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the merchant lords of Steen,” he noted, “I once had to swim across an entire vat of dye in order to save the prince’s daughter. When I was done, I still wasn’t as colorful as that preening cremling.” Alaward grunted. “Storming highborns. Useless for anything but giving bad orders and eating twice as much food as an honest man.” “But,” Kaladin said, “how can you say that? I mean, he’s lighteyed. Like us.” He winced. Did that sound fake? It sure is nice being lighteyed as I, of course, have light eyes—like you, my eyes are lighter than the dark eyes of darkeyes. He had to summon Syl several times a day to keep his eye color from changing. “Like us?” Beard said. “Kal, what crevasse have you been living in? Are the middlers actually useful where you come from?” “Some,” Kaladin said. Beard and Ved—well, the whole squad, except Noro—were tenners: men of the tenth dahn, lowest ranking in the lighteyed stratification system. Kaladin hadn’t ever paid much attention; to him, lighteyes had always just been lighteyes. These men saw the world very differently. Middlers were anyone better than eighth dahn, but who weren’t quite highlords. They might as well have been another species, for how the squadsmen thought of them—particularly those of the fifth and sixth dahn who didn’t serve in the military. How was it that these men somehow naturally ended up surrounding themselves with others of their own rank? They married tenners, drank with tenners, joked with tenners. They had their own jargon and traditions. There was an entire world represented here that Kaladin had never seen, despite it residing right next door to him. “Some middlers are useful,” Kaladin said. “Some of them are good at dueling. Maybe we could go back and recruit that guy. He was wearing a sword.” The others looked at him like he was mad. “Kal, my kip,” Beard said. “Kip” was a slang word that Kaladin hadn’t quite figured out yet. “You’re a good fellow. I like how you see the best in folks. You haven’t even learned to ignore me yet, which most folks decide to do after our first meal together. “But you’ve got to learn to see the world for how it is. You can’t go around trusting middlers, unless they’re good officers like the highmarshal. Men like that one back there, they’ll strut about telling you everything you should do—but put them on the wall during an attack, and they’ll wet themselves yellower than that suit.” “They have parties,” Ved agreed. “Best thing for them, really. Keeps them out of our business.” What a strange mix of emotions. On one hand, he wanted to tell them about Amaram and rant about the injustices done—repeatedly—to those he loved. At the same time … they were mocking Adolin Kholin, who had a shot at the title of best swordsman in all of Alethkar. Yes, his suit was a little bright—but if they would merely spend five minutes talking to him, they’d see he wasn’t so bad. Kaladin trudged along.
It felt wrong to be on patrol without a spear, and he instinctively sought out Syl, who rode the winds above. He’d been given a side sword to carry at his right, a truncheon to carry at his left, and a small round shield. The first thing the Wall Guard had taught him was how to draw the sword by reaching down with his right hand—not lowering his shield—and pulling it free of the sheath. They wouldn’t use sword or truncheon when the Voidbringers finally assaulted; there were proper pikes up above for that. Down here was a different matter. The large road—it rounded the city alongside the wall—was clear and clean, maintained by the Guard. But most of the streets that branched off it were crowded with people. Nobody but the poorest and most wretched wanted to be this close to the walls. “How is it,” Ved said, “those refugees can’t get it through their heads that we’re the only thing separating them from the army outside?” Indeed, many of those they passed on side streets watched the patrol with outright hostility. At least nobody had thrown anything at them today. “They see that we’re fed,” Noro replied. “They smell food from our barracks. They’re not thinking with their heads, but with their stomachs.” “Half of those belong to the cult anyway,” Beard noted. “One of these days, I’ll have to infiltrate that. Might have to marry their high priestess, but let me tell you, I’m terrible in a harem. Last time, the other men grew jealous of me taking all the priestess’s attention.” “She laughed so hard at your offering she got distracted, eh?” Ved asked. “Actually, there’s a story about—” “Calm it, Beard,” the lieutenant said. “Let’s get ready for the delivery.” He shifted his shield to his other hand, then took out his truncheon. “Get intimidating, everybody. Truncheons only.” The group pulled out their wooden cudgels. It felt wrong to have to defend themselves from their own people—brought back memories of being in Amaram’s army, bivouacking near towns. Everyone had always talked about the glories of the army and the fight on the Shattered Plains. And yet, once towns got done gawking, they transitioned to hostility with remarkable speed. An army was the sort of thing everyone wanted to have, so long as it was off doing important things elsewhere. Noro’s squad met up with another from their platoon—with two squads on the wall for duty, two squads off, and two down here patrolling, they were around forty strong. Together, the twelve men formed up to guard a slow, chull-pulled wagon that left one of their larger barrack warehouses. It carried a mound of closed sacks. Refugees crowded around, and Kaladin brandished his truncheon. He had to use his shield to shove a man who got too close. Fortunately, this caused others to back away, instead of rushing the wagon. They rolled inward only one street before stopping at a city square. Syl flitted down and rested on his shoulder. “They … they look like they hate you.”
“Not me,” Kaladin whispered. “The uniform.” “What … what will you do if they actually attack?” He didn’t know. He hadn’t come to this city to fight the populace, but if he refused to defend the squad … “Storming Velalant is late,” Ved grumbled. “A little more time,” Noro said. “We’ll be fine. The good people know this food goes to them eventually.” Yes, after they wait hours in line at Velalant’s distribution stations. Farther into the city—obscured by the gathering crowds—a group of people approached in stark violet, with masks obscuring their faces. Kaladin watched uncomfortably as they started whipping their own forearms. Drawing painspren, which climbed from the ground around them, like hands missing the skin. Except these were too large, and the wrong color, and … and didn’t seem human. “I prayed to the spren of the night and they came to me!” a man at their forefront shouted, raising hands high. “They rid me of my pain!” “Oh no…” Syl whispered. “Embrace them! The spren of changes! The spren of a new storm, a new land. A new people!” Kaladin took Noro by the arm. “Sir, we need to retreat. Get this grain back to the warehouse.” “We have orders to…” Noro trailed off as he glanced at the increasingly hostile crowd. Fortunately, a group of some fifty men in blue and red rounded a corner and began shoving aside refugees with rough hands and barked shouts. Noro’s sigh was almost comically loud. The angry crowd broke away as Velalant’s troops surrounded the grain shipment. “Why do we do this in the daytime?” Kaladin asked one of their officers. “And why don’t you simply come to our warehouse and escort it from there? Why the display?” A soldier moved him—politely, but firmly—back from the wagon. The troops surrounded it and marched it away, the crowd flowing after them. When they got back to the wall, Kaladin felt like a man seeing land after swimming all the way to Thaylenah. He pressed his palm against the stone, feeling its cool, rough grain. Drawing a sense of safety from it, much as he would draw out Stormlight. It would have been easy to fight that crowd—they were basically unarmed. But while training prepared you for the mechanics of the fight, the emotions were another thing entirely. Syl huddled on his shoulder, staring back along the street. “This is all the queen’s fault,” Beard muttered softly. “If she hadn’t killed that ardent…” “Stop with that,” Noro said sharply. He took a deep breath. “My squad, we’re on the wall next. You have half an hour to grab a drink or a nap, then assemble at our station above.” “And storms be praised for that!” Beard said, heading straight for the stairwell, obviously planning to get to the station above, then relax. “I’ll happily take some time staring down an enemy army, thank you very much.” Kaladin joined Beard in climbing. He still didn’t know where the man had gotten his nickname. Noro was the only one in the squad who wore
a beard, though his wasn’t exactly inspiring. Rock would have laughed it to shame and euthanized it with a razor and some soap. “Why do we pay off the highlords, Beard?” Kaladin asked as they climbed. “Velalant and his type are pretty useless, from what I’ve seen.” “Yeah. We lost the real highlords in the riots or to the palace. But the highmarshal knows what to do. I suspect that if we didn’t share with people like Velalant, we’d have to fight them off from seizing the grain. At least this way, people are eventually getting fed, and we can watch the wall.” They talked like that a lot. Holding the city wall was their job, and if they looked too far afield—tried too hard to police the city or bring down the cult—they’d lose their focus. The city had to stand. Even if it burned inside, it had to stand. To an extent, Kaladin agreed. The army couldn’t do everything. It still hurt. “When are you going to tell me how we make all that food?” Kaladin whispered. “I…” Beard looked around in the stairwell. He leaned in. “I don’t know, Kal. But first thing that Azure did when he took command? Had us attack the low monastery, by the eastern gates, away from the palace. I know men from other companies who were on that assault. The place had been overrun by rioters.” “They had a Soulcaster, didn’t they?” Beard nodded. “Only one in the city that wasn’t at the palace when it … you know.” “But how do we use it without drawing the screamers?” Kaladin asked. “Well,” Beard said, and his tone shifted. “I can’t tell you all the secrets, but…” He launched into a story about the time Beard himself had learned to use a Soulcaster from the king of Herdaz. Maybe he wasn’t the best source of information. “The highmarshal,” Kaladin interrupted. “Have you noticed the odd thing about her Shardblade? No gemstone on the pommel or crossguard.” Beard eyed him, lit by the stairwell’s window slits. Calling the highmarshal a “she” always provoked a response. “Maybe that’s why the highmarshal never dismisses it,” Beard said. “Maybe it’s broken somehow?” “Maybe,” Kaladin said. Aside from his fellow Radiants’ Blades, he’d seen one Shardblade before that didn’t have a gemstone on it. The Blade of the Assassin in White. An Honorblade, which granted Radiant powers to whoever held it. If Azure held a weapon that let her have the power of Soulcasting, perhaps that explained why the screamers hadn’t found out yet. They finally emerged onto the top of the wall, stepping into sunlight. The two of them stopped there, looking inward over the flowing city—with the breaching windblades and rolling hills. The palace, ever in gloom, dominated the far side. The Wall Guard barely patrolled the section of wall that passed behind it. “Did you know anyone in the Palace Guard ranks?” Kaladin asked. “Are any of the men in there still in contact with families out here or anything?” Beard shook his head. “I got
close a little while back. I heard voices, Kal. Whispering to me to join them. The highmarshal says we have to close our ears to those. They can’t take us unless we listen.” He rested his hand on Kaladin’s shoulder. “Your questions are honest, Kal. But you worry too much. We need to focus on the wall. Best not to talk too much about the queen, or the palace.” “Like we don’t talk about Azure being a woman.” “Her secret”—Beard winced—“I mean, the highmarshal’s secret is ours to guard and protect.” “We do a storming poor job of that, then. Hopefully we’re better at defending the wall.” Beard shrugged, hand still on Kaladin’s shoulder. For the first time, Kaladin noticed something. “No glyphward.” Beard glanced at his arm, where he wore the traditional white armband that you’d tie a glyphward around. His was blank. “Yeah,” he said, shoving his hand in his coat pocket. “Why not?” Kaladin said. Beard shrugged. “Let’s just say, I know a lot about telling which stories have been made up. Nobody’s watching over us, Kal.” He trudged off toward their muster station: one of the tower structures that lined the wall. Syl stood up on Kaladin’s shoulder, then walked up—as if on invisible steps—through the air to stand even with his eyes. She looked after Beard, her girlish dress rippling in wind that Kaladin couldn’t feel. “Dalinar thinks God isn’t dead,” she said. “Just that the Almighty—Honor—was never actually God.” “You’re part of Honor. Doesn’t that offend you?” “Every child eventually realizes that her father isn’t actually God.” She looked at him. “Do you think anybody is watching? Do you really think there isn’t anything out there?” Strange question to answer, to a little bit of a divinity. Kaladin lingered in the doorway to the guard tower. Inside, the men of his squad—Platoon Seven, Squad Two, which didn’t have the same ring to it as Bridge Four—laughed and banged about as they gathered equipment. “I used to take the terrible things that had happened to me,” he said, “as proof that there was no god. Then in some of my darkest moments, I took my life as proof there must be something up there, for only intentional cruelty could offer an explanation.” He took a deep breath, then looked toward the clouds. He had been delivered up to the sky, and had found magnificence there. He’d been given the power to protect and defend. “Now,” he said. “Now I don’t know. With all due respect, I think Dalinar’s beliefs sound too convenient. Now that one deity has proven faulty, he insists the Almighty must never have been God? That there must be something else? I don’t like it. So … maybe this simply isn’t a question we can ever answer.” He stepped into the fortification. It had broad doorways on either side leading in from the wall, while slits along the outward side provided archer positions, as did the roof. To his right stood racks of weapons and shields, and a table for mess. Above that, a
large window looked out at the city beyond, where those inside could get specific orders via signal flags from below. He was sliding his shield onto a rack when the drums sounded, calling the alarm. Syl zipped up behind him like string suddenly pulled taut. “Assault on the wall!” Kaladin shouted, reading the drumbeats. “Equip up!” He scrambled across the room and seized a pike from the line on the wall. He tossed it to the first man who came, then continued distributing as the men scrambled to obey the signals. Lieutenant Noro and Beard handed out shields—rectangular full shields in contrast to the small round patrolling shields they’d carried below. “Form up!” Kaladin shouted, right before Noro did it. Storms. I’m not their commander. Feeling like an idiot, Kaladin took his own pike and balanced the long pole, carrying it out beside Beard, who carried only a shield. On the wall, the four squads formed a bristling formation of pikes and overlapping shields. Some of the men in the center—like Kaladin and Noro—held only a pike, gripping it two-handed. Sweat trickled down Kaladin’s temples. He’d been trained briefly in pike blocks during his time in Amaram’s army. They were used as a counter to heavy cavalry, which was a newer development in Alethi warfare. He couldn’t imagine that they’d be terribly effective atop a wall. They were great for thrusting outward toward an enemy block of troops, but it was difficult for him to keep the pike pointed upward. It didn’t balance well that way, but how else were they to fight the Fused? The other platoon that shared a station with them formed up on the tower’s top, holding bows. Hopefully, the arrow cover mixed with the defensive pike formation would be effective. Kaladin finally saw the Fused streaking through the air—approaching another section of the wall. Men in his platoon waited, nervous, adjusting glyphwards or repositioning shields. The Fused clashed distantly with others of the Wall Guard; Kaladin could barely make out yells. The drumbeats from the drummers’ stations were a holding beat, telling everyone to remain in their own section. Syl came zipping back, moving agitatedly, sweeping one way, then the other. Several men in the formation leaned out, as if wanting to break away and go charging to where their fellows were fighting. Steady, Kaladin thought, but cut himself off from saying it. He wasn’t in command here. Captain Deedanor, the platoon leader, hadn’t arrived yet—which meant Noro was the ranking officer, with seniority over the other squad lieutenants. Kaladin gritted his teeth, straining, forcibly keeping himself from giving any kind of order until—blessedly—Noro spoke up. “Now, don’t you break away, Hid,” the lieutenant called. “Keep your shields together, men. If we rush off now, we’ll be easy pickings.” The men reluctantly pulled back into formation. Eventually, the Fused streaked away. Their strikes never lasted long; they would hit hard, testing reaction times at various places along the wall—and they often broke into and searched the towers nearby. They were preparing for a true assault, and—Kaladin figured—also
trying to find out how the Wall Guard was feeding itself. The drums signaled for the squads to stand down, and the men of Kaladin’s platoon lethargically trudged back to their tower. A sense of frustration accompanied them. Pent-up aggression. All of that anxiety, the rush of the battle, only to stand around and sweat while other men died. Kaladin helped rack up the weapons, then got himself a bowl of stew and joined Lieutenant Noro, who was waiting on the wall right outside the tower. A messenger used signal flags to indicate to others down in the city that Noro’s platoon hadn’t engaged. “You have my apologies, sir,” Kaladin said softly. “I’ll see it doesn’t happen again.” “Um … it?” “I preempted you earlier,” Kaladin said. “Gave orders when it was your place.” “Oh! Well, you’re quite quick off the cuff, Kal! Eager for combat, I’d say.” “Perhaps, sir.” “You want to prove yourself to the team,” Noro said, rubbing his wispy beard. “Well, I like a man with enthusiasm. Keep your head, and I suspect you’ll end up as a squadleader before too long.” He said it like a proud parent. “Permission, sir, to be excused from duty? There might be wounded that need my attention farther along the wall.” “Wounded? Kal, I know you said you had some field medicine training—but the army’s surgeons will be there already.” Right, they’d have actual surgeons. Noro clapped him on the shoulder. “Go in and eat your stew. There will be enough action later. Don’t run too fast toward danger, all right?” “I’ll … try to remember that, sir.” Still, there was nothing to do but walk back into the tower, Syl alighting on his shoulder, and sit down to eat his stew. Today, I leaped from the tower for the last time. I felt the wind dance around me as I fell all the way along the eastern side, past the tower, and to the foothills below. I’m going to miss that. —From drawer 10-1, sapphire Veil leaned her head to look in through the window of the old, broken shop in the market. Grund the urchin sat in his usual place, carefully stripping down an old pair of shoes for the hogshide. As he heard Veil, he dropped his tool and reached for a knife with his good hand. He saw that it was her, then caught the package of food she tossed to him. It was smaller this time, but actually had some fruit. Very rare in the city these days. The urchin pulled the bag of food close, closing his dark green eyes, looking … reserved. What an odd expression. He’s still suspicious of me, she thought. He’s wondering what I’ll someday demand of him for all this. “Where are Ma and Seland?” Veil asked. She had prepared packages for the two women who stayed here with Grund. “Moved out to the old tinker’s place,” Grund said. He thumbed upward, toward the sagging ceiling. “Thought this place was getting too dangerous.” “You sure you don’t want to do
the same?” “Nah,” he said. “I can finally move without kicking someone.” She left him and shoved her hands in her pockets, wearing her new coat and hat against the cool air. She’d hoped that Kholinar would prove to be warmer, after so long on the Shattered Plains or Urithiru. But it was cold here too, suffering a season of winter weather. Perhaps the arrival of the Everstorm was to be blamed. She checked in on Muri next, the former seamstress with three daughters. She was of second nahn, high ranking for a darkeyes, and had run a successful business in a town near Revolar. Now she trolled the water ditches following storms for the corpses of rats and cremlings. Muri always had some gossip that was amusing but generally pointless. Veil left about an hour later and made her way out of the market, dropping her last package in the lap of a random beggar. The old beggar sniffed the package, then whooped with excitement. “The Swiftspren!” he said, nudging one of the other beggars. “Look, the Swiftspren!” He cackled, digging into the package, and his friend roused from his sleep and snatched some flatbread. “Swiftspren?” Veil asked. “That’s you!” he said. “Yup, yup! I heard of you. Robbing rich folk all through the city, you do! And nobody can stop you, ’cuz you’re a spren. Can walk through walls, you can. White hat, white coat. Don’t always appear the same, do ya?” The beggar started stuffing his face. Veil smiled—her reputation was spreading. She’d enhanced it by sending Ishnah and Vathah out, wearing illusions to look like Veil, giving away food. Surely, the cult couldn’t ignore her much longer. Pattern hummed as she stretched, exhaustionspren—all of the corrupted variety—spinning about her in the air, little red whirlwinds. The merchant she’d stolen from earlier had chased her away himself, and had been nimble for his age. “Why?” Pattern asked. “Why what?” Veil asked. “Why is the sky blue, the sun bright? Why do storms blow, or rains fall?” “Mmmm … Why are you so happy about feeding so few?” “Feeding these few is something we can do.” “So is jumping from a building,” he said—frank, as if he didn’t understand the sarcasm he used. “But we do not do this. You lie, Shallan.” “Veil.” “Your lies wrap other lies. Mmm…” He sounded drowsy. Could spren get drowsy? “Remember your Ideal, the truth you spoke.” She shoved hands in her pockets. Evening was coming, the sun slipping toward the western horizon. As if it were running from the Origin and the storms. It was the individual touch, the light in the eyes of people she gave to, that really excited her. Feeding them felt so much more real than the rest of the plan to infiltrate the cult and investigate the Oathgate. It’s too small, she thought. That was what Jasnah would say. I’m thinking too small. Along the street, she passed people who whimpered and suffered. Far too many hungerspren in the air, and fearspren at nearly every corner. She had
to do something to help. Like throwing a thimbleful of water onto a bonfire. She stood at an intersection, head bowed, as the shadows grew long, reaching toward night. Chanting broke her out of her trance. How long had she been standing there? Flickering light, orange and primal, painted a street to her left. No sphere glowed that color. She walked toward it, pulling off her hat and sucking in Stormlight. She released it in a puff, then stepped through, trailing tendrils that wrapped around her and transformed her shape. People had gathered, as they usually did, when the Cult of Moments paraded. Swiftspren broke through them, wearing the costume of a spren from her notes—notes she’d lost to the sea. A spren shaped like a glowing arrowhead that wove through the sky around skyeels. Golden tassels streamed from her back, long, with arrowhead shapes at the ends. Her entire front was wrapped in cloth that trailed behind, her arms, legs, and face covered. Swiftspren flowed among the cultists, and drew stares even from them. I have to do more, she thought. I have to think grander schemes. Could Shallan’s lies help her be something more than a broken girl from rural Jah Keved? A girl who was, deep down, terrified that she had no idea what she was doing. The cultists chanted softly, repeating the words of the leaders at the front. “Our time has passed.” “Our time has passed.” “The spren have come.” “The spren have come.” “Give them our sins.” “Give them our sins.…” Yes … she could feel it. The freedom these people felt. It was the peace of surrender. They coursed down the street, proffering their torches and lanterns toward the sky, wearing the garb of spren. Why worry? Embrace the release, embrace the transition, embrace the coming of storm and spren. Embrace the end. Swiftspren breathed in their chants and saturated herself with their ideas. She became them, and she could hear it, whispering in the back of her mind. Surrender. Give me your passion. Your pain. Your love. Give up your guilt. Embrace the end. Shallan, I’m not your enemy. That last one stood out, like a scar on a beautiful man’s face. Jarring. She came to herself. Storms. She’d initially thought that this group might lead her up to the revel on the Oathgate platform, but … she’d let herself be carried away by the darkness. Trembling, she stopped in place. The others stopped around her. The illusion—the sprenlike tassels behind her—continued to stream, even when she wasn’t walking. There was no wind. The cultists’ chanting broke off, and corrupted awespren exploded around several of their heads. Soot-black puffs. Some fell to their knees. To them—wrapped in streaming cloth, face obscured, ignoring wind and gravity—she would look like an actual spren. “There are spren,” Shallan said to the gathered crowd, using Lightweaving to twist and warp her voice, “and there are spren. You followed the dark ones. They whisper for you to abandon yourselves. They lie.” The cultists gasped. “We do not want your
devotion. When have spren ever demanded your devotion? Stop dancing in the streets and be men and women again. Strip off those idiotic costumes and return to your families!” They didn’t move quickly enough, so she sent her tassels streaming upward, curling about one another, lengthening. A powerful light flashed from her. “Go!” she shouted. They fled, some throwing off their costumes as they went. Shallan waited, trembling, until she was alone. She let the glow vanish and shrouded herself in blackness, then stepped off the street. When she emerged from the blackness, she looked like Veil again. Storms. She’d … she’d become one of them so easily. Was her mind so quickly corrupted? She wrapped her arms around herself, trailing through streets and markets. Jasnah would have been strong enough to keep going with them until reaching the platform. And if these hadn’t been allowed up—most that wandered the streets weren’t privileged enough to join the feast—then she’d have done something else. Perhaps take the place of one of the feast guards. Truth was, she enjoyed the thievery and feeding the people. Veil wanted to be a hero of the streets, like in the old stories. That had corrupted Shallan, preventing her from going forward with something more logical. But she’d never been the logical one. That was Jasnah, and Shallan couldn’t be her. Maybe … maybe she could become Radiant and … She huddled against a wall, arms wrapped around herself. Sweating, trembling, she went looking for light. She found it down a street: a calm, level glow. The friendly light of spheres, and with it a sound that seemed impossible. Laughter? She chased it, hungry, until she reached a gathering of people singing beneath Nomon’s azure gaze. They’d overturned boxes, gathering in a ring, while one man led the boisterous songs. Shallan watched, hand on the wall of a building, Veil’s hat held limply in her gloved safehand. Shouldn’t that laughter have been more desperate? How could they be so happy? How could they sing? In that moment, these people seemed like strange beasts, beyond her understanding. Sometimes she felt like a thing wearing a human skin. She was that thing in Urithiru, the Unmade, who sent out puppets to feign humanity. It’s him, she noticed absently. Wit’s leading the songs. He hadn’t left her any more messages at the inn. Last time she’d visited, the innkeeper complained that he’d moved out, and had coerced her to pay Wit’s tab. Veil pulled on her hat, then turned and trailed away down the small market street. * * * She turned herself back into Shallan right before she reached the tailor’s shop. Veil let go reluctantly, as she kept wanting to go track down Kaladin in the Wall Guard. He wouldn’t know her, so she could approach him, pretend to get to know him. Maybe flirt a little … Radiant was aghast at that idea. Her oaths to Adolin weren’t complete, but they were important. She respected him, and enjoyed their time training together with the sword. And Shallan …
what did Shallan want again? Did it matter? Why bother worrying about her? Veil finally let go. She folded her hat and coat, then used an illusion to disguise them as a satchel. She layered an illusion of Shallan and her havah over the top of her trousers and shirt, then strolled inside, where she found Drehy and Skar playing cards and debating which kind of chouta was best. There were different kinds? Shallan nodded to them, then—exhausted—started up the steps. A few hungerspren, however, reminded her that she hadn’t saved anything for herself from the day’s thievery. She put away her clothing, then hiked down to the kitchen. Here she found Elhokar drinking from a single cup of wine into which he’d dropped a sphere. That red-violet glow was the room’s only light. On the table before him was a sheet of glyphs: names of the houses he had been approaching, through the parties. He’d crossed out some of the names, but had circled the others, writing down numbers of troops they might be able to provide. Fifty armsmen here, thirty there. He raised the glowing cup to her as she gathered some flatbread and sugar. “What is that design on your skirt? It … seems familiar to me.” She glanced down. Pattern, who usually clung to her coat, had been replicated in the illusion on the side of her havah. “Familiar?” Elhokar nodded. He didn’t seem drunk, just contemplative. “I used to see myself as a hero, like you. I imagined claiming the Shattered Plains in my father’s name. Vengeance for blood spilled. It doesn’t even matter now, does it? That we won?” “Of course it matters,” Shallan said. “We have Urithiru, and we defeated a large army of Voidbringers.” He grunted. “Sometimes I think that if I merely insist long enough, the world will transform. But wishing and expecting is of the Passions. A heresy. A good Vorin worries about transforming themselves.” Give me your passion.… “Have you any news about the Oathgate or the Cult of Moments?” Elhokar asked. “No. I have some thoughts about getting up there though. New ones.” “Good. I might have troops for us soon, though their numbers will be smaller than I’d hoped. We depend upon your reconnaissance, however. I would know what is happening on that platform before I march troops onto it.” “Give me a few more days. I’ll get onto the platform, I promise.” He took a drink of his wine. “There are few people remaining to whom I can still be a hero, Radiant. This city. My son. Storms. He was a baby when I last saw him. He’d be three now. Locked in the palace…” Shallan set down her food. “Wait here.” She fetched her sketchpad and pencils from a shelf in the showroom, then returned to Elhokar and settled down. She placed some spheres out for light, then started drawing. Elhokar sat at the table across from her, lit by the cup of wine. “What are you doing?” “I don’t have a proper sketch of you,” Shallan
said. “I want one.” Creationspren started to appear around her immediately. They seemed normal, though they were so odd anyway, it could be hard to tell. Elhokar was a good man. In his heart, at least. Shouldn’t that matter most? He moved to look over her shoulder, but she was no longer sketching from sight. “We’ll save them,” Shallan whispered. “You’ll save them. It will be all right.” Elhokar watched silently as she filled in the shading and finished the picture. Once she lifted her pencil, Elhokar reached past her and rested his fingers on the page. It depicted Elhokar kneeling on the ground, beaten down, clothing ragged. But he looked upward, outward, chin raised. He wasn’t beaten. No, this man was noble, regal. “Is that what I look like?” he whispered. “Yes.” It’s what you could be, at least. “May I … may I have it?” She lacquered the page, then handed it to him. “Thank you.” Storms. He almost seemed to be in tears! Feeling embarrassed, she gathered her supplies and her food, then hurried out of the kitchen. Back in her rooms, she met Ishnah, who was grinning. The short, darkeyed woman had been out earlier, wearing Veil’s face and clothing. She held up a slip of paper. “Someone handed me this today, Brightness, while I was giving away food.” Frowning, Shallan took the note. Meet us at the borders of the revel in two nights, the day of the next Everstorm, it read. Come alone. Bring food. Join the feast. ELEVEN YEARS AGO Dalinar left the horse. Horses were too slow. A misty fog blew off the lake, reminding him of that day long ago when he, Gavilar, and Sadeas had first attacked the Rift. The elites who accompanied him were the product of years of planning and training. Primarily archers, they wore no armor, and were trained for long-distance running. Horses were magnificent beasts; the Sunmaker famously had used an entire company of cavalry. Over a short distance, their speed and maneuverability had been legendary. Those possibilities intrigued Dalinar. Could men be trained to fire bows from horseback? How devastating would that be? What about a charge of horses bearing men with spears, like the legends spoke of during the Shin invasion? For today, however, he didn’t need horses. Men were better suited for long-distance running, not to mention being much better at scrambling over broken hillsides and uneven rocks. This company of elites could outrun any harrying force he’d yet to meet. Though archers, they were proficient with the sword. Their training was unparalleled, and their stamina legendary. Dalinar hadn’t trained with them personally, as he didn’t have time to practice running thirty miles a day. Fortunately, he had Plate to make up the difference. Clad in his armor, he led the charging force over scrub and rock, past reeds that released hairlike inner strands to shiver on the breeze until he drew near. Grass, tree, and weed took fright at his approach. Two fires burned inside him. First the energy of the Plate, lending power
to each step. The second fire was the Thrill. Sadeas, a traitor? Impossible. He had supported Gavilar all along. Dalinar trusted him. And yet … I thought myself trustworthy, Dalinar thought, leading the charge down a hillside, a hundred men flooding behind him. Yet I almost turned on Gavilar. He would see for himself. He would find out whether this “caravan” that had brought supplies to the Rift actually had a Shardbearer in its ranks or not. But the possibility that he had been betrayed—that Sadeas could have been working against them all along—drove Dalinar to a kind of focused madness. A clarity only the Thrill bestowed. It was the focus of a man, his sword, and the blood he would spill. The Thrill seemed to transform within him as he ran, soaking into his tiring muscles, saturating him. It became a power unto itself. So, when they crested a hillside some distance south of the Rift, he felt somehow more energetic than when he’d left. As his company of elites jogged up, Dalinar pulled to a stop, armored feet grinding on stone. Ahead, down the hill and at the mouth of a canyon, a frantic group was scrambling to arms. The caravan. Its scouts must have spotted the approach of Dalinar’s force. They’d been setting up camp, but left their tents, running for the canyon, where they’d be able to avoid being flanked. Dalinar roared, summoning his Blade, ignoring the fatigue of his men as he dashed down the hillside. The soldiers wore forest green and white. Sadeas’s colors. Dalinar reached the bottom of the hill and stormed through the now-abandoned camp. He swept past the stragglers, slicing out with Oathbringer, dropping them, their eyes burning. Wait. His momentum wouldn’t let him stop now. Where was the enemy Shardbearer? Something is wrong. Dalinar led his men into the canyon after the soldiers, following the enemy along a wide path up the side. He raised Oathbringer high as he ran. Why would they put on Sadeas’s colors if they’re a secret envoy bringing contraband supplies? Dalinar stopped in place, his soldiers swarming around him. Their path had taken them about fifty feet up from the bottom of the canyon, on the south side of a steep incline. He saw no sign of a Shardbearer as the enemy gathered above. And … those uniforms … He blinked. That … that was wrong. He shouted an order to pull back, but the sound of his voice was overwhelmed by a sudden roar. A sound like thunder, accompanied by a dreadful clatter of rock against rock. The ground quivered, and he turned in horror to find a landslide tumbling down the steep side of the ravine to his right—directly above where he had led his men. He had a fraction of a moment to take it in before the rocks pounded him in a terrible crash. Everything spun, then grew black. Still he was pounded, rolled, crushed. An explosion of molten sparks briefly flashed in his eyes, and something hard smacked him on the head.
Finally it ended. He found himself lying in blackness, his head pounding, thick warm blood running down his face and dripping from his chin. He could feel the blood, but not see it. Had he been blinded? His cheek was pressed against a rock. No. He wasn’t blind; he’d been buried. And his helm had shattered. He shifted with a groan, and something illuminated the stones around his head. Stormlight seeping from his breastplate. Somehow he’d survived the landslide. He lay facedown, prone, buried. He shifted again, and from the corner of his eye saw a rock sink, threatening to crush sideways into his skull. He lay still, his head thundering with pain. He flexed his left hand and found that gauntlet broken, his forearm plate too. But his right-hand armor still worked. This … this was a trap.… Sadeas was not a traitor. This had been designed by the Rift and its highlord to lure Dalinar in, then drop stones to crush him. Cowards. They’d tried something like that in Rathalas long ago too. He relaxed, groaning softly. No. Can’t lie here. Maybe he could pretend to be dead. That sounded so appealing he closed his eyes and started to drift. A fire ignited inside him. You have been betrayed, Dalinar. Listen. He heard voices—men picking through the wreckage of the rockslide. He could make out their nasal accent. Rifters. Tanalan sent you here to die! Dalinar sneered, opening his eyes. Those men wouldn’t let him hide in this tomb of stone, feigning death. He carried Shards. They would find him to recover their prize. He braced himself, using his Plated shoulder to keep the rock from rolling against his exposed head, but did not otherwise move. Eventually the men above started speaking eagerly; from their words, they’d found his armor’s cape sticking out through the stone, the glyphs of khokh and linil stark on the blue background. Stones scraped, and the burden upon him lightened. The Thrill built to a crescendo. The stone near his head rolled back. Go. Dalinar heaved with his Plated feet and shifted a boulder with his still-armored hand, opening enough space that he could stand up straight. He ripped free of the tomb and stumbled upright into open air, stones clattering. The Rifters cursed and scrambled backward as he leaped out of the hole, boots grinding against stones. Dalinar growled, summoning his Blade. His armor was in worse shape than he’d assumed. Sluggish. Broken in four separate places. All around him, Tanalan’s men’s eyes seemed to glow. They gathered and grinned at him; he could see the Thrill thick in their expressions. His Blade and leaking Plate reflected in their dark eyes. Blood streaming down the side of his face, Dalinar grinned back at them. They rushed to attack. * * * Dalinar saw only red. He partially came to himself as he found himself pounding a man’s head repeatedly against the stones. Behind him lay a pile of corpses with burned eyes, piled high around the hole where Dalinar had stood, fighting against them.
He dropped the head of the corpse in his hands and breathed out, feeling … What did he feel? Numb, suddenly. Pain was a distant thing. Even anger was nebulous. He looked down at his hands. Why was he using those, and not his Shardblade? He turned to the side, where Oathbringer protruded from a rock where he’d stabbed it. The … gemstone on the pommel was cracked. That was right. He couldn’t dismiss it; something about the crack had interfered. He stumbled to his feet, looking around for more foes, but none came to challenge him. His armor … someone had broken the breastplate while fighting him, and he felt at a stab wound on his chest. He barely remembered that. The sun was low on the horizon, plunging the canyon into shadows. Around him, discarded bits of clothing flapped in the breeze, and bodies lay still. Not a sound, not even cremling scavengers. Drained, he bound the worst of his wounds, then grabbed Oathbringer and set it on his shoulder. Never had a Shardblade felt so heavy. He started walking. Along the way, he discarded pieces of Shardplate, which grew too heavy. He’d lost blood. Far too much. He focused on the steps. One after another. Momentum. A fight was all about momentum. He didn’t dare take the obvious route, in case he encountered more Rifters. He crossed through the wilderness, vines writhing beneath his feet and rockbuds sprouting after he passed. The Thrill returned to urge him on. For this walk was a fight. A battle. Night fell, and he threw off his last piece of Shardplate, leaving only the neck brace. They could regrow the rest of it from that, if they had to. Keep. Moving. In that darkness, shadowed figures seemed to accompany him. Armies made of red mist at the corners of his vision, charging forces that fell to dust and then sprouted from shadow again, like surging ocean waves in a constant state of disintegration and rebirth. Not just men, but eyeless horses. Animals locked in struggle, stifling the life from one another. Shadows of death and conflict to propel him through the night. He hiked for an eternity. Eternity was nothing when time had no meaning. He was actually surprised when he approached the light of the Rift, from torches held by soldiers on the walls. His navigation by the moons and stars had been successful. He stalked through the darkness toward his own camp on the field. There was another army here. Sadeas’s actual soldiers; they’d arrived ahead of schedule. Another few hours, and Tanalan’s ploy wouldn’t have worked. Dalinar dragged Oathbringer behind him; it made a soft scraping sound as it cut a line in the stone. He numbly heard soldiers talking by the bonfire ahead, and one called something out. Dalinar ignored them, each step relentless, as he passed into their light. A pair of young soldiers in blue crowed their challenges until cutting off and lowering spears, gaping. “Stormfather,” one of them said, stumbling back. “Kelek and the Almighty himself!”
Dalinar continued through camp. Noise stirred at his passing, men crying of visions of the dead and of Voidbringers. He made for his command tent. The eternity it took to get there seemed the same length as the others. How could he cross so many miles in the same time as it took to go the few feet to a simple tent? Dalinar shook his head, seeing red at the sides of his vision. Words broke through the canvas of the tent. “Impossible. The men are spooked. They … No, it’s simply not possible.” The flaps burst apart, revealing a man with fine clothing and wavy hair. Sadeas gaped, then stumbled to the side, holding the flap for Dalinar, who did not break stride. He walked straight in, Oathbringer slicing a ribbon in the ground. Inside, generals and officers gathered by the grim light of a few sphere lanterns. Evi, comforted by Brightness Kalami, was weeping, though Ialai studied the table full of maps. All eyes turned toward Dalinar. “How?” Teleb asked. “Blackthorn? We sent a team of scouts to inform you as soon as Tanalan turned on us and cast our soldiers off his walls. Our force reported all men lost, an ambush…” Dalinar hefted Oathbringer and slammed it down into the stone ground beside him, then sighed at finally being able to release the burden. He placed his palms on the sides of the battle table, hands crusted in blood. His arms were covered in it too. “You sent the same scouts,” he whispered, “who first spied on the caravan, and reported seeing a Shardbearer leading it?” “Yes,” Teleb said. “Traitors,” Dalinar said. “They’re working with Tanalan.” He couldn’t have known that Dalinar would parley with him. Instead, the man had somehow bribed away members of the army, and had intended to use their reports to coax Dalinar into a hurried ride to the south. Into a trap. It had all been set in motion before Dalinar had spoken to Tanalan. Planned well in advance. Teleb barked out orders for the scouts to be imprisoned. Dalinar leaned down over the battle maps on the table. “This is a map for a siege,” he whispered. “We…” Teleb looked to Sadeas. “We figured that the king would want time to come down himself. To, um, avenge you, Brightlord.” “Too slow,” Dalinar said, his voice ragged. “Highprince Sadeas proposed … another option,” Teleb said. “But the king—” Dalinar looked to Sadeas. “They used my name to betray you,” Sadeas said, then spat to the side. “We will suffer rebellions like this time and time again unless they fear us, Dalinar.” Dalinar nodded slowly. “They must bleed,” he whispered. “I want them to suffer for this. Men, women, children. They must know the punishment for broken oaths. Immediately.” “Dalinar?” Evi stood up. “Husband?” She stepped forward, toward the table. Then he turned toward her, and she stopped. Her unusual, pale Westerner skin grew even more starkly white. She stepped backward, pulling her hands toward her chest, and gaped at him, horrified, fearspren growing up
from the ground around her. Dalinar glanced toward a sphere lantern, which had a polished metal surface. The man who looked back seemed more Voidbringer than man, face crusted over with blackened blood, hair matted with it, blue eyes wide, jaw clenched. He was sliced with what seemed to be a hundred wounds, his padded uniform in tatters. “You shouldn’t do this,” Evi said. “Rest. Sleep, Dalinar. Think about this. Give it a few days.” So tired … “The entire kingdom thinks us weak, Dalinar,” Sadeas whispered. “We took too long to put this rebellion down. You have never listened to me before, but listen now. You want to prevent this sort of thing from happening again? You must punish them. Every one.” “Punish them…” Dalinar said, the Thrill rising again. Pain. Anger. Humiliation. He pressed his hands against the map table to steady himself. “The Soulcaster that my brother sent. She can make two things?” “Grain and oil,” Teleb said. “Good. Set her to work.” “More food supplies?” “No, oil. As much as we have gemstones for. Oh, and someone take my wife to her tent so she may recover from her unwarranted grief. Everyone else, gather round. In the morning, we make Rathalas an example. I promised Tanalan that his widows would weep for what I did here, but that is too merciful for what they’ve done to me. “I intend to so thoroughly ruin this place that for ten generations, nobody will dare build here for fear of the spirits who will haunt it. We will make a pyre of this city, and there shall be no weeping for its passing, for none will remain to weep.” ELEVEN YEARS AGO Dalinar agreed to change clothing. He washed his face and arms, and let a surgeon look at his wounds. The red mist was still there, coloring his vision. He would not sleep. It wouldn’t let him. About an hour after he’d arrived in camp, he trudged back to the command tent, cleaned but not particularly refreshed. The generals had drawn up a new set of battle plans to take the city walls, as instructed by Sadeas. Dalinar inspected and made a few changes, but told them to suspend making plans to march down into the city and clear it. He had something else in mind. “Brightlord!” a messenger woman said, arriving at the tent. She stepped in. “An envoy is leaving the city. Flying the flag of truce.” “Shoot them dead,” Dalinar said calmly. “Sir?” “Arrows, woman,” Dalinar said. “Kill anyone who comes out of the city, and leave their bodies to rot.” “Um, yes, Brightlord.” The messenger ducked away. Dalinar looked up toward Sadeas, who still wore his Shardplate, glittering in the spherelight. Sadeas nodded in approval, then gestured to the side. He wanted to speak in private. Dalinar left the table. He should hurt more. Shouldn’t he? Storms … he was so numb, he could barely feel anything, aside from that burning within, simmering deep down. He stepped with Sadeas out of the tent. “I’ve been able
to stall the scribes,” Sadeas whispered, “as you ordered. Gavilar doesn’t know that you live. His orders from before were to wait and lay siege.” “My return supersedes his distant orders,” Dalinar said. “The men will know that. Even Gavilar wouldn’t disagree.” “Yes, but why keep him ignorant of your arrival?” The last moon was close to setting. Not long until morning. “What do you think of my brother, Sadeas?” “He’s exactly what we need,” Sadeas said. “Hard enough to lead a war; soft enough to be beloved during peace. He has foresight and wisdom.” “Do you think he could do what needs to be done here?” Sadeas fell silent. “No,” he finally said. “No, not now. I wonder if you can either. This will be more than just death. It will be complete destruction.” “A lesson,” Dalinar whispered. “A display. Tanalan’s plan was clever, but risky. He knew his chances of winning here depended upon removing you and your Shards from the battle.” He narrowed his eyes. “You thought those soldiers were mine. You actually believed I’d betray Gavilar.” “I worried.” “Then know this, Dalinar,” Sadeas said, low, his voice like stone grinding stone. “I would cut out my own heart before betraying Gavilar. I have no interest in being king—it’s a job with little praise and even less amusement. I mean for this kingdom to stand for centuries.” “Good,” Dalinar said. “Honestly, I worried that you would betray him.” “I almost did, once. I stopped myself.” “Why?” “Because,” Dalinar said. “There has to be someone in this kingdom capable of doing what needs to be done, and it can’t be the man sitting on the throne. Continue to hold the scribes back; it will be better if my brother can reasonably disavow what we’re about to do.” “Something will leak out soon,” Sadeas said. “Between our two armies, there are too many spanreeds. Storming things are getting so cheap, most of the officers can afford to buy a pair to manage their households from a distance.” Dalinar strode back into the tent, Sadeas following. Oathbringer still sat where he’d stuck it into the stones, though an armorer had replaced the gemstone for him. He pulled the Blade from the rock. “Time to attack.” Amaram turned from where he stood with the other generals. “Now, Dalinar? At night?” “The bonfires on the wall should be enough.” “To take the wall fortifications, yes,” Amaram said. “But Brightlord, I don’t relish fighting down into those vertical streets in the night.” Dalinar shared a look with Sadeas. “Fortunately, you won’t have to. Send the word for the men to prepare the oil and flaming brands. We march.” Highmarshal Perethom took the orders and began organizing specifics. Dalinar lifted Oathbringer on his shoulder. Time to bring you home. In under a half hour, men charged the walls. No Shardbearers led this time; Dalinar was too weak, and his Plate was in shambles. Sadeas never did like exposing himself too early, and Teleb couldn’t rush in alone. They did it the mundane way, sending men to
be crushed by stones or impaled by arrows as they carried ladders. They broke through eventually, securing a section of the wall in a furious, bloody fight. The Thrill was an unsatisfied lump inside Dalinar, but he was wrung out, worn down. So he continued to wait until finally, Teleb and Sadeas joined the fight and routed the last of the defenders, sending them down from the walls toward the chasm of the city itself. “I need a squad of elites,” Dalinar said softly to a nearby messenger. “And my own barrel of oil. Have them meet me inside the walls.” “Yes, Brightlord,” the young boy said, then ran off. Dalinar strode across the field, passing fallen men bloody and dead. They’d died almost in ranks where waves of arrows had struck. He also passed a cluster of corpses in white, where the envoy had been slaughtered earlier. Warmed by the rising sun, he passed through the now-open gates of the wall and entered the ring of stone that surrounded the Rift. Sadeas met him there, faceplate up, cheeks even redder than normal from exertion. “They fought like Voidbringers. More vicious than last time, I’d say.” “They know what is coming,” Dalinar said, walking toward the cliff edge. He stopped halfway there. “We checked it for a trap this time,” Sadeas noted. Dalinar continued forward. The Rifters had gotten the better of him twice now. He should have learned the first time. He stopped at the edge of the cliff, looking down at a city built on platforms, rising up along the widening sides of the rift of stone. It was little wonder they thought so highly of themselves as to resist. Their city was grand, a monument of human ingenuity and grit. “Burn it,” Dalinar said. Archers gathered with arrows ready to ignite, while other men rolled up barrels of oil and pitch to give extra fuel. “There are thousands of people in there, sir,” Teleb said softly from his side. “Tens of thousands.” “This kingdom must know the price of rebellion. We make a statement today.” “Obey or die?” Teleb asked. “The same deal I offered you, Teleb. You were smart enough to take it.” “And the common people in there, the ones who didn’t get a chance to choose a side?” Sadeas snorted from nearby. “We will prevent more deaths in the future by letting every brightlord in this kingdom know the punishment for disobedience.” He took a report from an aide, then stepped up to Dalinar. “You were right about the scouts who turned traitor. We bribed one to turn on the others, and will execute the rest. The plan was apparently to separate you from the army, then hopefully kill you. Even if you were simply delayed, the Rift was hoping their lies would prompt your army into a reckless attack without you.” “They weren’t counting on your swift arrival,” Dalinar said. “Or your tenacity.” The soldiers unplugged barrels of oil, then began dropping them down, soaking the upper levels of the city. Flaming brands followed—starting struts
and walkways on fire. The very foundations of this city were flammable. Tanalan’s soldiers tried to organize a fight back out of the Rift, but they’d surrendered the high ground, expecting Dalinar to do as he had before, conquering and controlling. He watched as the fires spread, flamespren rising in them, seeming larger and more … angry than normal. He then walked back—leaving a solemn Teleb—to gather his remaining elites. Captainlord Kadash had fifty for him, along with two barrels of oil. “Follow,” Dalinar said, walking around the Rift on its east side, where the fracture was narrow enough to cross on a short bridge. Screams below. Then cries of pain. Calls for mercy. People flooded from buildings, shouting in terror, fleeing on walkways and steps toward the basin below. Many buildings burned, trapping others inside. Dalinar led his squad along the northern rim of the Rift until they reached a certain location. His armies waited here to kill any soldiers who tried to break out, but the enemy had concentrated their assault on the other side, then been mostly beaten back. The fires hadn’t reached up here yet, though Sadeas’s archers had killed several dozen civilians who had tried to flee in this direction. For now, the wooden ramp down into the city was clear. Dalinar led his group down one level to a location he remembered so well: the hidden door set into the wall. It was metal now, guarded by a pair of nervous Rifter soldiers. Kadash’s men shot them down with shortbows. That annoyed Dalinar; all of this fighting, and nothing with which to feed the Thrill. He stepped over one of the corpses, then tried the door, which was no longer hidden. It was still locked tight. Tanalan had decided to go with security instead of secrets, this time. Unfortunately for them, Oathbringer had come home. Dalinar easily cut off the steel hinges. He stepped back as the door slammed forward onto the walkway, shaking the wood. “Light those,” he said, pointing to the barrels. “Roll them down and burn out anyone hiding inside.” The men hurried to obey, and soon the tunnel of rock had fitful black smoke pouring from it. Nobody tried to flee, though he thought he heard cries of pain inside. Dalinar watched as long as he could, until soon the smoke and heat drove him back. The Rift behind him was becoming a pit of darkness and fire. Dalinar retreated up the ramp to the stones above. Archers lit the final walkways and ramps behind him. It would be long before people decided to resettle here. Highstorms were one thing, but there was a more terrible force upon the land. And it carried a Shardblade. Those screams … Dalinar passed lines of soldiers who waited along the northern rim in silent horror; many wouldn’t have been with Dalinar and Gavilar during the early years of their conquest, when they’d allowed pillaging and ransacking of cities. And for those who did remember … well, he’d often found an excuse to stop things like
this before. He drew his lips to a line, and shoved down the Thrill. He would not let himself enjoy this. That single sliver of decency he could keep back. “Brightlord!” a soldier said, waving to him. “Brightlord, you must see this!” Just below the cliff here—one tier down into the city—was a beautiful white building. A palace. Farther out along the walkways, a group of people fought to reach the building. The wooden walkways were on fire, and preventing their access. Shocked, Dalinar recognized Tanalan the younger from their encounter earlier. Trying to get into his home? Dalinar thought. Figures darkened the building’s upper windows; a woman and children. No. Trying to get to his family. Tanalan hadn’t been hiding in the saferoom after all. “Throw a rope,” Dalinar said. “Bring Tanalan up here, but shoot down the bodyguards.” The smoke billowing out of the Rift was growing thick, lit red by the fires. Dalinar coughed, then stepped back as his men let down a rope to the platform below, a section that wasn’t burning. Tanalan hesitated, then took it, letting Dalinar’s men haul him up. The bodyguards were sent arrows when they tried to climb up a nearby burning ramp. “Please,” Tanalan said, clothing ashen from the smoke, as he was hauled up over the stone rim. “My family. Please.” Dalinar could hear them screaming below. He whispered an order, and his elites pushed back the regular Kholin troops from the area, opening up a wide half-circle against the burning rift, where only Dalinar and his closest men were able to observe the captive. Tanalan slumped on the ground. “Please…” “I,” Dalinar said softly, “am an animal.” “What—” “An animal,” Dalinar said, “reacts as it is prodded. You whip it, and it becomes savage. With an animal, you can start a tempest. Trouble is, once it’s gone feral, you can’t just whistle it back to you.” “Blackthorn!” Tanalan screamed. “Please! My children.” “I made a mistake years ago,” Dalinar said. “I will not be so foolish again.” And yet … those screams. Dalinar’s soldiers seized Tanalan tightly as Dalinar turned from the man and walked back to the pit of fire. Sadeas had just arrived with a company of his own men, but Dalinar ignored them, Oathbringer still held against his shoulder. Smoke stung Dalinar’s nose, his eyes watering. He couldn’t see across the Rift to the rest of his armies; the air warped with heat, colored red. It was like looking into Damnation itself. Dalinar released a long breath, suddenly feeling his exhaustion even more deeply. “It is enough,” he said, turning toward Sadeas. “Let the rest of the people of the city escape out the mouth of the canyon below. We have sent our signal.” “What?” Sadeas said, hiking over. “Dalinar—” A loud series of cracks interrupted him. An entire section of the city nearby collapsed into the flames. The palace—and its occupants—crashed down with it, a tempest of sparks and splintering wood. “No!” Tanalan shouted. “NO!” “Dalinar…” Sadeas said. “I prepared a battalion below, with archers, per
your orders.” “My orders?” “You said to ‘Kill anyone who comes out of the city and leave their bodies to rot.’ I had men stationed below; they’ve launched arrows in at the city struts, burned the walkways leading down. This city burns from both directions—from underneath and from above. We can’t stop it now.” Wood cracked as more sections of city collapsed. The Thrill surged, and Dalinar pushed it away. “We’ve gone too far.” “Nonsense! Our lesson won’t mean much if people can merely walk away.” Sadeas glanced toward Tanalan. “Last loose end is this one. We don’t want him getting away again.” He reached for his sword. “I’ll do it,” Dalinar said. Though the concept of more death was starting to sicken him, he steeled himself. This was the man who had betrayed him. Dalinar stepped closer. To his credit, Tanalan tried to leap to his feet and fight. Several elites shoved the traitor back down to the ground, though Captainlord Kadash himself was just standing at the side of the city, looking down at the destruction. Dalinar could feel that heat, so terrible. It mirrored a sense within him. The Thrill … incredibly … was not satisfied. Still it thirsted. It didn’t seem … didn’t seem it could be satiated. Tanalan collapsed, blubbering. “You should not have betrayed me,” Dalinar whispered, raising Oathbringer. “At least this time, you didn’t hide in your hole. I don’t know who you let take cover there, but know they are dead. I took care of that with barrels of fire.” Tanalan blinked, then started laughing with a frantic, crazed air. “You don’t know? How could you not know? But you killed our messengers. You poor fool. You poor, stupid fool.” Dalinar seized him by the chin, though the man was still held by his soldiers. “What?” “She came to us,” Tanalan said. “To plead. How could you have missed her? Do you track your own family so poorly? The hole you burned … we don’t hide there anymore. Everyone knows about it. Now it’s a prison.” Ice washed through Dalinar, and he grabbed Tanalan by the throat and held, Oathbringer slipping from his fingers. He strangled the man, all the while demanding that he retract what he’d said. Tanalan died with a smile on his lips. Dalinar stepped back, suddenly feeling too weak to stand. Where was the Thrill to bolster him? “Go back,” he shouted at his elites. “Search that hole. Go…” He trailed off. Kadash was on his knees, looking woozy, a pile of vomit on the rock before him. Some elites ran to try to do as Dalinar said, but they shied away from the Rift—the heat rising from the burning city was incredible. Dalinar roared, standing, pushing toward the flames. However, the fire was too intense. Where he had once seen himself as an unstoppable force, he now had to admit exactly how small he was. Insignificant. Meaningless. Once it’s gone feral, you can’t just whistle it back to you. He fell to his knees, and remained there until his
soldiers pulled him—limp—away from the heat and carried him to his camp. * * * Six hours later, Dalinar stood with hands clasped behind his back—partially to hide how badly they were shaking—and stared at a body on the table, covered in a white sheet. Behind him in the tent, some of his scribes whispered. A sound like swishing swords on the practice field. Teleb’s wife, Kalami, led the discussion; she thought that Evi must have defected. What else could explain why the burned corpse of a highprince’s wife had been found in an enemy safehouse? It fit the narrative. Showing uncharacteristic determination, Evi had drugged the guard protecting her. She’d snuck away in the night. The scribes wondered how long Evi had been a traitor, and if she’d helped recruit the group of scouts who had betrayed Dalinar. He stepped forward, resting his fingers on the smooth, too-white sheet. Fool woman. The scribes didn’t know Evi well enough. She hadn’t been a traitor—she’d gone to the Rift to plead for them to surrender. She’d seen in Dalinar’s eyes that he wouldn’t spare them. So, Almighty help her, she’d gone to do what she could. Dalinar barely had the strength to stand. The Thrill had abandoned him, and that left him broken, pained. He pulled back the corner of the sheet. The left side of Evi’s face was scorched, nauseating, but the right side had been down toward the stone. It was oddly untouched. This is your fault, he thought at her. How dare you do this? Stupid, frustrating woman. This was not his fault, not his responsibility. “Dalinar,” Kalami said, stepping up. “You should rest.” “She didn’t betray us,” Dalinar said firmly. “I’m sure eventually we’ll know what—” “She did not betray us,” Dalinar snapped. “Keep the discovery of her body quiet, Kalami. Tell the people … tell them my wife was slain by an assassin last night. I will swear the few elites who know to secrecy. Let everyone think she died a hero, and that the destruction of the city today was done in retribution.” Dalinar set his jaw. Earlier today, the soldiers of his army—so carefully trained over the years to resist pillaging and the slaughter of civilians—had burned a city to the ground. It would ease their consciences to think that first, the highlady had been murdered. Kalami smiled at him, a knowing—even self-important—smile. His lie would serve a second purpose. As long as Kalami and the head scribes thought they knew a secret, they’d be less likely to dig for the true answer. Not my fault. “Rest, Dalinar,” Kalami said. “You are in pain now, but as the highstorm must pass, all mortal agonies will fade.” Dalinar left the corpse to the ministrations of others. As he departed, he strangely heard the screams of those people in the Rift. He stopped, wondering what it was. Nobody else seemed to notice. Yes, that was distant screaming. In his head, maybe? They all seemed children to his ears. The ones he’d abandoned to the flames. A chorus of
the innocent pleading for help, for mercy. Evi’s voice joined them. Something must be done about the remnants of Odium’s forces. The parsh, as they are now called, continue their war with zeal, even without their masters from Damnation. —From drawer 30-20, first emerald Kaladin dashed across the street. “Wait!” he shouted. “One more here!” Ahead, a man with a thin mustache struggled to close a thick wooden door. It stuck partway open, however, giving just enough time for Kaladin to slip through. The man swore at him, then pulled the door shut. Made of dark stumpweight wood, it made a muffled thunk. The man did up the locks, then stepped back and let three younger men place a thick bar into the settings. “Cutting that close, armsman,” the mustachioed man said, noting the Wall Guard patch on Kaladin’s shoulder. “Sorry,” Kaladin said, handing the man a few spheres as a cover charge. “But the storm is still a few minutes away.” “Can’t be too careful with this new storm,” the man said. “Be glad the door got stuck.” Syl sat on the hinges, legs hanging over the sides. Kaladin doubted it had been luck; sticking people’s shoes to the stone was a classic windspren trick. Still, he did understand the doorman’s hesitance. Everstorms didn’t quite match up with scholarly projections. The previous one had arrived hours earlier than anyone had guessed it would. Fortunately, they tended to blow in slower than highstorms. If you knew to watch the sky, there was time to find shelter. Kaladin ran his hand through his hair and started deeper into the winehouse. This was one of those fashionable places that—while technically a stormshelter—was used only by rich people who had come to spend the storm enjoying themselves. It had a large common room and thick walls of stone blocks. No windows, of course. A bartender kept people liquored near the back, and a number of booths ringed the perimeter. He spotted Shallan and Adolin sitting in a booth at the side. She wore her own face, but Adolin looked like Meleran Khal, a tall, bald man around Adolin’s height. Kaladin lingered, watching Shallan laugh at something Adolin said, then poke him—with her safehand—in the shoulder. She seemed completely enthralled by him. And good for her. Everyone deserved something to give them light, these days. But … what about the glances she shot him on occasion, times when she didn’t quite seem to be the same person? A different smile, an almost wicked look to her eyes … You’re seeing things, he thought to himself. He strode forward and caught their attention, settling into the booth with a sigh. He was off duty, and free to visit the city. He’d told the others he’d find his own shelter for the storm, and only had to be back in time for evening post-storm patrol. “Took you long enough, bridgeboy,” Adolin said. “Lost track of time,” Kaladin said, tapping the table. He hated being in stormshelters. They felt too much like prisons. Outside, thunder announced the Everstorm’s arrival.
Most people in the city would be inside their homes, the refugees instead in public stormshelters. This for-pay shelter was sparsely occupied, only a few of the tables or booths in use. That would give privacy to talk, fortunately, but it didn’t bode well for the proprietor. People didn’t have spheres to waste. “Where’s Elhokar?” Kaladin asked. “Elhokar is working on last-minute plans through the storm,” Adolin said. “He’s decided to reveal himself tonight to the lighteyes he’s chosen. And … he’s done a good job, Kal. We’ll at least have some troops because of this. Fewer than I’d like, but something.” “And maybe another Knight Radiant?” Shallan asked, glancing at Kaladin. “What have you found?” He quickly caught them up on what he’d learned: The Wall Guard might have a Soulcaster, and was definitely producing food somehow. It had seized emerald stores in the city—a fact he’d recently discovered. “Azure is … tough to read,” Kaladin finished. “She visits the barracks every night, but never talks about herself. Men report seeing her sword cut through stone, but it has no gemstone. I think it might be an Honorblade, like the weapon of the Assassin in White.” “Huh,” Adolin said, sitting back. “You know, that would explain a lot.” “My platoon has dinner with her tonight, after evening patrol,” Kaladin said. “I intend to see what I can learn.” A serving girl came for orders, and Adolin bought them wine. He knew about lighteyed drinks and—without needing to be told—ordered something without a touch of alcohol for Kaladin. He’d be on duty later. Adolin did get Shallan a cup of violet, to Kaladin’s surprise. As the serving girl left with the order, Adolin reached out toward Kaladin. “Let me see your sword.” “My sword?” Kaladin said, glancing toward Syl, who was huddling near the back of the booth and humming softly to herself. A way of ignoring the sounds of the Everstorm, which rumbled beyond the stones. “Not that sword,” Adolin said. “Your side sword.” Kaladin glanced down to where the sword stuck out beside his seat. He’d almost forgotten he was wearing the thing, which was a relief. The first few days, he’d bumped the sheath into everything. He unbuckled it and set it on the table for Adolin. “Good blade,” the prince said. “Well maintained. It was in this condition when they assigned it to you?” Kaladin nodded. Adolin drew it and held it up. “It’s a little small,” Shallan noted. “It’s a one-handed sword, Shallan. Close-range infantry weapon. A longer blade would be impractical.” “Longer … like Shardblades?” Kaladin asked. “Well, yes, they break all kinds of rules.” Adolin waved the sword through a few motions, then sheathed it. “I like this highmarshal of yours.” “It’s not even her weapon,” Kaladin said, taking it back. “You boys done comparing your swords?” Shallan asked. “Because I’ve found something.” She thumped a large book onto the table. “One of my contacts finally tracked down a copy of Hessi’s Mythica. It’s a newer book, and has been poorly received. It attributes distinct
personalities to the Unmade.” Adolin lifted the cover, peeking in. “So … anything about swords in it?” “Oh hush,” she said, and batted his arm in a playful—and somewhat nauseating—way. Yes, it was uncomfortable to watch the two of them. Kaladin liked them both … just not together. He forced himself to look around the room, which was occupied by lighteyes trying to drink away the sounds of the storm. He tried not to think of refugees who would be packed into stuffy public shelters, clutching their meager possessions and hoping some of what they were forced to leave behind would survive the storm. “The book,” Shallan said, “claims there were nine Unmade. That matches the vision Dalinar saw, though other reports speak of ten Unmade. They’re likely ancient spren, primal, from the days before human society and civilization. “The book claims the nine rampaged during the Desolations, but says not all were destroyed at Aharietiam. The author insists that some are active today; I find her vindicated—obviously—by what we’ve experienced.” “And there’s one of these in the city,” Adolin said. “I think…” Shallan said. “I think there might be two, Adolin. Sja-anat, the Taker of Secrets, is one. Again, Dalinar’s visions mention her. Sja-anat’s touch corrupted other spren—and we’re seeing the effects of that here.” “And the other one?” Adolin asked. “Ashertmarn,” Shallan said softly. She slipped a little knife from her satchel and began to absently carve at the top of the table. “The Heart of the Revel. The book has less to say on him, though it speaks of how he leads people to indulge in excess.” “Two Unmade,” Kaladin said. “Are you sure?” “Sure as I can be. Wit confirmed the second, and the way the queen acted leading up to the riots seems an obvious sign. As for the Taker of Secrets, we can see the corrupted spren ourselves.” “How do we fight two?” Kaladin asked. “How do we fight one?” Adolin said. “In the tower, we didn’t so much fight the thing as frighten it off. Shallan can’t even say how she did that. What does the book say about fighting them?” “Nothing.” Shallan shrugged, blowing at her little carving on the table. It was of a corrupted gloryspren in the shape of a cube, which another patron had attracted. “The book says if you see a spren the wrong color, you’re supposed to immediately move to another town.” “There’s kind of an army in the way,” Kaladin said. “Yes, amazingly your stench hasn’t cleared them out yet.” Shallan started leafing through her book. Kaladin frowned. Comments like that were part of what confused him about Shallan. She seemed perfectly friendly one moment, then she’d snap at him the next, while pretending it was merely part of normal conversation. But she didn’t talk like that to others, not even in jest. What is wrong with you, woman? he thought. They’d shared something intimate, in the chasms back on the Shattered Plains. A highstorm huddled together, and words. Was she embarrassed by that? Was that the reason
she snapped at him sometimes? If that was so, how did one explain the other times, when she watched him and grinned? When she winked, in a sly way? “Hessi reports stories of the Unmade not only corrupting spren, but corrupting people,” Shallan was saying. “Maybe that’s what’s happening with the palace. We’ll know more after infiltrating the cult tonight.” “I don’t like you going alone,” Adolin said. “I won’t be alone. I’ll have my team.” “One washwoman and two deserters,” Kaladin said. “If Gaz is anything to judge by, Shallan, you shouldn’t put too much trust in those men.” Shallan raised her chin. “At least my soldiers knew when to get away from the warcamps, as opposed to just standing around letting people fling arrows at them.” “We trust you, Shallan,” Adolin said, eyeing Kaladin as if to say, Drop it. “And we really need a look at that Oathgate.” “What if I can’t open it?” Shallan asked. “What then?” “We have to retreat back to the Shattered Plains,” Kaladin said. “Elhokar won’t leave his family.” “Then Drehy, Skar, and I rush the palace,” Kaladin said. “We fly in at night, enter through the upper balcony, grab the queen and the young prince. We do it all right before the highstorm comes, then the lot of us fly back to Urithiru.” “And leave the city to fall,” Adolin said, drawing his lips to a line. “Can the city hold?” Shallan asked. “Maybe until we can get back with a real army, marched out here?” “That would take months,” Adolin said. “And the Wall Guard is … what? Four battalions?” “Five in total,” Kaladin said. “Five thousand men?” Shallan asked. “So few?” “That’s large for a city garrison,” Adolin said. “The point of fortifications is to let a small number hold against a much larger force. But the enemy has an unexpected advantage. Voidbringers who can fly, and a city infested with their allies.” “Yeah,” Kaladin said. “The Wall Guard is earnest, but they won’t be able to withstand a dedicated assault. There are tens of thousands of parshmen out there—and they’re close to attacking. We don’t have much time left. The Fused will sweep in to secure portions of the wall, and their armies will follow. If we’re going to hold this city, we’ll need Radiants and Shardbearers to even the odds.” Kaladin and Shallan shared a look. Their Radiants were not a battle-ready group, not yet. Storms. His men had barely taken to the skies. How could they be expected to fight those creatures who flew so easily upon the winds? How could he protect this city and protect his men? They fell silent, listening to the room shake with the sounds of thunder outside. Kaladin finished his drink, wishing it were one of Rock’s concoctions instead, and flicked away an odd cremling that he spotted clinging to the side of the bench. It had a multitude of legs, and a bulbous body, with a strange tan pattern on its back. Disgusting. Even with the stresses to the city, the
proprietor could at least keep this place clean. * * * Once the storm finally blew itself out, Shallan stepped from the winehouse, holding Adolin’s arm. She watched Kaladin hurry off toward the barracks for evening patrol. She should probably be equally eager to get going. She still had to steal some food today—enough to satisfy the Cult of Moments when she approached them later in the evening. That should be easy enough. Vathah had taken to planning operations under Ishnah’s guidance, and was proving quite proficient. Still, she lingered, enjoying Adolin’s presence. She wanted to be here, with him, before it was time to be Veil. She … well, she didn’t much care for him. Too clean-cut, too oblivious, too expected. She was fine with him as an ally, but wasn’t the least bit interested romantically. Shallan held his arm, walking with him. People already moved through the city, cleaning up—more so they could scavenge than out of civic duty. They reminded her of cremlings that emerged after a storm to feast on the plants. Indeed, nearby, ornamental rockbuds spat out vines in clusters beside doorways. A splatter of green vines and unfurling leaves, set against the brown city canvas. One patch nearby had been struck—and burned away—by the Everstorm’s red lightning. “I need to show you the Impossible Falls sometime,” Adolin said. “If you watch them from the right angles, it looks like the water is flowing down along the tiers, then somehow right up onto the top again.…” As they walked, she had to step over a dead mink sticking half out of a broken tree trunk. Not the most romantic of strolls, but it was good to hold on to Adolin’s arm—even if he had to wear a false face. “Hey!” Adolin said. “I didn’t get to look through the sketchbook. You said you were going to show me.” “I brought the wrong one, remember? I had to carve on the table.” She grinned. “Don’t think I missed you going up and paying for the damage when I wasn’t looking.” He grunted. “People carve on bar tables. It happens all the time.” “Sure, sure. It was a good carving too.” “And you still think I shouldn’t have done it.” She squeezed his arm. “Oh, Adolin Kholin. You are your father’s son. I won’t do it again, all right?” He was blushing. “I,” he said, “was promised sketches. I don’t care if it’s the wrong sketchbook. I feel like I haven’t seen any of your pictures for ages.” “There’s nothing good in this one,” she said, digging in her satchel. “I’ve been distracted lately.” He still made her hand it over, and secretly she was pleased. He started flipping through the more recent pictures, and though he noted the ones of strange spren, he idled most on the sketches of refugees she’d done for her collection. A mother with her daughter, sitting in shadow, but with her face looking toward the horizon and the hints of a rising sun. A thick-knuckled man sweeping the area around his pallet on
the street. A young woman, lighteyed and hanging out a window, hair drifting free, wearing only a nightgown with her hand tied in a pouch. “Shallan,” he said, “these are amazing! Some of the best work you’ve ever done.” “They’re just quick sketches, Adolin.” “They’re beautiful,” he said, looking at another, where he stopped. It was a picture of him in one of his new suits. Shallan blushed. “Forgot that was there,” she said, trying to get the sketchbook back. He lingered on the picture, then finally succumbed to her prodding and handed it back. She let out a sigh of relief. It wasn’t that she’d be embarrassed if he saw the sketch of Kaladin on the next page—she did sketches of all kinds of people. But best to end on the picture of Adolin. Veil had been seeping through on that other one. “You’re getting better, if that’s possible.” “Maybe. Though I don’t know how much I can credit myself with the progress. Words of Radiance says that a lot of Lightweavers were artists.” “So the order recruited people like you.” “Or the Surgebinding made them better at sketching, giving them an unfair advantage over other artists.” “I have an unfair advantage over other duelists. I have had the finest training since childhood. I was born strong and healthy, and my father’s wealth gave me some of the best sparring partners in the world. My build gives me reach over other men. Does that mean I don’t deserve accolades when I win?” “You don’t have supernatural help.” “You still had to work hard. I know you did.” He put his arm around her, pulling her closer as they walked. Other Alethi couples kept their distance in public, but Adolin had been raised by a mother with a fondness for hugs. “You know, there’s this thing my father complains about. He asked what the use of Shardblades was.” “Um … I think they’re pretty obviously for cutting people up. Without cutting them, actually. So—” “But why only swords? Father asks why the ancient Radiants never made tools for the people.” He squeezed her shoulder. “I love that your powers make you a better artist, Shallan. Father was wrong. The Radiants weren’t just soldiers! Yes, they created incredible weapons, but they also created incredible art! And maybe once this war is done, we can find other uses for their powers.” Storms, his enthusiasm could be intoxicating. As they walked toward the tailor’s shop, she was loath to part with him, though Veil did need to get on with her day’s work. I can be anyone, Shallan thought, noticing a few joyspren blowing past, like a swirl of blue leaves. I can become anything. Adolin deserved someone far better than her. Could she … become that someone? Craft for him the perfect bride, a woman that looked and acted as befitted Adolin Kholin? It wouldn’t be her. The real her was a bruised and sorry thing, painted up all pretty, but inside a horrid mess. She already put a face over that for him.
Why not go a few steps farther? Radiant … Radiant could be his perfect bride, and she did like him. The thought made Shallan feel cold inside. Once they were close enough to the tailor’s shop that she didn’t worry about him being safe as he walked back on his own, Shallan forced herself to pull out of his grip. She held his hand a moment with her freehand. “I need to be going.” “You aren’t to meet the cult until sunset.” “I need to steal some food first to pay them.” Still, he held to her hand. “What do you do out there, Shallan? Who do you become?” “Everyone,” she said. Then she reached up and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you for being you, Adolin.” “Everyone else was taken already,” he mumbled. Never stopped me. He watched her until she ducked around a corner, heart thumping. Adolin Kholin in her life was like a warm sunrise. Veil started to seep out, and she was forced to acknowledge that sometimes she preferred the storm and the rain to the sun. She checked at the drop point, inside a corner of a building that was now rubble. Here, Red had deposited a pack that contained Veil’s outfit. She grabbed it and went hunting a good place to change. The end of the world had come, but that seemed most true after a storm. Refuse strewn about, people who hadn’t gotten to shelters moaning from fallen shacks or alongside streets. It was like each storm tried to wipe them off Roshar, and they only remained through sheer grit and luck. Now, with two storms, it was even worse. If they defeated the Voidbringers, would the Everstorm remain? Had it begun to erode their society in a way that—win the war or not—would eventually end with them all swept out to sea? She felt her face changing as she walked, draining Stormlight from her satchel. It rose in her like a flaring flame, before dimming to an ember as she became the people from the sketches Adolin had seen. The poor man who tried doggedly to keep the area around his little pallet clean, as if to try to maintain some control over an insane world. The lighteyed girl who wondered what had happened to the joy of adolescence. Instead of her wearing her first havah to a ball, her family was forced to take in dozens of relatives from neighboring towns, and she spent the days locked away because the streets weren’t safe. The mother with a child, sitting in darkness, looking toward the horizon and a hidden sun. Face after face. Life after life. Overpowering, intoxicating, alive. Breathing, and crying, and laughing, and being. So many hopes, so many lives, so many dreams. She unbuttoned her havah up the side, then let it fall. She dropped her satchel, which thumped from the heavy book inside. She stepped forward in only her shift, safehand uncovered, feeling the wind on her skin. She was still wearing an illusion, one that didn’t disrobe, so
nobody could see her. Nobody could see her. Had anyone ever seen her? She stopped on the street corner, wearing shifting faces and clothing, enjoying the sensation of freedom, clothed yet naked skin shivering at the wind’s kiss. Around her, people ducked away into buildings, frightened. Just another spren, Shallan/Veil/Radiant thought. That’s what I am. Emotion made carnal. She lifted her hands to the sides, exposed, yet invisible. She breathed the breaths of a city’s people. “Mmm…” Pattern said, unweaving himself from her discarded dress. “Shallan?” “Maybe,” she said, lingering. Finally, she let herself slip fully into Veil’s persona. She immediately shook her head and fetched the clothing and satchel. She was lucky it hadn’t been stolen. Foolish girl. They didn’t have time for prancing around from poem to poem. Veil found a secluded location beside a large gnarled tree whose roots spread all the way along the wall in either direction. She quickly rearranged her underclothing, then put on her trousers and did up her shirt. She pulled on her hat, checked herself in a hand mirror, then nodded. Right, then. Time to meet up with Vathah. He was waiting at the inn where Wit had once stayed. Radiant retained hope that she’d meet him again there, for a more thorough interrogation. In the private room, away from the eyes of the fretting innkeeper, Vathah laid out a couple of spheres to light the maps he’d purchased. They detailed the manor she intended to hit this afternoon. “They call it the Mausoleum,” Vathah explained as Veil sat. He showed her an artist’s sketch he’d purchased, which was of the building’s grand hall. “Those statues are all Soulcast, by the way. They’re favored servants of the house, turned to storming stone.” “It’s a sign of honor and respect among lighteyes.” “It’s creepy,” Vathah said. “When I die, burn my corpse up right good. Don’t leave me staring for eternity while your descendants sip their tea.” Veil nodded absently, placing Shallan’s sketchbook on the table. “Pick an alias from this. This map says the larder is on the outside wall. Time is tight, so we might want to do this one the easy way. Have Red make a distraction, then use Shallan’s Blade to cut us an opening right in to the food.” “You know, they’re said to have quite the fortune at the Mausoleum. The Tenet family riches are…” He trailed off as he saw her expression. “No riches, then.” “We get the food to pay the cult, then we get out.” “Fine.” He settled on the image of the man sweeping around his pallet, staring at it. “You know, when you reformed me from banditry, I figured I was done with stealing.” “This is different.” “Different how? We stole mostly food back then too, Brightness. Just wanted to stay alive and forget.” “And do you still want to forget?” He grunted. “No, suppose I don’t. Suppose I sleep a little better now at night, don’t I?” The door opened and the innkeeper bustled in, holding drinks. Vathah yelped, though Veil turned
with a droll expression. “I believe,” she said, “I wanted to not be interrupted.” “I brought drinks!” “Which is an interruption,” Veil said, pointing out the door. “If we’re thirsty, we’ll ask.” The innkeeper grumbled, then backed out the door, carrying his tray. He’s suspicious, Veil thought. He thinks we were up to something with Wit, and wants to find out what. “Time to move these meetings to another location, eh, Vathah?” She looked back at the table. And found someone else sitting there. Vathah was gone, replaced by a bald man with thick knuckles and a well-kept smock. Shallan glanced at the picture on the table, then at the drained sphere beside it, then back at Vathah. “Nice,” she said. “But you forgot to do the back of the head, the part not in the drawing.” “What?” Vathah asked, frowning. She showed him the hand mirror. “Why’d you put his face on me?” “I didn’t,” Veil said, standing. “You panicked and this happened.” Vathah prodded at his face, still looking in the mirror, confused. “I’ll bet the first few times are always accidents,” Veil said. She tucked the mirror away. “Gather this stuff up. We’ll do the mission as planned, but tomorrow you’re relieved of infiltration duty. I’ll want you practicing with your Stormlight instead.” “Practicing…” He finally seemed to get it, his brown eyes opening widely. “Brightness! I’m no storming Radiant.” “Of course not. You’re probably a squire—I think most orders had them. You might become something more. I think Shallan was making illusions off and on for years before she said the oaths. But then, it’s all kind of muddled in her head. I had my sword when I was very young, and…” She took a deep breath. Fortunately, Veil hadn’t lived through those days. Pattern hummed in warning. “Brightness…” Vathah said. “Veil, you really think that I…” Storms, he seemed like he was going to cry. She patted him on the shoulder. “We don’t have time to waste. The cult will be waiting for me in four hours, and expect a nice payment of food. You going to be all right?” “Sure, sure,” he said. The illusion finally dropped, and the image of Vathah himself so emotional was even more striking. “I can do this. Let’s go steal from some rich people and give to some crazy people instead.” A coalition has been formed among scholar Radiants. Our goal is to deny the enemy their supply of Voidlight; this will prevent their continuing transformations, and give us an edge in combat. —From drawer 30-20, second emerald Veil had exposed herself. That nagged at her as the wagon—filled with spoils from the robbery—rolled toward the appointed meeting place with the cult. She nestled in the back, against a bag of grain, feet up on a paper-wrapped haunch of cured pork. “Swiftspren” was Veil, as she was the one who had been seen distributing the food. Therefore, to enter this revel, she would have to go as herself. The enemy knew what she looked like. Should she have created a
new persona, a false face, to not expose Veil? But Veil is a false face, a part of her said. You could always abandon her. She strangled that part of her, smothered it deep. Veil was too real, too vital, to abandon. Shallan would be easier. First moon was up by the time they reached the steps to the Oathgate platform. Vathah rolled the wagon into place, and Veil hopped off, coat rippling around her. Two guards here were dressed as flamespren, with golden and red tassels. Their muscular builds, and those two spears set near the steps, hinted these men might have been soldiers before joining the cult. A woman bustled between them, wearing a flat white mask with eyeholes but no mouth or other features. Veil narrowed her eyes; the mask reminded her of Iyatil, Mraize’s master in the Ghostbloods. But it was a very different shape. “You were told to come alone, Swiftspren,” the woman said. “You expected me to unload all of this on my own?” Veil waved to the back of the wagon. “We can handle it,” the woman said smoothly, stepping over as one of the guards held up a torch—not a sphere lamp—and the other lowered the wagon’s tailgate. “Mmmm…” Veil turned sharply. That hum … The guards started unloading the food. “You can take all but the two bags marked with red,” Veil said, pointing. “I need those for my rounds visiting the poor.” “I wasn’t aware this was a negotiation,” the cultist said. “You asked for this. You’ve been leaving whispers through the city that you want to join the revel.” Wit’s work, apparently. She’d have to thank him. “Why are you here?” the cultist asked, sounding curious. “What is it you want, Swiftspren, so-called hero of the markets?” “I just … keep hearing this voice. It says that this is the end, that I should give in to it. Embrace the time of spren.” She turned toward the Oathgate platform; an orange glow was rising from the top. “The answers are up there, aren’t they?” From the corner of her eye, she saw the three nod to one another. She’d passed some kind of test. “You may climb the steps to enlightenment,” the cultist in white told her. “Your guide will meet you at the top.” She tossed her hat to Vathah and met his eyes. Once the unloading was through, he’d pull away and set up a few streets farther off, where he could watch the edge of the Oathgate platform. If she had trouble, she would throw herself off, counting on Stormlight to heal her after falling. She started up the steps. * * * Kaladin normally liked the feeling of the city after a storm. Clean and fresh, washed of grime and refuse. He’d done evening patrol, checking over their beat to see everything was all right following the storm. Now he stood on the top of the wall, waiting for the rest of his squad, who were still stowing their equipment. The sun had barely set, and it
was time for dinner. Below, he picked out buildings newly scarred from lightning strikes. A pod of corrupted windspren danced past, trailing intense red light. Even the smell of the air was wrong somehow. Moldy and sodden. Syl sat quietly on his shoulder until Beard and the others piled into the stairwell. He finally joined them, walking down below to the barrack, where both platoons—his and the one they shared the space with—were gathering for dinner. Roughly twenty of the men from the other platoon would be on wall duty tonight, but everyone else was present. Not long after Kaladin arrived, the two platoon captains called their men to muster. Kaladin fell into line between Beard and Ved, and together they saluted as Azure stepped into the doorway. She was arrayed for battle as always, with her breastplate, chain, and cloak. Tonight, she decided to do a formal inspection. Kaladin held attention with the others as she walked down their lines and commented quietly to the two captains. She looked over a few swords, and asked several of the men if they needed anything. Kaladin felt as if he’d stood in similar lines a hundred times, sweating and hoping that the general would find everything in order. They always did. This wasn’t the type of inspection that was intended to actually find problems—this was a chance for the men to show off for their highmarshal. They swelled as she told them they “just might be the finest platoons of fighting men I’ve ever had the privilege of leading.” Kaladin was certain he’d heard those exact words from Amaram. Trite or not, the words inspired the men. They gave the highmarshal shouts of approval once they were given leave to break ranks. Perhaps the number of “finest platoons” in the army went up during times of war, when everyone craved a morale boost. Kaladin walked to the officers’ table. It hadn’t taken much work to get himself invited to dine with the highmarshal. Noro really wanted him promoted to lieutenant, and most of the others were too intimidated by Azure to sit at her table. The highmarshal hung her cloak and strange sword on a peg. She kept her gloves on, and though he couldn’t see her chest because of the breastplate, that face and build were obviously female. She was also very Alethi, with the skin tone and hair, her eyes a glimmering light orange. She must have spent time as a mercenary out west, Kaladin thought. Sigzil had once told him that women fought in the west, particularly among mercenaries. The meal was simple curried grain. Kaladin took a bite, well acquainted by now with the aftertaste of Soulcast grain. A lingering staleness. The curry helped, but the cooks had used the boiled-off starch of the grain to thicken it, so it had some of the same flavor. He’d been placed relatively far from the center of the table, where Azure conversed with the two platoon captains. Eventually, one excused himself to use the privy. Kaladin thought for a moment, then
picked up his plate and moved down the table to settle into the open spot. * * * Veil reached the top of the platform, entering what felt like a little village. The monastery structures here were much smaller—yet far nicer—than the ones on the Shattered Plains had been. A cluster of fine stonework structures with slanted, wedge-shaped roofs, the points toward the Origin. Ornamental shalebark grew around the bases of most of the buildings, cultivated and carved into swirling patterns. Veil took a Memory for Shallan, but her focus was on the firelight coming from farther inward. She couldn’t see the control building. All of these other structures were in the way. She could see the palace off to her left, glowing in the night with windows lit. It connected to the Oathgate platform by a covered walkway called the Sunwalk. A small group of soldiers, visible in the darkness only as shadows, guarded the way across. Close to her—at the top of the steps—a rotund man sat along a shalebark ridge. He had short hair and light green eyes, and gave her an affable grin. “Welcome! I’m your guide tonight, for your first time at the revel! It can be … ah, disorienting.” Those are ardent robes, Veil noted. Ripped, stained from what appeared to be a variety of foods. “Everyone who comes up here,” he said, hopping off his seat, “is reborn. Your name is now … um…” He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. “Where did I write that? Well, suppose it isn’t important. Your name is Kishi. Doesn’t that sound nice? Good job getting up here. This is where you’ll find the real fun in the city.” He shoved his hands back in his pockets and looked down one of the roadways, then his shoulders slumped. “Anyway,” he said. “Let’s get going. Lots of reveling to do tonight. Always so much reveling to be done…” “And you are?” “Me? Oh, um, Kharat is what they named me. I think? I forget.” He ambled forward without waiting to see if she followed. She did, eager to get to the center. However, just past the first building, she reached the revel—and had to stop to take it in. A bonfire burned right on the ground, flames crackling and whipping in the wind, bathing Veil in heat. Corrupted flamespren, vivid blue and somehow more jagged, danced inside of it. Tables lined the walkway here, piled with food. Candied meats, stacks of flatbread crusted with sugar, fruits and pastries. A variety of people passed by, occasionally scooping food off the tables with their bare hands. They laughed and shouted. Many had been ardents, marked by brown robes. Others were lighteyes, though their clothing had … decayed? It seemed a fitting word for these suits with missing jackets, havah dresses whose skirts were ragged from brushing the ground. Safehand sleeves ripped off at the shoulder and discarded somewhere. They moved like fish in a school, flowing from right to left. She picked out soldiers, both lighteyed and dark, in the
remnants of uniforms. They seemed to take no note of her or Kharat standing to the side. She’d have to cut through the stream of people to get farther inward to the Oathgate control building. She started to do so, but Kharat took her by the arm, steering her to join the flow of people. “We have to stay to the outer ring,” he said. “No going inward for us, nope. Be happy. You get … you get to enjoy the end of the world in style.…” She reluctantly let herself be pulled along. It was probably best to do a round of the platform anyway. However, not long after starting, she began to hear the voice. Let go. Give up your pain. Feast. Indulge. Embrace the end. Pattern hummed on her coat, his sound lost to the many people laughing and drinking. Kharat stuck his fingers into some kind of creamy dessert, taking it by the handful. His eyes had glazed over, and he muttered to himself as he pushed the food into his mouth. Though others laughed and even danced, most showed that same glassy look. She could feel Pattern’s vibrations on her coat. It seemed to counteract the voices, clearing her head. Kharat handed her a cup of wine he’d scooped from a table. Who set this all up? Where were the servants? There was just so much food. Tables and tables of it. People moved in buildings they passed, engaging in other carnal delights. Veil tried to slip across the stream of revelers, but Kharat kept hold of her. “Everyone wants to go inward their first time,” he said. “You aren’t allowed. Enjoy this. Enjoy the feeling. It’s not our fault, right? We didn’t fail her. We were only doing what she asked. Don’t cause a storm, girl. Nobody wants that.…” He hung on to Veil’s arm. So instead she waited until they passed another building, and tugged him that way. “Going to find a partner?” he asked, numb. “Sure. That’s allowed. Assuming you can find anyone still sober enough to care…” They entered the building, which had once been a place for meditation, filled with individual rooms. It smelled sharply of incense, and each alcove had its own brazier for burning prayers. Those were now occupied for another sort of experience. “I just want to rest a moment,” she told Kharat, peeking into an empty room. It had a window. She could slip out that, maybe. “It’s all so overwhelming.” “Oh.” He looked over his shoulder toward the revel passing outside. His left hand was still coated with sweet paste. Veil stepped into the chamber. When he tried to follow, she said, “I need a moment alone.” “I’m supposed to keep watch on you,” he said, and prevented her from closing the door. “Then watch,” she said and settled down on the bench inside the cell. “From a distance.” He sighed and sat down on the floor of the hallway. Now what? A new face, she thought. What did he name me? Kishi. It meant Mystery. She
used a Memory she’d drawn earlier in the day, that of a woman from the market. In her mind, Shallan added touches to the clothing. A havah, ragged like the others, an exposed safehand. It would do. She wished she could sketch it, but she could make this work. Now, what to do about her guard? He probably hears voices, she thought. I can use that. She pressed her hand to Pattern, and wove sound. “Go,” she whispered, “hang on the wall of the hallway outside, next to him.” Pattern softly hummed his reply. She closed her eyes, and could faintly hear the words she’d woven to be whispered near Kharat. Indulge. Get something to drink. Join the revel. “You going to just sit there?” Kharat called in to her. “Yes.” “I’m going to get something to drink. Don’t leave.” “Fine.” He rose, then jogged out. By the time he got back, she had attached an illusion of Veil to a ruby mark, then left it there. It showed Veil resting on the bench, eyes closed, snoring softly. Kishi passed Kharat in the hallway, stepping with glassy eyes. He didn’t spare her a second glance, and instead settled down in the hallway with a large cup of wine to watch Veil. Kishi joined the revel outside. A man there laughed and grabbed at her safehand, as if to pull her toward one of the rooms. Kishi dodged him and slipped farther inward, flowing through the stream of people. This “outer ring” seemed to round the entire Oathgate platform. The secrets were farther toward the center. Nobody forbade Kishi as she left the flow of the outer ring, stepping between two buildings, heading inward. * * * The others stopped their small talk, and the officers’ table grew very still as Kaladin settled down across from Azure. The highmarshal laced her gloved hands before herself. “Kal, was it?” she said. “The lighteyed man with slave brands. How are you finding your time in the Wall Guard?” “It’s a well-run army, sir, and strangely welcoming of one such as myself.” He then nodded over the highmarshal’s shoulder. “I’ve never seen someone treat a Shardblade so casually. You just hang it on a peg?” The others at the table watched with obviously held breaths. “I’m not particularly worried about anyone taking her,” Azure said. “I trust these men.” “It’s still remarkable,” Kaladin said. “Foolhardy, even.” Across the table, two places down from Azure, Lieutenant Noro raised his hands silently toward Kaladin in a pleading way. Don’t screw this up, Kal! But Azure smiled. “I never did get an explanation for that shash brand, soldier.” “I never gave a proper one, sir,” Kaladin said. “I’m not fond of the memories that earned me the scar.” “How did you end up in this city?” Azure asked. “Sadeas’s lands are far to the north. There are several armies of Voidbringers between here and there, by report.” “I flew. How about you, sir? You couldn’t have been in the city long before the siege began; nobody talks of you
earlier than that time. They say you appeared right when the Guard needed you.” “Perhaps I was always here, but merely blended in.” “With those scars? They may not spell out danger as explicitly as mine, but they’d have been memorable.” The rest of the table—lieutenants and the platoon captain—stared at Kaladin slack-jawed. Perhaps he was pushing too hard, acting too far above his station. He’d never been good at acting his station though. “Perhaps,” Azure said, “one shouldn’t be questioning my arrival. Be thankful someone was here when the city needed them.” “I am thankful,” Kaladin said. “Your reputation with these men commends you, Azure, and extreme times can excuse a great deal. Eventually though, you’ll need to come clean. These men deserve to know who—exactly—is commanding them.” “And what about you, Kal?” She took a spoonful of curry and rice—men’s food, which she ate with gusto. “Do they deserve to know your past? Shouldn’t you come clean?” “Perhaps.” “I am your commanding officer, you realize. You should answer me when I ask questions.” “I’ve given answers,” Kaladin said. “If they aren’t the ones you want, then perhaps your questions aren’t very good.” Noro gasped audibly. “And you, Kal? You make statements, dripping with implications. You want answers? Why not just ask?” Storms. She was right. He’d been dancing around serious questions. Kaladin looked her in the eyes. “Why won’t you let anyone talk about the fact that you’re a woman, Azure? Noro, don’t faint. You’ll embarrass us all.” The lieutenant thumped his forehead against the table, groaning softly. The captainlord, with whom Kaladin hadn’t interacted much, had gone red-faced. “They came up with this game on their own,” Azure said. “They’re Alethi, so they need an excuse for why they’re listening to a woman giving military orders. Pretending there’s some mystery focuses them on that, instead of on masculine pride. I find the entire thing silly.” She leaned forward. “Tell me honestly. Did you come here chasing me?” Chasing you? Kaladin cocked his head. Drums sounded in the near distance. It took a moment for them, even Kaladin, to register what that meant. Then Kaladin and Azure threw themselves back from the bench at nearly the same time. “To arms!” Kaladin shouted. “There’s an attack on the wall!” * * * The next ring inward on the Oathgate platform was filled with people crawling. Kishi stood at the perimeter, watching a multitude of men and women in ragged finery crawl past her, giggling, moaning, or gasping. Each seemed in the thrall of a different emotion, and each stared with an openly maddened expression. She thought she recognized a few from the descriptions of lighteyes who had disappeared into the palace, though in their state, it was hard to tell. A woman with long hair dragging on the ground looked toward her, grinning with clenched teeth and bleeding gums. She crawled, one hand after another, her havah shredded, faded. She was followed by a man wearing rings glowing with Stormlight, in contrast to his ripped clothing. He giggled incessantly. The food
on the tables here rotted, and was infested with decayspren. Kishi wavered at the edge of the ring. She should have kept to the outer ring; she didn’t belong here. There was food aplenty behind her. Laughter and reveling. It seemed to pull her back, inviting her to join the eternal, beautiful walk. Within that ring, time wouldn’t matter. She could forget Shallan, and what she’d done. Just … just give in … Pattern hummed. Veil gasped, letting Kishi burst from her, Lightweaving collapsing. Storms. She had to be away from this place. It was doing things to her brain. Strange things, even for her. Not yet. She pulled her coat tight, then picked her way across the street full of crawling people. No bonfire lit her way, only the moon overhead and the light of the jewelry the people wore. Storms. Where had they all gone for the storm? Their moaning, chittering, and babbling chased her as she crossed the street, then hurried down a dark pathway between two monastery buildings, inward. Toward the control building, which should be right ahead. The voices in her head combined from whispers to a kind of surging rhythm. A thumping of impressions, followed by a pause, followed by another surge. Almost like … She stepped between the buildings and entered a moonlit square, colored violet from Salas above. Instead of the control building, she found an overgrown mass. Something had covered the entire structure, like the Midnight Mother had enveloped the gemstone pillar beneath Urithiru. The dark mass pulsed and throbbed. Black veins as thick as a man’s leg ran from it and melded with the ground nearby. A heart. It beat an irregular rhythm, bum-ba-ba-bum instead of the common ba-bum of her own heartbeat. Give in. Join the revel. Shallan, listen to me. She shook herself. That last voice had been different. She’d heard it before, hadn’t she? She looked to the side, and found her shadow on the ground, pointed the wrong way, toward the moonlight instead of away from it. The shadow crept up the wall, with eyes that were white holes, glowing faintly. I’m not your enemy. But the heart is a trap. Take caution. Distantly, drums started sounding on the top of the wall. The Voidbringers were attacking. It all threatened to overwhelm her. The thumping heart, the strange processions in rings around it, the drums and the panic that the Fused were coming for her because she’d been seen. Veil seized control. She’d accomplished her goal, she’d scouted the area, and she had information about the Oathgate. It was time to get out. She turned and—forcibly—put on Kishi’s face. She crossed the stream of crawling, moaning people. She flowed back into the outer ring of revelers, before slipping out. She didn’t check on her guide. She walked to the rim of the Oathgate platform and, without a look back, leaped off. Our revelation is fueled by the theory that the Unmade can perhaps be captured like ordinary spren. It would require a special prison. And Melishi. —From drawer
30-20, third emerald Kaladin charged up the stairwell beside Highmarshal Azure, the sound of drums breaking the air like echoes of thunder from the departed storm. He counted the beats. Storms. That’s my section under assault. “Damnation these creatures!” Azure muttered. “I’m missing something. Like white on black…” She glanced at Kaladin. “Just tell me. Who are you?” “Who are you?” The two burst out of the stairwell onto the wall’s top, entering a scene of chaos. The soldiers on duty had lit the enormous oil lamps on the tops of the towers, giving light to the dark walls. Fused swooped between them, trailing dark violet light, attacking with long, bloodied lances. Men lay screaming on the ground or huddled in pairs, holding up shields as if trying to hide from the nightmares above. Kaladin and Azure exchanged a look, then nodded to one another. Later. She broke left and Kaladin dashed right, shouting for men to form up. Syl spun around his head, concerned, anxious. Kaladin scooped a shield off the ground and seized a soldier by the arm, towing him around and locking shields. A swooping lance clanged off the metal, sending a jolt through Kaladin. The Voidbringer flew past. Pained, Kaladin ignored the wounded and bleeding who crawled with corrupted painspren. He pulled the scattered remnants of the Eighth Platoon back together while his own men stumbled to a halt outside the stairwell. These were their friends, the people with whom they shared a barrack. “To your right and up!” Syl shouted. Kaladin set himself and used his shield to push aside the lance of a Voidbringer who soared past. A second Voidbringer followed, wearing a long skirt of rippling crimson cloth. The way she flew was almost mesmerizing.… Right up until her lance pinned Captain Deedanor against the wall’s battlements, then lifted him and tossed him over. He screamed as he plummeted toward the ground below. Kaladin almost broke rank and ran for him, but held himself in the line by force. He reached, by instinct, for the Stormlight in his pouch—but held himself back. Using it for Lashing would attract screamers, and in this darkness, even drawing in a small amount would reveal him for what he was. The Fused would all attack him together; he would risk undermining the mission to save the entire city. Today, he protected best through discipline, order, and keeping a level head. “Squads One and Two, with me!” he shouted. “Vardinar, you’ve got Five and Six; have your men hand out pikes, then grab bows and get to the tower’s top. Noro, take squads Three and Four and set up on the wall walk just past the tower. My men will hold here on this side. Go, go!” Nobody voiced a complaint as they scrambled to do as he said. Kaladin heard shouts from the highmarshal farther down the wall, but didn’t have a chance to see how she was doing. As his two squads finally got a proper shield wall mounted, a human corpse slammed down onto the wall walk
nearby. It had been dropped from very high up—or perhaps it had been Lashed into the sky and had only now fallen. Most of the wounded men were archers from the Eighth Platoon; it looked like they’d been swept from the top of the tower. We can’t fight these things, Kaladin thought. The Voidbringers attacked in sweeping dives, coming in from all directions. It was impossible to maintain a normal formation beneath that assault. Syl shifted into the shape of a girl and looked at him questioningly. He shook his head. He could fight without Stormlight. He’d protected people long before he could fly. He started to call out orders, but a Fused passed by, slapping at their pikes with a large shield. Before the men could get them reoriented, another crashed down into the center of them, sending soldiers stumbling. A violet glow steamed from the creature’s body as it swept around with its lance, wielding it like an oversized staff. Kaladin ducked by instinct, trying to maneuver his pike. The Fused grinned as the formation disintegrated. It was male, reminiscent of a Parshendi, with layered plates of chitin armor creeping down across its forehead and rising from cheeks that were marbled black and red. Kaladin leveled his pike, but the creature lunged along it and pressed its hand against Kaladin’s chest. He felt himself grow lighter, but also suddenly begin to fall backward. The creature had Lashed him. Kaladin fell back, like he was toppling off a ledge, falling along the wall toward a group of his men. The Fused wanted Kaladin to crash into them, but it had made a mistake. The sky was his. Kaladin responded immediately to the Lashing, and reoriented himself in the blink of an eye. Down became the direction he was falling: along the walkway, toward the towering guard post. His men seemed to be stuck to the side of a cliff, turning toward him, horrified. Kaladin was able to shove against the stone with the end of his pike, moving him to the side so he whooshed past his men instead of crashing into them. Syl joined him as a ribbon, and he twisted, falling feet-first along the walkway toward the guard tower below. He was able to nudge himself so he fell right into the open doorway. He dropped the pike, then caught the lip of the doorway as he passed through it. He stopped with a jarring lurch, arms protesting with pain, but that maneuver slowed him enough. When he swung and let go, he dropped through the room—past the dining table, which seemed glued to the wall—and landed on the opposite wall, inside the building. He stepped over to the other doorway, which looked out onto the walk where he’d positioned Noro’s squad. Beard and Ved held pikes toward the sky, looking anxious. “Kaladin!” Syl said. “Above!” He looked upward and out the doorway he’d come through. The Voidbringer who had Lashed him came soaring downward, carrying a lance. It curved to bypass the tower, preparing to whip around and
attack Beard and the men on the other side. Kaladin growled and dashed along the inside wall of the tower, pulled himself up past the table, then hurled himself out a window. He crashed into the Voidbringer in midair, shoving the creature’s lance to the side. “Leave. My. Men. Alone!” Kaladin clung to the clothing of the monster, spinning in the air dozens of feet above the dark city, sparkling with the light of spheres in windows or lanterns. The Voidbringer Lashed them higher, falsely assuming that the more height it had, the more advantage it would gain over Kaladin. Holding tightly with his left hand, wind whipping around them, Kaladin reached out with his right hand and summoned Syl as a long knife. She appeared immediately, and Kaladin shoved the diminutive Shardblade into the creature’s stomach. The Voidbringer grunted and looked at him with deep, glowing red eyes. It dropped its lance and began to claw at Kaladin while spinning itself in the air, trying to throw him free. They can survive wounds, Kaladin thought, gritting his teeth as the thing gripped at his neck. Like Radiants. That Voidlight sustains them. Kaladin still refrained from drawing in his own Stormlight. He suffered the Fused’s Lashings as it spun them in the air, shouting in a language Kaladin didn’t understand. He tried to maneuver the Shardknife and cut the thing’s spine. The weapon was insanely sharp, but for the moment, leverage and disorientation were bigger factors. The Voidbringer grunted, then Lashed itself—with Kaladin hanging on—back downward toward the wall. They fell quickly, a double or triple Lashing, spiraling and screaming toward the wall walk. Kaladin! Syl’s voice, in his head. I sense something … something about its power. Cut upward, toward the heart. The city, the battle, the sky—all became a blur. Kaladin forced his Blade farther into the creature’s chest, pushing it upward, seeking … The Shardknife struck something brittle and hard. The Fused’s red eyes winked out. Kaladin twisted, putting the corpse beneath him and the wall walk. They hit hard, and he bounced off the corpse, then hit the stones with a crack. He groaned, eyes flashing with pain, and was forced—by instinct—to take in a breath of Stormlight to heal the damage of the fall. That Light flowed through him, reknitting bones, repairing organs. It was used up in a moment, and he forced himself not to draw in more, instead pushing himself up and shaking his head. The Voidbringer stared sightlessly from the wall walk beside him. It was dead. Ahead, the other Fused began streaking away in retreat, leaving a broken and battered group of guards. Kaladin stumbled to his feet; his section of the wall was empty, save for the dead and the dying. He didn’t recognize any; he’d hit the wall some fifty feet away from his platoon’s position. Syl landed on his shoulder and patted him on the side of the head. Painspren littered the wall, crawling this way and that, in the shape of hands without skin. This city is doomed, Kaladin
thought as he knelt by one of the wounded and quickly prepared a bandage by slicing up a fallen cloak. Storms. We might all be doomed. We’re not anywhere near ready to fight these things. It looked like Noro’s squad, at least, had survived. They jogged down the wall and gathered around the Voidbringer Kaladin had killed, nudging it with the butts of their pikes. Kaladin tied off a tourniquet, then moved to another man, whose head he wrapped. Soon, army surgeons flooded the wall. Kaladin stepped back, bloodied—but more angry than tired. He turned to Noro, Beard, and the others, who had gathered around him. “You killed one,” Beard said, feeling at his arm with the empty glyphward. “Storms. You actually killed one, Kal.” “How many have you brought down?” Kaladin asked, realizing that he’d never asked. “How many has the Wall Guard killed during the assaults these last weeks?” His men shared glances. “Azure drove a few off,” Noro said. “They’re afraid of her Shardblade. But as for Voidbringers killed … this would be the first, Kal.” Storms. Even worse, the one he’d killed would be reborn. Unless the Heralds set up their prison again, Kaladin couldn’t ever really kill one of the Fused. “I need to talk to Azure,” he said, striding down the wall walk. “Noro, report.” “None fallen, sir, though Vaceslv took a gash to the chest. He’s with the surgeons, and should pull through.” “Good. Squad, you’re with me.” He found Azure surveying the Eighth Platoon’s losses near their guard tower. She had her cloak off and held oddly in one hand, wrapped around her forearm, with part of it draping down below. Her unsheathed Shardblade glittered, long and silvery. Kaladin stepped up to her, the sleeve of his uniform stained dark with the blood of the Voidbringer he’d killed. Azure looked tired, and she gestured with her sword outward. “Have a look.” Lights lit the horizon. Sphere lights. Thousands upon thousands of them—far more than he’d seen on previous nights. They blanketed the landscape. “That’s the entire enemy army,” Azure said. “I’d bet my red life on it. Somehow, they marched them through that storm earlier today. It won’t be long now. They’ll have to attack before the next highstorm. A few days at most.” “I need to know what’s going on here, Azure,” Kaladin said. “How are you getting food for this army?” She drew her lips to a line. “He killed one, Highmarshal,” Beard whispered from behind him. “Storms … he took one of them down. Grabbed on like he was mounting a storming horse, then rode the bastard through the sky.” The woman studied him, and reluctantly Kaladin summoned Syl as a Shardblade. Noro’s eyes bulged, and Ved nearly fainted—though Beard just grinned. “I’m here,” Kaladin said, resting the Sylblade on his shoulder, “on orders from King Elhokar and the Blackthorn. It’s my job to save Kholinar. And it’s time you started talking to me.” She smiled at him. “Come with me.” That moment notwithstanding, I can honestly say this book has
been brewing in me since my youth. —From Oathbringer, preface Shallan drew. She scraped her drawing pad with agitated, bold streaks. She twisted the charcoal stick in her fingers every few lines, seeking the sharpest points to make the lines a deep black. “Mmm…” Pattern said from near her calves, where he adorned her skirt like embroidery. “Shallan?” She kept drawing, filling the page with black strokes. “Shallan?” Pattern asked. “I understand why you hate me, Shallan. I did not mean to help you kill your mother, but it is what I did. It is what I did.…” Shallan set her jaw and kept sketching. She sat outside at Urithiru, her back against a cold chunk of stone, her toes frigid, coldspren growing up like spikes around her. Her frazzled hair whipped past her face in a gust of air, and she had to pin the paper of her pad down with her thumbs, one trapped in her left sleeve. “Shallan…” Pattern said. “It’s all right,” Shallan said in a hushed voice as the wind died down. “Just … just let me draw.” “Mmm…” Pattern said. “A powerful lie…” A simple landscape; she should be able to draw a simple, calming landscape. She sat on the edge of one of the ten Oathgate platforms, which rose ten feet higher than the main plateau. Earlier in the day, she’d activated this Oathgate, bringing forth a few hundred more of the thousands who were waiting at Narak. That would be it for a while: each use of the device used an incredible amount of Stormlight. Even with the gemstones that the newcomers had brought, there wasn’t much to go around. Plus, there wasn’t much of her to go around. Only an active, full Knight Radiant could work the control buildings at the center of each platform, initiating the swap. For now, that meant only Shallan. It meant she had to summon her Blade each time. The Blade she’d used to kill her mother. A truth she’d spoken as an Ideal of her order of Radiants. A truth that she could no longer, therefore, stuff into the back of her mind and forget. Just draw. The city dominated her view. It stretched impossibly high, and she struggled to contain the enormous tower on the page. Jasnah had searched this place out in the hope of finding books and records here of ancient date; so far, they hadn’t found anything like that. Instead, Shallan struggled to understand the tower. If she locked it down into a sketch, would she finally be able to grasp its incredible size? She couldn’t get an angle from which to view the entire tower, so she kept fixating on the little things. The balconies, the shapes of the fields, the cavernous openings—maws to engulf, consume, overwhelm. She ended up with a sketch not of the tower itself, but instead a crisscrossing of lines on a field of softer charcoal. She stared at the sketch, a windspren passing and troubling the pages. She sighed, dropping her charcoal into her satchel and getting
out a damp rag to wipe her freehand fingers. Down on the plateau, soldiers ran drills. The thought of them all living in that place disturbed Shallan. Which was stupid. It was just a building. But it was one she couldn’t sketch. “Shallan…” Pattern said. “We’ll work it out,” she said, eyes forward. “It’s not your fault my parents are dead. You didn’t cause it.” “You can hate me,” Pattern said. “I understand.” Shallan closed her eyes. She didn’t want him to understand. She wanted him to convince her she was wrong. She needed to be wrong. “I don’t hate you, Pattern,” Shallan said. “I hate the sword.” “But—” “The sword isn’t you. The sword is me, my father, the life we led, and the way it got twisted all about.” “I…” Pattern hummed softly. “I don’t understand.” I’d be shocked if you did, Shallan thought. Because I sure don’t. Fortunately, she had a distraction coming her way in the form of a scout climbing up the ramp to the platform where Shallan perched. The darkeyed woman wore white and blue, with trousers beneath a runner’s skirt, and had long, dark Alethi hair. “Um, Brightness Radiant?” the scout asked after bowing. “The highprince has requested your presence.” “Bother,” Shallan said, while inwardly relieved to have something to do. She handed the scout her sketchbook to hold while she packed up her satchel. Dun spheres, she noted. While three of the highprinces had joined Dalinar on his expedition to the center of the Shattered Plains, the greater number had remained behind. When the unexpected highstorm had come, Hatham had received word via spanreed from scouts out along the plains. His warcamp had been able to get out most of their spheres for recharging before the storm hit, giving him a huge amount of Stormlight compared to the rest of them. He was becoming a wealthy man as Dalinar traded for infused spheres to work the Oathgate and bring in supplies. Compared to that, providing spheres to her to practice her Lightweaving wasn’t a terrible expense—but she still felt guilty to see that she’d drained two of them by consuming Stormlight to help her with the chill air. She’d have to be careful about that. She got everything packed, then reached back for the sketchbook and found the scout woman flipping through the pages with wide eyes. “Brightness…” she said. “These are amazing.” Several were sketches as if looking up from the base of the tower, catching a vague sense of Urithiru’s stateliness, but more giving a sense of vertigo. With dissatisfaction, Shallan realized she’d enhanced the surreal nature of the sketches with impossible vanishing points and perspective. “I’ve been trying to draw the tower,” Shallan said, “but I can’t get it from the right angle.” Maybe when Brightlord Brooding-Eyes returned, he could fly her to another peak along the mountain chain. “I’ve never seen anything like these,” the scout said, flipping pages. “What do you call it?” “Surrealism,” Shallan said, taking the large sketchbook back and tucking it under her arm. “It was
an old artistic movement. I guess I defaulted to it when I couldn’t get the picture to look how I wanted. Hardly anyone bothers with it anymore except students.” “It made my eyes make my brain think it forgot to wake up.” Shallan gestured, and the scout led the way back down and across the plateau. Here, Shallan noticed that more than a few soldiers on the field had stopped their drills and were watching her. Bother. She would never again return to being just Shallan, the insignificant girl from a backwater town. She was now “Brightness Radiant,” ostensibly from the Order of Elsecallers. She’d persuaded Dalinar to pretend—in public, at least—that Shallan was from an order that couldn’t make illusions. She needed to keep that secret from spreading, or her effectiveness would be weakened. The soldiers stared at her as if they expected her to grow Shardplate, shoot gouts of flame from her eyes, and fly off to tear down a mountain or two. Probably should try to act more composed, Shallan thought to herself. More … knightly? She glanced at a soldier who wore the gold and red of Hatham’s army. He immediately looked down and rubbed at the glyphward prayer tied around his upper right arm. Dalinar was determined to recover the reputation of the Radiants, but storms, you couldn’t change an entire nation’s perspective in a matter of a few months. The ancient Knights Radiant had betrayed humankind; while many Alethi seemed willing to give the orders a fresh start, others weren’t so charitable. Still, she tried to keep her head high, her back straight, and to walk more like her tutors had always instructed. Power was an illusion of perception, as Jasnah had said. The first step to being in control was to see yourself as capable of being in control. The scout led her into the tower and up a flight of stairs, toward Dalinar’s secure section. “Brightness?” the woman asked as they walked. “Can I ask you a question?” “As that was a question, apparently you can.” “Oh, um. Huh.” “It’s fine. What did you want to know?” “You’re … a Radiant.” “That one was actually a statement, and that’s making me doubt my previous assertion.” “I’m sorry. I just … I’m curious, Brightness. How does it work? Being a Radiant? You have a Shardblade?” So that was where this was going. “I assure you,” Shallan said, “it is quite possible to remain properly feminine while fulfilling my duties as a knight.” “Oh,” the scout said. Oddly, she seemed disappointed by that response. “Of course, Brightness.” Urithiru seemed to have been crafted straight from the rock of a mountain, like a sculpture. Indeed, there weren’t seams at the corners of rooms, nor were there distinct bricks or blocks in the walls. Much of the stone exposed thin lines of strata. Beautiful lines of varied hue, like layers of cloth stacked in a merchant’s shop. The corridors often twisted about in strange curves, rarely running straight toward an intersection. Dalinar suggested that perhaps this was to
fool invaders, like a castle fortification. The sweeping turns and lack of seams made the corridors feel like tunnels. Shallan didn’t need a guide—the strata that cut through the walls had distinctive patterns. Others seemed to have trouble telling those apart, and talked of painting the floors with guidelines. Couldn’t they distinguish the pattern here of wide reddish strata alternating with smaller yellow ones? Just go in the direction where the lines were sloping slightly upward, and you’d head toward Dalinar’s quarters. They soon arrived, and the scout took up duty at the door in case her services were needed again. Shallan entered a room that only a day before had been empty, but was now arrayed with furniture, creating a large meeting place right outside Dalinar and Navani’s private rooms. Adolin, Renarin, and Navani sat before Dalinar, who stood with hands on hips, contemplating a map of Roshar on the wall. Though the place was stuffed with rugs and plush furniture, the finery fit this bleak chamber like a lady’s havah fit a pig. “I don’t know how to approach the Azish, Father,” Renarin was saying as she entered. “Their new emperor makes them unpredictable.” “They’re Azish,” Adolin said, giving Shallan a wave with his unwounded hand. “How can they not be predictable? Doesn’t their government mandate how to peel your fruit?” “That’s a stereotype,” Renarin said. He wore his Bridge Four uniform, but had a blanket over his shoulders and was holding a cup of steaming tea, though the room wasn’t particularly cold. “Yes, they have a large bureaucracy. A change in government is still going to cause upheaval. In fact, it might be easier for this new Azish emperor to change policy, since policy is well defined enough to change.” “I wouldn’t worry about the Azish,” Navani said, tapping her notepad with a pen, then writing something in it. “They’ll listen to reason; they always do. What about Tukar and Emul? I wouldn’t be surprised if that war of theirs is enough to distract them even from the return of the Desolations.” Dalinar grunted, rubbing his chin with one hand. “There’s that warlord in Tukar. What’s his name?” “Tezim,” Navani said. “Claims he’s an aspect of the Almighty.” Shallan sniffed as she slipped into the seat beside Adolin, setting her satchel and drawing pad on the floor. “Aspect of the Almighty? At least he’s humble.” Dalinar turned toward her, then clasped his hands behind his back. Storms. He always seemed so … large. Bigger than any room he was in, brow perpetually furrowed by the deepest of thoughts. Dalinar Kholin could make choosing what to have for breakfast look like the most important decision in all of Roshar. “Brightness Shallan,” he said. “Tell me, how would you deal with the Makabaki kingdoms? Now that the storm has come as we warned, we have an opportunity to approach them from a position of strength. Azir is the most important, but just faced a succession crisis. Emul and Tukar are, of course, at war, as Navani noted. We could certainly use
Tashikk’s information networks, but they’re so isolationist. That leaves Yezier and Liafor. Perhaps the weight of their involvement would persuade their neighbors?” He turned toward her expectantly. “Yes, yes…” Shallan said, thoughtful. “I have heard of several of those places.” Dalinar drew his lips to a line, and Pattern hummed in concern on her skirts. Dalinar did not seem the type of man you joked with. “I’m sorry, Brightlord,” Shallan continued, leaning back in her chair. “But I’m confused as to why you want my input. I know of those kingdoms, of course—but my knowledge is an academic thing. I could probably name their primary export for you, but as to foreign policy … well, I’d never even spoken to someone from Alethkar before leaving my homeland. And we’re neighbors!” “I see,” Dalinar said softly. “Does your spren offer some counsel? Could you bring him out to speak to us?” “Pattern? He’s not particularly knowledgeable about our kind, which is sort of why he’s here in the first place.” She shifted in her seat. “And to be frank, Brightlord, I think he’s scared of you.” “Well, he’s obviously not a fool,” Adolin noted. Dalinar shot his son a glance. “Don’t be like that, Father,” Adolin said. “If anyone would be able to go about intimidating forces of nature, it would be you.” Dalinar sighed, turning and resting his hand on the map. Curiously, it was Renarin who stood up, setting aside his blanket and cup, then walked over to put his hand on his father’s shoulder. The youth looked even more spindly than normal when standing beside Dalinar, and though his hair wasn’t as blond as Adolin’s, it was still patched with yellow. He seemed such a strange contrast to Dalinar, cut from almost entirely different cloth. “It’s just so big, son,” Dalinar said, looking at the map. “How can I unite all of Roshar when I’ve never even visited many of these kingdoms? Young Shallan spoke wisdom, though she might not have recognized it. We don’t know these people. Now I’m expected to be responsible for them? I wish I could see it all.…” Shallan shifted in her seat, feeling as if she’d been forgotten. Perhaps he’d sent for her because he’d wanted to seek the aid of his Radiants, but the Kholin dynamic had always been a family one. In that, she was an intruder. Dalinar turned and walked to fetch a cup of wine from a warmed pitcher near the door. As he passed Shallan, she felt something unusual. A leaping within her, as if part of her were being pulled by him. He walked past again, holding a cup, and Shallan slipped from her seat, following him toward the map on the wall. She breathed in as she walked, drawing Stormlight from her satchel in a shimmering stream. It infused her, glowing from her skin. She rested her freehand against the map. Stormlight poured off her, illuminating the map in a swirling tempest of Light. She didn’t exactly understand what she was doing, but she rarely did. Art
wasn’t about understanding, but about knowing. The Stormlight streamed off the map, passing between her and Dalinar in a rush, causing Navani to scramble off her seat and back away. The Light swirled in the chamber and became another, larger map—floating at about table height—in the center of the room. Mountains grew up like furrows in a piece of cloth pressed together. Vast plains shone green from vines and fields of grass. Barren stormward hillsides grew splendid shadows of life on the leeward sides. Stormfather … as she watched, the topography of the landscape became real. Shallan’s breath caught. Had she done that? How? Her illusions usually required a previous drawing to imitate. The map stretched to the sides of the room, shimmering at the edges. Adolin stood up from his seat, crashing through the middle of the illusion somewhere near Kharbranth. Wisps of Stormlight broke around him, but when he moved, the image swirled and neatly re-formed behind him. “How…” Dalinar leaned down near their section, which detailed the Reshi Isles. “The detail is amazing. I can almost see the cities. What did you do?” “I don’t know if I did anything,” Shallan said, stepping into the illusion, feeling the Stormlight swirl around her. Despite the detail, the perspective was still from very far away, and the mountains weren’t even as tall as one of her fingernails. “I couldn’t have created this, Brightlord. I don’t have the knowledge.” “Well I didn’t do it,” Renarin said. “The Stormlight quite certainly came from you, Brightness.” “Yes, well, your father was tugging on me at the time.” “Tugging?” Adolin asked. “The Stormfather,” Dalinar said. “This is his influence—this is what he sees each time a storm blows across Roshar. It wasn’t me or you, but us. Somehow.” “Well,” Shallan noted, “you were complaining about not being able to take it all in.” “How much Stormlight did this take?” Navani asked, rounding the outside of the new, vibrant map. Shallan checked her satchel. “Um … all of it.” “We’ll get you more,” Navani said with a sigh. “I’m sorry for—” “No,” Dalinar said. “Having my Radiants practice with their powers is among the most valuable resources I could purchase right now. Even if Hatham makes us pay through the nose for spheres.” Dalinar strode through the image, disrupting it in a swirl around him. He stopped near the center, beside the location of Urithiru. He looked from one side of the room to the other in a long, slow survey. “Ten cities,” he whispered. “Ten kingdoms. Ten Oathgates connecting them from long ago. This is how we fight it. This is how we begin. We don’t start by saving the world—we start with this simple step. We protect the cities with Oathgates. “The Voidbringers are everywhere, but we can be more mobile. We can shore up capitals, deliver food or Soulcasters quickly between kingdoms. We can make those ten cities bastions of light and strength. But we must be quick. He’s coming. The man with nine shadows…” “What’s this?” Shallan said, perking up. “The enemy’s
champion,” Dalinar said, eyes narrowing. “In the visions, Honor told me our best chance of survival involved forcing Odium to accept a contest of champions. I’ve seen the enemy’s champion—a creature in black armor, with red eyes. A parshman perhaps. It had nine shadows.” Nearby, Renarin had turned toward his father, eyes wide, jaw dropping. Nobody else seemed to notice. “Azimir, capital of Azir,” Dalinar said, stepping from Urithiru to the center of Azir to the west, “is home to an Oathgate. We need to open it and gain the trust of the Azish. They will be important to our cause.” He stepped farther to the west. “There’s an Oathgate hidden in Shinovar. Another in the capital of Babatharnam, and a fourth in far-off Rall Elorim, City of Shadows.” “Another in Rira,” Navani said, joining him. “Jasnah thought it was in Kurth. A sixth was lost in Aimia, the island that was destroyed.” Dalinar grunted, then turned toward the map’s eastern section. “Vedenar makes seven,” he said, stepping into Shallan’s homeland. “Thaylen City is eight. Then the Shattered Plains, which we hold.” “And the last one is in Kholinar,” Adolin said softly. “Our home.” Shallan approached and touched him on the arm. Spanreed communication into the city had stopped working. Nobody knew the status of Kholinar; their best clue had come via Kaladin’s spanreed message. “We start small,” Dalinar said, “with a few of the most important to holding the world. Azir. Jah Keved. Thaylenah. We’ll contact other nations, but our focus is on these three powerhouses. Azir for its organization and political clout. Thaylenah for its shipping and naval prowess. Jah Keved for its manpower. Brightness Davar, any insight you could offer into your homeland—and its status following the civil war—would be appreciated.” “And Kholinar?” Adolin asked. A knock at the door interrupted Dalinar’s response. He called admittance, and the scout from before peeked in. “Brightlord,” she said, looking concerned. “There’s something you need to see.” “What is it, Lyn?” “Brightlord, sir. There’s … there’s been another murder.” Ba-Ado-Mishram has somehow Connected with the parsh people, as Odium once did. She provides Voidlight and facilitates forms of power. Our strike team is going to imprison her. —From drawer 30-20, fourth emerald Grund wasn’t at his normal spot inside the corner of the broken shop. The place hadn’t fared well during the Everstorm; the ceiling was sagging even more, and a snarl of tree branches had been blown in through the window, littering the floor. Veil frowned, calling his name. After fleeing the Oathgate platform, she’d met up with Vathah, who had been waiting as instructed. She’d sent Vathah back to report to the king, and probably should have gone herself. But she hadn’t been able to shake the eerie disquiet of her trip through the revel. Going back home would have left her too much time to think. Veil wanted to be out working instead. Monsters and Voidbringers were something she couldn’t comprehend, but starving children … she could do something about that. She’d taken the two remaining sacks of food
and gone to help the city’s people. If she could find them. “Grund?” Veil repeated, leaning farther in through the window. Before, he’d always been up at this time. Perhaps he’d finally moved out of the building, like all the others had. Or maybe he hadn’t gotten back from the stormshelter yet, following the Everstorm. She turned to leave, but Grund finally stumbled into the room. The little urchin tucked his malformed hand into his pocket and scowled at her. That was odd. He normally seemed so happy when she arrived. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “Nothin’,” he said. “Thought you was someone else.” He gave her a grin. Veil fished a few pieces of flatbread from her bag. “Not much today, I’m afraid. I wanted to make sure to stop by though. The information you gave us on that book was very helpful.” He licked his lips, holding out his hands. She tossed him the flatbread, and he took an eager bite. “What do you need next?” “Nothing right now,” Veil said. “Come on. There has to be something I can do to help. Something you want, right?” Too desperate, Veil thought. What is beneath the surface here? What have I missed? “I’ll consider,” she said. “Grund, is everything all right?” “Right. Sure, everything is great!” He paused. “Unless it shouldn’t be?” Pattern hummed softly on Veil’s coat. She agreed. “I’ll stop by again in a few days. Should have a big haul then.” Veil tipped her hat to the urchin, then slipped back into the market. It was late, but people lingered. Nobody wanted to be alone on days after the Everstorm came. Some looked toward the wall, where those Fused had attacked. But that sort of thing happened almost daily, so it didn’t cause too much of a stir. Veil drew more attention than she’d have wanted. She’d exposed herself to them, given up her face. “Grund tells lies, doesn’t he?” Pattern whispered. “Yeah. I’m not sure why, or what about.” As she wove into the market, she put her hand before her face, changing it with a wave of the fingers. She took her hat off, folded it, and covertly Lightwove it to look like a waterskin. Each was a little change that nobody would notice. She tucked her hair into her coat, made it look shorter, then finally closed her coat and changed the clothing underneath. When she took off the coat and folded it up, she was no longer Veil, but a market guard she’d drawn earlier. Rolled coat under her arm, she lingered at a corner and waited to see if anyone passed, looking for Veil. She didn’t spot anyone, though her training with Ishnah at spotting tails wasn’t yet extensive. She threaded her way back through the crowd to Grund’s shop again. She lingered near the wall, then eased toward the window, listening. “… Told you we shouldn’t have given her the book,” a voice was saying inside. “This is pathetic,” another said. “Pathetic! That was the best you could do?” She heard a grunt,
and a whimper. That’s Grund. Veil cursed softly, scrambling around to look in through the window. A group of thugs was chewing on the flatbread she’d brought. Grund lay in the corner, whimpering and holding his stomach. Veil felt a flash of rage, and angerspren immediately boiled around her, pools that sprayed red and orange. She shouted at the men and dashed for the doorway. They immediately scattered, though one slammed a cudgel onto Grund’s head with a sickening crunch. By the time she reached Grund, the men had vanished farther into the building. She heard the door in the back slam closed. Pattern appeared in her hand as a Shardblade, but Stormfather! She couldn’t give chase—not and leave the poor child here. Veil dismissed Pattern and knelt, aghast at the bloody wound in Grund’s head. It was bad. The skull was broken, bleeding … He blinked, dazed. “V … Veil?” “Storms, Grund,” she whispered. “I…” What could she do? “Help? Help, somebody! There’s a wounded child in here!” Grund whimpered, then whispered something. Veil leaned close, feeling useless. “Hate…” Grund whispered. “Hate you.” “It’s all right,” Veil said. “They’re gone now. They … they ran. I’ll help.” Bandage. She cut at her shirttails with her knife. “Hate you,” Grund whispered. “It’s me, Grund. Not those others.” “Why couldn’t you leave me alone?” he whispered. “They killed them all. My friends. Tai…” Veil pressed the cloth against his head wound, and he winced. Storms. “Quiet. Don’t exert yourself.” “Hate you,” he repeated. “I brought you food, Grund.” “You drew them,” he hissed. “You strutted around, throwing food. You thought people wouldn’t notice?” He closed his eyes. “Had to sit all day, wait for … for you. My life was waiting for you. If I wasn’t here when you came, or if I tried to hide the food, they beat me.” “How long?” she whispered, feeling her confidence shake. “Since the first day, you storming woman. Hate … hate you … Others too. We all … hate you…” She sat with him as his breathing slowed, then cut off. Finally she knelt back, bloodied cloth in her hands. Veil could handle this. She’d seen death. It … it was life … on the street … and … Too much. Too much for one day. Shallan blinked tears from the corners of her eyes. Pattern hummed. “Shallan,” he said. “The boy, he spoke of the others. Others?” Storms! She threw herself to her feet and pushed out into the night, dropping Veil’s hat and coat in her haste. She ran for Muri—the mother who had once been a seamstress. Shallan shoved through the market until she reached the packed tenement where the seamstress lived. She crossed the common room, then breathed a sigh of relief as she found Muri alive, inside her small room. The woman was hurriedly tossing clothing into a sack, her eldest daughter clutching a similar one. She looked up, saw Shallan—who still looked like Veil—and cursed to herself. “You.” The frown lines and scowl were unfamiliar. She’d always seemed so
pleasant. “You know already?” Shallan asked. “About Grund?” “Grund?” Muri snapped. “All I know is that the Grips are angry about something. I’m not going to take a chance.” “The Grips?” “How oblivious are you, woman? The gang in charge of this area has had toughs watching us all for when you next arrived. The one watching me met with another, and they had a quiet argument, then took off. I heard my name. So I’m leaving.” “They took the food I gave you, didn’t they? Storms, they killed Grund!” Muri stopped, then shook her head. “Poor kid. Better you than he.” She cursed, gathering her sacks and shoving her children toward the common room. “We always had to sit here, waiting for you and your storming sack of goodies.” “I’m … I’m sorry.” Muri left into the night with her children. Shallan watched them go, feeling numb. Empty. She quietly sank down in Muri’s deserted room, still holding the cloth with Grund’s blood. We are uncertain the effect this will have on the parsh. At the very least, it should deny them forms of power. Melishi is confident, but Naze-daughter-Kuzodo warns of unintended side effects. —From drawer 30-20, fifth emerald “My name is Kaladin,” he said, standing in the barrack common room—which had been emptied at the highmarshal’s order. Noro’s squad had remained by Kaladin’s request, and Azure had invited in Battalionlord Hadinar—a stocky, bejowled fellow, one of Azure’s primary officers. The only other person in the room was the fidgety ardent who painted glyphwards for the platoon. Soft blue spherelight bathed the table where most of them sat. Kaladin stood instead, washing the blood from his hands with a damp rag at a water basin. “Kaladin,” Azure mused. “A regal name. What’s your house?” “They just call me Stormblessed. If you need proof of my orders from the king, it can be arranged.” “Let’s pretend, for the sake of conversation, that I believe you,” Azure said. “What do you want from us?” “I need to know how you’re using a Soulcaster without drawing the attention of the screaming spren. The secret might be essential to my work to save the city.” Azure nodded, then rose and walked toward the back of the barrack. She used a key to open the back room. Kaladin had glanced in there before though. It only held some supplies. The rest of them followed Azure into the room, where she slipped a small hook between two stones and threw a hidden latch. This let her remove a stone, revealing a handle. She heaved, pulling open a doorway. The light of a few handheld spheres revealed a small corridor that ran down the middle of the city wall. “You cut a tunnel in one of the windblades, sir?” Beard asked, shocked. “This has been here longer than any of us have been alive, soldier,” Battalionlord Hadinar said. “It is a quick, secret way between posts. There are even a few hidden stairwells up to the top.” They had to go single file inside. Beard followed behind
Kaladin, scrunched up against him in the confines. “Um, so Kal, you … you know the Blackthorn?” “Better than most.” “And … ahem … you know—” “That the two of you never went swimming together in the Purelake?” Kaladin said. “Yes, though I suspect the rest of the squad guessed that, Beard.” “Yeah,” he said, glancing back at the others. He exhaled softly. “I figured you’d never believe the truth, since it was actually the Azish emperor.…” This corridor, cut through the stone, reminded Kaladin of the strata of Urithiru. They reached a trapdoor in the floor, which Azure opened with a key. A short trip down a ladder—which had a dumbwaiter beside it, with ropes and pulleys—led them to a large room filled with sacks of grain. Kaladin held up a sphere, revealing a jagged wall with chunks cut out of it in a distinctly uneven way. “I come down here every night or so,” Azure said, pointing with a gloved hand, “and cut out blocks with my Blade. I have nightmares about the city collapsing down on us, but I don’t know of another way to get enough stone—at least not without drawing even more attention.” On the other side of the chamber, they found yet another locked door. Azure knocked twice, then opened this one, revealing a smaller room occupied by an aged female ardent. She knelt beside a stone block, and wore a distinctive fabrial on her hand—one that glowed powerfully with light from the emeralds it contained. The woman had an inhuman look to her; she seemed to be growing vines under her skin, and they peeked out around her eyes, growing from the corners and spreading down her face like runners of ivy. She stood and bowed to Azure. A real Soulcaster. So … Azure wasn’t doing it herself? “How?” Kaladin asked. “Why didn’t the screamers come for you?” Azure pointed at the sides of the room, and for the first time Kaladin noticed the walls were covered in reflective metal plates. He frowned and rested his fingers against one, and found it cool to the touch. This wasn’t steel, was it? “Soon after the strangeness at the palace began,” Azure said, “a man pulled a chull cart up to the front of our barrack. He had these sheets of metal in the back. He was … an odd fellow. I’ve had interactions with him before.” “Angular features?” Kaladin guessed. “Quick with an insult. Silly and straight, somehow all at once?” “You know him, I see,” Azure said. “He warned us to only Soulcast inside a room lined with this metal. So far as we can tell, it prevents the screamers from sensing us. Unfortunately, it also blocks spanreeds from contacting the outside. “We keep poor Ithi and her sister working nonstop, trading off the Soulcaster. Feeding the entire city would be an impossible task for the two of them, but we’ve been able to at least keep our army strong, with some to spare.” Damnation, Kaladin thought, inspecting the reflective walls. This wasn’t going to
help him use his powers without notice. “All right, Stormblessed,” Azure said. “I’ve opened our secrets to you. Now you’ll tell me how the king could expect one man, even a Shardbearer, to be able to save this city.” “There’s a device in Kholinar,” he said, “of ancient design. It can instantly transport large groups of people across great distances.” He turned toward Azure and the others. “The Kholin armies wait to join us here. All we need to do is activate the device—something that only a select few people can do.” The soldiers looked stunned—all but Azure, who perked up. “Really? You’re serious?” Kaladin nodded. “Great! Let’s get this thing working! Where is it?” Kaladin took a deep breath. “Well, that happens to be the problem.…” Surely this will bring—at long last—the end to war that the Heralds promised us. —From drawer 30-20, final emerald She huddled someplace. She’d forgotten where. For a while, she’d been … everybody. A hundred faces, cycling one after another. She searched them for comfort. Surely she could find someone who didn’t hurt. All the nearby refugees had fled, naming her a spren. They left her with those hundred faces, in silence, until her Stormlight died off. That left only Shallan. Unfortunately. Darkness. A candle snuffed out. A scream cut off. With nothing to see, her mind provided images. Her father, his face turning purple as she strangled him, singing a lullaby. Her mother, dead with burned eyes. Tyn, run through by Pattern. Kabsal, shaking on the floor as he succumbed to poison. Yalb, the incorrigible sailor from Wind’s Pleasure, dead in the depths of the sea. An unnamed coachman, murdered by members of the Ghostbloods. Now Grund, his head opened up. Veil had tried to help these people, but had succeeded only in making their lives worse. The lie that was Veil became suddenly manifest. She hadn’t lived on the streets and she didn’t know how to help people. Pretending to have experience didn’t mean she actually did. Veil had always thought to herself that Shallan could handle the big picture, the Voidbringers and the Unmade. Now she had to confront the truth that she had no idea what to do. She couldn’t get to the Oathgate. It was guarded by an ancient spren that could get inside her brain. The whole city was depending on her, but she hadn’t even been able to save a little beggar boy. As she curled up on the floor, Grund’s death seemed a shadow of everything else, of her good intentions turned arrogant. Everywhere she trod, death haunted her. Every face she wore was a lie to pretend she could stop it. Couldn’t she be somebody who didn’t hurt, just once? Light pushed shadows before it, long and slender. She blinked, momentarily transfixed. How many days had it been since she’d seen light? A figure stepped into the common room outside her little hole of a chamber. She was still in the long room Muri had lived in. She sniffled softly. The newcomer brought his light to her
doorway, then carefully stepped inside and settled down across from her, his back against the wall. The room was narrow enough that his legs stretched out and touched the wall beside her. She had hers drawn up, knees against her chest, head resting on them. Wit didn’t speak. He put his sphere on the floor, and let her have the silence. “I should have known better,” she finally whispered. “Perhaps,” Wit said. “Giving out so much food only drew predators. Foolish. I should have focused on the Oathgate.” “Again, perhaps.” “It’s so hard, Wit. When I wear Veil’s face … I … I have to think like her. Seeing the larger scope grows difficult when she takes over. And I want her to take over, because she’s not me.” “The thieves who killed that child have been seen to,” Wit said. She looked up at him. “When some of the men in the market heard what had happened,” Wit continued, “they finally formed the militia they’d been talking about. They rushed the Grips, forcing them to give up the murderer, then disperse. I apologize for not acting sooner; I had been distracted by other tasks. You’ll be pleased to know that some of the food you gave away was still in their base.” “Was it worth that boy’s life?” Shallan whispered. “I cannot judge the worth of a life. I would not dare to attempt it.” “Muri said it would be better if I were dead.” “As I lack the experience to decide the worth of a life, I sincerely doubt that she has somehow obtained it. You tried to help the people of the market. You mostly failed. This is life. The longer you live, the more you fail. Failure is the mark of a life well lived. In turn, the only way to live without failure is to be of no use to anyone. Trust me, I’ve practiced.” She sniffled, looking away. “I have to become Veil to escape the memories, but I don’t have the experience that she pretends to have. I haven’t lived her life.” “No,” Wit said softly. “You’ve lived a harsher one, haven’t you?” “Yet still, somehow, a naive one.” She drew in a deep, ragged breath. She had to stop this. She knew she had to get over the tantrum and go back to the tailor’s shop. She’d do it. She’d shove all this into the back of her mind, with everything else she ignored. They could all fester together. Wit settled back. “Have you heard the story of the Girl Who Looked Up?” Shallan didn’t reply. “It’s a story from long ago,” Wit said. He cupped his hands around the sphere on the floor. “Things were different in that time. A wall kept out the storms, but everyone ignored it. All but one girl, who looked up one day, and contemplated it.” “Why is there a wall?” Shallan whispered. “Oh, so you do know it? Good.” He leaned down, blowing at the crem dust on the floor. It swirled up, making a figure of
a girl. It gave the brief impression of her standing before a wall, but then disintegrated back into dust. He tried again, and it swirled a little higher this time, but still fell back to dust. “A little help?” he asked. He pushed a bag of spheres across the ground toward Shallan. Shallan sighed, then picked up the bag and drew in the Stormlight. It started to rage within her, demanding to be used, so she stood up and breathed out, Weaving it into an illusion she’d done once before. A pristine village, and a young girl standing and looking upward, toward an impossibly tall wall in the distance. The illusion made the room seem to vanish. Somehow, Shallan painted the walls and ceiling in precisely the right way, making them disappear into the landscape—become part of it. She hadn’t made them invisible; they were merely covered up in a way that made it seem Shallan and Wit were standing in another place. This was … this was more than she’d ever done before. But was she really doing it? Shallan shook her head and stepped up beside the girl, who wore long scarves. Wit stepped up on the other side. “Hmmm,” he said. “Not bad. But it’s not dark enough.” “What?” “I thought you knew the story,” Wit said, tapping the air. The color and light bled from her illusion, leaving them standing in the darkness of night, lit only by a frail set of stars. The wall was an enormous blot before them. “In these days, there was no light.” “No light…” “Of course, even without light, people still had to live, didn’t they? That’s what people do. I hasten to guess it’s the first thing they learn how to do. So they lived in the darkness, farmed in the darkness, ate in the darkness.” He waved behind him. People stumbled about in the village, feeling their way to different activities, barely able to see by the starlight. In this context, strange though it seemed, some pieces of the story as she’d told it made sense. When the girl went up to people and asked, “Why is there a wall?” it was obvious why they found it so easy to ignore. The illusion followed Wit’s words as the girl in the scarves asked several people about the wall. Don’t go beyond it, or you shall die. “And so,” Wit said, “she decided that the only way she’d find answers would be to climb the wall herself.” He glanced at Shallan. “Was she stupid or bold?” “How should I know?” “Wrong answer. She was both.” “It wasn’t stupid. If nobody asked questions, then we would never learn anything.” “What of the wisdom of her elders?” “They offered no explanation for why she shouldn’t ask about the wall! No rationalization, no justification. There’s a difference between listening to your elders and just being as frightened as everyone else.” Wit smiled, the sphere in his hand lighting his face. “Funny, isn’t it, how so many of our stories start the same way, but
have opposing endings? In half, the child ignores her parents, wanders out into the woods, and gets eaten. In the other half she discovers great wonders. There aren’t many stories about the kids who say, ‘Yes, I shall not go into the forest. I’m glad my parents explained that is where the monsters live.’ ” “Is that what you’re trying to teach me, then?” Shallan snapped. “The fine distinction between choosing for yourself and ignoring good advice?” “I’m a terrible teacher.” He waved his hand as the girl reached the wall after a long hike. She started to climb. “Fortunately, I am an artist, and not a teacher.” “People learn things from art.” “Blasphemy! Art is not art if it has a function.” Shallan rolled her eyes. “Take this fork,” Wit said. He waved his hand. Some of her Stormlight split off from her, spinning above his hand and making an image of a floating fork in the darkness. “It has a use. Eating. Now, if it were to be ornamented by a master artisan, would that change its function?” The fork grew intricate embossing in the form of growing leaves. “No, of course not. It has the same use, ornamented or not. The art is the part that serves no purpose.” “It makes me happy, Wit. That’s a purpose.” He grinned, and the fork disappeared. “Weren’t we in the middle of a story about a girl climbing a wall?” Shallan asked. “Yes, but that part takes forever,” he said. “I’m finding things to occupy us.” “We could just skip the boring part.” “Skip?” Wit said, aghast. “Skip part of a story?” Shallan snapped her fingers, and the illusion shifted so that they stood atop the wall in the darkness. The girl in the scarves finally—after toiling many days—pulled herself up beside them. “You wound me,” Wit said. “What happens next?” “The girl finds steps,” Shallan said. “And the girl realizes that the wall wasn’t to keep something in, but to keep her and her people out.” “Because?” “Because we’re monsters.” Wit stepped over to Shallan, then quietly folded his arms around her. She trembled, then twisted, burying her face in his shirt. “You’re not a monster, Shallan,” Wit whispered. “Oh, child. The world is monstrous at times, and there are those who would have you believe that you are terrible by association.” “I am.” “No. For you see, it flows the other direction. You are not worse for your association with the world, but it is better for its association with you.” She pressed against him, shivering. “What do I do, Wit?” she whispered. “I know … I know I shouldn’t be in so much pain. I had to…” She took a deep breath. “I had to kill them. I had to. But now I’ve said the words, and I can’t ignore it anymore. So I should … should just die too, for having done it.…” Wit waved to the side, toward where the girl in the scarves still overlooked a new world. What was that long pack she had set
down beside her? “So you remember,” Wit said gently, “the rest of the story?” “It’s not important. We found the moral already. The wall kept people out.” “Why?” “Because…” What had she told Pattern before, when she’d been showing him this story? “Because,” Wit said, pointing, “beyond the wall was God’s Light.” It burst alight in a sudden explosion: a brilliant and powerful brightness that lit the landscape beyond the wall. Shallan gasped as it shone over them. The girl in the scarves gasped in turn, and saw the world in all its colors for the first time. “She climbed down the steps,” Shallan whispered, watching the girl run down the steps, scarves streaming behind her. “She hid among the creatures who lived on this side. She sneaked up to the Light and she brought it back with her. To the other side. To the … to the land of shadows…” “Yes indeed,” Wit said as the scene played out, the girl in the scarves slipping up to the grand source of light, then breaking off a little piece in her hand. An incredible chase. The girl climbing the steps frantically. A crazed descent. And then … light, for the first time in the village, followed by the coming of the storms—boiling over the wall. “The people suffered,” Wit said, “but each storm brought light renewed, for it could never be put back, now that it had been taken. And people, for all their hardship, would never choose to go back. Not now that they could see.” The illusion faded, leaving the two of them standing in the common room of the building, Muri’s little chamber off to the side. Shallan pulled back, ashamed at having wept on his shirt. “Do you wish,” Wit asked, “that you could go back to not being able to see?” “No,” she whispered. “Then live. And let your failures be part of you.” “That sounds … that sounds an awful lot like a moral, Wit. Like you’re trying to do something useful.” “Well, as I said, we all fail now and then.” He swept his hands to the sides, as if brushing something away from Shallan. Stormlight curled out from her right and left, swirling, then forming into two identical versions of Shallan. They stood with ruddy hair, mottled faces, and sweeping white coats that belonged to someone else. “Wit…” she started. “Hush.” He walked up to one of the illusions, inspecting it, tapping his chin with his index finger. “A lot has happened to this poor girl, hasn’t it?” “Many people have suffered more and they get along fine.” “Fine?” Shallan shrugged, unable to banish the truths she’d spoken. The distant memory of singing to her father as she strangled him. The people she’d failed, the problems she’d caused. The illusion of Shallan to the left gasped, then backed up against the wall of the room, shaking her head. She collapsed, head down against her legs, curling up. “Poor fool,” Shallan whispered. “Everything she tries only makes the world worse. She was broken by her
father, then broke herself in turn. She’s worthless, Wit.” She gritted her teeth, found herself sneering. “It’s not really her fault, but she’s still worthless.” Wit grunted, then pointed at the second illusion, standing behind them. “And that one?” “No different,” Shallan said, tiring of this game. She gave the second illusion the same memories. Father. Helaran. Failing Jasnah. Everything. The illusory Shallan stiffened. Then set her jaw and stood there. “Yes, I see,” Wit said, strolling up to her. “No different.” “What are you doing to my illusions?” Shallan snapped. “Nothing. They’re the same in every detail.” “Of course they’re not,” Shallan said, tapping the illusion, feeling it. A sense pulsed through her from it, memories and pain. And … and something smothering them … Forgiveness. For herself. She gasped, pulling her finger back as if it had been bitten. “It’s terrible,” Wit said, stepping up beside her, “to have been hurt. It’s unfair, and awful, and horrid. But Shallan … it’s okay to live on.” She shook her head. “Your other minds take over,” he whispered, “because they look so much more appealing. You’ll never control them until you’re confident in returning to the one who birthed them. Until you accept being you.” “Then I’ll never control it.” She blinked tears. “No,” Wit said. He nodded toward the version of her still standing up. “You will, Shallan. If you do not trust yourself, can you trust me? For in you, I see a woman more wonderful than any of the lies. I promise you, that woman is worth protecting. You are worth protecting.” She nodded toward the illusion of herself still standing. “I can’t be her. She’s just another fabrication.” Both illusions vanished. “I see only one woman here,” Wit said. “And it’s the one who is standing up. Shallan, that has always been you. You just have to admit it. Allow it.” He whispered to her. “It’s all right to hurt.” He picked up his pack, then unfolded something from inside it. Veil’s hat. He pressed the hat into her palm. Shockingly, morning light was shining in the doorway. Had she been here all night, huddled in this hole of a room? “Wit?” she asked. “I … I can’t do it.” He smiled. “There are certain things I know, Shallan. This is one of them. You can. Find the balance. Accept the pain, but don’t accept that you deserved it.” Pattern hummed in appreciation of that. But, it wasn’t as easy as Wit said. She took in a breath, and felt … a shiver run through her. Wit collected his things, pack over his shoulder. He smiled, then stepped out into the light. Shallan released her breath, feeling foolish. She followed Wit out into the light, emerging into the market, which hadn’t quite woken up yet. She didn’t see Wit outside, but that was no surprise. He had a way of being where he shouldn’t, but not being where you’d expect. Carrying Veil’s hat, she walked the street, feeling odd to be herself in trousers and coat. Red hair,
but a safehand glove. Should she hide? Why? This felt … fine. She walked all the way back to the tailor’s shop and peeked in. Adolin sat at a table inside, bleary-eyed. He stood upright. “Shallan? We were worried! Vathah said you should have come back!” “I—” He embraced her, and she relaxed into him. She felt … better. Not well yet. It was all still there. But something about Wit’s words … I see only one woman here. The one who is standing up. Adolin still held her for a time, as if he needed to reassure himself. “I know you’re fine, of course,” he said. “I mean, you’re basically unkillable, right?” Finally, he pulled back—still holding her shoulders—and looked down at her outfit. Should she explain? “Nice,” Adolin said. “Shallan, that’s sharp. The red on white.” He stepped back, nodding. “Did Yokska make that for you? Let me see the hat on you.” Oh, Adolin, she thought, pulling on the hat. “The jacket is a hair too loose,” Adolin said. “But the style is a really good match. Bold. Crisp.” He cocked his head. “Would look better with a sword at your waist. Maybe…” He trailed off. “Do you hear that?” She turned, frowning. It sounded like marching. “A parade this early?” They looked out at the street and found Kaladin approaching along with what seemed to be an army of five or six hundred men, wearing the uniforms of the Wall Guard. Adolin sighed softly. “Of course. He’s probably their leader now or something. Storming bridgeboy.” Kaladin marched his men right up to the front of the tailor’s shop. She and Adolin stepped out to meet him, and she heard Elhokar scrambling down the steps inside, shouting at what he’d apparently seen out the window. Kaladin was speaking softly with a woman in armor, helm under her arm, face crossed by a pair of scars. Highmarshal Azure was younger than Shallan had expected. The soldiers grew hushed as they saw Adolin, then the king, who was already dressed. “So that’s what you meant,” Azure said to Kaladin. “Stormblessed?” Elhokar asked. “What is this?” “You’ve been wanting an army to attack the palace, Your Majesty,” Kaladin said. “Well, we’re ready.” As the duly appointed keepers of the perfect gems, we of the Elsecallers have taken the burden of protecting the ruby nicknamed Honor’s Drop. Let it be recorded. —From drawer 20-10, zircon Adolin Kholin washed his face with a splash of cold water, then rubbed it clean with a washrag. He was tired—he’d spent much of the night fretting about Shallan’s failure to return. Below, in the shop proper, he could hear the others stomping about as they made last-minute preparations for the assault. An assault on the palace, his home for many years. He took a deep breath. Something was wrong. He fidgeted, checking his belt knife, the emergency bandages in his pocket. He checked the glyphward Shallan had made him at his request—determination—wrapped around his forearm. Then he finally realized what was bothering him. He summoned his Shardblade.
It was thick at the base, as wide as a man’s palm, and the front waved like the ripples of a moving eel. The back had small crystalline protrusions growing out of it. No sheath could hold a weapon like this, and no mortal sword could imitate it—not without growing unusably heavy. You knew a Shardblade when you saw one. That was the point. Adolin held the weapon before him in the lavatory, looking at his reflection in the metal. “I don’t have my mother’s necklace,” he said, “or any of the other traditions I used to follow. I never really needed those. I’ve only ever needed you.” He took a deep breath. “I guess … I guess you used to be alive. The others say they can hear your screaming if they touch you. That you’re dead, yet somehow still in pain. I’m sorry. I can’t do anything about that, but … thank you. Thank you for assisting me all these years. And if it helps, I’m going to use you to do something good today. I’ll try to always use you that way.” He felt better as he dismissed the Blade. Of course, he carried another weapon: his belt knife, long and thin. A weapon intended for stabbing armored men. It had felt so satisfying to shove it through Sadeas’s eye. He still didn’t know whether to feel ashamed or proud. He sighed, checked himself in the mirror, then made another quick decision. When he walked down the steps to the main room a short time later, he was wearing his Kholin uniform. His skin missed the softer silk and better form of the tailored outfit, but he found he walked taller in this one. Despite the fact that a part of him, deep down, worried he didn’t deserve to bear his father’s glyphs any longer. He nodded to Elhokar, who was speaking with the strange woman known as Highmarshal Azure. “My scouts have been driven back,” she said. “But they saw enough, Your Majesty. The Voidbringer army is here, in its strength. They’ll attack today or tomorrow for certain.” “Well,” Elhokar said. “I suppose I understand why you did what you had to in taking control of the Guard. I can’t very well have you hanged as a usurper. Good work, Highmarshal.” “I … appreciate that?” Shallan, Kaladin, Skar, and Drehy were standing with a palace map. They needed to memorize the layout. Adolin and Elhokar, of course, already knew it. Shallan had chosen not to change out of the fetching white outfit she’d been wearing earlier. It would be more functional for an assault than a skirt. Storms, there was something about a woman in trousers and a coat. Elhokar left Azure to take reports from some of her men. Nearby in the room, a few lighteyed men saluted him—the highlords he and Adolin had revealed themselves to the night before. All they’d needed to do was walk away from the spheres powering their illusions, and their true faces had become manifest. Some of these men were opportunists,
but many were loyalists. They’d brought some hundred men-at-arms with them—not as many as Kaladin had brought from the Wall Guard, but still, Elhokar seemed proud of what he had done in gathering them. As well he should. Together, he and Adolin joined the Radiants near the front of the shop. Elhokar waved for the highlords to join them, then spoke firmly. “Is everyone clear?” Elhokar asked. “Storm the palace,” Kaladin said. “Seize the Sunwalk, cross to the Oathgate platform, hold it while Shallan tries to drive away the Unmade like she did in Urithiru. Then we activate the Oathgate, and bring troops to Kholinar.” “The control building is completely overgrown with that black heart, Your Majesty,” Shallan said. “I don’t truly know how I drove away the Midnight Mother—and I certainly don’t know that I’ll be able to do the same here.” “But you’re willing to try?” the king asked. “Yes.” She took a deep breath. Adolin squeezed her on the shoulder reassuringly. “Windrunner,” the king said. “The duty I give you and your men is to get Queen Aesudan and the heir to safety. If the Oathgate works, we take them that way. If not, you must fly them out of the city.” Adolin glanced at the highlords, who seemed to be taking all of this—the arrival of Knights Radiant, the king’s decision to storm his own palace—in stride. He knew a little of how they felt. Voidbringers, Everstorm, corrupted spren in the city … eventually, you stopped being shocked at what happened to you. “Are we sure this path across the Sunwalk is the best way?” Kaladin asked, pointing at the map Drehy was holding. He moved his finger from the palace’s eastern gallery, along the Sunwalk onto the Oathgate platform. Adolin nodded. “It’s the best way to the Oathgate. Those narrow steps up the outside of that plateau would be murder to storm. Our best chance is to go up the palace’s front steps, bring down the doors with our Shardblades, and fight through the entryway to the eastern gallery. From there, you can go up to the right to reach the king’s quarters, or go straight across the Sunwalk.” “I don’t relish fighting along this corridor,” Kaladin said. “We have to assume that the Fused will join the battle on the side of the Palace Guard.” “It’s possible I can distract them, if they do come,” Shallan said. Kaladin grunted and didn’t complain further. He saw, as Adolin did. This wasn’t going to be an easy fight—there were a lot of choke points the defenders could use. But what else could they do? In the distance, drums had begun sounding. From the walls. Kaladin looked toward them. “Another raid?” one of the highlords asked. “Worse,” Kaladin said as, behind them, Azure cursed softly. “That’s the signal that the city’s under attack.” Azure pushed out the front doors of the tailor’s shop, and the rest of them followed. Most of the six hundred men here belonged to the Wall Guard, and some stepped toward the distant walls, gripping
spears and shields. “Steady, men,” Azure called. “Your Majesty, the bulk of my soldiers are dying on the wall in a hopeless fight. I’m here because Stormblessed convinced me that the only way to help them is to take that palace. So if we’re going to do it, the time is now.” “We march, then!” Elhokar said. “Highmarshal, Brightlords, pass the word to your forces. Organize ranks! We march on the palace at my command!” Adolin turned as some Fused coursed through the sky along the distant wall. Enemy Surgebinders. Storms. He shook his head and hurried over to Yokska and her husband. They had watched all this—the arrival of an army on their doorstep, the preparations for an assault—with bewilderment. “If the city holds,” Adolin said, “you’ll be fine. But if it falls…” He took a deep breath. “Reports from other cities indicate that there won’t be wholesale slaughter. The Voidbringers are here to occupy, not exterminate. I’d still suggest you prepare to flee the city and make your way to the Shattered Plains.” “The Shattered Plains?” Yokska asked, aghast. “But Brightlord, that’s hundreds and hundreds of miles!” “I know,” he said, wincing. “Thank you so much for taking us in. We’re going to do what we can to stop this.” Nearby, Elhokar approached the timid ardent who had come with Azure. He had been hurriedly painting glyphwards for the soldiers, and jumped as Elhokar took him by the shoulder and shoved an object into his hand. “What’s this?” the ardent asked, nervous. “It’s a spanreed,” Elhokar said. “A half hour after my army marches, you are to contact Urithiru and warn them to get their forces ready to transfer here, via the Oathgate.” “I can’t use a fabrial! The screamers—” “Steady, man! The enemy may be too preoccupied by their attack to notice you. But even if they do, you must take the risk. Our armies must be ready. The fate of the city could depend upon this.” The ardent nodded, pale. Adolin joined the troops, calming his nerves by force. Just another battle. He’d been in dozens, if not hundreds of those. But storms, he was used to empty fields of stone, not streets. Nearby, a small group of guardsmen chatted softly. “We’ll be fine,” one of them was saying. He was a shorter man, clean-shaven, though he had strikingly hairy arms. “I tell you, I saw my own death up there on the wall. She streaked toward me, lance held right toward my heart. I looked in those red eyes, and I saw myself dying. Then … he was there. He shot from the tower window like an arrow and crashed into the Voidbringer. That spear was meant for my life, and he changed fate, I tell you. I swear, he was glowing when he did it.…” We’re entering an era of gods, Adolin thought. Elhokar raised his Shardblade high and gave the command. They marched through the city, passing worried refugees. Rows of buildings with doors shut tight, as if in preparation for a storm. Eventually, the
palace rose before the army like an obsidian block. The very stones seemed to have changed color. Adolin summoned his Shardblade, and the sight of it seemed to give comfort to the men nearby. Their march took them toward the northern section of the city, near the city wall. Here, the Fused were visible, attacking the troops. A strange thumping started, and Adolin took it as another set of drums—until a head crested the top of the wall nearest them. Storms! It had an enormous stone wedge of a face that reminded him of that of some greatshell beast, though its eyes were just red spots glowing from deep within. The monster pulled itself up by one arm. It didn’t seem quite as tall as the city walls, but it was still enormous. Fused buzzed about as it swatted along the wall—spraying defenders like cremlings—then smashed a guard tower. Adolin realized that he, along with much of their force, had stopped to stare at the daunting sight. The ground trembled as stones tumbled down a few blocks away, smashing into buildings. “Keep moving!” Azure called. “Storms! They’re trying to get in and beat us to the palace!” The monster ripped apart the guard tower, then with a casual flip tossed a boulder the size of a horse toward them. Adolin gaped, feeling powerless as the rock inexorably hurtled toward him and the troops. Kaladin rose into the air on a streak of light. He hit the stone and rolled with it, twisting and tumbling in the air. His glow diminished severely. The boulder lurched. It somehow changed momentum, tossed away from Kaladin like a pebble flicked off the table. It crested the city wall, narrowly missing the monster that had thrown it. Adolin faintly heard spren begin to scream, but that was drowned out by the sounds of rock falling and people on the streets shouting. Kaladin renewed himself with Stormlight from his pack. He was carrying most of the gemstones they’d brought from Urithiru, a wealth from the emerald reserve, to use in their mission and in opening the Oathgate. Drehy rose into the air beside him, then Skar, who had Lashed Shallan upward as well. Adolin knew she was basically immortal, but it was still strange to see her here, on the front lines. “We’ll distract the Fused,” Kaladin shouted to Adolin, pointing at a group of figures flying through the air in their direction. “And—if we can—we’ll seize the Sunwalk. Get in through the palace, and meet with us in the eastern gallery!” They zipped off. In the near distance, the monster started pounding on the gates there, cracking and splintering the wood. “Forward!” Azure yelled. Adolin charged, running up beside Elhokar and Azure. They reached the palace grounds and surged up the steps. At the top, soldiers in very similar uniforms—black and a darker blue, but still Kholin—withdrew, shutting the palace’s front doors. “King’s Guard,” Adolin shouted, pointing at a group of men in red who had been designated as Elhokar’s honor guard. “Be sure to watch the
king’s flanks as he cuts! Don’t let the enemy strike at him as the door falls!” Men crowded up the steps, taking positions along the front of the palace’s front porch. They held spears, though some were lighteyed. Adolin, Azure, and Elhokar each went to a separate door atop the steps. Here, the front of the palace roof—held up by thick columns—shielded them from the stones that the creature was flinging. Teeth gritted, Adolin rammed his Blade into the crack between the thick wooden palace door and the wall. He swiped upward quickly, cutting through both hinges and the bar that had been thrown on the inside. After another slice down the other side freed the door, he stepped back into position. It fell inward with a crash. Immediately, the enemy soldiers inside rammed spears outward, hoping to catch Adolin. He danced back, and didn’t dare swing. Wielding a Shardblade with one hand was a challenge, even when you didn’t have to worry about hitting your own men. He skipped to the side and let the Wall Guard attack the doorway. Adolin, instead, moved over beside a group of soldiers who had come with Highlord Urimil. Here, Adolin cut through a section of the wall, making an improvised doorway that the soldiers shoved open. He moved down the long porch, opening another, then a third. That done, he peeked in on Elhokar, who had stepped through his felled door, and was now inside the palace. He swept about himself with his Blade in a one-handed grip, shield held in the other. He opened a pocket in the enemy soldiers, having killed dozens already. Careful, Elhokar, Adolin thought. Remember, you don’t have Plate. Adolin pointed at a platoon of soldiers. “Reinforce the King’s Guard, and make sure he doesn’t get overwhelmed. If he does, shout for me.” They saluted, and Adolin stepped back. Azure had cut down her door, but her Shardblade wasn’t as long as the other two. She was leading a more conservative attack, cutting the ends off spears as they rammed out toward her men. As he watched, she stabbed an enemy soldier who tried to push through. Remarkably, his eyes didn’t burn, though his skin did go a strange ashen grey as he died. Blood of my fathers, Adolin thought. What’s wrong with her Blade? Even with all the opened doorways, getting into the palace was slow going. The men inside had formed shield-wall rings around the doorways, and the fighting mostly happened with men using short spears to stab at each other. Some platoons of Wall Guard brought in longer pikes to break the ranks of defenders, preparing for a surge. “You men ever flank-shielded a Shardbearer?” Adolin said to the nearest squad of soldiers. “No sir,” said one of the men. “But we’ve done the training.…” “It’ll have to do,” Adolin said, taking his Blade in two hands. “I’m going in that center hole. Stay close and keep the spears off my sides. I’ll be careful not to catch you in my sweeps.” “Yes, sir!” their squadleader
said. Adolin took a deep breath, then approached the opening. The interior bristled with spears. Like the proverbial whitespine’s den. At Adolin’s instruction, a soldier on his side faced his men and did a countdown with one hand. As the last finger dropped, the soldiers at the doorway fell back. Adolin charged through into the palace entry hall, with its marble floors and high vaulted ceilings. The enemy thrust a dozen spears at him. He ducked low, taking a slice on the shoulder as he did a two-handed sweep, cutting a group of soldiers at the knees. The enemy dropped, their legs ruined by the Shardblade. Four men followed him in and raised shields at his sides. Adolin attacked forward, hacking the fronts off spears, cutting at hands. Storms … the men he fought were too silent. They’d cry in pain if stabbed, or grunt with exertion, but they otherwise seemed muted—as if the darkness smothered their emotions. Adolin took his Blade in an overhead grip and fell into Stonestance, swiping down with precise cuts, felling man after man in a careful, controlled set of strikes. His soldiers protected his flanks, while the wide reach of the Blade protected his front. Eyes burned. The shield line wavered. “Fall back three steps!” Adolin shouted to his men, then transitioned to Windstance and swept outward with wide, flowing sweeps. In the passion and beauty of dueling, he sometimes forgot how terrible a weapon Shardblades were. Here, as he rampaged among the faltering line, it was all too obvious. He killed eight men in a moment, and completely destroyed the defensive line. “Go!” he shouted, pointing with his Blade. Men surged through the doorway and seized the ground just inside the entry hall. Nearby, Elhokar stood tall, his narrow Shardblade glittering as he called commands. Soldiers fell, dying and cursing—the true sounds of battle. The price of conflict. The enemy finally broke, falling back through the entry hall—which was too large to hold—toward the narrower hallway leading to the eastern gallery. “Pull out the wounded!” Azure called, stepping in. “Seventh Company, hold that far side of the room, make sure they don’t try to rush back in. Third Company, sweep the wings and make sure there aren’t any surprises.” Curiously, Azure had removed her cloak and wrapped it half around her left arm. Adolin had never seen anything like it; perhaps she was accustomed to fighting in Plate. Adolin got some water, then let a surgeon bandage the shallow cut he’d taken. Though the depths of the palace felt like caverns, this entryway was glorious. Walls of marble, polished and reflective. Grand staircases, and a bright red rug down the center. He’d burned that as a child once, playing with a candle. Cut bandaged, he joined Azure, Elhokar, and several of the highlords, who were studying the wide corridor that led to the eastern gallery. The enemy had formed an excellent shield wall here. They’d settled in, and men in the second rank had crossbows ready and waiting. “That’s going to be crimson to break,”
Azure said. “We’ll fight for every inch.” Outside, the crashing at the gate finally grew silent. “They’re in,” Adolin guessed. “That breach isn’t far from here.” Highlord Shaday grunted. “Maybe our enemies will turn against one another? Can we hope the Voidbringers and the Palace Guard will start fighting each other?” “No,” Elhokar said. “The forces that have darkened the palace belong to the enemy who now fights quickly to reach us. They know the danger the Oathgate presents.” “Agreed,” Adolin said. “This palace will soon be swarming with parshman troops.” “Gather your men,” Elhokar said to the group. “Azure has command of the assault. Highmarshal, you must clear this hallway.” One of the highlords looked at the woman and cleared his throat, but then decided not to say anything. Grim, Azure commanded archers to use shortbows to try to soften the enemy. But that shield wall was built to hold out against arrows, so Azure gave the order, and her men advanced against the fortified enemy. Adolin looked away as the corridor became a meat grinder, crossbow bolts smacking against men in waves. The Wall Guard had shields too, but they had to risk advancing, and a crossbow could punch. Adolin had never been good at this part of battlefield fighting. Storm it, he wanted to be at the front, leading the charge. The rational part of him knew that would be stupid. You didn’t risk your Shardbearers in such a charge, not unless they had Plate. “Your Majesty,” an officer called to Elhokar, crossing the entryway. “We found an oddity.” Elhokar nodded for Adolin to take care of it, and—glad for the distraction—he jogged over to meet up with the man. “What?” “Closed door to the palace garrison,” the man said, “rigged to lock from the outside.” Curious. Adolin hiked after the man, passing an improvised triage station where a couple of surgeons knelt among painspren, seeing to men who had been wounded in the initial assault. They’d be far busier once the push down the hallway was finished. To the west of the entryway was the palace garrison, a large housing for soldiers. A group of Azure’s men were studying the door—which had indeed been rigged to lock shut from the outside with a metal bar. Judging from the splintered wood, whatever was inside had tried to get out. “Open it,” Adolin said, summoning his Shardblade. The soldiers cautiously lifted aside the bar, then eased open the door, one holding out some spheres for light. They didn’t find monsters, but a group of dirty men in Palace Guard uniforms. They had gathered at the noise outside, and at seeing Adolin, a few of them fell to their knees, letting out relieved praises to the Almighty. “Your Highness?” said a younger Alethi man with captain’s knots on his shoulder. “Oh, Prince Adolin. It is you. Or is this … is this somehow a cruel deception?” “It’s me,” Adolin said. “Sidin? Storms, man! I barely recognize you through that beard. What happened?” “Sir! Something’s wrong with the queen. First she killed
that ardent, and then executed Brightlord Kaves.…” He took a deep breath. “We’re traitors, sir.” “She culled the Guard, sir,” another man said. “Locked us in here because we wouldn’t obey. Practically forgot about us.” Adolin breathed out a relieved sigh. The fact that the entire Guard hadn’t simply gone along with her … well, it lifted a burden from his shoulders, one he hadn’t realized he’d been carrying. “We’re taking back the palace,” Adolin said. “Gather your men, Sidin, and meet up with the surgeons in the main entryway. They’ll look you over, get you some water, take your reports.” “Sir!” Sidin said. “If you’re storming the palace, we want to join you.” Many of the others nodded. “Join us? You’ve been locked in here for weeks, men! I don’t expect that you’re fit for combat.” “Weeks?” Sidin said. “Surely it’s only been a few days, Brightlord.” He scratched at a beard that seemed to argue with that sentiment. “We’ve only eaten … what, three times since being thrown in here?” Several of the others nodded. “Take them to the surgeons,” Adolin said to the scouts who had fetched him. “But … get spears for the ones who claim to be strong enough to hold them. Sidin, your men will be reserves. Don’t push yourselves too hard.” Back in the main entryway, Adolin passed a surgeon working on a man in a Palace Guard uniform. To the surgeons, it didn’t matter if you were an enemy—they were helping any who needed their attention. That was fine, but this man stared up with glazed eyes, and didn’t cry or groan like a wounded man should. He only whispered to himself. I know him too, Adolin realized, searching for the name. Dod? That’s it. That’s what we called him, anyway. He reported to the king what he’d found. Ahead, Azure’s men were making a final push to claim the hallway. They’d left dozens dying, staining the carpet a darker shade of red. Adolin had the distinct sense that he could hear something. Over the din of the fighting, over the shouts of men echoing against the walls. A quiet voice that somehow cut to his soul. Passion. Sweet passion. The Palace Guard finally relinquished the hallway, retreating through two sets of broad double doors at the other end. Those would lead to the eastern gallery; the doors weren’t very defensible, but the enemy was obviously trying to buy as much time as possible. Some soldiers cleared bodies out of the way, preparing the way for Adolin and Elhokar to cut down the doors. The wood, however, started shaking before they could strike. Adolin backed up, presenting his Blade in Windstance by habit, ready to strike at what came through. The door opened, revealing a glowing figure. “Stormfather…” Adolin whispered. Kaladin shone with a powerful brilliance, his eyes beacons of blue, streaming with Stormlight. He gripped a glowing metallic spear that was easily twelve feet long. Behind him, Skar and Drehy also glowed brilliantly, looking little like the affable bridgemen who had protected Adolin
on the Shattered Plains. “The gallery is secure,” Kaladin said, Stormlight puffing from his lips. “The enemy you pushed back has fled up the steps. Your Majesty, I suggest you send Azure’s men onto the Sunwalk to hold it.” Adolin ducked into the eastern gallery, followed by a flood of soldiers, Azure calling commands. Straight ahead was the entrance to the Sunwalk, an open-sided walkway. On it, Adolin was surprised to see not only guard corpses, but three prominent bodies in blue. Kaladin, Skar, Drehy. Illusions? “Worked better than fighting them off,” Shallan said, stepping up to his side. “The flying ones are distracted by the fighting at the city wall, so they left the moment they thought the bridgemen had fallen.” “We pushed another force of Palace Guards back into the monastery first,” Kaladin said, pointing. “We’re going to need an army to scrape them out.” Azure looked to Elhokar, who nodded, so she started giving the commands. Shallan clicked her tongue, prodding at Adolin’s bandaged shoulder, but he assured her it was nothing serious. The king strode through the gallery, then looked up the broad stairs. “Your Majesty?” Kaladin called. “I’m going to lead a force up to the royal chambers,” Elhokar said. “Someone needs to find out what happened to Aesudan, what happened to this whole storming city.” The glow faded from Kaladin’s eyes, his Stormlight running low. His clothing seemed to droop, his feet settling more solidly on the ground. He suddenly seemed a man again, and Adolin found that more relaxing. “I’ll go with him,” Kaladin said softly to Adolin, handing him the pack of emeralds, after picking out two brilliant ones for himself. “Take Skar and Drehy, and get Shallan to the Unmade.” “Sounds good,” Adolin said. He picked out some soldiers to go with the king: a platoon from the Wall Guard, a handful of the armsmen the highlords had brought. And—after some thought—he added Sidin and half a platoon of the men who had been imprisoned in the palace. “Those troops refused the queen’s orders,” Adolin said to Elhokar, nodding to Sidin. “They seem to have resisted the influence of whatever’s going on in here, and they’ll know the palace better than the Wall Guard.” “Excellent,” Elhokar said, then started up the steps. “Don’t wait for us. If Brightness Davar is successful, go right to Urithiru and bring our armies back.” Adolin nodded, then gave Kaladin a quick salute—tapping his wrists together with hands in fists. The Bridge Four salute. “Good luck, bridgeboy.” Kaladin smiled, his silvery spear vanishing as he gave the salute back, then hustled after the king. Adolin jogged over to Shallan, who was staring along the Sunwalk. Azure had claimed it with her soldiers, but hadn’t advanced onto the Oathgate platform beyond. Adolin rested his hand on Shallan’s shoulder. “They’re there,” she whispered. “Two of them, this time. Last night, Adolin … I had to run. The revel was getting inside my head.” “I’ve heard it,” he said, resummoning his Blade. “We’ll face it together. Like last time.” Shallan took
a deep breath, then summoned Pattern as a Shardblade. She held the Blade before herself in a common stance. “Good form,” Adolin said. “I had a good teacher.” They advanced across the Sunwalk, passing fallen enemy soldiers—and a single dead Fused, pinned to a cleft in the rock by what appeared to be his own lance. Shallan lingered at the corpse, but Adolin pulled her along until they reached the monastery proper. Azure’s soldiers advanced at his command, engaging Palace Guards here to secure a path toward the center. As they waited, Adolin stepped up to the edge of the plateau and surveyed the city. His home. It was falling. The nearest gate had been broken completely open, and parshmen flooded through it toward the palace. Others had taken the walls via ladder crews, and those were pushing down into the city at other points, including near the palace gardens. That enormous stone monstrosity moved along the wall on the inside, reaching up and slapping at guard towers. A large group of people in varied costumes had surged down Talan Way, passing along one of the windblades. The Cult of Moments? He couldn’t be certain what part they’d played, but parshmen were flooding the city in that direction as well. We can fix this, Adolin thought. We can bring our armies in, hold the palace hill, push back to the walls. They had dozens of Shardbearers. They had Bridge Four and other Surgebinders. They could save this city. He just needed to get them here. Soon, Azure approached with a platoon of thirty men. “The pathway inward is secure, though a knot of the enemy still holds the very center. I’ve spared a few men to scour nearby buildings. It looks like the people you mentioned—the ones who were reveling last night—are slumbering inside. They don’t move, even when we prod them.” Adolin nodded, then led the way toward the center of the plateau, Shallan and Azure following. They passed battle lines of Azure’s soldiers, who were holding the streets. He soon saw the main force of the enemy, collected on a path between monastery buildings, barring the way to the Oathgate’s control building. Spurred by the urgency of Kholinar’s predicament, Adolin took point and swept among the enemy, burning their eyes with his Blade. He broke their line, though one straggler almost got in a lucky strike. Skar, fortunately, seemed to appear out of nowhere; the bridgeman caught the blow with his shield, then rammed a spear through the guardsman’s chest. “How many is that I owe you now?” Adolin asked. “I wouldn’t think to keep count, Brightlord,” Skar said with a grin, glowing light puffing from his lips. Drehy joined them, and they chased the routed enemy past the King’s Chapel, finally reaching the control building. Adolin had always known it as the Circle of Memories, merely another part of the monastery. As Shallan had warned, it was overgrown with a dark mass that pulsed and throbbed, like a pitch-black heart. Dark veins spread from it like roots, pulsating in
time with the heart. “Storms…” Drehy whispered. “All right,” Shallan said, walking forward. “Guard this area. I’ll see what I can do.” The enemy makes another push toward Feverstone Keep. I wish we knew what it was that had them so interested in that area. Could they be intent on capturing Rall Elorim? —From drawer 19-2, third topaz Kaladin charged up the broad stairs, followed by some fifty soldiers. Stormlight pulsed within him, lending a spring to each step. The Fused had taken time to come attack him on the Sunwalk, and had left soon after Shallan had created her ruse. He could only assume that the city assault was consuming the enemy’s attention, which meant he might be able to use his powers without drawing immediate reprisal. Elhokar led the way, brilliant Shardblade carried in a two-handed grip. They twisted around at a landing and charged up another flight. Elhokar didn’t seem to care that each step took them farther from the bulk of their army. “Up the stairs,” he said softly to Syl. “Check for an ambush on each floor.” “Yessir, commander sir, Radiant sir,” she said, and zipped off. A moment later she zipped back down. “Lots of men on the third floor, but they’re backing away from the stairwell. Doesn’t look like an ambush.” Kaladin nodded, then slowed Elhokar with a touch on the arm. “We have a reception waiting,” Kaladin said. He pointed at a squad of soldiers. “It seems the king lost his guards somewhere. You’re now them. If we get into combat, keep His Majesty from being surrounded.” He pointed at another group. “You men are … Beard?” “Yes, Kal?” the stocky guardsman said. He hesitated, then saluted. “Um, sir?” Behind him were Noro, Ved, Alaward, and Vaceslv … Kaladin’s entire squad from the Wall Guard. Noro shrugged. “Without the captain, we don’t have a proper platoon leader. Figured we should stick with you.” Beard nodded and rubbed at the glyphward wrapping his right arm. Fortune, it read. “Good to have you,” Kaladin said. “Try to keep me from being flanked, but give me space if you can.” “Don’t crowd you,” Lieutenant Noro said, “and don’t let anyone else crowd you either. Can do, sir.” Kaladin looked to the king and nodded. The two of them took the last few steps up to the landing to emerge into a broad stone hallway, carpeted down the center but otherwise unornamented. Kaladin had expected the palace to be more lavish, but it appeared that even here—in the seat of their power—the Kholins preferred buildings that felt like bunkers. Funny, after hearing them complain that their fortresses on the Shattered Plains lacked comfort. Syl was right. A platoon of enemy soldiers had formed up down the hall, holding halberds or crossbows, but seemed content to wait. Kaladin prepared Stormlight; he could paint the walls with a power that would cause crossbow bolts to veer aside in their flight, but it was far from a perfect art. It was the power he understood the least. “Do you not see
me?” Elhokar bellowed. “Do you not know your monarch? Are you so far consumed by the touch of the spren that you would kill your own king?” Storms … those soldiers barely seemed to be breathing. At first they didn’t move—then a few looked backward, down the hallway. Was that a distant voice? The palace soldiers immediately broke formation and retreated. Elhokar set his jaw, then led the way after them. Each step made Kaladin more anxious. He didn’t have the troops to properly hold their retreat; all he could do was post a pair of men at each intersection, with instructions to yell if they saw someone coming down the cross hallways. They passed a corridor lined with statues of the Heralds. Nine of them, at least. One was missing. Kaladin sent Syl ahead to watch, but that left him feeling even more exposed. Everyone but him seemed to know the way, which made sense, but it made him feel carried along on some sort of tide. They finally reached the royal chambers, marked by a broad set of doors, open and inviting. Kaladin stopped his men thirty feet from the opening, near a corridor that split off to the left. Even from here, he could see that the chamber beyond the doors finally displayed some of the lavish ornamentation he had expected. Rich carpets, too much furniture, everything covered in embroidery or gilding. “There are soldiers down that smaller hallway to the left,” Syl said, zipping back to him. “There isn’t a single one in the room ahead, but … Kaladin, she’s in there. The queen.” “I can hear her,” Elhokar said. “That’s her voice, singing.” I know that tune, Kaladin thought. Something about her soft song was familiar. He wanted to advise caution, but the king was already hurrying forward, a worried squad of men following. Kaladin sighed, then arranged his remaining men; half stayed back to watch their retreat, and the other half formed up at the left hallway to stare down the Palace Guard. Storms. If this went wrong he’d have a bloodbath on his hands, with the king trapped in the middle. Still, this was why they’d come up here. He followed the queen’s song and entered the room. * * * Shallan stepped up to the dark heart. Even though she hadn’t studied human anatomy as much as she’d have liked—her father thought it unfeminine—in the sunlight, she could easily see that it was the wrong shape. This isn’t a human heart, she decided. Maybe it’s a parshman heart. Or, well, a giant, dark violet spren in the shape of one, growing over the Oathgate control building. “Shallan,” Adolin said. “We’re running out of time.” His voice brought to her an awareness of the city around her. Of soldiers skirmishing only one street over. Of distant drums going quiet, one at a time, as guard posts on the wall fell. Of smoke in the air, and a soft, high-pitched roar that seemed the echoes of thousands upon thousands of people shouting in the chaos of
a city being conquered. She tried Pattern first, stabbing him into the heart as a Shardblade. The mass simply split around the Blade. She slashed with it, and the spren cut, then sealed up behind. So. Time to try what she’d done in Urithiru. Trembling, Shallan closed her eyes and pressed her hand against the heart. It felt real, like warm flesh. Like in Urithiru, touching the thing let her sense it. Feel it. Know it. It tried to sweep her away. * * * The queen sat at a vanity beside the wall. She was much as Kaladin had anticipated. Younger than Elhokar, with long dark Alethi hair, which she was combing. Her song had fallen away to a hum. “Aesudan?” Elhokar asked. She looked away from the mirror, then smiled broadly. She had a narrow face, with prim lips painted a deep red. She rose from the seat and glided to him. “Husband! So it was you I heard. You have returned at last? Victorious over our enemies, your father avenged?” “Yes,” Elhokar said, frowning. He moved to step toward her, but Kaladin grabbed him by the shoulder and held him back. The queen focused on Kaladin. “New bodyguard, dear one? Far too scruffy; you should have consulted me. You have an image to maintain.” “Where is Gav, Aesudan? Where is my son?” “He’s playing with friends.” Elhokar looked to Kaladin, and gestured to the side with his chin. See what you can find, it seemed to say. “Keep alert,” Kaladin whispered, then began picking through the room. He passed the remnants of lavish meals only partially eaten. Pieces of fruit each with a single bite taken out of them. Cakes and pastries. Candied meats on sticks. It looked like it should have rotted, based on the decayspren he noticed, but it hadn’t. “Dear one,” Elhokar said, keeping his distance from the queen, “we heard that the city has seen … trouble lately.” “One of my ardents tried to refound the Hierocracy. We really should keep better watch on who joins them; not every man or woman is proper for service.” “You had her executed.” “Of course. She tried to overthrow us.” Kaladin picked around a pile of musical instruments of the finest wood, sitting in a heap. Here, Syl’s voice said in his mind. Across the room. Behind the dressing screen. He passed the balcony to his left. If he remembered right—though the story had been told so often, he had heard a dozen differing versions—Gavilar and the assassin had fallen off that ledge during their struggles. “Aesudan,” Elhokar said, his voice pained. He stepped forward, extending his hand. “You’re not well. Please, come with me.” “Not well?” “There’s an evil influence in the palace.” “Evil? Husband, what a fool you are at times.” Kaladin joined Syl and glanced behind the dressing screen, which had been pushed back against the wall to section off a small cubby. Here a child—two or three years old—huddled and trembled, clutching a stuffed soldier. Several spren with soft red glows were picking at
him like cremlings at a corpse. The boy tried to turn his head, and the spren pulled on the back of his hair until he looked up, while others hovered in front of his face and took horrific shapes, like horses with melting faces. Kaladin reacted with swift, immediate rage. He growled, seizing the Sylblade from the air, forming a small dagger from mist. He drove the dagger forward and caught one of the spren, pinning it to the wall’s wooden paneling. He had never known a Shardblade to cut a spren before, but this worked. The thing screamed in a soft voice, a hundred hands coming from its shape and scraping at the Blade, at the wall, until it seemed to rip into a thousand tiny pieces, then faded. The other three red spren streaked away in a panic. In his hands, Kaladin felt Syl tremble, then groan softly. He released her, and she took the shape of a small woman. “That was … that was terrible,” she whispered, floating over to land on his shoulder. “Did we … just kill a spren?” “The thing deserved it,” Kaladin said. Syl just huddled on his shoulder, wrapping her arms around herself. The child sniffled. He was dressed in a little uniform. Kaladin glanced back at the king and queen—he’d lost track of their conversation, but they spoke in hissing, furious tones. “Oh, Elhokar,” the queen was saying. “You were ever so oblivious. Your father had grand plans, but you … all you ever wanted to do was sit in his shadow. It was for the best that you went off to play war.” “So you could stay here and … and do this?” Elhokar said, waving toward the palace. “I continued your father’s work! I found the secret, Elhokar. Spren, ancient spren. You can bond with them!” “Bond…” Elhokar’s mouth worked, as if he couldn’t understand the very word he spoke. “Have you seen my Radiants?” Aesudan asked. She grinned. “The Queen’s Guard? I’ve done what your father could not. Oh, he found one of the ancient spren, but he could never discover how to bond it. But I, I have solved the riddle.” In the dim light of the royal chambers, Aesudan’s eyes glittered. Then started to glow a deep red. “Storms!” Elhokar said, stepping back. Time to go. Kaladin reached down to try to pick up the child, but the boy screamed and scrambled away from him. That, finally, drew the king’s attention. Elhokar rushed over, throwing aside the dressing screen. He gasped, then knelt beside his son. The child, Gavinor, scooted away from his father, crying. Kaladin looked back to the queen. “How long have you been planning this?” “Planning for my husband’s return?” “I’m not talking to you. I’m talking to the thing beyond you.” She laughed. “Yelig-nar serves me. Or do you speak of the Heart of the Revel? Ashertmarn has no will; he is merely a force of consumption, mindless, to be harnessed.” Elhokar whispered something to his son. Kaladin couldn’t hear the words, but the
child stopped weeping. He looked up, blinked away tears, and finally let his father pick him up. Elhokar cradled the child, who in turn clutched his stuffed soldier. It wore blue armor. “Out,” Kaladin said. “But…” The king looked toward his wife. “Elhokar,” Kaladin said, gripping the king’s shoulder. “Be a hero to the one you can save.” The king met his eyes, then nodded, clutching the young child. He started toward the door, and Kaladin followed, keeping his eyes on the queen. She sighed loudly, stepping after them. “I feared this.” They rejoined their soldiers, then began to retreat down the hallway. Aesudan stopped in the doorway to the king’s chambers. “I have outgrown you, Elhokar. I have taken the gemstone into me, and have harnessed Yelig-nar’s power.” Something started to twist around her, a black smoke, blown as if from an unseen wind. “Double time,” Kaladin said to his men, drawing in Stormlight. He could feel it coming; he’d sensed where this would go the moment they’d started up the steps. It was almost a relief when, at last, Aesudan shouted for her soldiers to attack. * * * Give it all to me, the voices whispered in Shallan’s mind. Give me your passion, your hunger, your longing, your loss. Surrender it. You are what you feel. Shallan swam in it, lost, like in the depths of the ocean. The voices beset her from all sides. When one whispered that she was pain, Shallan became a weeping girl, singing as she twisted a chain tight around a thick neck. When another whispered that she was hunger, she became an urchin on the street, wearing rags for clothing. Passion. Fear. Enthusiasm. Boredom. Hatred. Lust. She became a new person with every heartbeat. The voices seemed thrilled by this. They assaulted her, growing to a frenzy. Shallan was a thousand people in a moment. But which one was her? All of them. A new voice. Wit’s? “Wit!” she screamed, surrounded by snapping eels in a dark place. “Wit! Please.” You’re all of them, Shallan. Why must you be only one emotion? One set of sensations? One role? One life? “They rule me, Wit. Veil and Radiant and all the others. They’re consuming me.” Then be ruled as a king is ruled by his subjects. Make Shallan so strong, the others must bow. “I don’t know if I can!” The darkness thrummed and surged. And then … withdrew? Shallan didn’t feel as if she’d changed anything, but still the darkness retreated. She found herself kneeling on the cold stones outside the control building. The enormous heart became sludge, then melted away, almost seeming to crawl, sending out runners of dark liquid before itself. “You did it!” Adolin said. I did? “Secure that building,” Azure commanded her soldiers. Drehy and Skar glowed nearby, looking grim, fresh blood on their clothing. They’d been fighting. Shallan stood up on shaky feet. The small, circular structure in front of her seemed insignificant compared to the other monastery buildings, but it was the key to everything. “This is
going to be tricky, Azure,” Adolin said. “We’re going to have to fight back down into the city, push the enemy out. Storms, I hope my father has our armies ready.” Shallan blinked, dazed. She couldn’t help feeling she’d failed. That she hadn’t done anything. “The first transfer will be only the control building,” Adolin said. “After that, she’ll swap the entire platform—buildings and all. We’ll want to move our army back into the palace before that happens.” Adolin turned, surveying the path back. “What is taking the king so long?” Shallan stepped into the control building. It looked much as the one she’d discovered at the Shattered Plains—though better maintained, and its tile mosaics on the floor were of fanciful creatures. An enormous beast with claws, and fur like a mink. Something that looked like a giant fish. On the walls, lanterns shone with gemstones—and between them hung full-length mirrors. Shallan walked toward the keyhole control device, summoning Pattern as a Blade. She studied him, then looked up at herself in one of the mirrors hanging on the wall. Someone else stood in the mirror. A woman with black hair that fell to her waist. She wore archaic clothing, a sleeveless, flowing gown that was more of a tunic, with a simple belted waist. Shallan touched her face. Why had she put this illusion on? The reflection didn’t mimic her motions, but pressed forward, raising hands against the glass. The reflected room faded and the figure distorted, and became a jet-black shadow with white holes for eyes. Radiant, the thing said, mouthing the words. My name is Sja-anat. And I am not your enemy. * * * Kaladin’s men charged down the steps in their escape, though the back ranks bunched up in the hallway around the stairwell. Behind, the Queen’s Guard set up and lowered crossbows. Sylspear held high, Kaladin stepped between the two groups and pooled Stormlight into the ground, drawing the bolts downward. He was unpracticed with this power, and unfortunately, some of the bolts still slammed into shields, even heads. Kaladin growled, then drew in a deep breath of Stormlight, bursting alight—the glow of his skin shining on the walls and ceiling of the palace hallway. The queen’s soldiers shied back before the light as if it were something physical. Distantly, he heard the screaming spren react to what he’d done. He Lashed himself in precisely the right way to rise a few feet off the ground, then float there. The queen’s soldiers blinked against the light, as if it were somehow too strong for their eyes. At last, the captain of the rearguard called the final withdrawal, and the rest of Kaladin’s men rushed down the stairs. Only Noro’s squad lingered. Some of the queen’s soldiers began to test forward at him, so he dropped to the floor and started down the steps at a run. Beard and the rest of the squad joined him, followed by the queen’s soldiers, unnaturally silent. Unfortunately, Kaladin heard something else echoing up the stairwell from down below. The sounds
of men clashing, and of familiar singing. Parshendi songs. “Rearguard!” Kaladin shouted. “Form up on the steps; orient toward the upper floor!” His soldiers obeyed, turning and leveling spears and shields at the descending enemy. Kaladin Lashed himself upward and twisted so that he hit the ceiling feet-first. He ducked and ran—passing over the heads of his men in the high stairwell—until he reached the ground floor. The first ranks of his soldiers clashed with parshman troops in the eastern gallery. But the enemy had penned them into the stairwell, so most of his troops couldn’t get down to the fight. Kaladin released his Lashing, dropping and twisting to land in a tempest of light before the parshman ranks. Several of his men groaned and cried as they fell, bloodied, to the enemy spears. Kaladin felt his rage flare, and he lowered the Sylspear. It was time to begin the work of death. Then he saw the face of the parshman in front of him. It was Sah. Former slave. Cardplayer. Father. Kaladin’s friend. * * * Shallan regarded the figure in the mirror. It had spoken. “What are you?” They call me the Taker of Secrets, the figure said. Or they once did. “One of the Unmade. Our enemies.” We were made, then unmade, she agreed. But no, not an enemy! The figure turned humanlike again, though the eyes remained glowing white. It pressed its hands against the glass. Ask my son. Please. “You’re of him. Odium.” The figure glanced to the sides, as if frightened. No. I am of me. Now, only of me. Shallan considered, then looked at the keyhole. By using Pattern in that, she could initiate the Oathgate. Don’t do it, Sja-anat pled. Listen, Radiant. Listen to my plea. Ashertmarn fled on purpose. It is a trap. I was compelled to touch the spren of this device, so it will not function as you wish. * * * Kaladin’s will to fight evaporated. He’d been stoked with energy, ready to enter the battle and protect his men. But … Sah recognized him and gasped, then grabbed his companion—Khen, one of the others Kaladin knew—and pointed. The parshwoman cursed, and the group of them scrambled away from the steps—leaving dead human soldiers. In the opening provided, Kaladin’s men pushed down off the steps into the grand hall. They surged around Kaladin as—stunned—he lowered his spear. The large, pillared hall became a scene of utter chaos. Azure’s soldiers rushed in from the Sunwalk, meeting the parshmen who came up the stairs from the back of the palace—they’d likely broken in through the gardens there. The king held his son, standing amid a group of soldiers in the very center. Kaladin’s men managed to get down off the steps, and behind them rushed the Queen’s Guard. It all churned into a melee. Battle lines disintegrated, and platoons shattered, men fighting alone or in pairs. It was a battlefield commander’s nightmare. Hundreds of men mixing and screaming and fighting and dying. Kaladin saw them. All of them. Sah and the parshmen,
fighting to keep their freedom. The guardsmen who had been rescued, fighting for their king. Azure’s Wall Guard, terrified as their city fell around them. The Queen’s Guard, convinced they were loyally following orders. In that moment, Kaladin lost something precious. He’d always been able to trick himself into seeing a battle as us against them. Protect those you love. Kill everyone else. But … but they didn’t deserve death. None of them did. He locked up. He froze, something that hadn’t happened to him since his first days in Amaram’s army. The Sylspear vanished in his fingers, puffing to mist. How could he fight? How could he kill people who were just doing the best they could? “Stop!” he finally bellowed. “Stop it! Stop killing each other!” Nearby, Sah rammed Beard through with a spear. “STOP! PLEASE!” Noro responded by running through Jali—one of the other parshmen Kaladin had known. Ahead, Elhokar’s ring of guards fell, and a member of the Queen’s Guard managed to ram the point of a halberd into the king’s arm. Elhokar gasped, dropping his Shardblade from pained fingers, holding his son close with his other arm. The Queen’s Guardsman pulled back, eyes widening—as if seeing the king for the first time. One of Azure’s soldiers cut the guardsman down in his moment of confusion. Kaladin screamed, tears streaming from his eyes. He begged them to just stop, to listen. They couldn’t hear him. Sah—gentle Sah, who had only wanted to protect his daughter—died by Noro’s sword. Noro, in turn, got his head split by Khen’s axe. Noro and Sah fell beside Beard, whose dead eyes stared sightlessly—his arm stretched out, glyphward soaking up his blood. Kaladin slumped to his knees. His Stormlight seemed to frighten off the enemies; everyone stayed away from him. Syl spun around him, begging for him to listen, but he couldn’t hear her. The king … he thought, numb. Get … get to Elhokar … Elhokar had fallen to his knees. In one arm he held his terrified son, in the other hand he held … a sheet of paper? A sketch? Kaladin could almost hear Elhokar stuttering the words. Life … life before death … The hair on Kaladin’s neck rose. Elhokar started to glow softly. Strength … before weakness … “Do it, Elhokar,” Kaladin whispered. Journey. Journey before … A figure emerged from the battle. A tall, lean man—so, so familiar. Gloom seemed to cling to Moash, who wore a brown uniform like the parshmen. For a heartbeat the battle pivoted on him. Wall Guard behind him, broken Palace Guard before. “Moash, no…” Kaladin whispered. He couldn’t move. Stormlight bled from him, leaving him empty, exhausted. Lowering his spear, Moash ran Elhokar through the chest. Kaladin screamed. Moash pinned the king to the ground, shoving aside the weeping child prince with his foot. He placed his boot against Elhokar’s throat, holding him down, then pulled the spear out and stabbed Elhokar through the eye as well. He held the weapon in place, carefully waiting until the fledgling glow around the
king faded and flickered out. The king’s Shardblade appeared from mist and clanged to the ground beside him. Elhokar, king of Alethkar, was dead. Moash pulled the spear free and glanced at the Shardblade. Then he kicked it aside. He looked at Kaladin, then quietly made the Bridge Four salute, wrists tapped together. The spear he held dripped with Elhokar’s blood. The battle broke. Kaladin’s men had been all but obliterated; the remnants escaped along the Sunwalk. A member of the Queen’s Guard scooped up the young prince and carried him away. Azure’s men limped back before the growing parshman armies. The queen descended the stairs, wreathed in black smoke, eyes glowing red. She’d transformed, strange crystal formations having pierced her skin like carapace. Her chest was glowing bright with a gemstone, as if it had replaced her heart. It shone through her dress. Kaladin turned from her and crawled toward the king’s corpse. Nearby, a member of the Queen’s Guard finally took notice of him, seizing him by the arm. And then … light. Glowing Stormlight flooded the chamber as twin Radiants exploded out from the Sunwalk. Drehy and Skar swept through the enemy, driving them back with sweeping spears and Lashings. A second later, Adolin grabbed Kaladin under the arms and heaved him backward. “Time to go, bridgeboy.” Don’t tell anyone. I can’t say it. I must whisper. I foresaw this. —From drawer 30-20, a particularly small emerald Adolin shoved down the emotion of seeing Elhokar’s dead body. It was one of the first battlefield lessons his father had taught him. Grieve later. Adolin pulled Kaladin out along the Sunwalk while Skar and Drehy guarded their retreat, encouraging the last of the Wall Guard to run—or limp—to safety. Kaladin stumbled along. Though he didn’t appear wounded, he stared with a glazed-over look. Those were the eyes of a man who bore the kinds of wounds you couldn’t fix with bandages. They eventually poured out of the Sunwalk onto the Oathgate platform, where Azure’s soldiers held firm, her surgeons running to help the wounded who had escaped the bloodbath in the eastern gallery. Skar and Drehy dropped down to the platform, guarding the way onto the Sunwalk, to prevent the Queen’s Guard or parshmen from following. Adolin stumbled to a stop. From this vantage he could see the city. Stormfather. Tens of thousands of parshmen flooded in through the broken gates or across the nearby sections of wall. Figures glowing with dark light zipped through the air. Those seemed to be gathering in formations nearby, perhaps for an assault on the Oathgate platform. Adolin took it all in, and admitted the terrible truth. His city was lost. “All forces, hold the platform,” he heard himself saying. “But pass the word. I’m going to take us to Urithiru.” “Sir!” a soldier said. “Civilians are crowding the base of the platform, trying to get up the steps.” “Let them!” Adolin shouted. “Get as many people up here as you can. Hold against any enemy who tries to reach the platform top, but don’t
engage them if they don’t press. We’re abandoning the city. Anyone not on the platform in ten minutes will be left behind!” Adolin hurried toward the control building. Kaladin followed, dazed. After what he’s been through, Adolin thought, I wouldn’t have expected that anything could faze him. Not even Elhokar’s … Storms. Grieve later. Azure stood guard in the doorway to the control building, holding the pack full of gemstones. Hopefully, those would be enough to get everyone to safety. “Brightness Davar told me to clear everyone else out,” the highmarshal said. “Something’s wrong with the device.” Adolin cursed under his breath and stepped inside. Shallan knelt on the ground before a mirror, looking at herself. Behind, Kaladin stepped in, then settled down on the floor, placing his back to the wall. “Shallan,” Adolin said. “We need to go. Now.” “But—” “The city has fallen. Transfer the entire platform, not just the control building. We need to get as many people as we can to safety.” “My men on the wall!” Azure said. “They’re dead or routed,” Adolin said, gritting his teeth. “I don’t like it any more than you do.” “The king—” “The king is dead. The queen has joined the enemy. I’m ordering our retreat, Azure.” Adolin locked gazes with the woman. “We gain nothing by dying here.” She drew her lips to a line, but didn’t argue further. “Adolin,” Shallan whispered, “the heart was a trick. I didn’t chase it off—it left on purpose. I think … I think the Voidbringers intentionally left Kaladin and his men alone after only a brief fight. They let us come here because the Oathgate is trapped.” “How do you know?” Adolin asked. Shallan cocked her head. “I’m speaking to her.” “Her?” “Sja-anat. The Taker of Secrets. She says that if we engage the device, we’ll be caught in a disaster.” Adolin took a deep breath. “Do it anyway,” he said. * * * Do it anyway. Shallan understood the implication. How could they trust an ancient spren of Odium? Perhaps Shallan really had driven the black heart away, and—in a panic to keep the humans from escaping—Sja-anat was now stalling. Shallan looked away from the pleading figure in the mirror. The others couldn’t see her—she’d confirmed this with Azure already. “Pattern?” she whispered. “What do you think?” “Mmmm…” he said quietly. “Lies. So many lies. I don’t know, Shallan. I cannot tell you.” Kaladin slumped by the wall, staring sightlessly, as if he were dead inside. She couldn’t recall ever seeing him in such a state. “Get ready.” Shallan stood up, summoning Pattern as a Blade. Trust is not mine, said the figure in the mirror. You will not give my children a home. Not yet. Shallan pushed the Blade into the lock. It melded to match Pattern’s shape. I will show you, Sja-anat said. I will try. My promise is not strong, for I cannot know. But I will try. “Try what?” Shallan asked. Try not to kill you. With those words haunting her, Shallan engaged the Oathgate. My spren claims
that recording this will be good for me, so here I go. Everyone says I will swear the Fourth Ideal soon, and in so doing, earn my armor. I simply don’t think that I can. Am I not supposed to want to help people? —From drawer 10-12, sapphire Dalinar Kholin stood at attention, hands behind his back, one wrist gripping the other. He could see so far from his balcony at Urithiru—but it was endless miles of nothing. Clouds and rock. So much and so little, all at once. “Dalinar,” Navani said, stepping up and resting her hands on his arm. “Please. At least come inside.” They thought he was sick. They thought his collapse on the Oathgate platform had been caused by heart troubles, or fatigue. The surgeons had suggested rest. But if he stopped standing up straight, if he let it bow him down, he worried the memories would crush him. The memories of what he’d done at the Rift. The crying voices of children, begging for mercy. He forced his emotions down. “What news,” he said, embarrassed by how his voice trembled. “None,” Navani said. “Dalinar…” Word had come from Kholinar via spanreed, one that somehow still worked. An assault on the palace, an attempt to reach the Oathgate. Outside, the gathered Kholin, Aladar, and Roion armies clogged one of Urithiru’s Oathgate platforms, waiting to be taken to Kholinar to join the battle. But nothing happened. Time seeped away. It had been four hours since the first communication. Dalinar closed his mouth, eyes ahead, and stared at the expanse. At attention, like a soldier. That was how he would wait. Even though he’d never really been a soldier. He’d commanded men, ordered recruits to stand in line, inspected ranks. But he himself … he’d skipped all of that. He’d waged war in a bloodthirsty riot, not a careful formation. Navani sighed, patting him on the arm, then returned to their rooms to sit with Taravangian and a small collection of scribes and highprinces. Awaiting news from Kholinar. Dalinar stood in the breeze, wishing he could empty his mind, rid himself of memories. Go back to being able to pretend he was a good man. Problem was, he’d given in to a kind of fancy, one everyone told about him. They said the Blackthorn had been a terror on the battlefield, but still honest. Dalinar Kholin, he would fight you fair, they said. Evi’s cries, and the tears of murdered children, spoke the truth. Oh … oh, Almighty above. How could he live with this pain? So fresh, restored anew? But why pray? There was no Almighty watching. If there had been—and if he’d had a shred of justice to him—Honor would have long ago purged this world of the fraud that was Dalinar Kholin. And I had the gall to condemn Amaram for killing one squad of men to gain a Shardblade. Dalinar had burned an entire city for less. Thousands upon thousands of people. “Why did you bond me?” Dalinar whispered to the Stormfather. “Shouldn’t you have picked
a man who was just?” Just? Justice is what you brought to those people. “That was not justice. That was a massacre.” The Stormfather rumbled. I have burned and broken cities myself. I can see … yes, I see a difference now. I see pain now. I did not see it before the bond. Would Dalinar lose his bond now, in exchange for making the Stormfather increasingly aware of human morality? Why had these cursed memories returned? Couldn’t he have continued for a little longer without them? Long enough to forge the coalition, to prepare the defense of humankind? That was the coward’s route. Wishing for ignorance. The coward’s route he’d obviously taken—though he could not yet remember his visit to the Nightwatcher, he knew what he’d asked for. Relief from this awful burden. The ability to lie, to pretend he had not done such horrible things. He turned away and walked back into his rooms. He didn’t know how he’d face this—bear this burden—but today, he needed to focus on the salvation of Kholinar. Unfortunately, he couldn’t make battle plans until he knew more about the city’s situation. He entered the common room, where the core of his government had gathered. Navani and the others sat on some couches around the spanreed, waiting. They’d laid out battle maps of Kholinar, talked over strategies, but then … hours had passed with no news. It felt so frustrating to just sit here, ignorant. And it left Dalinar with too much time to think. To remember. Instead of sitting with the others, Taravangian had taken his normal place: a seat before the warming fabrial in the corner. Legs aching and back stiff, Dalinar walked over and finally let himself sit, groaning softly as he took the seat beside Taravangian. Before them, a bright red ruby glowed with heat, replacing a fire with something safer but far more lifeless. “I’m sorry, Dalinar,” Taravangian finally said. “I’m sure news will come soon.” Dalinar nodded. “Thank you for what you did when the Azish came to tour the tower.” The Azish had arrived yesterday for an initial tour, but Dalinar had been recovering from the sudden return of his memories. Well … truth was, he was still recovering. He’d welcomed them, then retired, as Taravangian had offered to lead the tour. Navani said the Azish dignitaries had all been charmed by the elderly king, and planned to return soon for a more in-depth meeting about the possibility of a coalition. Dalinar leaned forward, staring at the heating fabrial. Behind, Aladar and General Khal conversed—for probably the hundredth time—on how to recover the Kholinar walls, if they were lost by the time the Oathgate started working. “Have you ever come to the sudden realization,” Dalinar said softly, “that you’re not the man everyone thinks you are?” “Yes,” Taravangian whispered. “More daunting, however, are similar moments: when I realize I’m not the man I think of myself as being.” Stormlight swirled in the ruby. Churning. Trapped. Imprisoned. “We spoke once,” Dalinar said, “of a leader forced to either hang
an innocent man or free three murderers.” “I remember.” “How does one live after making a decision like that? Particularly if you eventually discover you made the wrong choice?” “This is the sacrifice, isn’t it?” Taravangian said softly. “Someone must bear the responsibility. Someone must be dragged down by it, ruined by it. Someone must stain their soul so others may live.” “But you’re a good king, Taravangian. You didn’t murder your way to your throne.” “Does it matter? One wrongly imprisoned man? One murder in an alley that a proper policing force could have stopped? The burden for the blood of those wronged must rest somewhere. I am the sacrifice. We, Dalinar Kholin, are the sacrifices. Society offers us up to trudge through dirty water so others may be clean.” He closed his eyes. “Someone has to fall, that others may stand.” The words were similar to things Dalinar had said, and thought, for years. Yet Taravangian’s version was somehow twisted, lacking hope or life. Dalinar leaned forward, stiff, feeling old. The two didn’t speak for a long period until the others started to stir. Dalinar stood, anxious. The spanreed was writing. Navani gasped, safehand to her lips. Teshav turned pale, and May Aladar sat back in her seat, looking sick. The spanreed cut off abruptly and dropped to the page, rolling as it landed. “What?” Dalinar demanded. “What does it say?” Navani looked to him, then glanced away. Dalinar shared a look with General Khal, then Aladar. Dread settled on Dalinar like a cloak. Blood of my fathers. “What does it say?” he pled. “The … the capital has fallen, Dalinar,” Navani whispered. “The ardent reports that Voidbringer forces have seized the palace. He … he cut off after only a few sentences. It looks like they found him, and…” She squeezed her eyes shut. “The team you sent,” Teshav continued, “has apparently failed, Brightlord.” She swallowed. “The remnants of the Wall Guard have been captured and imprisoned. The city has fallen. There is no word on the king, Prince Adolin, or the Radiants. Brightlord … the message cuts off there.” Dalinar sank back down into his chair. “Almighty above,” Taravangian whispered, grey eyes reflecting the glow of the heating fabrial. “I am so, so sorry, Dalinar.” Good night, dear Urithiru. Good night, sweet Sibling. Good night, Radiants. —From drawer 29-29, ruby The Oathgate’s control building shook like it had been hit by a boulder. Adolin stumbled, then fell to his knees. The shaking was followed by a distinct ripping sound, and a blinding flash of light. His stomach lurched. He fell through the air. Shallan screamed somewhere nearby. Adolin struck a hard surface, and the impact was so jarring that he rolled to the side. That caused him to tumble off the edge of a white stone platform. He fell into something that gave way beneath him. Water? No, it didn’t feel right. He twisted in it—not a liquid, but beads. Thousands upon thousands of glass beads, each smaller than a Stormlight sphere. Adolin thrashed, panicked as he sank.
He was dying! He was going to die and suffocate in this sea of endless beads. He— Someone caught his hand. Azure pulled him up and helped him back onto the platform, beads rolling from his clothing. He coughed, feeling that he had been drowning, though he’d gotten only a few beads in his mouth. Stormfather! He groaned, looking around. The sky overhead was wrong. Pitch-black, it was streaked with strange clouds that seemed to stretch forever into the distance—like roads in the sky. They led toward a small, distant sun. The ocean of beads extended in every direction, and tiny lights hovered above them—thousands upon thousands, like candle flames. Shallan stepped over, kneeling beside him. Nearby, Kaladin was standing up, shaking himself. This circular stone platform was like an island in the ocean of beads, roughly where the control building had been. Hovering in the air were two enormous spren—they looked like stretched-out versions of people, and stood some thirty feet tall, like sentinels. One was pitch-black in coloring, the other red. He thought them statues at first, but their clothing rippled in the air, and they shifted, one turning eyes down to look at him. “Oh, this is bad,” someone said nearby. “So very, very bad.” Adolin looked and found the speaker to be a creature in a stiff black costume, with a robe that seemed—somehow—to be made of stone. In place of its head was a shifting, changing ball of lines, angles, and impossible dimensions. Adolin jumped to his feet, scrambling back. He almost collided with a young woman with blue-white skin, pale as snow, wearing a filmy dress that rippled in the wind. Another spren stood beside her, with ashen brown features that seemed to be made of tight cords, the thickness of hair. She wore ragged clothing, and her eyes had been scratched out, like a canvas that someone had taken a knife to. Adolin looked around, counting them. Nobody else was here on the landing. Those two enormous spren in the sky, and the three smaller ones on the platform. Adolin, Shallan, Kaladin, and Azure. It seemed the Oathgate had only taken those who had been inside the control building. But where had it taken them? Azure looked up at the sky. “Damnation,” she said softly. “I hate this place.” THE END OF Part Three EIGHT YEARS AGO Gavilar was starting to look worn. Dalinar stood at the back of the king’s den, listening with half an ear. The king spoke with the heirs of the highprinces, staying to safe topics, like Gavilar’s plans for various civic projects in Kholinar. He’s looking so old, Dalinar thought. Grey before his time. He needs something to revitalize him. A hunt, maybe? Dalinar didn’t need to participate in the meeting; his job was to loom. Occasionally, one of the younger men would glance toward the perimeter of the room, and see the Blackthorn there in shadow. Watching. He saw fires reflected in their eyes, and heard the weeping of children in the back of his mind. Don’t be weak,
Dalinar thought. It’s been almost three years. Three years, living with what he’d done. Three years, wasting away in Kholinar. He’d assumed it would get better. It was only getting worse. Sadeas had carefully spun news of the Rift’s destruction to the king’s advantage. He’d called it regrettable that the Rifters had forced Kholin action by killing Dalinar’s wife, and named it unfortunate that the city had caught fire during the fighting. Gavilar had publicly censured Dalinar and Sadeas for “losing the city to flames,” but his denunciation of the Rifters had been far more biting. The implication was clear. Gavilar didn’t want to unleash the Blackthorn. Even he couldn’t predict what kind of destruction Dalinar would bring. Obviously, such measures were a last resort—and these days, everyone was careful to give him plenty of other options. So efficient. All it had cost was one city. And possibly Dalinar’s sanity. Gavilar suggested to the gathered lighteyes that they light a fire in the hearth, for warmth. Well, that was the signal that he could leave. Dalinar could not stand fire. The scent of smoke smelled like burning skin, and the crackling of flames reminded him only of her. Dalinar slipped out the back door, stepping into a hallway on the third floor, heading toward his own rooms. He had moved himself and his sons into the royal palace. His own keep reminded him too much of her. Storms. Standing in that room—looking at the fear in the eyes of Gavilar’s guests—had made the pain and memories particularly acute today. He was better on some days. Others … felt like today. He needed a stiff drink from his wine cabinet. Unfortunately, as he rounded through the curved corridor, he smelled incense in the air. Coming from his rooms? Renarin was burning it again. Dalinar pulled up, as if he’d run up against something solid, then turned on his heel and walked away. It was too late, unfortunately. That scent … that was her scent. He strode down to the second floor, passing bloodred carpets, pillared hallways. Where to get something to drink? He couldn’t go out into the city, where people acted so terrified of him. The kitchens? No, he wouldn’t go begging to one of the palace chefs—who would in turn tiptoe to the king and whisper that the Blackthorn had been at the violets again. Gavilar complained at how much Dalinar drank, but what else did soldiers do when not at war? Didn’t he deserve a little relaxation, after all he’d done for this kingdom? He turned toward the king’s throne room, which—as the king was using his den instead—would be empty today. He went in through the servants’ entrance and stepped into a small staging room, where food was prepared before being delivered to the king. Using a sapphire sphere for light, Dalinar knelt and rummaged in one of the cupboards. Usually they kept some rare vintages here for impressing visitors. The cupboards were empty. Damnation. He found nothing but pans, trays, and cups. A few bags of Herdazian spices.
He fumed, tapping the counter. Had Gavilar discovered that Dalinar was coming here, and moved the wine? The king thought him a drunkard, but Dalinar indulged only on occasion. On bad days. Drink quieted the sounds of people crying in the back of his mind. Weeping. Children burning. Begging their fathers to save them from the flames. And Evi’s voice, accompanying them all … When was he going to escape this? He was becoming a coward! Nightmares when he tried to sleep. Weeping in his mind whenever he saw fire. Storms take Evi for doing this to him! If she’d acted like an adult instead of a child—if she’d been able to face duty or just reality for once—she wouldn’t have gotten herself killed. He stomped into the corridor and strode right into a group of young soldiers. They scrambled to the sides of the hallway and saluted. Dalinar tipped his head toward their salutes, trying to keep the thunder from his expression. The consummate general. That was who he was. “Father?” Dalinar pulled up sharply. He’d completely missed that Adolin was among the soldiers. At fifteen, the youth was growing tall and handsome. He got the former from Dalinar. Today, Adolin wore a fashionable suit with far too much embroidery, and boots that were topped by silver. “That’s not a standard-issue uniform, soldier,” Dalinar said to him. “I know!” Adolin said. “I had it specially tailored!” Storms … His son was becoming a fop. “Father,” Adolin said, stepping up and making an eager fist. “Did you get my message? I’ve got a bout set up with Tenathar. Father, he’s ranked. It’s a step toward winning my Blade!” He beamed at Dalinar. Emotions warred inside of Dalinar. Memories of good years spent with his son in Jah Keved, riding or teaching him the sword. Memories of her. The woman from whom Adolin had inherited that blond hair and that smile. So genuine. Dalinar wouldn’t trade Adolin’s sincerity for a hundred soldiers in proper uniforms. But he also couldn’t face it right now. “Father?” Adolin said. “You’re in uniform, soldier. Your tone is too familiar. Is this how I taught you to act?” Adolin blushed, then put on a stronger face. He didn’t wilt beneath the stern words. When censured, Adolin only tried harder. “Sir!” the young man said. “I’d be proud if you’d watch my bout this week. I think you’ll be pleased with my performance.” Storming child. Who could deny him? “I’ll be there, soldier. And will watch with pride.” Adolin grinned, saluted, then dashed back to join the others. Dalinar walked off as quickly as he could, to get away from that hair, that wonderful—haunting—smile. Well, he needed a drink now more than ever. But he would not go begging to the cooks. He had another option, one that he was certain even his brother—sly though Gavilar was—wouldn’t have considered. He went down another set of steps and reached the eastern gallery of the palace, now passing ardents with shaved heads. It was a sign of his desperation that he
came all the way out here, facing their condemning eyes. He slipped down the stairwell into the depths of the building, entering halls that led toward the kitchens in one direction, the catacombs in the other. A few twists and turns led him out onto the Beggars’ Porch: a small patio between the compost heaps and the gardens. Here, a group of miserable people waited for the offerings Gavilar gave after dinner. Some begged of Dalinar, but a glare made the rag-clothed wretches pull back and cower. At the back of the porch, he found Ahu huddled in the shadows between two large religious statues, their backs facing the beggars, their hands spread toward the gardens. Ahu was an odd one, even for a crazy beggar. With black, matted hair and a scraggly beard, his skin was dark for an Alethi. His clothing was mere scraps, and he smelled worse than the compost. Somehow he always had a bottle with him. Ahu giggled at Dalinar. “Have you seen me?” “Unfortunately.” Dalinar settled on the ground. “I have smelled you too. What are you drinking today? It had better not be water this time, Ahu.” Ahu wagged a stout, dark bottle. “Dunno what it is, little child. Tastes good.” Dalinar tried a sip and hissed. A burning wine, no sweetness to it at all. A white, though he didn’t recognize the vintage. Storms … it smelled intoxicating. Dalinar took a chug, then handed the bottle back to Ahu. “How are the voices?” “Soft, today. They chant about ripping me apart. Eating my flesh. Drinking my blood.” “Pleasant.” “Hee hee.” Ahu snuggled back against the branches of the hedge-wall, as if they were soft silk. “Nice. Not bad at all, little child. What of your noises?” In reply, Dalinar reached out his hand. Ahu gave him the bottle. Dalinar drank, welcoming the fuzzing of mind that would quiet the weeping. “Aven begah,” Ahu said. “It’s a fine night for my torment, and no telling the skies to be still. Where is my soul, and who is this in my face?” “You’re a strange little man, Ahu.” Ahu cackled his response and waved for the wine. After a drink, he returned it to Dalinar, who wiped off the beggar’s spittle with his shirt. Storm Gavilar for pushing him to this. “I like you,” Ahu said to Dalinar. “I like the pain in your eyes. Friendly pain. Companionable pain.” “Thanks.” “Which one got to you, little child?” Ahu asked. “The Black Fisher? The Spawning Mother, the Faceless? Moelach is close. I can hear his wheezing, his scratching, his scraping at time like a rat breaking through walls.” “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” “Madness,” Ahu said, then giggled. “I used to think it wasn’t my fault. But you know, we can’t escape what we did? We let them in. We attracted them, befriended them, took them out to dance and courted them. It is our fault. You open yourself to it, and you pay the price. They ripped my brain out and made it
dance! I watched.” Dalinar paused, the bottle halfway to his lips. Then he held it out to Ahu. “Drink this. You need it.” Ahu obliged. Sometime later, Dalinar stumbled back to his rooms, feeling downright serene—thoroughly smashed and without a crying child to be heard. At the door, he stopped and looked back down the corridor. Where … He couldn’t remember the trip back up from the Beggars’ Porch. He looked down at his unbuttoned jacket, his white shirt stained with dirt and drink. Um … A voice drifted through the closed door. Was that Adolin inside? Dalinar started, then focused. Storms, he’d come to the wrong door. Another voice. Was that Gavilar? Dalinar leaned in. “I’m worried about him, Uncle,” Adolin’s voice said. “Your father never adjusted to being alone, Adolin,” the king replied. “He misses your mother.” Idiots, Dalinar thought. He didn’t miss Evi. He wanted to be rid of her. Though … he did ache now that she was gone. Was that why she wept for him so often? “He’s down with the beggars again,” another voice said from inside. Elhokar? That little boy? Why did he sound like a man? He was only … how old? “He tried the serving room again first. Seems he forgot he drank that all last time. Honestly, if there’s a bottle hidden in this palace anywhere, that drunken fool will find it.” “My father is not a fool!” Adolin said. “He’s a great man, and you owe him your—” “Peace, Adolin,” Gavilar said. “Both of you, hold your tongues. Dalinar is a soldier. He’ll fight through this. Perhaps if we go on a trip we can distract him from his loss. Maybe Azir?” Their voices … He had just rid himself of Evi’s weeping, but hearing this dragged her back. Dalinar gritted his teeth and stumbled to the proper door. Inside, he found the nearest couch and collapsed. My research into the Unmade has convinced me that these things were not simply “spirits of the void” or “nine shadows who moved in the night.” They were each a specific kind of spren, endowed with vast powers. —From Hessi’s Mythica, page 3 Adolin had never bothered imagining what Damnation might look like. Theology was for women and scribes. Adolin figured he’d try to follow his Calling, becoming the best swordsman he could. The ardents told him that was enough, that he didn’t need to worry about things like Damnation. Yet here he was, kneeling on a white marble platform with a black sky overhead, a cold sun—if it could even be called that—hanging at the end of a roadway of clouds. An ocean of shifting glass beads, clattering against one another. Tens of thousands of flames, like the tips of oil lamps, hovering above that ocean. And the spren. Terrible, awful spren swarmed in the ocean of beads, bearing a multitude of nightmare forms. They twisted and writhed, howling with inhuman voices. He didn’t recognize any of the varieties. “I’m dead,” Adolin whispered. “We’re dead, and this is Damnation.” But what of the
pretty, blue-white spren girl? The creature with the stiff robe and a mesmerizing, impossible symbol instead of a head? What of the woman with the scratched-out eyes? And those two enormous spren standing overhead, with spears and— Light exploded to Adolin’s left. Kaladin Stormblessed, pulling in power, floated into the air. Beads rattled, and every monster in the writhing throng turned—as if one—to fixate upon Kaladin. “Kaladin!” the spren girl shouted. “Kaladin, they feed on Stormlight! You’ll draw their attention. Everything’s attention.” “Drehy and Skar…” Kaladin said. “Our soldiers. Where are they?” “They’re still on the other side,” Shallan said, standing up beside Adolin. The creature with the twisted head took her arm, steadying her. “Storms, they might be safer than we are. We’re in Shadesmar.” Some of the lights nearby vanished. Candles’ flames being snuffed out. Many spren swam toward the platform, joining an increasingly large group that churned around it, causing a ruckus in the beads. The majority of them were long eel-like things, with ridges along their backs and purple antennae that squirmed like tongues and seemed to be made of thick liquid. Beneath them, deep in the beads, something enormous shifted, causing beads to roll off one another in piles. “Kaladin!” the blue girl shouted. “Please!” He looked at her, and seemed to see her for the first time. The Light vanished from him, and he dropped—hard—to the platform. Azure held her thin Shardblade, gaze fixed on the things swimming through the beads around their platform. The only one who didn’t seem frightened was the strange spren woman with the scratched-out eyes and the skin made of rough cloth. Her eyes … they weren’t empty sockets. Instead she was like a portrait where the eyes had been scraped off. Adolin shivered. “So…” he said. “Any idea what is happening?” “We’re not dead,” Azure growled. “They call this place Shadesmar. It’s the realm of thought.” “I peek into this place when I Soulcast,” Shallan said. “Shadesmar overlaps the real world, but many things are inverted here.” “I passed through it when I first came to your land about a year ago,” Azure added. “I had guides then, and I tried to avoid looking at too much crazy stuff.” “Smart,” Adolin said. He put his hand to the side to summon his own Shardblade. The woman with the scratched eyes stretched her head toward him in an unnatural way, then screeched with a loud, piercing howl. Adolin stumbled away, nearly colliding with Shallan and her … her spren? Was that Pattern? “That is your sword,” Pattern said in a perky voice. He had no mouth that Adolin could see. “Hmmm. She is quite dead. I don’t think you can summon her here.” He cocked his bizarre head, looking at Azure’s Blade. “Yours is different. Very curious.” The thing deep beneath their platform shifted again. “That is probably bad,” Pattern noted. “Hmmm … yes. Those spren above us are the souls of the Oathgate, and that one deep beneath us is likely one of the Unmade. It must be very large
on this side.” “So what do we do?” Shallan asked. Pattern looked in one direction, then the other. “No boat. Hmmm. Yes, that is a problem, isn’t it?” Adolin spun around. Some of the eel-like spren climbed onto the platform, using stumpy legs that Adolin had missed earlier. Those long purple antennae stretched toward him, wiggling.… Fearspren, he realized. Fearspren were little globs of purple goo that looked exactly like the tips of those antennae. “We need to get off this platform,” Shallan said. “Everything else is secondary. Kaladin…” She trailed off as she glanced toward him. The bridgeman knelt on the stone, head bowed, shoulders slumped. Storms … Adolin had been forced to carry him away from the battle, numb and broken. Looked like that emotion had caught up to him again. Kaladin’s spren—Adolin could only guess that was the identity of the pretty girl in blue—stood beside him, one hand resting protectively on his back. “Kaladin’s not well,” she said. “I have to be well,” Kaladin said, his voice hoarse as he climbed back to his feet. His long hair fell across his face, obscuring his eyes. Storms. Even surrounded by monsters, the bridgeman could look intimidating. “How do we get to safety? I can’t fly us without attracting attention.” “This place is the inverse of your world,” Azure said. She stepped back from a long antenna exploring in her direction. “Where there are larger bodies of water on Roshar, we will have land here, correct?” “Mmm,” Pattern said, nodding. “The river?” Adolin asked. He tried to orient himself, looking past the thousands of floating lights. “There.” He pointed at a lump he could barely spot in the distance. Like a long island. Kaladin stared at it, frowning. “Can we swim in these beads?” “No,” Adolin said, remembering what it had felt like to fall into this ocean. “I…” The beads rattled and clacked against one another as the large thing surged beneath. In the near distance, a single spire of rock broke the surface, tall and black. It emerged like a mountain peak slowly lifting from the sea, beads rattling in waves around it. As it grew to the height of a building, a joint appeared. Storms. It wasn’t a spire or a mountain … it was a claw. More emerged in other directions. An enormous hand was reaching slowly upward through the glass beads. Deep beneath them a heartbeat began sounding, rattling the beads. Adolin stumbled back, horrified, and nearly slipped into the bead ocean. He kept his balance, barely, and found himself face-to-face with the woman with scratches for eyes. She stared at him, completely emotionless, as if waiting for him to try to summon his Shardblade so she could scream again. Damnation. No matter what Azure said, he was certainly in Damnation. * * * “What do I do?” Shallan whispered. She knelt on the white stone of the platform, searching among the beads. Each gave her an impression of an object in the Physical Realm. A dropped shield. A vase from the palace. A scarf.
Nearby, hundreds of little spren—like little orange or green people, only a few inches tall—were climbing among the spheres. She ignored those, searching for the soul of something that would help. “Shallan,” Pattern said, kneeling. “I don’t think … I don’t think Soulcasting will accomplish anything? It will change an object in the other realm, but not here.” “What can I do here?” Those spines or claws or whatever rose around them, inevitable, deadly. Pattern hummed, hands clasped before him. His fingers were too smooth, as if they were chiseled of obsidian. His head shifted and changed, going through its sequence—the spherical mass was never the same, yet somehow still always felt like him. “My memory…” he said. “I don’t remember.” Stormlight, Shallan thought. Jasnah had told her to never enter Shadesmar without Stormlight. Shallan pulled a sphere from her pocket—she still wore Veil’s outfit. The beads nearby reacted, trembling and rolling toward her. “Mmmm…” Pattern said. “Dangerous.” “I doubt staying here will be better,” Shallan said. She sucked in a little Stormlight, only one mark’s worth. As before, the spren didn’t seem to notice her use of Stormlight as much as they had Kaladin’s. She rested her freehand against the surface of the ocean. Beads stopped rolling and instead clicked together beneath her hand. When she pushed down, they resisted. Good first step, she thought, drawing in more Stormlight. The beads pressed around her hand, gathering, rolling onto one another. She cursed, worried that she’d soon just have a big pile of beads. “Shallan,” Pattern said, poking at one of the beads. “Perhaps this?” It was the soul of the shield she’d felt earlier. She moved the sphere to her gloved safehand, then pressed her other hand to the ocean. She used that bead’s soul as a guide—much like she used a Memory as a guide for doing a sketch—and the other beads obediently rolled together and locked into place, forming an imitation of the shield. Pattern stepped out onto it, then jumped up and down happily. Her shield held him without sinking, though he seemed as heavy as an ordinary person. Good enough. Now she just needed something big enough to hold them all. Preferably, as she considered, two somethings. “You, sword lady!” Shallan said, pointing at Azure. “Help me over here. Adolin, you too. Kaladin, see if you can brood this place into submission.” Azure and Adolin hurried over. Kaladin turned, frowning. “What?” Don’t think about that haunted look in his eyes, Shallan thought. Don’t think about what you’ve done in bringing us here, or how it happened. Don’t think, Shallan. Her mind went blank, like it did in preparation for drawing, then locked on to her task. Find a way out. “Everybody,” she said, “those flames are the souls of people, while these spheres represent the souls of objects. Yes, there are huge philosophical implications in that. Let’s try to ignore them, shall we? When you touch a bead, you should be able to sense what it represents.” Azure sheathed her Shardblade and knelt, feeling at the spheres.
“I can … Yes, there’s an impression to each one.” “We need the soul of something long and flat.” Shallan plunged her hands into the spheres, eyes closed, letting the impressions wash over her. “I can’t sense anything,” Adolin said. “What am I doing wrong?” He sounded overwhelmed, but don’t think about that. Look. Fine clothing that hadn’t been taken out of its trunk in a long, long time. So old that it saw the dust as part of itself. Withering fruit that understood its purpose: decompose and stick its seeds to the rock, where they could hopefully weather storms long enough to sprout and gain purchase. Swords, recently swung and glorying in their purpose fulfilled. Other weapons belonged to dead men, blades that had the faintest inkling that they’d failed somehow. Living souls bobbed around, a swarm of them entering the Oathgate control chamber. One brushed Shallan. Drehy the bridgeman. For a brief moment she felt what it was like to be him. Worried for Kaladin. Panicked that nobody was in charge, that he would have to take command. He wasn’t a commander. You couldn’t be a rebel if you were in charge. He liked being told what to do—that way he could find a method to do it with style. Drehy’s worries caused her own to bubble up. The bridgemen’s powers will fade without Kaladin, she thought. What of Vathah, Red, and Ishnah? I didn’t— Focus. Something reached out from the back of her mind, grabbed those thoughts and feelings, and yanked them into the darkness. Gone. She brushed a bead with her fingers. A large door, like a keep’s gate. She grabbed the sphere and shifted it to her safehand. Unfortunately, the next bead she touched was the palace itself. Momentarily stunned by the majesty of it, Shallan gaped. She held the entire palace in her hand. Too large. She dropped it and kept searching. Trash that still saw itself as a child’s toy. A goblet that had been made from melted-down nails, taken from an old building. There. She seized hold of a sphere and pressed Stormlight into it. A building rose before her, made entirely out of beads: a copy of the Oathgate control building. She managed to make its top rise only a few feet above the surface, most of the building sinking into the depths. The rooftop was within reach. “On top of it!” she shouted. She held the replica in place as Pattern scrambled onto the roof. Adolin followed, trailed by that ghostly spren and Azure. Finally, Kaladin picked up his pack and walked with his spren onto the rooftop. Shallan joined them with the aid of a hand from Adolin. She clutched the sphere that was the soul of the building, and tried to make the bead structure move through the sea like a raft. It resisted, sitting there motionless. Well, she had another plan. She scurried to the other side of the roof and stretched down, held by Pattern, to touch the sea again. She used the soul of the large door
to make another standing platform. Pattern jumped down, followed by Adolin and Azure. Once they’d all piled precariously on the door, Shallan let go of the building. It crashed down behind them, beads falling in a tumult, frightening some of the little green spren crawling among the beads nearby. Shallan reconstructed the building on the other side of the door, with only the rooftop showing. They filed across. They progressed like that—following building with door and door with building—inching toward that distant land. Each iteration took Stormlight, though she could reclaim some from each creation before it collapsed. Some of the eel-like spren with the long antennae followed them, curious, but the rest of the varieties—and there were dozens—let them pass without much notice. “Mmm…” Pattern said. “Much emotion on the other side. Yes, this is good. It distracts them.” The work was tiring and tedious, but step by step, Shallan moved them away from the frothing mess of the city of Kholinar. They passed the frightened lights of souls, the hungry spren who feasted on the emotions from the other side. “Mmm…” Pattern whispered to her. “Look, Shallan. The lights of souls are no longer disappearing. People must be surrendering in Kholinar. I know you do not like the destruction of your own.” That was good, but not unexpected. The parshmen had never massacred civilians, though she couldn’t say for certain what happened to Azure’s soldiers. She hoped fervently they were able to either escape or surrender. Shallan had to edge her group frighteningly close to two of the spines that had emerged from the depths. Those gave no sign of having noticed them. Beyond, they reached a calmer space out among the beads. A place where the only sound came from the clacking of glass. “She corrupted them,” Kaladin’s spren whispered. Shallan took a break, wiping her brow with a handkerchief from her satchel. They were distant enough that the lights of souls in Kholinar were just a general haze of light. “What was that, spren?” Azure asked. “Corrupted?” “That’s why we’re here. The Oathgate—do you remember those two spren in the sky? Those two are the gateway’s soul, but the red coloring … They must be His now. That’s why we ended up here, instead of going to Urithiru.” Sja-anat, Shallan thought, said she was supposed to kill us. But that she’d try not to. Shallan wiped her brow again, then got back to work. * * * Adolin felt useless. All his life, he had understood. He’d taken easily to dueling. People naturally seemed to like him. Even in his darkest moment—standing on the battlefield and watching Sadeas’s armies retreat, abandoning him and his father—he’d understood what was happening to him. Not today. Today he was just a confused little boy standing in Damnation. Today, Adolin Kholin was nothing. He stepped onto another copy of the door. They had to huddle together while Shallan dismissed the rooftop behind, sending it crashing down, then squeezed past everyone to raise another copy of the building. Adolin felt small. So very
small. He started toward the rooftop. Kaladin, however, remained standing on the door, staring sightlessly. Syl, his spren, tugged his hand. “Kaladin?” Adolin asked. Kaladin finally shook himself and gave in to Syl’s prodding. He walked onto the rooftop. Adolin followed, then took Kaladin’s pack—deliberately but firmly—and swung it over his own shoulder. Kaladin let him. Behind, the doorway shattered back into the ocean of beads. “Hey,” Adolin said. “It will be all right.” “I survived Bridge Four,” Kaladin growled. “I’m strong enough to survive this.” “I’m pretty sure you could survive anything. Storms, bridgeboy, the Almighty used some of the same stuff he put into Shardblades when he made you.” Kaladin shrugged. But as they walked onto the next platform, his expression grew distant again. He stood while the rest of them moved on. Almost like he was waiting for their bridge to dissolve and dump him into the sea. “I couldn’t make them see,” Kaladin whispered. “I couldn’t … couldn’t protect them. I’m supposed to be able to protect people, aren’t I?” “Hey,” Adolin said. “You really think that strange spren with the weird eyes is my sword?” Kaladin started and focused on him, then scowled. “Yes, Adolin. I thought that was clear.” “I was just wondering.” Adolin glanced over his shoulder and shivered. “What do you think about this place? Have you ever heard of anything like it?” “Do you have to talk right now, Adolin?” “I’m frightened. I talk when I’m frightened.” Kaladin glared at him as if suspecting what Adolin was doing. “I know little of this place,” he finally answered. “But I think it’s where spren are born.…” Adolin kept him talking. As Shallan created each new platform, Adolin would lightly touch Kaladin on the elbow or shoulder and the bridgeman would step forward. Kaladin’s spren hovered nearby, but she let Adolin guide the conversation. Slowly they approached the strip of land, which turned out to be made of a deep, glassy black stone. Kind of like obsidian. Adolin got Kaladin across onto the land, then settled him with his spren. Azure followed, her shoulders sagging. In fact, her … her hair was fading. It was the strangest thing; Adolin watched it dim from Alethi jet-black to a faint grey as she sat down. Must be another effect of this strange place. How much did she know of Shadesmar? He’d been so focused on Kaladin, he hadn’t thought to interrogate her. Unfortunately, he was so tired right now, he was having trouble thinking straight. Adolin stepped back onto the platform as Pattern stepped off. Shallan looked as if she was about to collapse. She stumbled, and the platform ruptured. He managed to grab her, and fortunately they only fell to waist-deep in the beads before their feet touched ground. The little balls of glass seemed to slide and move too easily, not supporting their weight. Adolin had to practically haul Shallan through the tide of beads up onto the bank. There, she toppled backward, groaning and closing her eyes. “Shallan?” he asked, kneeling beside her. “I’m
fine. It just took … concentration. Visualization.” “We need to find another way back to our world,” Kaladin said, seated nearby. “We can’t rest. They’re fighting. We need to help them.” Adolin surveyed his companions. Shallan lay on the ground; her spren had joined her, lying in a similar posture and looking up at the sky. Azure slumped forward, her small Shardblade across her lap. Kaladin continued to stare at nothing with haunted eyes, his spren hovering behind him, worried. “Azure,” Adolin said, “is it safe here, on this land?” “As safe as anywhere in Shadesmar,” she said tiredly. “The place can be dangerous if you attract the wrong spren, but there isn’t anything we can do about that.” “Then we camp here.” “But—” Kaladin said. “We camp,” Adolin said. Gentle, but firm. “We can barely stand up straight, bridgeman.” Kaladin didn’t argue further. Adolin scouted up the bank, though each step felt like it was weighted with stone. He found a small depression in the glassy stone and—with some urging—got the rest of them to move to it. As they made improvised beds from their coats and packs, Adolin looked one last time at the city, standing witness to the fall of his birthplace. Storms, he thought. Elhokar … Elhokar is dead. Little Gav had been taken, and Dalinar was planning to abdicate. Third in line was … Adolin himself. King. The sum of my experiences has pointed at this moment. This decision. —From Oathbringer, preface One benefit of having become “Brightness Radiant” was that for once, Shallan was expected to be a part of important events. Nobody questioned her presence during the rush through the corridors, lit by oil lanterns carried by guards. Nobody thought she was out of place; nobody even considered the propriety of leading a young woman to the scene of a brutal murder. What a welcome change. From what she overheard the scout telling Dalinar, the corpse had been a lighteyed officer named Vedekar Perel. He was from Sebarial’s army, but Shallan didn’t know him. The body had been discovered by a scouting party in a remote part of the tower’s second level. As they drew nearer, Dalinar and his guards jogged the rest of the distance, outpacing Shallan. Storming Alethi long legs. She tried to suck in some Stormlight—but she’d used it all on that blasted map, which had disintegrated into a puff of Light as they’d left. That left her exhausted and annoyed. Ahead of her, Adolin stopped and looked back. He danced a moment, as if impatient, then hurried to her instead of running ahead. “Thanks,” Shallan said as he fell into step beside her. “It’s not like he can get more dead, eh?” he said, then chuckled awkwardly. Something about this had him seriously disturbed. He reached for her hand with his hurt one, which was still splinted, then winced. She took his arm instead, and he held up his oil lantern as they hurried on. The strata here spiraled, twisting around the floor, ceiling, and walls like the threads of a
screw. It was striking enough that Shallan took a Memory of it for later sketching. Shallan and Adolin finally caught up to the others, passing a group of guards maintaining a perimeter. Though Bridge Four had discovered the body, they’d sent for Kholin reinforcements to secure the area. They protected a medium-sized chamber now lit by a multitude of oil lamps. Shallan paused in the doorway right before a ledge that surrounded a wide square depression, perhaps four feet deep, cut into the stone floor of the room. The wall strata here continued their curving, twisting medley of oranges, reds, and browns—ballooning out across the sides of this chamber in wide bands before coiling back into narrow stripes to continue down the hall that led out the other side. The dead man lay at the bottom of the cavity. Shallan steeled herself, but even so found the sight nauseating. He lay on his back, and had been stabbed right through the eye. His face was a bloody mess, his clothing disheveled from what looked to have been an extended fight. Dalinar and Navani stood on the ledge above the pit. His face was stiff, a stone. She stood with her safehand raised to her lips. “We found him just like this, Brightlord,” said Peet the bridgeman. “We sent for you immediately. Storm me if it doesn’t look exactly the same as what happened to Highprince Sadeas.” “He’s even lying in the same position,” Navani said, grabbing her skirts and descending a set of steps into the lower area. It made up almost the entire room. In fact … Shallan looked toward the upper reaches of the chamber, where several stone sculptures—like the heads of horses—extended from the walls with their mouths open. Spouts, she thought. This was a bathing chamber. Navani knelt beside the body, away from the blood running toward a drain on the far side of the basin. “Remarkable … the positioning, the puncturing of the eye … It’s exactly like what happened to Sadeas. This has to be the same killer.” Nobody tried to shelter Navani from the sight—as if it were completely proper for the king’s mother to be poking at a corpse. Who knew? Maybe in Alethkar, ladies were expected to do this sort of thing. It was still odd to Shallan how temerarious the Alethi were about towing their women into battle to act as scribes, runners, and scouts. She looked to Adolin to get his read on the situation, and found him staring, aghast, mouth open and eyes wide. “Adolin?” Shallan asked. “Did you know him?” He didn’t seem to hear her. “This is impossible,” he muttered. “Impossible.” “Adolin?” “I … No, I didn’t know him, Shallan. But I’d assumed … I mean, I figured the death of Sadeas was an isolated crime. You know how he was. Probably got himself into trouble. Any number of people could have wanted him dead, right?” “Looks like it was something more than that,” Shallan said, folding her arms as Dalinar walked down the steps to join Navani,
trailed by Peet, Lopen, and—remarkably—Rlain of Bridge Four. That one drew attention from the other soldiers, several of whom positioned themselves subtly to protect Dalinar from the Parshendi. They considered him a danger, regardless of which uniform he wore. “Colot?” Dalinar said, looking toward the lighteyed captain who led the soldiers here. “You’re an archer, aren’t you? Fifth Battalion?” “Yes, sir!” “We have you scouting the tower with Bridge Four?” Dalinar asked. “The Windrunners needed extra feet, sir, and access to more scouts and scribes for maps. My archers are mobile. Figured it was better than doing parade drills in the cold, so I volunteered my company.” Dalinar grunted. “Fifth Battalion … who was your policing force?” “Eighth Company,” Colot said. “Captain Tallan. Good friend of mine. He … didn’t make it, sir.” “I’m sorry, Captain,” Dalinar said. “Would you and your men withdraw for a moment so I can consult with my son? Maintain that perimeter until I tell you otherwise, but do inform King Elhokar of this and send a messenger to Sebarial. I’ll visit and tell him about this in person, but he’d best get a warning.” “Yes, sir,” the lanky archer said, calling orders. The soldiers left, including the bridgemen. As they moved, Shallan felt something prickle at the back of her neck. She shivered, and couldn’t help glancing over her shoulder, hating how this unfathomable building made her feel. Renarin was standing right behind her. She jumped, letting out a pathetic squeak. Then she blushed furiously; she’d forgotten he was even with them. A few shamespren faded into view around her, floating white and red flower petals. She’d rarely attracted those, which was a wonder. She’d have thought they would take up permanent residence nearby. “Sorry,” Renarin mumbled. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.” Adolin walked down into the room’s basin, still looking distracted. Was he that upset by finding a murderer among them? People tried to kill him practically every day. Shallan grabbed the skirt of her havah and followed him down, staying clear of the blood. “This is troubling,” Dalinar said. “We face a terrible threat that would wipe our kind from Roshar like leaves before the stormwall. I don’t have time to worry about a murderer slinking through these tunnels.” He looked up at Adolin. “Most of the men I’d have assigned to an investigation like this are dead. Niter, Malan … the King’s Guard is no better, and the bridgemen—for all their fine qualities—have no experience with this sort of thing. I’ll need to leave it to you, son.” “Me?” Adolin said. “You did well investigating the incident with the king’s saddle, even if that turned out to be something of a wind chase. Aladar is Highprince of Information. Go to him, explain what happened, and set one of his policing teams to investigate. Then work with them as my liaison.” “You want me,” Adolin said, “to investigate who killed Sadeas.” Dalinar nodded, squatting down beside the corpse, though Shallan had no idea what he expected to see. The fellow was very
dead. “Perhaps if I put my son on the job, it will convince people I’m serious about finding the killer. Perhaps not—they might just think I’ve put someone in charge who can keep the secret. Storms, I miss Jasnah. She would have known how to spin this, to keep opinion from turning against us in court. “Either way, son, stay on this. Make sure the remaining highprinces at least know that we consider these murders a priority, and that we are dedicated to finding the one who committed them.” Adolin swallowed. “I understand.” Shallan narrowed her eyes. What had gotten into him? She glanced toward Renarin, who still stood up above, on the walkway around the empty pool. He watched Adolin with unblinking sapphire eyes. He was always a little strange, but he seemed to know something she didn’t. On her skirt, Pattern hummed softly. Dalinar and Navani eventually left to speak with Sebarial. Once they were gone, Shallan seized Adolin by the arm. “What’s wrong?” she hissed. “You knew that dead man, didn’t you? Do you know who killed him?” He looked her in the eyes. “I have no idea who did this, Shallan. But I am going to find out.” She held his light blue eyes, weighing his gaze. Storms, what was she thinking? Adolin was a wonderful man, but he was about as deceitful as a newborn. He stalked off, and Shallan hurried after him. Renarin remained in the room, looking down the hall after them until Shallan got far enough away that—over her shoulder—she could no longer see him. I have done my best to separate fact from fiction, but the two blend like mixing paint when the Voidbringers are involved. Each of the Unmade has a dozen names, and the powers ascribed to them range from the fanciful to the terrifying. —From Hessi’s Mythica, page 4 Szeth-son-son … Szeth-son … Szeth, Truthless … Szeth. Just Szeth. Szeth of Shinovar, once called the Assassin in White, had been reborn. Mostly. The Skybreakers whispered of it. Nin, Herald of Justice, had restored him following his defeat in the storm. Like most things, death had not been Szeth’s to claim. The Herald had used a type of fabrial to heal his body before his spirit departed. It had almost taken too long, however. His spirit hadn’t properly reattached to his body. Szeth walked with the others out onto the stone field before their small fortress, which overlooked the Purelake. The air was humid, almost like that of his homeland, though it didn’t smell earthy or alive. It smelled of seaweed and wet stone. There were five other hopefuls, all of them younger than Szeth. He was shortest among them, and the only one who kept his head bald. He couldn’t grow a full head of hair, even if he didn’t shave it. The other five kept their distance from him. Perhaps it was because of the way he left a glowing afterimage when he moved: a sign of his soul’s improper reattachment. Not all could see it, but these could.
They were close enough to the Surges. Or maybe they feared him because of the black sword in a silver sheath that he wore strapped to his back. Oh, it’s the lake! the sword said in his mind. It had an eager voice that didn’t sound distinctly feminine or masculine. You should draw me, Szeth! I would love to see the lake. Vasher says there are magic fish here. Isn’t that interesting? “I have been warned, sword-nimi,” Szeth reminded the weapon, “not to draw you except in the case of extreme emergency. And only if I carry much Stormlight, lest you feed upon my soul.” Well, I wouldn’t do that, the sword said. It made a huffing sound. I don’t think you’re evil at all, and I only destroy things that are evil. The sword was an interesting test, given him by Nin the Herald—called Nale, Nalan, or Nakku by most stonewalkers. Even after weeks of carrying this black sword, Szeth did not understand what the experience was to teach him. The Skybreakers arranged themselves to watch the hopefuls. There were some fifty here, and that didn’t count the dozens who were supposedly out on missions. So many. An entire order of Knights Radiant had survived the Recreance and had been watching for the Desolation for two thousand years, constantly replenishing their numbers as others died of old age. Szeth would join them. He would accept their training, as Nin had promised him he would receive, then travel to his homeland of Shinovar. There, he would bring justice to the ones who had falsely exiled him. Do I dare bring them judgment? a part of him wondered. Dare I trust myself with the sword of justice? The sword replied. You? Szeth, I think you’re super trustworthy. And I’m a good judge of people. “I was not speaking to you, sword-nimi.” I know. But you were wrong, and so I had to tell you. Hey, the voices seem quiet today. That’s nice, isn’t it? Mentioning it brought the whispers to Szeth’s attention. Nin had not healed Szeth’s madness. He’d called it an effect of Szeth’s connection to the powers, and said that he was hearing trembles from the Spiritual Realm. Memories of the dead he’d killed. He no longer feared them. He had died and been forced to return. He had failed to join the voices, and now they … they had no power over him, right? Why, then, did he still weep in the night, terrified? One of the Skybreakers stepped forward. Ki was a golden-haired woman, tall and imposing. Skybreakers clothed themselves in the garb of local lawkeepers—so here, in Marabethia, they wore a patterned shoulder cloak and a colorful skirtlike wrap. Ki wore no shirt, merely a simple cloth tied around her chest. “Hopefuls,” she said in Azish, “you have been brought here because a full Skybreaker has vouched for your dedication and solemnity.” She’s boring, the sword said. Where did Nale go? “You said he was boring too, sword-nimi,” Szeth whispered. That’s true, but interesting things happen around him.

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