a traitor among them.” “I’d be surprised if there weren’t several,” Dalinar said. “But yes, we know that one has been working with you.” “A pity,” Tanalan said. “His men were here not an hour ago. A little earlier and you’d have caught them. Maybe they’d have been forced to join me, and their master would have been pulled into the war.” He shook his head, then turned and walked back toward his advisors. Dalinar sighed in frustration. A dismissal. Well, there had never been much of a chance that this would work. He walked back to his horse and pulled himself up into the saddle. Tanalan mounted as well. Before riding back to his city, the man gave Dalinar a salute. “This is unfortunate,” he said. “But I see no other way. I cannot defeat you in a duel, Blackthorn. To try would be foolish. But your offer is … appreciated.” Dalinar grunted, pulled on his helm, then turned his horse. “Unless…” Tanalan said. “Unless?” “Unless, of course, this was really a ruse all along, a scheme arranged by your brother, you, and me,” Tanalan said. “A … false rebellion. Intended to trick disloyal highprinces into revealing themselves.” Dalinar raised his faceplate and turned back. “Perhaps my outrage was feigned,” Tanalan said. “Perhaps we have been in touch since your attack here, all those years ago. You did spare my life, after all.” “Yes,” Dalinar said, feeling a sudden surge of excitement. “That would explain why Gavilar didn’t immediately send our armies against you. We were in collusion all along.” “What better proof, than the fact that we just had this strange battlefield conversation?” Tanalan looked over his shoulder at the body of his men on
the wall. “My men must be thinking it very odd. It will make sense when they hear the truth—that I was telling you about the envoy that had been here, delivering weapons and supplies to us from one of your secret enemies.” “Your reward, of course,” Dalinar said, “would be legitimacy as a highlord in the kingdom. Perhaps that highprince’s place.” “And no fighting today,” Tanalan said. “No deaths.” “No deaths. Except perhaps for the actual traitors.” Tanalan looked to his advisors. The man with the birthmark nodded slowly. “They headed east, toward the Unclaimed Hills,” Tanalan said, pointing. “A hundred soldiers and caravaneers. I think they were planning to stay for the night in the waystop at a town called Vedelliar.” “Who was it?” Dalinar asked. “Which highprince?” “It might be best if you find out for yourself, as—” “Who?” Dalinar demanded. “Brightlord Torol Sadeas.” Sadeas? “Impossible!” “As I said,” Tanalan noted. “Best if you see for yourself. But I will testify before the king, assuming you keep your side of our … accord.” “Open your gates to my men,” Dalinar said, pointing. “Stand down your soldiers. You have my word of honor for your safety.” With that, he turned and trotted back toward his forces, passing into a corridor of men. As he did, Teleb ran up to meet him. “Brightlord!” he said. “My scouts have returned from surveying that caravan. Sir, it—” “Was from a highprince?” “Undoubtedly,” Teleb said. “They couldn’t determine which one, but they claim to have seen someone in Shardplate among them.” Shardplate? That made no sense. Unless that is how he’s planning to see that we lose, Dalinar thought. That might not have been a simple supply caravan—it could be a flanking force in disguise. A single Shardbearer hitting the back of his army while it was distracted could do incredible damage. Dalinar didn’t believe Tanalan, not completely. But … storms, if Sadeas secretly had sent one of his Shardbearers to the battlefield, Dalinar couldn’t just send a simple team of soldiers to deal with him. “You have command,” he said to Teleb. “Tanalan is going to stand down; have the vanguard join the locals on the fortifications, but do not displace them. Camp the rest of the army back in the field, and keep our officers out of Rathalas. This isn’t a surrender. We’re going to pretend that he was on our side all along, so he can save face and preserve his title. Horinar, I want a company of a hundred elites, our fastest, ready to march with me immediately.” They obeyed, asking no questions. Runners dashed with messages, and the entire area became a hive of motion, men and women hastening in all directions. One person stood still in the midst of it, hands clasped hopefully at her breast. “What happened?” Evi asked as he trotted his horse toward her. “Go back to our camp and compose a message to my brother saying that we may have brought the Rift to our side without bloodshed.” He paused, then added, “Tell him not
to trust anyone. One of our closest allies may have betrayed us. I’m going to go find out.” The Edgedancers are too busy relocating the tower’s servants and farmers to send a representative to record their thoughts in these gemstones. I’ll do it for them, then. They are the ones who will be most displaced by this decision. The Radiants will be taken in by nations, but what of all these people now without homes? —From drawer 4-17, second topaz This city had a heartbeat, and Veil felt she could hear it when she closed her eyes. She crouched in a dim room, hands touching the smooth stone floor, which had been eroded by thousands upon thousands of footfalls. If stone met a man, stone might win—but if stone met humanity, then no force could preserve it. The city’s heartbeat was deep within these stones, old and slow. It had yet to realize something dark had moved in. A spren as ancient as it was. An urban disease. People didn’t speak of it; they avoided the palace, mentioned the queen only to complain about the ardent who had been killed. It was like standing in a highstorm and griping that your shoes were too tight. A soft whistling drew Veil’s attention. She looked up and scanned the small loading dock around her, occupied only by herself, Vathah, and their wagon. “Let’s go.” Veil eased the door open and entered the mansion proper. She and Vathah wore new faces. Hers was a version of Veil with too large a nose and dimpled cheeks. His was the face of a brutish man Shallan had seen in the market. Red’s whistle meant the coast was clear, so they strode down the hallway without hesitation. This extravagant stone mansion had been built around a square, skylit atrium, where manicured shalebark and rockbuds flourished, bobbing with lifespren. The atrium went up four stories, with walkways around each level. Red was on the second, whistling as he leaned on the balustrade. The real showpiece of the mansion, however, wasn’t the garden, but waterfalls. Because not a single one of them was actually water. They had been, once. But sometime long ago, someone had mixed far too much wealth with far too much imagination. They had hired Soulcasters to transform large fountains of water that had been poured from the top level, four stories up. They’d been Soulcast into other materials right as the water splashed to the floor. Veil’s path took her along rooms to her left, with an overhang of the first floor’s atrium balcony overhead. A former waterfall spilled down to her right, now made of crystal. The shape of flowing water crashed forever onto the stone floor, where it blossomed outward in a wave, brilliant and glistening. The mansion had changed hands dozens of times, and people called it Rockfall—despite the newest owner’s attempt over the last decade to rename it the incredibly boring Hadinal Keep. Veil and Vathah hurried along, accompanied by Red’s reassuring whistling. The next waterfall was similar in shape, but made
instead from polished dark stumpweight wood. It looked strangely natural, almost like a tree could have grown in that shape, poured from above and running down in an undulating column, splashing outward at the base. They soon passed a room to their left, where Ishnah was talking with the current mistress of Rockfall. Each time the Everstorm struck, it left destruction—but in an oddly distinct way from a highstorm. Everstorm lightning had proven its greatest danger. The strange red lightning didn’t merely set fires or scorch the ground; it could break through rock, causing blasts of fragmenting stone. One such strike had broken a gaping hole in the side of this ancient, celebrated mansion. It had been patched with an unsightly wooden wall that would be covered with crem, then finally bricked over. Brightness Nananav—a middle-aged Alethi woman with a bun of hair practically as tall as she was—gestured at the boarded-up hole, and then at the floor. “You’ll make them match the others,” Nananav said to Ishnah, who wore the guise of a rug merchant. “I won’t stand for them to be even a shade off. When you return with the repaired rugs, I’m going to set them beside the ones in other rooms to check!” “Yes, Brightness,” Ishnah said. “But the damage is much worse than I—” “These rugs were woven in Shinovar. They were made by a blind man who trained thirty years with a master weaver before being allowed to produce his own rugs! He died after finishing my commission, so there are no others like these.” “I’m well aware, as you’ve told me three times now.…” Veil took a Memory of the woman; then she and Vathah slipped past the room, continuing along the atrium. They were supposedly part of Ishnah’s staff, and wouldn’t be suffered to wander about freely. Red—noting that they were on their way—started to head back to rejoin Ishnah. He’d have been excused to visit the privy, but would be missed if he was gone too long. His tune cut off. Veil opened a door and pulled Vathah inside, heart thrumming as—right outside—a pair of guards walked down the stairwell from the second level. “I still say we should be doing this at night,” Vathah whispered. “They have this place guarded like a fort at night.” The change of the guard was in midmorning, so Veil and the others had come just before that. Theoretically, this meant the guards would be tired and bored after an uneventful night. Veil and Vathah had entered a small library lit by a few spheres in a goblet on the table. Vathah eyed them, but didn’t move—this infiltration was about far more than a few chips. Veil set down her pack and rummaged until she got out a notebook and charcoal pencil. Veil took a deep breath, then let Shallan bleed back into existence. She quickly sketched Nananav from the glimpse earlier. “I’m still amazed you were both of them, all along,” Vathah said. “You don’t act anything like one another.” “That’s rather the point, Vathah.” “I
wish I’d picked it out myself.” He grunted, scratching the side of his head. “I like Veil.” “Not me?” “You’re my boss. I’m not supposed to like you.” Straightforward, if rude. At least you always knew where you stood with him. He listened at the door, then cracked it open, tracking the guards. “All right. We go up the stairs, then come back along the second-floor walkway. We grab the goods, stuff them in the dumbwaiter, and make for the exit. Storms. I wish we could do this when nobody was awake.” “What would be the fun of that?” Shallan finished her drawing with a flourish, then stood, poking Vathah in the side. “Admit it. You’re enjoying this.” “I’m as nervous as a new recruit on his first day at war,” Vathah said. “My hands shake, and I swear every noise means someone spotted us. I feel sick.” “See?” Shallan said. “Fun.” She pushed beside him and glanced out through the cracked door. Storming guards. They’d set up in the atrium nearby. They could undoubtedly hear the real Nananav’s voice from there, so if Shallan strolled out wearing the woman’s face, that would certainly cause alarm. Time to get creative. Pattern buzzed as she considered. Make the waterfalls flow again? Illusions of strange spren? No … no, nothing so theatrical. Shallan was letting her sense of the dramatic run away with her. Stay simple, as she’d done before. Veil’s way. She closed her eyes and breathed out, pressing the Light into Pattern, Lightweaving only sound—that of Nananav calling the guards into the room where she was lecturing Ishnah. Why come up with a new trick when the old ones worked fine? Veil didn’t feel the need to improvise merely to be different. Pattern carried the illusion away, and the sound lured the guards off down the hall. Shallan led Vathah out of the library, then around the corner and up the steps. She breathed out Stormlight, which washed over her, and became Veil fully. Then Veil became the woman who was not quite Veil, with the dimples. And then, layered on top of that, she became Nananav. Arrogant. Talkative. Certain that everyone around her was just looking for a reason not to do things properly. As they stepped onto the next floor, she adopted a calm, measured gait, eyeing the banister. When had that last been polished? “I don’t find this fun,” Vathah said, walking beside her. “But I do like it.” “Then it’s fun.” “Fun is winning at cards. This is something else.” He’d taken to his role earnestly, but she really should look at getting more refined servants. Vathah was like a hog in human clothing, always grunting and mulling about. Why shouldn’t she be served by the best? She was a Knight Radiant. She shouldn’t have to put up with barely human deserters who looked like something Shallan would draw after a hard night drinking, and maybe while holding the pencil with her teeth. The role is getting to you, a part of her whispered. Careful. She glanced about
for Pattern, but he was still below. They stopped at a second-floor room, locked tightly. The plan was for Pattern to open it, but she didn’t have the patience to wait. Besides, a master-servant was walking along. He gave a bow when he saw Nananav. “That is your bow?” Nananav said. “That quick bob? Where did they teach you that?” “My apologies, Brightness,” the man said, bowing more deeply. “I could cut your legs off at the knees,” Nananav said. “Then maybe you’d at least appear properly penitent.” She rapped on the door. “Open this.” “Why—” He broke off, perhaps realizing she was not in a mood for complaints. He hurried forward and undid the combination lock on the door, then pulled it open for her, letting out air that smelled of spice. “You may go do penance for your insult to me,” Nananav said. “Climb to the roof and sit there for exactly one hour.” “Brightness, if I have offended—” “If?” She pointed. “Go!” He gave another bow—barely sufficient—and ran off. “You might be overdoing that, Brightness,” Vathah said, rubbing his chin. “She has a reputation for being difficult, not insane.” “Shut up,” Nananav said, striding into the room. The mansion’s larder. Racks of dried sausages covered one wall. Sacks of grain were stacked in the back, and boxes filled with longroots and other tubers covered the floor. Bags of spices. Small jugs of oil. Vathah pulled the door closed, then hurriedly began stuffing sausages in a sack. Nananav wasn’t so hasty. This was a good place to keep it all, nice and locked up. Taking it elsewhere seemed … well, a crime. Maybe she could move into Rockfall, act the part. And the former lady of the house? Well, she was an inferior version, obviously. Just deal with her, take her place. It would feel right, wouldn’t it? With a chill, Veil let one layer of illusion drop. Storms … Storms. What had that been? “Not to give offense, Brightness,” Vathah said, putting his sack of sausages in the dumbwaiter, “but you can stand there and supervise. Or you can storming help, and get twice as much food along with half as much ego.” “Sorry,” Veil said, grabbing a sack of grain. “That woman’s head is a frightening place.” “Well, I did say that Nananav is notoriously difficult.” Yeah, Veil thought. But I was talking about Shallan. They worked quickly, filling the large dumbwaiter—which was needed to take in large shipments from the delivery room below. They got all of the sausages, most of the longroots, and a few sacks of grain. Once the dumbwaiter was full, the two of them lowered the thing to the ground floor. They waited by the door, and fortunately Red started whistling. The ground floor was clear again. Not trusting herself with Nananav’s face, she stayed Veil as the two hurried out. Pattern waited outside, and he hummed, climbing her trousers. On their way down, they passed a waterfall made of pure marble. Shallan would have loved to linger and marvel at the artful
Soulcasting. Fortunately, Veil was running this operation. Shallan … Shallan got lost in things. She’d get focused on details, or stick her head in the clouds and dream about the big picture. That comfortable middle, that safe place of moderation, was unfamiliar ground to her. They descended the steps, then joined Red at the damaged room and helped him carry a rolled-up carpet to the loading bay. She had Pattern quietly open the lock to the dumbwaiter down here, then sent him away to decoy a few servants who had been bringing wood into the bay. They pursued an image of a feral mink with a key in its mouth. Together, Veil, Red, and Vathah unrolled the rug, filled it with sacks of food from the dumbwaiter, then rolled it back up and heaved it into their waiting wagon. The guards at the gate shouldn’t notice a few extra-bulgy carpets. They fetched a second carpet, repeated the process, then started back. Veil, however, paused in the loading bay, right by the door. What was that on the ceiling? She cocked her head at the strange sight of pools of liquid, dripping down. Angerspren, she realized. Collecting there and then boiling through the floor. The larder was directly above them. “Run!” Veil said, spinning and bolting back toward the wagon. A second later, someone upstairs started shouting. Veil scrambled into the wagon’s seat, then slapped the chull with the steering reed. Her team, joined by Ishnah, charged back into the room and leapt into the wagon, which started moving. Step. By. Protracted. Step. Veil … Shallan slapped the large crab on the shell, urging it forward. But chulls went at chull speed. The wagon eased out into the courtyard, and ahead the gates were already closing. “Storms!” Vathah said. He looked over his shoulder. “Is this part of the ‘fun’?” Behind them, Nananav burst out of the building, her hair wobbling. “Stop them! Thieves!” “Shallan?” Vathah asked. “Veil? Whoever you are? Storms, they have crossbows!” Shallan breathed out. The gates clanged shut ahead of them. Armed guards entered the small courtyard, weapons ready. “Shallan!” Vathah cried. She stood on the wagon, Stormlight swirling around her. The chull pulled to a stop, and she confronted the guards. The men stumbled to a halt, jaws dropping. Behind, Nananav broke the silence. “What are you idiots doing? Why…” She trailed off, then pulled up short as Shallan turned to look at her. Wearing the woman’s face. Same hair. Same features. Same clothing. Mimicked right down to the attitude, with nose in the air. Shallan/Nananav raised her hands to the side, and spren burst from the ground around the wagon. Pools of blood, shimmering the wrong color, and boiling far too violently. Pieces of glass that rained down. Anticipationspren, like thin tentacles. Shallan/Nananav let her image distort, features sliding off her face, dripping down like paint running down a wall. Ordinary Nananav screamed and fled back toward the building. One of the guards loosed his crossbow, and the bolt took Shallan/Nananav right in the head. Bother. Her
vision went dark for a moment, and she had a flash of panic remembering her stabbing in the palace. But why should she care if actual painspren joined the illusory ones around her? She righted herself and looked back toward the soldiers, her face melting, the crossbow bolt sticking from her temple. The guards ran. “Vathah,” she said, “plesh open sha gate.” Her mouth didn’t work right. How odd. Vathah didn’t move, so she glared at him. “Gah!” he shouted, scrambling back and stumbling across one of the rugs in the bed of the wagon. He fell down beside Red, who was surrounded by fearspren, like globs of goo. Even Ishnah looked as if she’d seen a Voidbringer. Shallan let the illusions go, all of them, right down to Veil. Just normal, everyday Veil. “Itsh all right,” Veil said. “Jush illushionsh. Go, open sha gatesh.” Vathah heaved himself out of the wagon and ran for the gates. “Um, Veil?” Red said. “That crossbow bolt … the blood is staining your outfit.” “I wash going to shrow it away regardlesh,” she said, settling back down, growing more comfortable as Pattern rejoined the wagon and scuttled across the seat to her. “I’ve got a new outfit almosht ready.” At this rate, she’d have to buy them in bulk. They maneuvered the wagon out the gates, then picked up Vathah. No guards gave pursuit, and Veil’s mind … drifted as they pulled away. That … that crossbow bolt was getting annoying. She couldn’t feel her safehand. Bother. She poked at the bolt; it seemed that her Stormlight had healed her head around the wound. She gritted her teeth and tried to pull it out, but the thing was jammed in there. Her vision blurred again. “I’m going to need shome help, boysh,” she said, pointing at it and drawing in more Stormlight. She blacked out entirely when Vathah pulled it free. She came to a short time later, slumped in the front seat of the wagon. When she brushed the side of her head with her fingers, she found no hole. “You worry me sometimes,” Vathah said, steering the chull with a reed. “I do what needs to be done,” Veil said, relaxing back and setting her feet up on the front of the wagon. Was it only her imagination, or did the people lining the streets today look hungrier than they had previous days? Hungerspren buzzed about the heads of the people, like black specks, or little flies of the type you could find sometimes on rotting plants. Children cried in the laps of exhausted mothers. Veil turned away, ashamed, thinking of the food she had hidden in the wagon. How much good could she do with all of that? How many tears could she dry, how many of the hungry cries of children could she silence? Steady … Infiltrating the Cult of Moments was a greater good than feeding a few mouths now. She needed this food to buy her way in. To investigate … the Heart of the Revel, as Wit had
called it. Veil didn’t know much of the Unmade. She’d never paid attention to the ardents on important matters, let alone when they spoke of old folktales and stories of Voidbringers. Shallan knew little more, and wanted to find a book about the subject, of course. Last night, Veil had returned to the inn where Shallan had met with the King’s Wit, and while he hadn’t been there, he’d left a message for her. I’m still trying to get you a contact among the cult’s highers. Everyone I talk to merely says, “Do something to get their attention.” I would, but I’m certain that violating the city’s indecency laws would be unwise, even considering the lack of a proper watch. Do something to get their attention. They seemed to have their fingers in everything, in this city. Kind of like the Ghostbloods. Watching secretly. Maybe she didn’t need to wait for Wit. And maybe she could solve two problems at once. “Take us to the Ringington Market,” she said to Vathah, naming the market closest to the tailor’s shop. “Aren’t we going to unload the food before we return the wagon to that merchant?” “Of course we are,” she said. He eyed her, but when she didn’t explain further, he turned the wagon as she directed. Veil took her hat and coat from the back of the wagon and pulled them on, then covered the bloodstains on her shirt with a Lightweaving. She had Vathah pull up to a specific building in the market. When they stopped, refugees peeked into the wagon bed, but saw only rugs—and they scattered when Vathah glared at them. “Guard the wagon,” Veil said, digging out a small sack of food. She hopped down and went sauntering toward the building. The roof had been ruined by the Everstorm, making it a perfect place for squatters. She found Grund inside the main room, as usual. She’d returned several times during her time in the city, getting information from Grund—who was the grimy little urchin she’d bribed with food on her first day in the market. He seemed to always be hanging around here, and Veil was well aware of the value of having a local urchin to ply for information. Today, he was alone in the room. The other beggars were out hunting food. Grund drew on a little board with charcoal, using his one good hand, the deformed one hidden in his pocket. He perked up as soon as he saw her. He’d stopped running away; it seemed that city urchins got concerned when someone was actively looking for them. That changed when they knew you had food. He tried to look uninterested until Veil dropped the sack in front of him. A sausage peeked out. Then, his dark eyes practically bulged out of his face. “An entire sack?” Grund asked. “It was a good day,” Veil said, squatting down. “Any news for me on those books?” “Nope,” he said, poking the sausage—as if to see whether she’d suddenly snatch it back. “I ain’t heard nothing.” “Let
me know if you do. In the meantime, do you know of anyone who could use a little extra food? People who are particularly nice or deserving, but who get overlooked by the grain rationing?” He eyed her, trying to determine her angle. “I’ve got extra to give away,” Veil explained. “You’re going to give them food.” He said it as if it was as rational as making cremlings fall from the sky. “Surely I’m not the first. The palace used to give food to the poor, didn’t it?” “That’s a thing that kings do. Not regular people.” He looked her up and down. “But you aren’t regular people.” “I’m not.” “Well … Muri the seamstress has always been nice to me. She’s got lots of kids. Having trouble feedin’ them. She has a hovel over by the old bakery that burned down on that first Evernight. And the refugee kids that live in the park over on Moonlight Way. They’re just little, you know? Nobody to watch for them. And Jom, the cobbler. He broke his arm … You wanna write this down or something?” “I’ll remember.” He shrugged and gave her an extensive list. She thanked him, then reminded him to keep looking for the book she’d asked for. Ishnah had visited some booksellers on Shallan’s orders, and one had mentioned a title called Mythica, a newer volume that spoke of the Unmade. The bookseller had owned a copy, but his shop had been robbed during the riots. Hopefully, someone in the underground knew where his goods had gone. Veil had a spring to her step as she walked back to the wagon. The cult wanted her to get their attention? Well, she’d get their attention. She doubted Grund’s list was unbiased, but stopping right in the middle of the market and heaving out sacks seemed likely to incite a riot. This was as good a method to give away the food as any. Muri the seamstress proved to indeed be a woman with many children and little means of feeding them. The children in the park were right where Grund had indicated. Veil left a heap of food for them, then walked away as they scrambled up to it in amazement. By the fourth stop, Vathah had figured it out. “You’re going to give it all away, aren’t you?” “Not all,” Veil said, lounging in her seat as they rolled toward the next destination. “What about paying the Cult of Moments?” “We can always steal more. First, my contact says we have to get their attention. I figure, a crazy woman in white riding through the market throwing out sacks of food is bound to do that.” “You’ve got the crazy part right, at least.” Veil slipped her hand back into a rolled-up carpet, and pulled out a sausage for him. “Eat something. It’ll make you feel better.” He grumbled, but took it and bit at the end. By the evening, the cart was empty. Veil wasn’t certain if she could get the cult’s attention this way, but storms
did it feel good to be doing something. Shallan could go off and study books, talk plots, and scheme. Veil would worry about the people who were actually starving. She didn’t give it all away though. She let Vathah keep his sausage. I am worried about the tower’s protections failing. If we are not safe from the Unmade here, then where? —From drawer 3-11, garnet “Stuff it, Beard,” Ved said. “You did not meet the Blackthorn.” “I did!” the other soldier said. “He complimented me on my uniform, and gave me his own knife. For valor.” “Liar.” “Be careful,” Beard said. “Kal might stab you if you keep interrupting a good story.” “Me?” Kaladin said, walking with the others of the squad on patrol. “Don’t bring me into this, Beard.” “Look at him,” Beard said. “He’s got hungry eyes, Ved. He wants to hear the end of the story.” Kaladin smiled with the others. He had joined the Wall Guard officially upon Elhokar’s orders, and had promptly been added to Lieutenant Noro’s squad. It felt almost … cheap to be part of the group so quickly, after the effort it had been to forge Bridge Four. Still, Kaladin liked these men, and enjoyed their banter as they ran their patrol beat along the inside base of the wall. Six men was a lot for a simple patrol, but Azure wanted them to stay in groups. Along with Beard, Ved, and Noro, the squad included a heavyset man named Alaward and a friendly man named Vaceslv—Alethi, but with obvious Thaylen heritage. The two kept trying to get Kaladin to play cards with them. It was an uncomfortable reminder of Sah and the parshmen. “Well, you won’t believe what happened next,” Beard continued. “The Blackthorn told me … Oh, storm it. You’re not listening, are you?” “Nope,” Ved said. “Too busy looking at that.” He nodded back at something they’d passed. Beard snickered. “Ha! Will you look at that roosting chicken? Who does he think he’s impressing?” “Storming waste of skin,” Ved agreed. Kal grinned, glanced over his shoulder, looking for whoever Beard and Ved had spotted. Must be someone silly to provoke such a strong … It was Adolin. The prince lounged on the corner, wearing a false face and a yellow suit after the new fashionable style. He was guarded by Drehy, who stood several inches taller, happily munching on some chouta. “Somewhere,” Beard said solemnly, “a kingdom is without its banners because that fellow bought them all up and made coats out of them.” “Where do they think up these things?” Vaceslv asked. “I mean … storms! Do they just say, ‘You know what I need for the apocalypse? You know what would be really handy? A new coat. Extra sequins.’ ” They passed Adolin—who nodded toward Kaladin, then looked away. That meant all was well, and Kaladin could continue with the guards. A shake of the head would have been the sign to extricate himself and return to the tailor’s shop. Beard continued to snicker. “When in the service of

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