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We need to tell him that you should draw me more often. “Your first training has already been completed,” Ki said. “You traveled with the Skybreakers and joined them in one of their missions. You have been evaluated and deemed worthy of the First Ideal. Speak it. You know the Words.” Vasher always drew me, the sword said, sounding resentful. “Life before death,” Szeth said, closing his eyes. “Strength before weakness. Journey before destination.” The other five belted it out. Szeth whispered it to the voices that called to him from the darkness. Let them see. He would bring justice to those who had caused this. He’d hoped that the first oath would restore his ability to draw upon Stormlight—something he had lost along with his previous weapon. However, when he removed a sphere from his pocket, he was unable to access the Light. “In speaking this ideal,” Ki said, “you are officially pardoned for any past misdeeds or sins. We have paperwork signed by proper authorities for this region. “To progress further among our ranks, and to learn the Lashings, you will need a master to take you as their squire. Then may you speak the Second Ideal. From there, you will need to impress a highspren and form a bond—becoming a full Skybreaker. Today you will take the first of many tests. Though we will evaluate you, remember that the final measure of your success or failure belongs to the highspren. Do you have any questions?” None of the other hopefuls said anything, so Szeth cleared his throat. “There are five Ideals,” he said. “Nin told me of this. You have spoken them all?” “It’s been centuries since anyone mastered the Fifth Ideal,” Ki said. “One becomes a full Skybreaker by speaking the Third Ideal, the Ideal of Dedication.” “We can … know what the Ideals are?” Szeth asked. For some reason, he’d thought they would be hidden from him. “Of course,” Ki said. “You will find no games here, Szeth-son-Neturo. The First Ideal is the Ideal of Radiance. You have spoken it. The second is the Ideal of Justice, an oath to seek and administer justice. “The Third Ideal, the Ideal of Dedication, requires you to have first bonded a highspren. Once you have, you swear to dedicate yourself to a greater truth—a code to follow. Upon achieving this, you will be taught Division, the second—and more dangerous—of the Surges we practice.” “Someday,” another Skybreaker noted, “you may achieve the Fourth Ideal: the Ideal of Crusade. In this, you choose a personal quest and complete it to the satisfaction of your highspren. Once successful, you become a master like ourselves.” Cleanse Shinovar, Szeth thought. That would be his quest. “What is the Fifth Ideal?” he asked. “The Ideal of Law,” Ki said. “It is difficult. You must become law, become truth. As I said, it has been centuries since that was achieved.” “Nin told me we were to follow the law—something external, as men are changeable and unreliable. How can we become the law?” “Law must come from somewhere,”
another of the Skybreaker masters said. “This is not an oath you will swear, so don’t fixate upon it. The first three will do for most Skybreakers. I was of the Third Ideal for two decades before achieving the Fourth.” When nobody else asked further questions, experienced Skybreakers began Lashing the hopefuls into the air. “What is happening?” Szeth asked. “We will carry you to the place of the test,” Ki said, “as you cannot move with your own Stormlight until you swear the Second Ideal.” “Do I belong with these youths?” Szeth said. “Nin treated me as something different.” The Herald had taken him on a mission to Tashikk, hunting Surgebinders from other orders. A heartless act that Nin had explained would prevent the coming of the Desolation. Except that it had not. The Everstorm’s return had convinced Nin he was wrong, and he’d abandoned Szeth in Tashikk. Weeks had passed there until Nin had returned to collect him. The Herald had dropped Szeth here at the fortress, then had vanished into the sky again, this time off to “seek guidance.” “The Herald,” Ki said, “originally thought that you might skip to the Third Ideal because of your past. He is no longer here, however, and we cannot judge. You’ll have to follow the same path as everyone else.” Szeth nodded. Very well. “No further complaints?” Ki asked. “It is orderly,” Szeth said, “and you have explained it well. Why would I complain?” The others seemed to like this response, and Ki herself Lashed him into the sky. For a moment he felt the freedom of flight—reminding him of his first days, holding an Honorblade long ago. Before he’d become Truthless. No. You were never Truthless. Remember that. Besides, this flight was not truly his. He continued falling upward until another Skybreaker caught him and Lashed him downward, counteracting the first effect and leaving him hovering. A pair of Skybreakers took him, one under each arm, and the entire group soared through the air. He couldn’t imagine they’d done this sort of thing in the past, as they’d remained hidden for so many years. But they didn’t seem to care about secrecy anymore. I like it up here, the sword said. You can see everything. “Can you actually see things, sword-nimi?” Not like a man. You see all kinds of things, Szeth. Except, unfortunately, how useful I am. I should point out that although many personalities and motives are ascribed to them, I’m convinced that the Unmade were still spren. As such, they were as much manifestations of concepts or divine forces as they were individuals. —From Hessi’s Mythica, page 7 Kaladin remembered cleaning crem off the bunker floor while in Amaram’s army. That sound of chisel on stone reminded Kal of his mother. He knelt on kneepads and scraped at the crem, which had seeped in under doors or had been tracked in on the boots of soldiers, creating an uneven patina on the otherwise smooth floor. He wouldn’t have thought that soldiers would care that the ground wasn’t level.
Shouldn’t he be sharpening his spear, or … or oiling something? Well, in his experience, soldiers spent little time doing soldier things. They instead spent ages walking places, waiting around, or—in his case—getting yelled at for walking around or waiting in the wrong places. He sighed as he worked, using smooth even strokes, like his mother had taught him. Get underneath the crem and push. You could lift it up in flat sections an inch or more wide. Much easier than chipping at it from above. A shadow darkened the door, and Kal glanced over his shoulder, then hunkered down farther. Great. Sergeant Tukks walked to one of the bunks and settled down, the wood groaning under his weight. Younger than the other sergeants, he had features that were … off somehow. Perhaps it was his short stature, or his sunken cheeks. “You do that well,” Tukks said. Kal continued to work, saying nothing. “Don’t feel so bad, Kal. It’s not unusual for a new recruit to pull back. Storms. It’s not so uncommon to freeze in battle, let alone on the practice field.” “If it’s so common,” Kal muttered, “why am I being punished?” “What, this? A little cleaning duty? Kid, this isn’t punishment. This is to help you fit in.” Kal frowned, leaning back and looking up. “Sergeant?” “Trust me. Everyone was waiting for you to get a dressing-down. The longer you went without one, the longer you were going to feel like the odd man out.” “I’m scraping floors because I didn’t deserve to be punished?” “That, and for talking back to an officer.” “He wasn’t an officer! He was just a lighteyes with—” “Better to stop that kind of behavior now. Before you do it to someone who matters. Oh, don’t glower, Kal. You’ll understand eventually.” Kal attacked a particularly stubborn knob of crem near the leg of a bunk. “I found your brother,” Tukks noted. Kaladin’s breath caught. “He’s in the Seventh,” Tukks said. “I need to go to him. Can I be transferred? We weren’t supposed to be split apart.” “Maybe I can get him moved here, to train with you.” “He’s a messenger! He’s not supposed to train with the spear.” “Everyone trains, even the messenger boys,” Tukks said. Kal gripped his chisel tightly, fighting down the urge to stand up and go looking for Tien. Didn’t they understand? Tien couldn’t hurt cremlings. He’d catch the things and usher them outside, talking to them like pets. The image of him holding a spear was ludicrous. Tukks took out some fathom bark and started chewing. He leaned back on the bunk and put his feet up on the footboard. “Make sure you get that spot to your left.” Kaladin sighed, then moved to the indicated place. “Do you want to talk about it?” Tukks asked. “The moment when you froze during practice?” Stupid crem. Why did the Almighty make it? “Don’t be ashamed,” Tukks continued. “We practice so you can freeze now, instead of when it will get you killed. You face down a squad, knowing
they want to kill you even though they’ve never met you. And you hesitate, thinking it can’t possibly be true. You can’t possibly be here, preparing to fight, to bleed. Everyone feels that fear.” “I wasn’t afraid of getting hurt,” Kal said softly. “You won’t get far if you can’t admit to a little fear. Emotion is good. It’s what defines us, makes us—” “I wasn’t afraid of getting hurt.” Kaladin took a deep breath. “I was afraid of making someone hurt.” Tukks twisted the bark in his mouth, then nodded. “I see. Well, that’s another problem. Not unusual either, but a different matter indeed.” For a time, the only sound in the large barrack was that of chisel on stone. “How do you do it?” Kal finally asked, not looking up. “How can you hurt people, Tukks? They’re just poor darkeyed slobs like us.” “I think about my mates,” Tukks said. “I can’t let the lads down. My squad is my family now.” “So you kill someone else’s family?” “Eventually, we’ll be killing shellheads. But I know what you mean, Kal. It’s hard. You’d be surprised how many men look in the face of an enemy and find that they’re simply not capable of hurting another person.” Kal closed his eyes, letting the chisel slip from his fingers. “It’s good you aren’t so eager,” Tukks said. “Means you’re sane. I’ll take ten unskilled men with earnest hearts over one callous idiot who thinks this is all a game.” The world doesn’t make sense, Kal thought. His father, the consummate surgeon, told him to avoid getting too wrapped up in his patients’ emotions. And here was a career killer, telling him to care? Boots scraped on stone as Tukks stood up. He walked over and rested one hand on Kal’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about the war, or even the battle. Focus on your squadmates, Kal. Keep them alive. Be the man they need.” He grinned. “And get the rest of this floor scraped. I think when you come to dinner, you’ll find the rest of the squad more friendly. Just a hunch.” That night, Kaladin discovered that Tukks was right. The rest of the men did seem more welcoming, now that he’d been disciplined. So Kal held his tongue, smiled, and enjoyed the companionship. He never told Tukks the truth. When Kal had frozen on the practice field, it hadn’t been out of fear. He’d been very sure he could hurt someone. In fact, he’d realized that he could kill, if needed. And that was what had terrified him. * * * Kaladin sat on a chunk of stone that looked like melted obsidian. It grew right out of the ground in Shadesmar, this place that didn’t seem real. The distant sun hadn’t shifted in the sky since they’d arrived. Nearby, one of the strange fearspren crawled along the banks of the sea of glass beads. As big as an axehound, but longer and thinner, it looked vaguely like an eel with stumpy legs. The purple feelers on its head wiggled and
shifted, flowing in his direction. When it didn’t sense anything in him that it wanted, it continued along the bank. Syl didn’t make any noise as she approached, but he caught sight of her shadow coming up from behind—like other shadows here, it pointed toward the sun. She sat down on the lump of glass next to him, then thumped her head sideways, resting it on his arm, her hands in her lap. “Others still asleep?” Kaladin asked. “Yup. Pattern’s watching over them.” She wrinkled her nose. “Strange.” “He’s nice, Syl.” “That’s the strange part.” She swung her legs out in front of her, barefoot as usual. It seemed odder here on this side where she was human size. A small flock of spren flew above them, with bulbous bodies, long wings, and flowing tails. Instead of a head, each one had a golden ball floating right in front of the body. That seemed familiar.… Gloryspren, he thought. It was like the fearspren, whose antennae manifested in the real world. Only part of the actual spren showed there. “So…” Syl said. “Not going to sleep?” Kaladin shook his head. “Now, I might not be an expert on humans,” she said. “For example, I still haven’t figured out why only a handful of your cultures seem to worship me. But I do think I heard somewhere that you have to sleep. Like, every night.” He didn’t respond. “Kaladin…” “What about you?” he said, looking away, along the isthmus of land that marked where the river was in the real world. “Don’t you sleep?” “Have I ever needed sleep?” “Isn’t this your land? Where you come from? I figured you’d … I don’t know … be more mortal here.” “I’m still a spren,” she said. “I’m a little piece of God. Did you miss the part about worshipping me?” When he didn’t reply, she poked him in the side. “You were supposed to say something sarcastic there.” “Sorry.” “We don’t sleep; we don’t eat. I think we might feed off humans, actually. Your emotions. Or you thinking about us, maybe. It all seems very complicated. In Shadesmar, we can think on our own, but if we go to your realm, we need a human bond. Otherwise, we’re practically as mindless as those gloryspren.” “But how did you make the transition?” “I…” She adopted a distant expression. “You called for me. Or, no, I knew that you would someday call for me. So I transferred to the Physical Realm, trusting that the honor of men lived, unlike what my father always said.” Her father. The Stormfather. It was so strange to be able to feel her head on his arm. He was accustomed to her having very little substance. “Could you transfer again?” Kaladin asked. “To carry word to Dalinar that something might be wrong with the Oathgates?” “I don’t think so. You’re here, and my bond is to you.” She poked him again. “But this is all a distraction from the real problem.” “You’re right. I need a weapon. And we’ll need to find
food somehow.” “Kaladin…” “Are there trees on this side? This obsidian might make a good spearhead.” She lifted her head from his arm and looked at him with wide, worried eyes. “I’m fine, Syl,” he said. “I just lost my focus.” “You were basically catatonic.” “I won’t let it happen again.” “I’m not complaining.” She wrapped her arms around his right arm, like a child clinging to a favored toy. Worried. Frightened. “Something’s wrong inside you. But I don’t know what.” I’ve never locked up in real combat, he thought. Not since that day in training, when Tukks had to come talk to me. “I … was just surprised to find Sah there,” he said. “Not to mention Moash.” How do you do it? How can you hurt people, Tukks.… She closed her eyes and leaned against him without letting go of his arm. Eventually he heard the others stirring, so he extricated himself from Syl’s grasp and went to join them. The most important point I wish to make is that the Unmade are still among us. I realize this will be contentious, as much of the lore surrounding them is intertwined with theology. However, it is clear to me that some of their effects are common in the world—and we simply treat them as we would the manifestations of other spren. —From Hessi’s Mythica, page 12 The Skybreaker test was to take place in a modest-sized town on the north border of the Purelake. Some people lived in the lake, of course, but sane society avoided that. Szeth landed—well, was landed—near the center of the town square, along with the other hopefuls. The main bulk of the Skybreakers either remained in the air or settled onto the cliffs around the town. Three masters landed near Szeth, as did a handful of younger men and women who could Lash themselves. The group being tested today would include hopefuls like Szeth—who needed to find a master and swear the Second Ideal—and squires who had achieved that step already, but now needed to attract a spren and speak the Third Ideal. It was a varied group; the Skybreakers didn’t seem to care for ethnicity or eye color. Szeth was the only Shin among them, but the others included Makabaki, Reshi, Vorins, Iriali, and even one Thaylen. A tall, strong man in a Marabethian wrap and an Azish coat hefted himself from his seat on a porch. “It took you long enough!” he said in Azish, striding toward them. “I sent for you hours ago! The convicts have escaped into the lake; who knows how far they’ve gotten by now! They will kill again if not stopped. Find and deal with them—you’ll know them by the tattoos on their foreheads.” The masters turned to the squires and hopefuls; some of the more eager among them immediately went running toward the water. Several that could Lash took to the sky. Szeth lingered, along with four of the others. He stepped up to Ki, in her shoulder cloak of a high judge of Marabethia. “How did
this man know to send for us?” Szeth asked. “We have been expanding our influence, following the advent of the new storm,” she replied. “The local monarchs have accepted us as a unifying martial force, and have given us legal authority. The city’s high minister wrote to us via spanreed, pleading for help.” “And these convicts?” a squire asked. “What do we know of them, and our duty here?” “This group of convicts escaped the prison there along the cliffs. The report says they are dangerous murderers. Your task is to find the guilty and execute them. We have writs ordering their deaths.” “All of those who escaped are guilty?” “They are.” At that, several of the other squires left, hurrying to prove themselves. Still, Szeth lingered. Something about the situation bothered him. “If these men are murderers, why were they not executed before?” “This area is populated by Reshi idealists, Szeth-son-Neturo,” Ki said. “They have a strange, nonviolent attitude, even toward criminals. This town is charged with holding prisoners from all across the region, and Minister Kwati is paid tribute to maintain these facilities. Now that the murderers have escaped, mercy is withdrawn. They are to be executed.” That was enough for the last two squires, who took to the sky to begin their search. And Szeth supposed it was enough for him as well. These are Skybreakers, he thought. They wouldn’t knowingly send us after innocents. He could have taken their implied approval at the start. Yet … something bothered him. This was a test, but of what? Was it merely about the speed with which they could dispatch the guilty? He started toward the waters. “Szeth-son-Neturo,” Ki called to him. “Yes?” “You walk on stone. Why is this? Each Shin I have known calls stone holy, and refuses to set foot on it.” “It cannot be holy. If it truly were, Master Ki, it would have burned me away long ago.” He nodded to her, then stepped into the Purelake. The water was warmer than he’d remembered. It wasn’t deep at all—reportedly, even in the very center of the lake the water wouldn’t reach higher than a man’s thighs, save for the occasional sinkhole. You are far behind those others, the sword said. You’re never going to catch anyone at this rate. “I knew a voice like yours once, sword-nimi.” The whispers? “No. A single one, in my mind, when I was young.” Szeth shaded his eyes, looking across the glistening lake. “I hope things go better this time.” The flying squires would catch anyone in the open, so Szeth would need to search for less obvious criminals. He only needed one … One? the sword said. You’re not being ambitious enough. “Perhaps. Sword-nimi, do you know why you were given to me?” Because you needed help. I’m good at helping. “But why me?” Szeth continued trudging through the water. “Nin said I was never to let you leave my presence.” It seemed like more of a burden than an aid. Yes, the sword was a Shardblade—but one he’d
been cautioned about drawing. The Purelake seemed to extend forever, wide as an ocean. Szeth’s steps startled schools of fish, which would follow behind him for a bit, occasionally nipping at his boots. Gnarled trees poked from the shallows, gorging themselves on the water while their roots grasped the many holes and furrows in the lake bed. Rock outcrops broke the lake near the coast, but inward the Purelake grew placid, more empty. Szeth turned parallel to the shore. You’re not going the same way as the others. That was true. Honestly, Szeth, I have to be frank. You aren’t good at slaying evil. We haven’t killed anyone while you’ve held me. “I wonder, sword-nimi. Did Nin-son-God give you to me so I could practice resisting your encouragements, or because he saw me as equally bloodthirsty? He did call us a good match.” I’m not bloodthirsty, the sword said immediately. I just want to be useful. “And not bored?” Well, that too. The sword made some soft hums, imitating a human deep in thought. You say you killed many people before we met. But the whispers … you didn’t take pleasure in destroying those who needed to be destroyed? “I am not convinced that they needed to be destroyed.” You killed them. “I was sworn to obey.” By a magic rock. He had explained his past to the sword several times now. For some reason, it had difficulty understanding—or remembering—certain things. “The Oathstone had no magic. I obeyed because of honor, and I sometimes obeyed evil or petty men. Now I seek a higher ideal.” But what if you pick the wrong thing to follow? Couldn’t you end up in the same place again? Can’t you just find evil, then destroy it? “And what is evil, sword-nimi?” I’m sure you can spot it. You seem smart. If increasingly kind of boring. Would that he could continue in such monotony. Nearby, a large twisted tree rose from the bank. Several of the leaves along one branch were pulled in, seeking refuge inside the bark; someone had disturbed them. Szeth didn’t give overt indication that he’d noticed, but angled his walk so that he stepped beneath the tree. Part of him hoped the man hiding in the tree had the sense to stay hidden. He did not. The man leaped for Szeth, perhaps tempted by the prospect of obtaining a fine weapon. Szeth sidestepped, but without Lashings he felt slow, awkward. He escaped the slashes of the convict’s improvised dagger, but was forced back toward the water. Finally! the sword said. All right, here’s what you have to do. Fight him and win, Szeth. The criminal rushed him. Szeth caught the hand with the dagger, twisting to use the man’s own momentum to send him stumbling into the lake. Recovering, the man turned toward Szeth, who was trying to read what he could from the man’s ragged, sorry appearance. Matted, shaggy hair. Reshi skin bearing many lesions. The poor fellow was so filthy, beggars and street urchins would find him distasteful company. The convict
passed his knife from one hand to the other, wary. Then he rushed Szeth again. Szeth caught the man by the wrist once more and spun him around, the water splashing. Predictably, the man dropped his knife, which Szeth plucked from the water. He dodged the man’s grapple, and in a moment had one arm around the convict’s neck. Szeth raised the knife and—before he formed conscious thought—pressed the blade against the man’s chest, drawing blood. He managed to pull back, preventing himself from killing the convict. Fool! He needed to question the man. Had his time as Truthless made him such an eager killer? Szeth lowered the knife, but that gave the man an opening to twist and pull them both down into the Purelake. Szeth splashed into water warm as blood. The criminal landed on top and forced Szeth under the surface, slamming his hand against the stony bottom and making him drop the knife. The world became a distorted blur. This isn’t winning, the sword said. How ironic it would be to survive the murder of kings and Shardbearers only to die at the hands of a man with a crude knife. Szeth almost let it happen, but he knew fate was not finished with him yet. He threw off the criminal, who was weak and scrawny. The man tried to grab the knife—which was clearly visible beneath the surface—while Szeth rolled the other direction to gain some distance. Unfortunately, the sword on his back got caught between the stones of the lake bottom, and that caused him to jerk back to the water. Szeth growled and—with a heave—ripped himself free, breaking the sword’s harness strap. The weapon sank into the water. Szeth splashed to his feet, turning to face the winded, dirty convict. The man glanced at the submerged, silver sword. His eyes glazed, then he grinned wickedly, dropped his knife, and dove for the sword. Curious. Szeth stepped back as the convict came up looking gleeful, holding the weapon. Szeth punched him across the face, his arm leaving a faint afterimage. He grabbed the sheathed sword, ripping it from the weaker man’s hands. Though the weapon often seemed too heavy for its size, it now felt light in his fingers. He stepped to the side and swung it—sheath and all—at his enemy. The weapon struck the convict’s back with a sickening crunch. The poor man splashed down into the lake and fell still. I suppose that will do, the sword said. Really, you should have just used me in the first place. Szeth shook himself. Had he killed the fellow after all? Szeth knelt and pulled him up by his matted hair. The convict gasped, but his body didn’t move. Not dead, but paralyzed. “Did someone work with you in your escape?” Szeth asked. “One of the local nobility, perhaps?” “What?” the man sputtered. “Oh, Vun Makak. What have you done to me? I can’t feel my arms, my legs…” “Did anyone from the outside help you?” “No. Why … why would you ask?” The man sputtered.
“Wait. Yes. Who do you want me to name? I’ll do whatever you say. Please.” Szeth considered. Not working with the guards then, or the minister of the town. “How did you get out?” “Oh, Nu Ralik…” the man said, crying. “We shouldn’t have killed the guard. I just wanted … wanted to see the sun again.…” Szeth dropped the man back into the water. He stepped onto the shore and sat down on a rock, breathing deeply. Not long ago, he had danced with a Windrunner at the front of a storm. Today, he fought in shallow water against a half-starved man. Oh, how he missed the sky. That was cruel, the sword said. Leaving him to drown. “Better than feeding him to a greatshell,” Szeth said. “That happens to criminals in this kingdom.” Both are cruel, the sword said. “You know of cruelty, sword-nimi?” Vivenna used to tell me that cruelty is only for men, as is mercy. Only we can choose one or the other, and beasts cannot. “You count yourself as a man?” No. But sometimes she talked like she did. And after Shashara made me, she argued with Vasher, saying I could be a poet or a scholar. Like a man, right? Shashara? That sounded like Shalash, the Eastern name for the Herald Shush-daughter-God. So perhaps this sword’s origin was with the Heralds. Szeth rose and walked up the coast, back toward the town. Aren’t you going to search for other criminals? “I needed only one, sword-nimi, to test what has been told to me and to learn a few important facts.” Like how smelly convicts are? “That is indeed part of the secret.” He passed the small town where the master Skybreakers waited, then hiked up the hillside to the prison. The dark block of a structure overlooked the Purelake, but the beautiful vantage was wasted; the place had barely any windows. Inside, the smell was so foul, he had to breathe through his mouth. The body of a single guard had been left in a pool of blood between cells. Szeth almost tripped over it—there was no light in the place, save for a few sphere lamps in the guard post. I see, he thought, kneeling beside the fallen man. Yes. This test was indeed a curious one. Outside, he noted some of the squires returning to the town with corpses in tow, though none of the other hopefuls seemed to have found anyone. Szeth picked his way carefully down the rocky slope to the town, careful not to drag the sword. Whatever Nin’s reasons for entrusting him with the weapon, it was a holy object. At the town, he approached the beefy nobleman, who was trying to make small talk with Master Ki—failing spectacularly. Nearby, other members of the town were debating the ethics of simply executing murderers, or holding them and risking this. Szeth inspected the dead convicts, and found them as dirty as the one he had fought, though two weren’t nearly as emaciated. There was a prison economy, Szeth thought. Food
went to those in power while others were starved. “You,” Szeth said to the nobleman. “I found only one body above. Did you really have a single guard posted to watch all these prisoners?” The nobleman sneered at him. “A Shin stonewalker? Who are you to question me? Go back to your stupid grass and dead trees, little man.” “The prisoners were free to create their own hierarchy,” Szeth continued. “And nobody watched to see they didn’t make weapons, as I faced one with a knife. These men were mistreated, locked in darkness, not given enough food.” “They were criminals. Murderers.” “And what happened to the money you were sent to administrate this facility? It certainly didn’t go toward proper security.” “I don’t have to listen to this!” Szeth turned from him to Ki. “Do you have a writ of execution for this man?” “It is the first we obtained.” “What?” the nobleman said. Fearspren boiled up around him. Szeth undid the clasp on the sword and drew it. A rushing sound, like a thousand screams. A wave of power, like the beating of a terrible, stunning wind. Colors changed around him. They deepened, growing darker and more vibrant. The city nobleman’s cloak became a stunning array of deep oranges and blood reds. The hair on Szeth’s arms stood on end and his skin spiked with a sudden incredible pain. DESTROY! Liquid darkness flowed from the Blade, then melted to smoke as it fell. Szeth screamed at the pain in his arm even as he slammed the weapon through the chest of the blubbering nobleman. Flesh and blood puffed instantly into black smoke. Ordinary Shardblades burned only the eyes, but this sword somehow consumed the entire body. It seemed to sear away even the man’s soul. EVIL! Veins of black liquid crept up Szeth’s hand and arm. He gaped at them, then gasped and rammed the sword back into its silvery sheath. He fell to his knees, dropping the sword and raising his hand, fingers bent and tendons taut. Slowly, the blackness evaporated from his flesh, the awful pain easing. The skin of his hand, which had already been pale, had been bleached to grey-white. The sword’s voice sank to a deep muttering in his mind, its words slurring. It struck him as sounding like the voice of a beast falling into a stupor after having gorged itself. Szeth breathed deeply. Fumbling at his pouch, he saw that several spheres inside were completely drained. I will need far more Stormlight if I’m to ever try that again. The surrounding townspeople, squires, and even master Skybreakers regarded him with uniform horror. Szeth picked up the sword and struggled to his feet, before fastening the sword’s clasp. Holding the sheathed weapon in both hands, he bowed to Ki. “I have dealt,” he said, “with the worst of the criminals.” “You have done well,” she said slowly, glancing at where the nobleman had stood. There wasn’t even a stain on the stones. “We will wait and make certain the other criminals have been killed or
captured.” “Wise,” Szeth said. “Could I … beg something to drink? I suddenly find myself very thirsty.” * * * By the time all the escapees had been accounted for, the sword was stirring again. It had never fallen asleep, if a sword could do such a thing. Rather, it had mumbled in his mind until it slowly became lucid. Hey! the sword said as Szeth sat on a low wall alongside the city. Hey, did you draw me? “I did, sword-nimi.” Great job! Did we … did we destroy lots of evil? “A great and corrupt evil.” Wow! I’m impressed. You know, Vivenna never drew me even once? She carried me for a long time too. Maybe a couple of days even? “And how long have I been carrying you?” At least an hour, the sword said, satisfied. One, or two, or ten thousand. Something like that. Ki approached, and he returned her water canteen. “Thank you, Master Ki.” “I have decided to take you as my squire, Szeth-son-Neturo,” she said. “In all honesty, there was an argument among us over who would have the privilege.” He bowed his head. “I may swear the Second Ideal?” “You may. Justice will serve you until you attract a spren and swear to a more specific code. During my prayers last night, Winnow proclaimed the highspren are watching you. I won’t be surprised if it takes mere months before you achieve the Third Ideal.” Months. No, he would not take months. But he did not swear quite yet. Instead, he nodded toward the prison. “Pardon, master, a question. You knew this breakout would happen, didn’t you?” “We suspected. One of our teams investigated this man and discovered how he was using his funds. When the call came, we were not surprised. It provided a perfect testing opportunity.” “Why not deal with him earlier?” “You must understand our purpose and our place, a fine point difficult for many squires to grasp. That man had not yet broken a law. His duty was to imprison the convicts, which he had done. He was allowed to judge if his methods were satisfactory or not. Only once he failed, and his charges had escaped, could we mete out justice.” Szeth nodded. “I swear to seek justice, to let it guide me, until I find a more perfect Ideal.” “These Words are accepted,” Ki said. She removed a glowing emerald sphere from her pouch. “Take your place above, squire.” Szeth regarded the sphere, then—trembling—breathed in the Stormlight. It returned to him in a rush. The skies were his once again. Taxil mentions Yelig-nar, named Blightwind, in an oft-cited quote. Though Jasnah Kholin has famously called its accuracy into question, I believe it. —From Hessi’s Mythica, page 26 When Adolin woke up, he was still in the nightmare. The dark sky, glass ground, the strange creatures. He had a crick in his neck and a pain in his back; he’d never mastered the “sleep anywhere” skill the grunts bragged about. Father could have slept on the ground, a part of
him thought. Dalinar is a true soldier. Adolin thought again of the jolt he’d felt when ramming his dagger through Sadeas’s eye and into his brain. Satisfaction and shame. Strip away Adolin’s nobility, and what was left? A duelist when a world needed generals? A hothead who couldn’t even take an insult? A murderer? He threw off his coat and sat up, then jumped and gasped as he found the woman with the scratched-out eyes looming over him. “Ishar’s soul!” Adolin cursed. “Do you have to stay so close?” She didn’t move. Adolin sighed, then changed the dressing on his shallow shoulder cut, using bandages from his pocket. Nearby, Shallan and Azure catalogued their meager supplies. Kaladin trudged over to join them. Had the bridgeboy slept? Adolin stretched, then—accompanied by his ghostly spren—walked down the short slope to the ocean of glass beads. A few lifespren floated nearby; on this side, their glowing green motes had tufts of white hair that rippled as they danced and bobbed. Perhaps they were circling plants by the riverbank in the Physical Realm? Those small dots of light swimming above the rock might be the souls of fish. How did that work? In the real world, they’d be in the water, so shouldn’t they be inside the stone? He knew so little, and felt so overwhelmed. So insignificant. A fearspren crawled up out of the ocean of beads, purple antenna pointing at him. It scuttled closer until Adolin picked up some beads and threw one at the spren, which scuttled back into the ocean and lurked there, watching him. “What do you think of all this?” Adolin asked the woman with the scratched-out eyes. She didn’t respond, but he often talked to his sword without it responding. He tossed up one of the beads and caught it. Shallan could tell what each represented, but all he got was a dull impression of … something red? “I’m being childish, aren’t I?” Adolin asked. “So, forces moving in the world now make me look insignificant. That’s no different from a child growing up and realizing his little life isn’t the center of the universe. Right?” Problem was, his little life had been the center of the universe, growing up. Welcome to being the son of Dalinar storming Blackthorn. He hurled the sphere into the sea, where it skittered against its fellows. Adolin sighed, then started a morning kata. Without a sword, he fell back on the first kata he’d ever learned—an extended sequence of stretches, hand-to-hand moves, and stances to help loosen his muscles. The forms calmed him. The world was turning on its head, but familiar things were still familiar. Strange, that he should have to come to that revelation. About halfway through, he noticed Azure standing on the bank. She walked down the slope and fell into line beside him, doing the same kata. She must have known it already, for she kept pace with him exactly. They stepped back and forth along the rocks, sparring with their own shadows, until Kaladin approached and joined them.
He wasn’t as practiced, and cursed under his breath as he got a sequence wrong—but he’d obviously done it before too. He must have learned it from Zahel, Adolin realized. The three moved together, their breathing controlled, scraping boots on the glass. The sea of beads rolling against itself began to sound soothing. Even rhythmic. The world is the same as it’s always been, Adolin thought. These things we’re finding—monsters and Radiants—aren’t new. They were only hidden. The world has always been like this, even if I didn’t know it. And Adolin … he was still himself. He had all the same things to be proud of, didn’t he? Same strengths? Same accomplishments? Same flaws too. “Are you three dancing?” a voice suddenly piped up. Adolin immediately spun around. Shallan had settled on the slope above them, still wearing her white uniform, hat, and single glove. He found himself grinning stupidly. “It’s a warm-up kata,” he explained. “You—” “I know what it is. You tried to teach it to me, remember? I just thought it odd to see you all down here like that.” She shook her head. “Weren’t we going to plan how to get out of here?” Together, they started up the slope, and Azure fell into step beside Adolin. “Where did you learn that kata?” “From my swordmaster. You?” “Likewise.” As they approached their camp in the small nestlike depression in the obsidian ground, something felt off to Adolin. Where was his sword, the woman with the scratched-out eyes? He stepped back and spotted her standing on the coast, looking at her feet. “All right,” Shallan said, drawing him back. “I made a list of our supplies.” She gestured with a pencil toward the items—which were arrayed on the ground—as she spoke. “One bag of gemstones from the emerald reserve. I used roughly half of our Stormlight in our transfer to Shadesmar and crossing the sea of beads. We have my satchel, with charcoal, reed pens, brushes, ink, lacquer, some solvents, three sketchpads, my sharpening knife, and one jar of jam I’d stowed inside for an emergency snack.” “Wonderful,” Kaladin said. “I’m sure a pile of brushes will be useful in fighting off Voidspren.” “Better than your tongue, which is notably dull lately. Adolin has his side knife, but our only real weapon is Azure’s Shardblade. Kaladin brought the bag of gemstones inside his pack, which fortunately also contained his travel rations: three meals of flatbread and jerked pork. We also have a water jug and three canteens.” “Mine is half empty,” Adolin noted. “Mine too,” Azure said. “Which means we have maybe one day’s worth of water and three meals for four people. Last time I crossed Shadesmar, it took four weeks.” “Obviously,” Kaladin said, “we have to get back through the Oathgate into the city.” Pattern hummed, standing behind Shallan. He seemed like a statue; he didn’t shift his weight or move in small ways like a human would. Kaladin’s spren was different. She always seemed to be moving, slipping this way or that, girlish dress rippling
as she walked, her hair swaying. “Bad,” Pattern said. “The spren of the Oathgate are bad now.” “Do we have any other options?” Kaladin said. “I remember … some,” Syl said. “Much more than I used to. Our land, every land, is three realms. The highest is the Spiritual, where gods live—there, all things, times, and spaces are made into one. “We’re now in the Cognitive Realm. Shadesmar, where spren live. You are from the Physical Realm. The only way I know of to transfer there is to be pulled by human emotions. That won’t help you, as you’re not spren.” “There’s another way to transfer between realms,” Azure said. “I’ve used it.” Her hair had recovered its dark coloring, and it seemed to Adolin that her scars had faded. Something about her was downright strange. She seemed almost like a spren herself. She bore his scrutiny, looking from him to Kaladin, to Shallan. Finally she sighed deeply. “Story time?” “Yes, please,” Adolin replied. “You’ve traveled in this place before?” “I’m from a far land, and I came to Roshar by crossing this place, Shadesmar.” “All right,” Adolin said. “But why?” “I came chasing someone.” “A friend?” “A criminal,” she said softly. “You’re a soldier though,” Kaladin said. “Not really. In Kholinar, I merely stepped up to do a job nobody else was doing. I thought perhaps the Wall Guard would have information on the man I’m hunting. Everything went wrong, and I got stuck.” “When you arrived in our land,” Shallan said, “you used an Oathgate to get from Shadesmar to the Physical Realm?” “No.” Azure laughed, shaking her head. “I didn’t know of those until Kal told me about them. I used a portal between realms. Cultivation’s Perpendicularity, they call it. On your side, it’s in the Horneater Peaks.” “That’s hundreds of miles from here,” Adolin said. “There’s supposedly another perpendicularity,” Azure said. “It’s unpredictable and dangerous, and appears randomly in different places. My guides warned against trying to hunt it.” “Guides?” Kaladin said. “Who were these guides?” “Why, spren of course.” Adolin glanced toward the distant city they’d left, where there had been fearspren and painspren aplenty. “Not like those,” Azure said, laughing. “People spren, like these two.” “Which raises a question,” Adolin said, pointing as the spren with the strange eyes rejoined them. “That’s the soul of my Shardblade. Syl is Kaladin’s, and Pattern Shallan’s. So…” He pointed at the weapon at her belt. “Tell us honestly, Azure. Are you a Knight Radiant?” “No.” Adolin swallowed. Say it. “You’re a Herald then.” She laughed. “No. What? A Herald? Those are basically gods, right? I’m no figure from mythology, thank you very much. I’m just a woman who has been constantly out of her league since adolescence. Trust me.” Adolin glanced at Kaladin. He didn’t seem convinced either. “Really,” Azure said. “There’s no spren here for my Blade because it’s flawed. I can’t summon or dismiss it, like you can yours. She’s a handy weapon, but a pale copy of what you carry.” She patted it. “Anyway, when I
last crossed this place, I hired a ship to convey me.” “A ship?” Kaladin said. “Sailed by whom?” “Spren. I hired it at one of their cities.” “Cities?” Kaladin looked toward Syl. “You have cities?” “Where did you think we lived?” Syl said, amused. “Lightspren are usually guides,” Azure continued. “They like to travel, to see new places. They sail all across Roshar’s Shadesmar, peddling goods, trading with other spren. Um … you’re supposed to watch out for Cryptics.” Pattern hummed happily. “Yes. We are very famous.” “What about using Soulcasting?” Adolin looked to Shallan. “Could you make us supplies?” “I don’t think it would work,” Shallan replied. “When I Soulcast, I change an object’s soul here in this realm, and it reflects in the other world. If I changed one of these beads, it might become something new in the Physical Realm—but it would still be a bead to us.” “Food and water aren’t impossible to find here,” Azure said, “if you can make it to a port city. The spren don’t need these things, but humans living on this side—and there are some—need a constant supply. With that Stormlight of yours, we can trade. Maybe buy passage to the Horneater Peaks.” “That would take a long time,” Kaladin said. “Alethkar is falling right now, and the Blackthorn needs us. It—” He was interrupted by a haunting screech. It was reminiscent of sheets of steel grinding against one another. It was met by others, echoing in unison. Adolin spun toward the sounds, shocked by their intensity. Syl put her hands to her lips, and Pattern cocked his strange head. “What was that?” Kaladin demanded. Azure hurriedly began shoving their supplies into Kaladin’s pack. “You remember before we slept, how I said we’d be fine unless we attracted the wrong spren?” “… Yes?” “We should get moving. Now.” SEVEN YEARS AGO Dalinar stumbled as he swept everything from the dresser, upending a bowl of hot soup. He didn’t want soup. He yanked out drawers, dumping clothing to the ground, steam curling from the spilled broth. They’d done it again! They’d taken his bottles. How dare they! Couldn’t they hear the weeping? He roared, then grabbed his trunk, overturning it. A flask rolled out along with the clothing. Finally! Something they hadn’t found. He slurped down the dregs it contained, and groaned. The weeping echoed around him. Children dying. Evi begging for her life. He needed more. But … wait, did he need to be presentable? The hunt? Was that today? Stupid man, he thought. The last of the hunts had been weeks ago. He’d convinced Gavilar to come with him out into the wilderness, and the trip had gone well. Dalinar had been presentable—sober, commanding even. A figure right from the storming songs. They’d discovered those parshmen. They’d been so interesting. For a time, away from civilization, Dalinar had felt like himself. His old self. He hated that person. Growling, he dug in his large wardrobe. This fort on the eastern rim of Alethkar was the first mark of civilization on their
trip home. It had given Dalinar access, again, to the necessities of life. Like wine. He barely heard the rap on his door as he flung coats out of the wardrobe. When he looked over, he saw two youths standing there. His sons. Angerspren boiled around him. Her hair. Her judgmental eyes. How many lies about him had she stuffed into their heads? “What?” Dalinar roared. Adolin stood his ground. Almost seventeen now, fully a man. The other one, the invalid, cringed down. He looked younger than his … what … twelve years? Thirteen? “We heard the commotion, sir,” Adolin said, jutting out his chin. “We thought you might need help.” “I need nothing! Out! GET OUT!” They scrambled away. Dalinar’s heart raced. He slammed the wardrobe and pounded his fists on the bedside table, toppling the sphere lamp. Puffing, groaning, he fell to his knees. Storms. They were only a few days’ march from the ruins of Rathalas. Was that why the screaming was louder today? A hand fell on his shoulder. “Father?” “Adolin, so help me—” Still kneeling, Dalinar turned, then cut off. It wasn’t Adolin, but the other one. Renarin had returned, timid as always, his spectacled eyes wide and his hand trembling. He held something out. A small bottle. “I…” Renarin swallowed. “I got you one, with the spheres the king gave me. Because you always go through what you buy so quickly.” Dalinar stared at that bottle of wine for an endless moment. “Gavilar hides the wine from me,” he mumbled. “That’s why none is left. I … couldn’t possibly … have drunk it all.…” Renarin stepped in and hugged him. Dalinar flinched, bracing as if for a punch. The boy clung to him, not letting go. “They talk about you,” Renarin said, “but they’re wrong. You just need to rest, after all the fighting you did. I know. And I miss her too.” Dalinar licked his lips. “What did she tell you?” he said, voice ragged. “What did your mother say about me?” “The only honest officer in the army,” Renarin said, “the honorable soldier. Noble, like the Heralds themselves. Our father. The greatest man in Alethkar.” What stupid words. Yet Dalinar found himself weeping. Renarin let go, but Dalinar grabbed him, pulling him close. Oh, Almighty. Oh God. Oh God, please … I’ve started to hate my sons. Why hadn’t the boys learned to hate him back? They should hate him. He deserved to be hated. Please. Anything. I don’t know how to get free of this. Help me. Help me … Dalinar wept and clung to that youth, that child, as if he were the only real thing left in a world of shadows. Yelig-nar had great powers, perhaps the powers of all Surges compounded in one. He could transform any Voidbringer into an extremely dangerous enemy. Curiously, three legends I found mention swallowing a gemstone to engage this process. —From Hessi’s Mythica, page 27 Kaladin marched at speed through Shadesmar, trying—with difficulty—to control the simmering dissatisfaction inside of him. “Mmmm…” Pattern said as
another screech sounded behind them. “Humans, you must stop your emotions. They are very inconvenient here.” The group hiked southward, along the narrow line of land that overlaid the river in the real world. Shallan was the slowest of them, and had difficulty keeping up, so they’d agreed she should hold a little Stormlight. It was either that, or let the screeching spren reach them. “What are they like?” Adolin said to Azure, puffing as they marched. “You said those sounds were from angerspren? Boiling pools of blood?” “That’s the part you see in the Physical Realm,” Azure said. “Here … that’s merely their saliva, pooling as they drool. They’re nasty.” “And dangerous,” Syl said. She scampered along the obsidian ground, and didn’t seem to get tired. “Even to spren. But how did we draw them? Nobody was angry, right?” Kaladin tried again to smother his frustration. “I wasn’t feeling anything other than tired,” Shallan said. “I felt overwhelmed,” Adolin said. “Still do. But not angry.” “Kaladin?” Syl said. He looked at the others, then down at his feet. “It just feels like … like we’re abandoning Kholinar. And only I care. You were talking about how to get food, find a way to the Horneater Peaks, this perpendicularity or whatever. But we’re abandoning people to the Voidbringers.” “I care too!” Adolin said. “Bridgeboy, that was my home. It—” “I know,” Kaladin snapped. He took a breath, forcing himself to calm. “I know, Adolin. I know it’s not rational to try to get back through the Oathgate. We don’t know how to work it from this side, and besides, it’s obviously been corrupted. My emotions are irrational. I’ll try to contain them. I promise.” They fell silent. You’re not angry at Adolin, Kaladin thought forcefully. You’re not actually angry at anyone. You’re just looking for something to latch on to. Something to feel. Because the darkness was coming. It fed off the pain of defeat, the agony of losing men he’d tried to protect. But it could feed off anything. Life going well? The darkness would whisper that he was only setting himself up for a bigger fall. Shallan glances at Adolin? They must be whispering about him. Dalinar sends him to protect Elhokar? The highprince must want to get rid of Kaladin. He’d failed at that, regardless. When Dalinar heard that Kholinar had fallen … Get out, Kaladin thought, squeezing his eyes shut. Get out, get out, get out! It would continue until numbness seemed preferable. Then that numbness would claim him and make it hard to do anything at all. It would become a sinking, inescapable void from within which everything looked washed out. Dead. Within that dark place, he’d wanted to betray his oaths. Within that dark place, he’d given the king up to assassins and murderers. Eventually, the screeches faded into the distance. Syl guessed that the angerspren had been drawn into the beads, off toward Kholinar and the powerful emotions there. The group continued their hike. There was only one way to go: south, along the narrow
peninsula of obsidian running through the bead ocean. “When I traveled here last time,” Azure said, “we passed numbers of peninsulas like this one. They always had lighthouses at the ends. We stopped at them sometimes for supplies.” “Yes…” Syl said, nodding. “I remember those. It’s useful for ships to note where land juts into the beads. There should be one at the end of this one … though it looks loooong. We’ll have to hike it for several days.” “At least it’s a goal,” Adolin said. “We travel south, get to the lighthouse, and hope to catch a ship there.” There was an insufferable spring to his step, like he was actually excited by this terrible place. Idiot Adolin, who probably didn’t even understand the consequences of— Stop it. STOP IT. He helped you. Storms. Kaladin hated himself when he got like this. When he tried to empty his mind, he drifted toward the void of darkness. But when he instead let himself think, he started remembering what had happened in Kholinar. Men he loved, killing each other. Awful, terrifying perspective. He could see too many sides. Parshmen angry at being enslaved for years, attempting to overthrow a corrupt government. Alethi protecting their homes from invading monsters. Elhokar trying to save his son. The palace guards trying to keep their oaths. Too many eyes to see through. Too many emotions. Were these his only two options? Pain or oblivion? Fight it. Their hike continued, and he tried to turn his attention to his surroundings instead of his thoughts. The thin peninsula wasn’t barren, as he’d first assumed. Growing along its edges were small, brittle plants that looked like ferns. When he asked, Syl told him they grew exactly like plants in the Physical Realm. Most were black, but occasionally they had vibrant colors, blended together like stained glass. None grew higher than his knees, and most only reached his ankles. He felt terrible whenever he brushed one and it crumpled. The sun didn’t seem to change position in the sky, no matter how long they walked. Through spaces between the clouds, he saw only blackness. No stars, no moons. Eternal, endless darkness. * * * They camped for what should have been the night, then hiked all the next day. Kholinar vanished into the distance behind, but still they kept going: Azure at the front, then Pattern, Syl, and Kaladin, with Shallan and Adolin at the back, Adolin’s spren trailing them. Kaladin would have preferred to take the rearguard, but if he tried, Adolin positioned himself to the back again. What did the princeling think? That Kaladin would lag behind, if not minded? Syl walked beside him, mostly quiet. Being back on this side troubled her. She’d look at things, like the occasional colorful plant, and cock her head as if trying to remember. “It’s like a dream from the time when I was dead,” she’d said when he prompted her. They camped another “night,” then started walking again. Kaladin skipped breakfast—their rations were basically gone. Besides, he welcomed the grumbling
stomach. It reminded him that he was alive. Gave him something to think about, other than the men he’d lost … “Where did you live?” he asked Syl, still carrying his pack, hiking along the seemingly infinite peninsula. “When you were young, on this side?” “It was far to the west,” she said. “A grand city, ruled by honorspren! I didn’t like it though. I wanted to travel, but Father kept me in the city, especially after … you know…” “I’m not actually sure that I do.” “I bonded a Knight Radiant. Haven’t I told you of him? I remember…” She closed her eyes as she walked, chin up, as if basking in a wind he could not feel. “I bonded him soon after I was born. He was an elderly man, kindly, but he did fight. In one battle. And he died.…” She blinked open her eyes. “That was a long time ago.” “I’m sorry.” “It’s all right. I wasn’t ready though for the bond. Spren normally weather the death of their Radiant, but I … I lost myself when I lost him. It all turned out to be morbidly fortuitous, because soon after, the Recreance happened. Men forsook their oaths, which killed my siblings. I survived, for I didn’t have a bond then.” “And the Stormfather locked you away?” “Father assumed I’d been killed with the others. He found me, asleep, after what must have been … wow, a thousand years on your side. He woke me and took me home.” She shrugged. “After that, he wouldn’t let me leave the city.” She took Kaladin by the arm. “He was foolish, as were the other honorspren born after the Recreance. They knew something bad was coming, but wouldn’t do anything. And I heard you calling, even from so far away.…” “The Stormfather let you out?” Kaladin said, stunned by the confessions. This was more than he’d found out about her since … since forever. “I snuck away,” she said with a grin. “I gave up my mind and joined your world, hiding among the windspren. We can barely see them on this side. Did you know that? Some spren live mostly in your realm. I suppose the wind is always there somewhere, so they don’t fade like passions do.” She shook her head. “Oh!” “Oh?” Kaladin asked. “Did you remember something?” “No! Oh!” She pointed, hopping up and down. “Look!” In the distance, a bright yellow light glowed like a spark in the otherwise dim landscape. A lighthouse. Yelig-nar is said to consume souls, but I can’t find a specific explanation. I’m uncertain this lore is correct. —From Hessi’s Mythica, page 51 On the day of the first meeting of monarchs at Urithiru, Navani made each person—no matter how important—carry their own chair. The old Alethi tradition symbolized each chief bringing important wisdom to a gathering. Navani and Dalinar arrived first, stepping off the lift and walking toward the meeting room near the top of Urithiru. Her chair was sensible but comfortable, made of Soulcast wood with a padded seat.
Dalinar had tried to bring a stool, but she’d insisted that he do better. This wasn’t a battlefield strategy tent, and forced austerity wouldn’t impress the monarchs. He’d eventually selected a sturdy wooden chair of thick stumpweight, with wide armrests but no padding. He’d quietly spent the trip up watching floors pass. When Dalinar was troubled, he went silent. His brow would scrunch up in thought, and to everyone else, it looked like he was scowling. “They got out, Dalinar,” Navani said to him. “I’m sure they did. Elhokar and Adolin are safe, somewhere.” He nodded. But even if they had survived, Kholinar had fallen. Was that why he seemed so haunted? No, it was something else. Ever since he’d collapsed after visiting Azir, it seemed that something in Dalinar had snapped. This morning, he had quietly asked her to lead the meeting. She worried, deeply, for what was happening to him. And for Elhokar. And for Kholinar … But storms, they had worked so hard to forge this coalition. She would not let it collapse now. She’d already grieved for a daughter, but then that daughter had returned to her. She had to hope the same for Elhokar—at the very least, so she could keep functioning while Dalinar mourned. They settled their chairs in the large meeting room, which had a clear view out flat glass windows overlooking mountains. Servants had already set out refreshment along the curved side wall of the half-circle room. The tiled floor was inlaid with the image of the Double Eye of the Almighty, complete with Surges and Essences. Bridge Four piled into the room after them. Many had brought simple seats, but the Herdazian had stumbled onto the lift with a chair so grand—inlaid with embroidered blue cloth and silver—it was almost a throne. They settled their chairs behind hers with a fair bit of squabbling, and then attacked the food without waiting for permission. For a group that was essentially one step from being lighteyed Shardbearers, they were an unruly and raucous bunch. Bridge Four had, characteristically, taken the news of their leader’s potential fall with laughter. Kaladin is tougher than a wind-tossed boulder, Brightness, Teft had told her. He survived Bridge Four, he survived the chasms, and he’ll survive this. She had to admit their optimism was heartening. But if the team had survived, why hadn’t they returned during the latest highstorm? Steady, Navani thought to herself, regarding the bridgemen, who were surrounded by laughterspren. One of those men currently carried Jezerezeh’s Honorblade. She couldn’t tell which; the Blade could be dismissed like an ordinary Shardblade, and they swapped it among themselves in order to be unpredictable. Soon, the others began arriving on different lifts, and Navani watched carefully. The chair-carrying tradition was, in part, a symbol of equality—but Navani figured she might be able to learn something about the monarchs from their choices. Being a human was about making sense of chaos, finding meaning among the random elements of the world. First to arrive was the young Azish Prime. His tailor had
done a wonderful job making his regal costume fit; it would have been easy for the youth to look like a child swimming in those stately robes and that headdress. He carried a very ornate throne, covered in loud Azish patterns, and each of his closest advisors helped by holding it with one hand. The large contingent settled in, and others flooded in behind, including three representatives of kingdoms subject to Azir: the prime of Emul, the princess of Yezier, and the ambassador from Tashikk. All brought chairs that were faintly inferior to that of the Azish Prime. A balancing act went on here. Each of the three monarchies gave just enough respect to the Prime so as not to embarrass him. They were his subjects in name only. Still, Navani should be able to focus her diplomacy efforts on the Prime. Tashikk, Emul, and Yezier would fall in line. Two were historically closest with the Azish throne, and the third—Emul—was in no position to stand on its own after the war with Tukar and the Voidbringer assault had basically broken the princedom into pieces. The Alethi contingent arrived next. Renarin, who seemed terrified that something had happened to his brother, brought a simple chair. Jasnah had outdone him by actually bringing a padded stool—she and Dalinar could be painfully similar. Navani noticed with annoyance that Sebarial and Palona weren’t with the other highprinces. Well, at least they hadn’t shown up bearing massage tables. Notably, Ialai Sadeas ignored the requirement that she carry her own chair. A scarred guardsman placed a sleek, lacquered chair down for her—stained so dark a maroon, it might as well have been black. She met Navani’s eyes as she sat, cold and confident. Amaram was technically highprince, but he was still in Thaylenah, working alongside his soldiers to rebuild the city. Navani doubted Ialai would have let him represent them at this meeting anyway. It seemed so long ago when Ialai and Navani had huddled together at dinners, conspiring on how to stabilize the kingdom their husbands were conquering. Now, Navani wanted to seize the woman and shake her. Can’t you stop being petty for one storming minute? Well, as had been happening for so long now, the other highprinces would defer either to Kholin or to Sadeas. Letting Ialai participate was a calculated risk. Forbid her, and the woman would find a way to sabotage the proceedings. Let her in, and hopefully she’d start to see the importance of this work. At least Queen Fen and her consort seemed committed to the coalition. They set their chairs by the glass window, backs to the storms, as the Thaylens often joked. Their wooden chairs were high-backed, painted blue, and upholstered a pale nautical white. Taravangian—bearing a nondescript chair of wood with no padding—asked to join them. The old man had insisted on carrying his own chair, though Navani had specifically excused him, Ashno of Sages, and others with a frail bearing. Adrotagia sat with him, as did his Surgebinder. She didn’t go join Bridge Four … and,
curiously, Navani realized she still thought of the woman as his Surgebinder. The only other person of note was Au-nak, the Natan ambassador. He represented a dead kingdom that had been reduced to a single city-state on the eastern coast of Roshar with a few other cities as protectorates. For a moment, it all seemed too much for Navani. The Azish Empire, with all its intricacies. The countermovement among the Alethi highprinces. Taravangian, who was somehow king of Jah Keved—the second-largest kingdom on Roshar. Queen Fen and her obligation to the guilds in her city. The Radiants—like the little Reshi who was currently outeating the huge Horneater bridgeman, almost as if it were a contest. So much to think about. Now was when Dalinar stepped back? Calm, Navani thought at herself, taking a deep breath. Order from chaos. Find the structure here and start building upon it. Everyone had naturally arranged themselves into a circle, with monarchs at the front and highprinces, viziers, interpreters, and scribes radiating out from them. Navani stood up and strode into the center. Just as everyone was quieting, Sebarial and his mistress finally sauntered in. They made right for the food, and had apparently forgotten chairs entirely. “I,” she said as the room hushed again, “know of no other conference like this in the history of Roshar. Perhaps they were common in the days of the Knights Radiant, but certainly nothing like it has occurred since the Recreance. I would like to both welcome and thank you, our noble guests. Today we make history.” “It only took a Desolation to cause it,” Sebarial said from the food table. “The world should end more often. It makes everyone so much more accommodating.” The various interpreters whispered translations to their charges. Navani found herself wondering if it was too late to have him tossed off the tower. You could do it—the sheer side of Urithiru, facing the Origin, was straight all the way down. She could watch Sebarial fall practically to the bottom of the mountains, if she wanted. “We,” Navani said sharply, “are here to discuss the future of Roshar. We must have a unified vision and goal.” She glanced around the room as people considered. He’s going to talk first, she thought, noticing the prime of Emul shifting in his seat. His name was Vexil the Wise, but people often referred to the Makabaki princes and primes by their country, much as Alethi highprinces were often referred to by their house name. “The course is obvious, isn’t it?” Emul said through an interpreter, though Navani understood his Azish. He bowed in his seat to the Azish child emperor, then continued. “We must reclaim my nation from the hands of the traitor parshmen; then we must conquer Tukar. It is completely unreasonable to allow this insane man, who claims to be a god, to continue bereaving the glorious Azish Empire.” This is going to get difficult, Navani thought as a half dozen other people started to speak at once. She raised her freehand. “I will do my best
to moderate fairly, Your Majesties, but do realize that I am only one person. I depend upon you all to facilitate the discussion, rather than trying to talk over one another.” She nodded at the Azish Prime, hoping he’d take the floor. A translator whispered her words into the Prime’s left ear; then Noura the vizier leaned forward and spoke quietly into the other, undoubtedly giving instructions. They’ll want to see how this plays out, Navani decided. One of the others will speak next. They’ll want to contrast the Emuli position, to assert themselves. “The throne recognizes the prime of Emul,” the little emperor finally said. “And, er, we are aware of his desires.” He paused and looked around. “Um, anyone else have a comment?” “My brother the prince wishes to address you,” said the tall, refined representative from Tashikk, who wore a flowery suit of yellow and gold rather than his people’s traditional wrap. A scribe whispered to him as a spanreed scratched out the message Tashikk’s prince wanted conveyed to the gathering. He’ll contradict Emul, Navani thought. Point us in another direction. Toward Iri maybe? “We of Tashikk,” the ambassador said, “are more interested in the discovery of these glorious portals. The Alethi have invited us here and told us we’re part of a grand coalition. We would respectfully inquire how often we will have use of these gates, and how to negotiate tariffs.” Immediately, the room exploded with conversation. “Our gate,” Au-nak said, “in our historical homeland is being used without our permission. And while we thank the Alethi for securing it for us—” “If there is to be war,” Fen said, “then it’s a bad time to be discussing tariffs. We should just agree to free trade.” “Which would help your merchants, Fen,” Sebarial called. “How about asking them to help the rest of us out with some free wartime supplies?” “Emul—” the Emuli Prime began. “Wait,” the Yezier princess said. “Shouldn’t we be concerned about Iri and Rira, who seem to have completely fallen in with the enemy?” “Please,” Navani said, interrupting the mess of conversations. “Please. Let’s do this in an orderly way. Perhaps before deciding where to fight, we could discuss how to best equip ourselves against the enemy threat?” She looked to Taravangian. “Your Majesty, can you tell us more about the shields your scholars in Jah Keved are creating?” “Yes. They … they are strong.” “… How strong?” Navani prompted. “Very strong. Er, yes. Strong enough.” He scratched his head and looked at her helplessly. “How … how strong do you need them to be?” She drew in a deep breath. He wasn’t having a good day. Her mother had been like that, lucid on some days, barely cognizant on others. “The half-shards,” Navani said, addressing the room, “will give us an edge against the enemy. We have given the plans to the Azish scholars; I’m looking forward to pooling our resources and studying the process.” “Could it lead to Shardplate?” Queen Fen asked. “Possibly,” Navani said. “But the more I study what
we’ve discovered here in Urithiru, the more I’ve come to realize that our image of the ancients having fantastic technology was deeply flawed. An exaggeration at best, perhaps a fancy.” “But Shards…” Fen said. “Manifestations of spren,” Jasnah explained. “Not fabrial technology. Even the gemstones we discovered, containing words of ancient Radiants during the days when they left Urithiru, were crude—if used in a way we hadn’t yet explored. All this time we’ve been assuming that we lost great technology in the Desolations, but it seems we are far, far more advanced than the ancients ever were. It is the process of bonding spren that we lost.” “Not lost,” the Azish Prime said. “Abandoned.” He looked toward Dalinar, who sat in a relaxed posture. Not slumped, but not stiff either—a posture that somehow read as, “I’m in control here. Don’t pretend otherwise.” Dalinar loomed over a room even when trying to be unobtrusive. That furrowed brow darkened his blue eyes, and the way he rubbed his chin evoked the image of a man contemplating whom to execute first. The attendees had arranged their seats roughly in a circle, but most of them faced Dalinar, who sat by Navani’s chair. After everything that had happened, they didn’t trust him. “The ancient oaths are spoken once more,” Dalinar said. “We are again Radiant. This time, we will not abandon you. I vow it.” Noura the vizier whispered in the Azish Prime’s ear, and he nodded before speaking. “We are still very concerned about the powers in which you dabble. These abilities … who is to say that the Lost Radiants were wrong in abandoning them? They were frightened of something, and they locked these portals for a reason.” “It is too late to turn back from this now, Your Majesty,” Dalinar said. “I have bonded the Stormfather himself. We must either use these abilities, or crumple beneath the invasion.” The Prime sat back, and his attendants seemed … concerned. They whispered among themselves. Bring order from the chaos, Navani thought. She gestured toward the bridgemen and Lift. “I understand your concern, but surely you have read our reports of the oaths these Radiants follow. Protection. Remembering the fallen. Those oaths are proof that our cause is just, our Radiants trustworthy. The powers are in safe hands, Your Majesty.” “I think,” Ialai declared, “we should stop dancing around and patting ourselves on the back.” Navani spun to face Ialai. Don’t sabotage this, she thought, meeting the woman’s eyes. Don’t you dare. “We are here,” Ialai continued, “to focus our attention. We should be discussing where to invade to gain the best position for an extended war. Obviously, there is only one answer. Shinovar is a bounteous land. Their orchards grow without end; the land is so mild that even the grass has grown relaxed and fat. We should seize that land to supply our armies.” The others in the room nodded as if this were a perfectly acceptable line of conversation. With one targeted arrow, Ialai Sadeas proved what everyone whispered—that the Alethi were building
a coalition to conquer the world, not just protect it. “The Shin mountains present a historical problem,” said the Tashikki ambassador. “Attacking across or through them is basically impossible.” “We have the Oathgates now,” Fen said. “Not to bring up that particular problem again, but has anyone investigated whether the Shin one can be opened? Having Shinovar as a redoubt, difficult to invade conventionally, would help secure our position.” Navani cursed Ialai softly. This would only reinforce the Azish worry that the gates were dangerous. She tried to rein the discussion in, but it slipped away from her again. “We need to know what the Oathgates do!” Tashikk was saying. “Could the Alethi not share with us everything they’ve discovered regarding them?” “What about your people?” Aladar shot back. “They are the great traders in information. Could you share with us your secrets?” “All Tashikki information is freely available.” “At a huge price.” “We need—” “But Emul—” “This whole thing is going to be a mess,” Fen said. “I can see it already. We need to be able to trade freely, and Alethi greed could destroy this.” “Alethi greed?” Ialai demanded. “Are you trying to see how far you can push us? Because I assure you Dalinar Kholin will not be intimidated by a bunch of merchants and bankers.” “Please,” Navani said into the growing uproar. “Quiet.” Nobody seemed to notice. Navani breathed out, then cleared her mind. Order from chaos. How could she bring order to this chaos? She stopped fretting, and tried to listen to them. She studied the chairs they’d brought, the tone of their voices. Their fears, hidden behind what they demanded or requested. The shape of it started to make sense to her. Right now, this room was full of building materials. Pieces of a fabrial. Each monarch, each kingdom, was one piece. Dalinar had gathered them, but he hadn’t formed them. Navani stepped up to the Azish Prime. People quieted as, shockingly, she bowed to him. “Your Excellency,” she said, upon rising. “What would you say is the Azish people’s greatest strength?” He glanced at his advisors as her words were translated, but they gave him no answer. Rather, they seemed curious to know what he’d say. “Our laws,” he finally replied. “Your famed bureaucracy,” Navani said. “Your clerks and scribes—and by extension, the great information centers of Tashikk, the timekeepers and stormwardens of Yezier, the Azish legions. You are the greatest organizers on Roshar. I’ve long envied your orderly approach to the world.” “Perhaps this is why your essay was so well received, Brightness Kholin,” the emperor said, sounding completely sincere. “In light of your skill, I wonder. Would anyone in this room complain if a specific task were assigned to your scribes? We need procedures. A code of how our kingdoms are to interact, and how we’re to share resources. Would you of Azir be willing to create this?” The viziers looked shocked, then immediately began talking to one another in hushed, excited tones. The looks of delight on their faces were enough proof
that yes indeed, they’d be willing. “Now, wait,” Fen interjected. “Are you talking of laws? That we all have to follow?” Au-nak nodded eagerly in agreement. “More and less than laws,” Navani said. “We need codes to guide our interactions—as proven by today. We must have procedures on how we hold meetings, how to give each person a turn. How we share information.” “I don’t know if Thaylenah can agree to even that.” “Well, surely you’d want to see what the codes contained first, Queen Fen,” Navani said, strolling toward her. “After all, we are going to need to administrate trade through the Oathgates. I wonder, who has excellent expertise in shipping, caravans, and trade in general…?” “You’d give that to us?” Fen asked, completely taken aback. “It seems logical.” Sebarial choked softly on the snacks he’d been eating, and Palona pounded him on the back. He’d wanted that job. That will teach you to show up late to my meeting and make only wisecracks, Navani noted. She glanced at Dalinar, who seemed worried. Well, he always seemed worried lately. “I’m not giving you the Oathgates,” Navani said to Fen. “But someone has to oversee trade and supplies. It would be a natural match for the Thaylen merchants—so long as a fair agreement can be reached.” “Huh,” Fen said, settling back. She glanced at her consort, who shrugged. “And the Alethi?” the petite Yezier princess asked. “What of you?” “Well, we do excel at one thing,” Navani said. She looked to Emul. “Would you accept help from our generals and armies to help you secure what is left of your kingdom?” “By every Kadasix that has ever been holy!” Emul said. “Yes, of course! Please.” “I have several scribes who are experts in fortification,” Aladar suggested from his seat behind Dalinar and Jasnah. “They could survey your remaining territory and give you advice on securing it.” “And recovering what we’ve lost?” Emul asked. Ialai opened her mouth to speak, perhaps to extol the virtues of Alethi warmongering again. Jasnah cut her off, speaking decisively. “I propose we entrench ourselves first. Tukar, Iri, Shinovar … each of these looks tempting to attack, but what good will that do if we stretch ourselves too far? We should focus on securing our lands as they now stand.” “Yes,” Dalinar said. “We shouldn’t be asking ourselves, ‘Where should we strike?’ but instead, ‘Where will our enemy strike next?’ ” “They’ve secured three positions,” Highprince Aladar said. “Iri, Marat … and Alethkar.” “But you sent an expedition,” Fen said. “To reclaim Alethkar.” Navani caught her breath, glancing at Dalinar. He nodded slowly. “Alethkar has fallen,” Navani said. “The expedition failed. Our homeland is overrun.” Navani had expected this to prompt another burst of conversation, but instead it was greeted only by stunned silence. Jasnah continued for her. “The last of our armies have retreated into Herdaz or Jah Keved, harried and confused by enemies who can fly—or by the sudden attacks of shock troops of parshmen. Our only holdouts are on the southern border, by the sea.
Kholinar has fallen completely; the Oathgate is lost to us. We’ve locked it on our side, so that it cannot be used to reach Urithiru.” “I’m sorry,” Fen said. “My daughter is correct,” Navani said, trying to project strength while admitting that they had become a nation of refugees. “We should apply our efforts first toward making sure no more nations fall.” “My homeland—” the prime of Emul began. “No,” Noura said in thickly accented Alethi. “I’m sorry, but no. If the Voidbringers had wanted your last nibble of land, Vexil, they’d have taken it. The Alethi can help you secure what you have, and it seems generous of them to do so. The enemy brushed past you to gather in Marat, conquering only what was necessary on the way. Their eyes are turned elsewhere.” “Oh my!” Taravangian said. “Could they … be coming for me?” “It does seem a reasonable assumption,” Au-nak said. “The Veden civil war left the country in ruin, and the border between Alethkar and Jah Keved is porous.” “Maybe,” Dalinar said. “I’ve fought on that border. It’s not as easy a battlefield as it would seem.” “We must defend Jah Keved,” Taravangian said. “When the king gave me the throne, I promised I’d care for his people. If the Voidbringers attack us…” The worry in his voice gave Navani an opportunity. She stepped back into the center of the room. “We won’t allow that to happen, will we?” “I will send troops to your aid, Taravangian,” Dalinar said. “But one army can be construed as an invading force, and I am not intending to invade my allies, even in appearance. Can we not mortar this alliance with a show of solidarity? Will anyone else help?” The Azish Prime regarded Dalinar. Behind him, the viziers and scions conducted a private conversation by writing on pads of paper. When they finished, Vizier Noura leaned forward and whispered to the emperor, who nodded. “We will send five battalions to Jah Keved,” he said. “This will prove an important test of mobility through the Oathgates. King Taravangian, you will have the support of Azir.” Navani released a long breath in relief. She gave leave for the meeting to take a pause, so that people could enjoy refreshment—though most would probably spend it strategizing or relaying events to their various allies. The highprinces became a flurry of motion, breaking into individual houses to converse. Navani settled down in her seat beside Dalinar. “You’ve promised away a great deal,” he noted. “Giving Fen control of trade and supply?” “Administration is different from control,” Navani said. “But either way, did you think you were going to make this coalition work without giving something up?” “No. Of course not.” He stared outward. That haunted expression made her shiver. What did you remember, Dalinar? And what did the Nightwatcher do to you? They needed the Blackthorn. She needed the Blackthorn. His strength to quiet the sick worry inside of her, his will to forge this coalition. She took his hand in hers, but he stiffened, then
stood up. He did that whenever he felt he was growing too relaxed. It was as if he was looking for danger to face. She stood up beside him. “We need to get you out of the tower,” she decided. “To get a new perspective. Visit someplace new.” “That,” Dalinar said, voice hoarse, “would be good.” “Taravangian was speaking of having you tour Vedenar personally. If we’re going to send Kholin troops into the kingdom, it would make sense for you to get a feel for the situation there.” “Very well.” The Azish called for her, asking for clarification on what direction she wanted them to take with their coalition bylaws. She left Dalinar, but couldn’t leave off worrying about him. She’d have to burn a glyphward today. A dozen of them, for Elhokar and the others. Except … part of the problem was that Dalinar claimed nobody was watching the prayers as they burned, sending twisting smoke to the Tranquiline Halls. Did she believe that? Truly? Today, she’d taken a huge step toward unifying Roshar. Yet she felt more powerless than ever. Of the Unmade, Sja-anat was most feared by the Radiants. They spoke extensively of her ability to corrupt spren, though only “lesser” spren—whatever that means. —From Hessi’s Mythica, page 89 Kaladin remembered holding a dying woman’s hand. It had been during his days as a slave. He remembered crouching in the darkness, thick forest underbrush scratching his skin, the night around him too quiet. The animals had fled; they knew something was wrong. The other slaves didn’t whisper, shift, or cough in their hiding places. He’d taught them well. We have to go. Have to move. He tugged on Nalma’s hand. He’d promised to help the older woman find her husband, who had been sold to another household. That wasn’t supposed to be legal, but you could get away with doing all kinds of things to slaves with the right brands, especially if they were foreign. She resisted his tug, and he could understand her hesitance. The underbrush was safe, for the moment. It was also too obvious. The brightlords had chased them in circles for days, getting closer and closer. Stay here, and the slaves would be captured. He tugged again, and she passed the signal to the next slave, all the way down the line. Then she clung to his hand as he led them—as quietly as he could—toward where he remembered a game trail. Get away. Find freedom. Find honor again. It had to be out there somewhere. The snapping sound of the trap closing sent a jolt through Kaladin. A year later, he’d still wonder how he missed stepping in it himself. It got Nalma instead. She yanked her hand from his as she screamed. Hunters’ horns moaned in the night. Light burst from newly unshielded lanterns, showing men in uniforms among the trees. The other slaves broke, bursting out of the underbrush like game for sport. Next to Kaladin, Nalma’s leg was caught in a fierce steel trap—a thing of springs and jaws that
they wouldn’t even use on a beast, for fear of ruining the sport. Her tibia jutted through her skin. “Oh, Stormfather,” Kaladin whispered as painspren writhed around them. “Stormfather!” He tried to stanch the blood, but it spurted between his fingers. “Stormfather, no. Stormfather!” “Kaladin,” she said through clenched teeth. “Kaladin, run…” Arrows cut down several of the fleeing slaves. Traps caught two others. In the distance, a voice called, “Wait! That’s my property you’re cutting down.” “A necessity, Brightlord,” a stronger voice said. The local highlord. “Unless you want to encourage more of this behavior.” So much blood. Kaladin uselessly made a bandage as Nalma tried to push him away, to make him run. He took her hand and held it instead, weeping as she died. After killing the others, the brightlords found him still kneeling there. Against reason, they spared him. They said it was because he hadn’t run with the others, but in truth they’d needed someone to bear warning to the other slaves. Regardless of the reason, Kaladin had lived. He always did. * * * There was no underbrush here in Shadesmar, but those old instincts served Kaladin well as he crept toward the lighthouse. He’d suggested that he scout ahead, as he didn’t trust this dark land. The others had agreed. With Lashings, he could get away most easily in an emergency—and neither Adolin nor Azure had experience scouting. Kaladin didn’t mention that most of his practice sneaking had come as a runaway slave. He focused on staying low to the ground, trying to use rifts in the black stone to hide his approach. Fortunately, stepping silently wasn’t difficult on this glassy ground. The lighthouse was a large stone tower topped by an enormous bonfire. It threw a flagrant orange glow over the point of the peninsula. Where did they get the fuel for that thing? He drew closer, accidentally startling a burst of lifespren, which shot up from some crystalline plants, then floated back down. He froze, but heard no sounds from the lighthouse. Once he got a little closer, he settled down to watch for a while, to see if he could spot anything suspicious. He sorely missed the diaphanous form Syl had in the Physical Realm; she could have reported back to the others what he’d seen, or even scouted into the building herself, invisible to all but the right eyes. After a short time, something crawled out of the beads of the ocean near him: a round lurglike creature with a fat, bulbous body and squat legs. About the size of a toddler, it hopped close to him, then tipped the entire top half of its head backward. A long tongue shot up in the air from the gaping mouth; it began to flap and wave. Storms. An anticipationspren? They looked like streamers on his side, but those … those were waving tongues? What other simple, stable parts of his life were complete lies? Two more anticipationspren joined the first, clustering near him and deploying their long, wagging tongues. He kicked at
them. “Shoo.” Deceptively solid, they refused to budge, so he tried calming himself, hoping it would banish them. Finally, he just continued forward, his three bothersome attendants hopping behind. That sorely undermined the stealth of his approach, making him more nervous—which in turn made the anticipationspren even more eager to stick with him. He managed to reach the wall of the tower, where he might have expected the heat of the enormous fire to be oppressive. Instead, he could barely feel it. Notably, the flames caused his shadow to behave normally, extending behind him instead of pointing toward the sun. He took a breath, then glanced up through the open-shuttered window, into the ground floor of the lighthouse. Inside, he saw an old Shin man—with furrowed, wrinkled skin and a completely bald head—sitting in a chair, reading by spherelight. A human? Kaladin couldn’t decide if that was a good sign or not. The old man began to turn a page in his book, then froze, looking up. Kaladin ducked down, heart thumping. Those stupid anticipationspren continued to crowd nearby, but their tongues shouldn’t be visible through the window— “Hello?” an accented voice called from inside the lighthouse. “Who’s out there? Show yourself!” Kaladin sighed, then stood up. So much for his promise to do some stealthy reconnaissance. * * * Shallan waited with the others in the shadow of a strange rock growth. It looked something like a mushroom made from obsidian, the height of a tree; she thought she’d seen its like before, during one of her glimpses into Shadesmar. Pattern said it was alive, but “very, very slow.” The group waited, pensive, as Kaladin scouted. She hated sending him alone, but Shallan knew nothing about that sort of work. Veil did. But Veil … still felt broken, from what had happened in Kholinar. That was dangerous. Where would Shallan hide now? As Radiant? Find the balance, Wit had said. Accept the pain, but don’t accept that you deserved it.… She sighed, then got out her sketchbook and started drawing some of the spren they’d seen. “So,” Syl said, sitting on a rock nearby and swinging her legs. “I’ve always wondered. Does the world look weird to you, or normal?” “Weird,” Pattern said. “Mmm. Same as for everyone.” “I guess neither of us technically have eyes,” Syl said, leaning back and looking up at the glassy canopy of their tree-mushroom shelter. “We’re each a bit of power made manifest. We honorspren mimic Honor himself. You Cryptics mimic … weird stuff?” “The fundamental underlying mathematics by which natural phenomena occur. Mmm. Truths that explain the fabric of existence.” “Yeah. Weird stuff.” Shallan lowered her pencil, looking with dissatisfaction at the attempt she’d made at drawing a fearspren. It looked like a child’s scribble. Veil was seeping out. That has always been you, Shallan. You just have to admit it. Allow it. “I’m trying, Wit,” she whispered. “You all right?” Adolin asked, kneeling beside her, putting his hand on her back, then rubbing her shoulders. Storms, that felt good. They’d walked entirely too
far these last few days. He glanced at her sketchpad. “More … what did you call it? Abstractionalism?” She snapped the sketchpad closed. “What is taking that bridgeman so long?” She glanced over her shoulder, which interrupted Adolin. “Don’t stop,” she added, “or I will murder you.” He chuckled and continued working at her shoulders. “He’ll be fine.” “You were worried about him yesterday.” “He’s got battle fatigue, but an objective will help with that. We have to watch him when he’s sitting around doing nothing, not when he’s got a specific mission.” “If you say so.” She nodded toward Azure, who stood by the coast, staring across the ocean of beads. “What do you make of her?” “That uniform is well tailored,” Adolin said, “but the blue doesn’t work with her skin. She needs a lighter shade. The breastplate is overly much, like she’s trying to prove something. I do like the cape though. I’ve always wanted to justify wearing one. Father gets away with it, but I never could.” “I wasn’t asking for a wardrobe assessment, Adolin.” “Clothing says a lot about people.” “Yeah? What happened to the fancy suit you got in Kholinar?” He looked down—which stopped the massaging of shoulders for an unacceptable count of three, so she growled at him. “It didn’t fit me anymore,” he said, resuming the massage. “But you do raise an important problem. Yes, we need to find food and drink. But if I have to wear the same uniform this entire trip, you won’t have to murder me. I’ll commit suicide.” Shallan had almost forgotten that she was hungry. How odd. She sighed, closing her eyes and trying not to melt too much into the feeling of his touch. “Huh,” Adolin said a short time later. “Shallan, what do you suppose that is?” She followed his nod and spotted an odd little spren floating through the air. Bone-white and brown, it had wings extending to the sides and long tresses for a tail. In front of its body hovered a cube. “Looks like those gloryspren we saw earlier,” she noted. “Only the wrong color. And the shape of the head is…” “Corrupted!” Syl said. “That’s one of Odium’s!” * * * As he stepped inside the lighthouse, Kaladin’s instincts drove him to check to either side of the doorway for anyone waiting in ambush. The room seemed empty save for furniture, the Shin man, and some strange pictures on the walls. The place smelled of incense and spices. The Shin man snapped his book closed. “Cutting it close, aren’t you? Well, let us begin! We haven’t much time.” He stood up, proving himself to be rather short. His odd clothing had puffed out portions on the arms, the trousers very tight. He walked to a door at the side of the chamber. “I should fetch my companions,” Kaladin said. “Ah, but the very best readings happen at the beginning of the highstorm!” The man checked a small device that he took from his pocket. “Only two minutes off.” A highstorm? Azure had
said they didn’t need to worry about those in Shadesmar. “Wait,” Kaladin said, stepping after the little man—who had entered a room built up against the base of the lighthouse. It had large windows, but its main feature was a small table at the center. That held something lumpish covered by a black cloth. Kaladin found himself … curious. That was good, after the darkness of the last few days. He stepped in, glancing to the sides again. One wall contained a picture of people kneeling before a bright white mirror. Another was a cityscape at dusk, with a group of low houses clustered before an enormous wall that had light glowing beyond it. “Well, let’s begin!” the man said. “You have come to witness the extraordinary, and I shall provide it. The price is a mere two marks of Stormlight. You shall be greatly rewarded in kind—both in dreams and luster!” “I should really get my friends.…” Kaladin said. The man whipped the cloth off the table, revealing a large crystalline globe. It glowed with a powerful light, bathing the room in luminescence. Kaladin blinked against it. Was that Stormlight? “Are you balking at the price?” the man said. “What is the money to you? Potential? If you never spend it, you gain nothing by having it. And the witness of what is to come will far recompense you for small means expended!” “I…” Kaladin said, raising his hand against the light. “Storms, man. I have no idea what you’re talking about.” The Shin man frowned, face lit from below like the globe. “You came here for a fortune, didn’t you? To the Rii Oracle? You wish me to see the unwalked paths—during the highstorm, when realms blend.” “A fortune? You mean foretelling the future?” Kaladin felt a bitter taste in his mouth. “The future is forbidden.” The old man cocked his head. “But … isn’t this why you came to see me?” “Storms, no. I’m looking for passage. We heard that ships come by here.” The old man rubbed the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Passage? Why didn’t you say so? And I was really enjoying the speech. Ah well. A ship? Let me check my calendars. I think supplies are coming soon.…” He bustled past Kaladin, muttering to himself. Outside, the sky rippled with light. The clouds shimmered, gaining a strange, ethereal luminescence. Kaladin gaped, then glanced back at the little man, who had fetched a ledger from a side table. “That…” Kaladin said. “Is that what a highstorm looks like on this side?” “Hmmm? Oh, new, are you? How have you gotten into Shadesmar, but not seen a storm pass? Did you come directly from the perpendicularity?” The old man frowned. “Not a lot of people coming through there anymore.” That light. The bright sphere on the table—as large as a man’s head, and glowing with a milky light—shifted colors, matching the pearlescent ripples above. There was no gemstone inside that globe. And the light seemed different. Transfixing. “Here now,” the man said as Kaladin stepped forward,
“don’t touch that. It’s only for properly trained fo—” Kaladin rested his hand on the sphere. And felt himself get carried away by the storm. * * * Shallan and the others dodged for cover, but too slowly. The strange spren flitted right under their small canopy. Overhead, the clouds started to ripple with a vibrant set of colors. The corrupted gloryspren landed on Shallan’s arm. Odium suspects that you survived, a voice said in her mind. That … that was the voice of the Unmade from the mirror. Sja-anat. He thinks something strange happened to the Oathgate because of our influence—we’ve never managed to Enlighten such powerful spren before. It’s believable that something odd might happen. I lied, and said I think you were sent far, far from the point of transfer. He has minions in this realm, and they will be told to hunt you. So take care. Fortunately, he doesn’t know that you’re a Lightweaver—he thinks you are an Elsecaller for some reason. I will do what I can, but I’m not sure he trusts me any longer. The spren fluttered away. “Wait!” Shallan said. “Wait, I have questions!” Syl tried to snatch it, but it dodged and was soon out over the ocean. * * * Kaladin rode the storm. He’d done this before, in dreams. He’d even spoken to the Stormfather. This felt different. He rode in a shimmering, rippling surge of colors. Around him, the clouds streamed past at incredible speed, coming alight with those colors. Pulsing with them, as if to a beat. He couldn’t feel the Stormfather. He couldn’t see a landscape beneath him. Just shimmering colors, and clouds that faded into … light. Then a figure. Dalinar Kholin, kneeling someplace dark, surrounded by nine shadows. A flash of glowing red eyes. The enemy’s champion was coming. Kaladin knew in that moment—an overpowering sensation thrumming through him—that Dalinar was in terrible, terrible danger. Without help, the Blackthorn was doomed. “Where!” Kaladin screamed to the light as it began to fade. “When! How do I reach him!” The colors diminished. “Please!” He saw a flash of a vaguely familiar city. Tall, built along the stones, it had a distinctive pattern of buildings at the center. A wall and an ocean beyond. Kaladin dropped to his knees in the fortuneteller’s room. The little Shin man batted Kaladin’s hand from the glowing sphere. “—rtune seers like myself. You’ll ruin it, or…” He trailed off, then took Kaladin’s head, turning it toward him. “You saw something!” Kaladin nodded weakly. “How? Impossible. Unless … you’re Invested. What Heightening are you?” He squinted at Kaladin. “No. Something else. Merciful Domi … A Surgebinder? It has begun again?” Kaladin stumbled to his feet. He glanced at the large globe of light, which the lighthouse keeper covered up again with the black cloth, then put his hand to his forehead, which had begun thumping with pain. What had that been? His heart still raced with anxiety. “I … I need to go get my friends,” he said. * * * Kaladin sat
in the main room of the lighthouse, in the chair Riino—the Shin lighthouse keeper—had occupied earlier. Shallan and Adolin negotiated with him on the other side of the room, Pattern looming over Shallan’s shoulder and making the fortuneteller nervous. Riino had food and supplies for trade, though it would cost them infused spheres. Apparently, Stormlight was the only commodity that mattered on this side. “Charlatans like him aren’t uncommon, where I come from,” Azure said, resting with her back against the wall near Kaladin. “People who claim to be able to see the future, living off people’s hopes. Your society was right to forbid them. The spren do likewise, so his kind have to live off in places like this, hoping people will be desperate enough to come to them. Probably gets some business with each ship that comes through.” “I saw something, Azure,” Kaladin said, still trembling. “It was real.” His limbs felt drained, like the aftereffect of lifting weights for a long period. “Maybe,” Azure said. “Those types use dusts and powders that grant euphoria, making you think you’ve seen something. Even the gods of my land catch only glimpses of the Spiritual Realm—and in all my life, I’ve only met one human I believe truly understood it. And he might actually be a god. I’m not sure.” “Wit,” Kaladin said. “The man that brought you the metal that protected your Soulcaster.” She nodded. Well, Kaladin had seen something. Dalinar … Adolin walked over and handed Kaladin a squat metal cylinder. He used a device—provided by the Shin man—to break open the top. There were some fish rations inside. Kaladin poked at the chunks with his finger, then inspected the container. “Canned food,” Azure noted. “It’s extremely convenient.” Kaladin’s stomach rumbled, so he dug into the fish with the spoon Adolin provided. The meat tasted salty, but was good—far better than something Soulcast. Shallan joined them, trailed by Pattern, while the lighthouse keeper bustled off to fetch some supplies they’d traded for. The man glanced at the doorway, where the spren of Adolin’s Blade stood, silent like a statue. Out through the room’s window, Kaladin could see Syl standing on the coast, watching out over the sea of beads. Her hair doesn’t ripple here, he thought. In the Physical Realm it often waved as if being brushed by an unseen breeze. Here, it acted like the hair of a human. She hadn’t wanted to enter the lighthouse for some reason. What was that about? “The lighthouse keeper says a ship will be arriving any time now,” Adolin said. “We should be able to buy passage.” “Mmm,” Pattern said. “The ship is going to Celebrant. Mmm. A city on the island.” “Island?” “It’s a lake on our side,” Adolin said. “Called the Sea of Spears, in the southeast of Alethkar. By the ruins … of Rathalas.” He drew his lips to a line and glanced away. “What?” Kaladin asked. “Rathalas was where my mother was killed,” Adolin said. “Assassinated by rebels. Her death drove my father into a fury. We almost
lost him to the despair.” He shook his head, and Shallan rested her hand on his arm. “It’s … not a pleasant event to think about. Sadeas burned the city to the ground in retribution. My father gets a strange, distant expression whenever someone mentions Rathalas. I think he blames himself for not stopping Sadeas, even though he was mad with grief at the time, wounded and incoherent from an attempt on his own life.” “Well, there’s still a spren city on this side,” Azure said. “But it’s in the wrong direction. We need to be heading west—toward the Horneater Peaks—not south.” “Mmm,” Pattern said. “Celebrant is a prominent city. In it, we could find passage wherever we wish to go. And the lighthouse keeper doesn’t know when a ship going the right way might pass here.” Kaladin put his fish down, then gestured at Shallan. “Can I have some paper?” She let him have a sheet from her sketchpad. With an unpracticed hand, he drew out the buildings he’d seen in his momentary … whatever it had been. I’ve seen this pattern before. From above. “That’s Thaylen City,” Shallan said. “Isn’t it?” That’s right, Kaladin thought. He’d only visited once, opening the city’s Oathgate. “I saw this, in the vision I explained to you.” He glanced at Azure, who seemed skeptical. Kaladin could still feel his emotion from the vision, that thrumming sense of anxiety. The sure knowledge that Dalinar was in grave danger. Nine shadows. A champion who would lead the enemy forces … “The Oathgate in Thaylen City is open and working,” Kaladin said. “Shallan and I saw to that. And since the Oathgate in Kholinar brought us to Shadesmar, theoretically another—one that isn’t corrupted by the Unmade—could get us back.” “Assuming I can figure out how to work it on this side,” Shallan said. “That’s a pretty daunting assumption.” “We should try to reach the perpendicularity in the Peaks,” Azure said. “It’s the only sure way back.” “The lighthouse keeper says he thinks something strange is happening there,” Shallan said. “Ships from that direction have never ended up arriving.” Kaladin rested his fingers on the sketch he’d done. He needed to get to Thaylen City. It didn’t matter how. The darkness inside him seemed to retreat. He had a purpose. A goal. Something to focus on other than the people he’d lost in Kholinar. Protect Dalinar. Kaladin returned to eating his fish, and the group settled in to wait for the ship. It took a few hours, during which the clouds steadily faded in color, before growing plain white again. On the other side, the highstorm had completed its passing. Eventually, Kaladin saw something out on the horizon, beyond where Syl sat on the rocks. Yes, that was a ship, sailing in from the west. Except … it didn’t have a sail. Had he even felt wind in Shadesmar? He didn’t think so. The ship crashed through the ocean of beads, surging toward the lighthouse. It employed no sail, no mast, and no oars. Instead, it was pulled
from the front by an elaborate rigging attached to a group of incredible spren. Long and sinuous, they had triangular heads and floated on multiple sets of rippling wings. Storms … they pulled the ship like chulls. Flying, majestic chulls with undulating bodies. He’d never seen anything like it. Adolin grunted from where he stood by the window. “Well, at least we’ll be traveling in style.” Lore suggested leaving a city if the spren there start acting strangely. Curiously, Sja-anat was often regarded as an individual, when others—like Moelach or Ashertmarn—were seen as forces. —From Hessi’s Mythica, page 90 Szeth of Shinovar left the Skybreaker fortress with the twenty other squires. The sun approached the clouded horizon to the west, gilding the Purelake red and gold. Those calm waters, strangely, now sprouted dozens of long wooden poles. Of various heights ranging from five to thirty feet, these poles appeared to have been jammed into fissures in the lake bottom. Each had an odd knobby shape at the top. “This is a test of martial competence,” Master Warren said. The Azish man looked strange in the garb of a Marabethian lawkeeper, chest bare and shoulders draped with the short, patterned cloak. The Azish were normally so proper, overly encumbered with robes and hats. “We must train to fight, if the Desolation truly has begun.” Without Nin’s guidance to confirm, they spoke of the Desolation in “if”s and “might”s. “Each pole is topped with a group of bags bearing powders of a different color,” Warren continued. “Fight by throwing those—you cannot use other weapons, and you cannot leave the contest area marked by the poles. “I will call time over when the sun sets. We will tally the number of times each squire’s uniform was marked by one of the bags of powder. You lose four points for each different color on your uniform, and an additional point for each repeated hit from a color. The winner is the one who has lost the fewest points. Begin.” Szeth drew in Stormlight and Lashed himself into the air with the others. Though he didn’t care if he won arbitrary tests of competence, the chance to dance the Lashings—for once without needing to cause death and destruction—called to him. This would be like those days in his youth, spent training with the Honorblades. He soared upward about thirty feet, then used a half Lashing to hover. Yes, the tops of the poles each bore a collection of small pouches tied on by strings. He Lashed himself past one, snatching a pouch, which let out a puff of pink dust as it came off in his hand. He now saw why the squires had been told to wear a white shirt and trousers today. “Excellent,” Szeth said as the other squires scattered, grabbing pouches. What? the sword asked. Szeth carried it on his back, tied securely in place, at an angle from which he could not draw the weapon. I don’t understand. Where is the evil? “No evil today, sword-nimi. Just a challenge.” He hurled the pouch
at one of the other squires, hitting her square in the shoulder, and the resulting dust colored her shirt in that spot. Notably, the master had said that only color on the uniform would be counted, so holding the pouches and dusting one’s own fingers was fine. Similarly, hitting each other in the face gained no advantage. The others took quickly to the game; soon pouches were being flung in all directions. Each pole bore only a single color, encouraging competitors to move about to hit others with as many colors as possible. Joret tried hovering in one spot anyway, dominating one pole to prevent others from hitting him with its color. Sitting still made him a target, however, and his uniform was quickly covered in spots. Szeth dove, then pulled himself up with an expert Lashing so that he swooped, skimming the surface of the Purelake. He grabbed a pole as he passed, bending it out of Cali’s reach as she went by above. I’m down too low, Szeth realized as bags of dust fell toward him. Too easy a target. He twisted back and forth, executing a complex maneuver that manipulated both Lashings and the wind of his passing. Pouches smacked the water near him. He pulled upward. Lashing wasn’t like the flight of a swallow—instead, it was like tying oneself to strings, a puppet to be yanked about. It was easy to lose control, as evidenced by the awkward motions of the newer squires. As Szeth gained height, Zedzil fell in behind him, holding a pouch in each hand. Szeth added a second Lashing upward, then a third. His Stormlight lasted so much longer than it had before—he could only assume that Radiants were more efficient than those who used Honorblades for the powers. He shot upward like an arrow, windspren joining and twisting around him. Zedzil followed, but when he tried to throw a pouch at Szeth, the wind was too great. The pouch fell backward immediately, striking Zedzil on his own shoulder. Szeth dropped into a dive, and Zedzil followed until Szeth snatched a green bag from a pole and tossed it over his shoulder, hitting Zedzil again. The younger man cursed, then shot away to find easier prey. Still, this combat proved to be a surprising challenge. Szeth had rarely fought in the air itself, and this contest felt similar to when he’d battled the Windrunner in the skies. He twisted among the poles, dodging pouches—even snatching one from the air before it hit him—and found he was enjoying himself. The screams from the shadows seemed dim, less pressing. He wove between thrown pouches, dancing above a lake painted by the hues of a setting sun, and smiled. Then immediately felt guilty. He had left tears, blood, and terror in his wake like a personal seal. He had destroyed monarchies, families—innocent and guilty alike. He could not be happy. He was only a tool of retribution. Not redemption, for he dared not believe in such. If he was to be forced to keep living, it should
not be a life that anyone would ever envy. You think like Vasher, the sword said in his head. Do you know Vasher? He teaches swords to people now, which is funny because VaraTreledees always says Vasher isn’t any good with the sword. Szeth rededicated himself to the fight, not for joy but for practicality. Unfortunately, his momentary distraction earned him his first hit. A dark blue pouch struck, its circle stark on his white shirt. He growled, soaring upward with a pouch in each hand. He flung them with precision, hitting one squire in the back, then another in the leg. Nearby, four of the older squires flew in formation. They would chase an isolated squire, swarming him or her with a flurry of eight pouches, often scoring six or seven hits while rarely getting hit themselves. As Szeth zoomed past, they fixated on him, perhaps because his uniform was nearly pristine. He immediately Lashed himself upward—canceling his lateral Lashing—to try to get above the pack. These were well practiced with their powers, however, and not so easily put off. If he continued straight upward, they’d merely chase him until he ran out of Stormlight. Already his reserves were low, as each squire had only been given enough to last through the contest. If he double- or triple-Lashed himself too often, he’d run out early. The sun was slipping inch by inch out of sight. Not much time left; he simply needed to last. Szeth dove to the side, moving quickly and erratically. Only one of the pack chasing him chanced a throw; the others knew to wait for a better shot. Szeth’s swoop took him straight toward a pole, but it held no pouches. Fari looked like he had gathered them all up to hoard the color. So Szeth grabbed the pole itself. He pushed it to the side, bending it until it snapped, leaving him with a pole some ten feet long. He lightened it with a partial Lashing upward, then tucked it under his arm. A quick glance over the shoulder showed that the four teammates were still tailing him. The one who had thrown earlier had grabbed two new pouches and was catching up to the others with a double Lashing. Make a stand, the sword suggested. You can take them. For once, Szeth agreed. He zoomed down until he was near the water, his passing causing a trail of ripples on the surface. Younger squires dodged out of his way, flinging dust bags, but missing because of his speed. He deliberately Lashed himself to the side in a smooth, predictable turn. It was exactly the opportunity the pack had been waiting for, and they started throwing at him. But he was no frightened child, to be intimidated and overwhelmed by superior numbers. He was the Assassin in White. And this was but a game. Szeth spun and began batting the pouches away with his staff. He even managed to hit the last one back into the face of the leader of the group, a man named
Ty. It wouldn’t count as a mark, but the dust got in Ty’s eyes, causing him to blink and slow. The group expended most of their pouches, which let Szeth—Lashed now directly toward them—get close. And nobody should ever let him get too close. He dropped his staff and grabbed a squire by her shirt, using her as a shield from an opportunist outside the group, who was throwing crimson bags. Szeth spun with her, then kicked her toward a companion. They slammed together, trailing streaks of red dust. He grabbed another squire from the pack, trying to Lash him away. The man’s body resisted the Lashing, however. People bearing Stormlight were more difficult to Lash—something Szeth was only now coming to understand. He could, however, Lash himself backward, hauling the man with him. When he let go, the squire had trouble adjusting to the change in momentum, and jolted in the air, letting himself get hit by a half dozen bags from outsiders. Szeth zipped away, running dangerously low on Stormlight. Only another few minutes … Beneath him, Ty called to the others, pointing up at Szeth. The obvious current winner. Only one strategy made sense at this point. “Get him!” Ty shouted. Oh, good! the sword said. Szeth Lashed himself downward—which proved wise, as many of the squires shot up past him, assuming he’d try to stay high. No, his best defense while outnumbered was confusion. He got among them, a storm of pouches targeting him. Szeth did what he could to avoid them, zipping one way, then the other—but there were too many attacks. The poorly aimed ones were the most dangerous, as moving out of the way of a well-placed attack almost always took him into the path of an errant one. One pouch struck his back, followed by a second. A third hit his side. Dust flew all around as the squires hit each other too. That was his hope: that even as he took hits, they would take more. He soared up, then dove again, causing the others to dodge like sparrows before a hawk. He flew along the water, scattering fish in the waning light, then shot upward to— His Stormlight ran out. His glow vanished. The tempest within died. Before the sun could set, the cold took him. Szeth arced in the air, and was pummeled with a dozen different pouches. He dropped through the cloud of multicolored dust, leaving an afterimage from his loosely fastened spirit. He splashed into the Purelake. Fortunately, he hadn’t been too high, so the landing was only mildly painful. He hit the bottom of the shallow lake; then when he stood up, the others hit him with another round of pouches. No mercy from this group. The last sliver of the sun vanished, and Master Warren shouted an end to the test. The others streaked away, their Stormlight conspicuous in the dimming light. Szeth stood waist-deep in water. Wow, the sword said. I kind of feel bad for you. “Thank you, sword-nimi. I…” What were those two spren
floating nearby, shaped as small slits in the air? They separated the sky, like wounds in skin, exposing a black field full of stars. When they moved, the substance of reality bent around them. Szeth bowed his head. He no longer ascribed to spren any particular religious significance, but he could still be in awe of these. He might have lost this contest, but he seemed to have impressed the highspren. Or had he lost? What exactly had the rules been? Thoughtful, he ducked under the water, swimming in the shallow lake back toward the bank. He climbed out, water streaming from his clothing as he walked up to the others. The masters had brought out bright sphere lanterns, along with food and refreshment. A Tashikki squire was recording the points while two masters adjudicated what counted as a “hit” and what did not. Szeth suddenly felt frustrated by their games. Nin had promised him the opportunity to cleanse Shinovar. What time was there for games? The moment had come for him to ascend to a rank beyond all of this. He walked up to the masters. “I am sorry to have won this contest, as I did the one with the prison.” “You?” Ty said, incredulous. Ty had five spots on him. Not bad. “You got hit at least two dozen times.” “I believe,” Szeth replied, “that the rules stated the winner was the one with the fewest marks on his uniform.” He held his hands to the side, showing his white clothing, washed clean during his swim. Warren and Ki shared a look. She nodded with a hint of a smile. “There is always one,” Warren said, “who notices that. Remember that while loopholes are to be exploited, Szeth-son-Neturo, they are dangerous to rely upon. Still, you have done well. Both in your performance, and in seeing this hole in the rules.” He glanced into the night, squinting at the two highspren, who seemed to have made themselves visible to Warren as well. “Others agree.” “He used a weapon,” one of the older squires said, pointing. “He broke the rules!” “I used a pole to block pouches,” Szeth said. “But I did not attack anyone with it.” “You attacked me!” said the woman he’d thrown at someone else. “Physical contact was not forbidden, and I cannot help it if you are unable to control your Lashings when I release you.” The masters didn’t object. Indeed, Ki leaned in to Warren. “He is beyond the skill of these. I hadn’t realized…” Warren looked back to him. “You shall soon have your spren, gauging by this performance.” “Not soon,” Szeth said. “Right now. I shall say the Third Ideal this night, choosing to follow the law. I—” “No,” a voice interrupted. A figure stood up on the low wall surrounding the order’s stone courtyard. Skybreakers gasped, holding up lanterns, illuminating a man with dark Makabaki skin highlighted by a white crescent birthmark on his right cheek. Unlike the others, he wore a striking uniform of silver and black. Nin-son-God, Nale, Nakku, Nalan—this
man had a hundred different names and was revered across all Roshar. The Illuminator. The Judge. A founder of humankind, defender against the Desolations, a man ascended to divinity. The Herald of Justice had returned. “Before you swear, Szeth-son-Neturo,” Nin said, “there are things you need to understand.” He looked across the Skybreakers. “Things you all must understand. Squires, masters, gather our gemstone reserves and mobile packs. We will leave most of the squires. They leak Stormlight too much, and we have a long way to go.” “Tonight, Just One?” Ki asked. “Tonight. It is time for you to learn the two greatest secrets that I know.” Nergaoul was known for driving forces into a battle rage, lending them great ferocity. Curiously, he did this to both sides of a conflict, Voidbringer and human. This seems common of the less self-aware spren. —From Hessi’s Mythica, page 121 When Kaladin awoke on the ship in Shadesmar, the others were already up. He sat, bleary-eyed on his bunk, listening to beads crash outside the hull. There almost seemed … a pattern or rhythm to them? Or was he imagining things? He shook his head, standing and stretching. He had slept fitfully, slumber interrupted by thoughts of his men dying, of Elhokar and Moash, of worries for Drehy and Skar. The darkness blanketed his feelings, making him lethargic. He hated that he was the last to rise. That was always a bad sign. He used the facilities, then forced himself to climb up the steps. The vessel had three levels. The bottom was the hold. The next level, the lower deck, was for the cabins, where the humans had been given a spot for them all to share. The uppermost deck was open to the sky, and was populated by spren. Syl said they were lightspren, but the common name was Reachers. They looked like humans with strange bronze skin—metallic, as if they were living statues. Both men and women wore rugged jackets and trousers. Actual human clothing, not merely imitations of it like Syl wore. They didn’t carry weapons other than knives, but the ship had wicked harpoons clipped in racks at the sides of the deck. Seeing those made Kaladin infinitely more comfortable; he knew exactly where to go for a weapon. Syl stood near the bow, watching out over the sea of beads again. He almost missed spotting her at first because her dress was red, instead of its normal white-blue. Her hair had changed to black, and … and her skin was flesh colored—tan, like Kaladin’s. What on Roshar? He crossed the deck toward her, stumbling as the ship crashed through a swell in the beads. Storms, and Shallan said this was more smooth than some boats she’d been on? Several Reachers passed, calmly managing the large riggings and harnesses that attached to the spren who pulled the craft. “Ah, human,” one of the Reachers said as Kaladin passed. That was the captain, wasn’t it? Captain Ico? He resembled a Shin man, with large, childlike eyes made of metal. He was
shorter than the Alethi, but sturdy. He wore the same tan clothing as the others, sporting a multitude of buttoned pockets. “Come with me,” Ico told Kaladin, then crossed the deck without waiting for a response. They didn’t speak much, these Reachers. Kaladin sighed, then followed the captain back to the stairwell. A line of copper plating ran down the inside wall of the stairwell—and Kaladin had seen a similar ornamentation on the deck. He’d assumed it was decorative, but as the captain walked, he rested his fingers on the metal in an odd way. Touching a plate with the tips of his fingers, Kaladin felt a distinct vibration. They passed the quarters of the ordinary spren sailors. They didn’t sleep, but they did seem to enjoy their breaks from work, swinging quietly in hammocks, often reading. It didn’t bother him to see male Reachers with books—spren were obviously similar to ardents, who were outside of common understandings of male and female. At the same time … spren, reading? How odd. When they reached the hold, the captain turned on a small oil lamp—so far as Kaladin could tell, he didn’t use a flaming brand to create the fire. How did it work? It seemed foolhardy to use fire for light with so much wood and cloth around. “Why not use spheres for light?” Kaladin asked him. “We have none,” Ico said. “Stormlight fades too quickly on this side.” That was true. Kaladin’s team carried several larger unset gemstones, which would hold Stormlight for weeks—but the smaller spheres would run out after a week or so without seeing a storm. They’d been able to trade the chips and marks to the lighthouse keeper in exchange for barter supplies—mostly cloth—to buy passage on this ship. “The lighthouse keeper wanted the Stormlight,” Kaladin said. “He kept it in some kind of globe.” Captain Ico grunted. “Foreign technology,” he said. “Dangerous. Draws the wrong spren.” He shook his head. “At Celebrant, the moneychangers have perfect gemstones that can hold the light indefinitely. Similar.” “Perfect gemstones? Like, the Stone of Ten Dawns?” “I don’t know of this thing. Light in a perfect stone doesn’t run out, so you can give Stormlight to the moneychangers. They use devices to transfer it from smaller gemstones to their perfect ones. Then they give you credit to spend in the city.” The hold was closely packed with barrels and boxes that were lashed to the walls and floor. Kaladin could barely squeeze through. Ico selected a rope-handled box from a stack, then asked Kaladin to pull it out as Ico resettled the boxes that had been atop it, then relashed them. Kaladin spent the time thinking about perfect gemstones. Did such a thing exist on his side? If there really were flawless stones that could hold Stormlight without ever running out, that seemed important to know. It could mean the difference between life and death for Radiants during the Weeping. Once Ico was done resettling the cargo, he gestured for Kaladin to help him pick up the box they’d removed.
They maneuvered it out of the hold and up onto the top deck. Here, the captain knelt and opened the box, which revealed a strange device that looked a little like a coatrack—although only about three feet tall. Made entirely of steel, it had dozens of small metal prongs extending from it, like the branches of a tree—only it had a metal basin at the very bottom. Ico fished in a pocket and took out a small box, from which he removed a handful of glass beads like those that made up the ocean. He placed one of them into a hole in the center of the device, then waved toward Kaladin. “Stormlight.” “For what?” “For you to live.” “Are you threatening me, Captain?” Ico sighed and regarded him with a suffering expression. Very human in its nature. It seemed the look of a man talking to a child. The spren captain waved his hand, insistent, so Kaladin took a diamond mark from his pocket. Cradling the sphere in one hand, Ico touched the glass bead he’d put in the fabrial. “This is a soul,” he said. “Soul of water, but very cold.” “Ice?” “Ice from a high, high place,” he said. “Ice that has never melted. Ice that has never known warmth.” The light in Kaladin’s sphere dimmed as Ico concentrated. “You know how to manifest souls?” “No,” Kaladin said. “Some of your kind do,” he said. “It is rare. Rare among us too. The gardeners among the cultivationspren are best at it. I am unpracticed.” The ocean bead expanded and grew cloudy, looking like ice. Kaladin got a distinct sense of coldness from it. Ico handed back the diamond mark, now partially drained, then dusted off his hands and stood up, pleased. “What does it do?” Kaladin asked. Ico nudged the device with his foot. “It gets cold now.” “Why?” “Cold makes water,” he said. “Water collects in that basin. You drink, and don’t die.” Cold makes water? It didn’t seem to be making any water that Kaladin could see. Ico hiked off to survey the spren steering the ship, so Kaladin knelt beside the device, trying to understand. Eventually, he spotted drops of water collecting on the “branches” of the device. They ran down the metal and gathered in the basin. Huh. When the captain had said—during their initial negotiations—that he could provide water for human passengers, Kaladin had assumed the ship would have some barrels in the hold. The device took about a half hour to make a small cup of water, which Kaladin drank as a test—the basin had a spigot and a detachable tin cup. The water was cool but flavorless, unlike rainwater. How did coldness make water though? Was this melting ice in the Physical Realm somehow, and bringing it here? As he was sipping the water, Syl walked over—her skin, hair, and dress still colored like those of a human. She stopped next to him, placed her hands on her hips, and went into full pout. “What?” Kaladin asked. “They won’t let me ride
one of the flying spren.” “Smart.” “Insufferable.” “Why on Roshar would you look at one of those things and think, ‘You know what, I need to get on its back’?” Syl looked at him as if he were crazy. “Because they can fly.” “So can you. Actually, so can I.” “You don’t fly, you fall the wrong way.” She unfolded her arms so that she could fold them immediately again and huff loudly. “You’re telling me you’re not even curious what it’s like to climb on one of those things?” “Horses are bad enough. I’m not about to get onto something that doesn’t even have legs.” “Where’s your sense of adventure?” “I dragged it out back and clubbed it senseless for getting me into the army. What have you done to your skin and hair, by the way?” “It’s a Lightweaving,” she said. “I asked Shallan, because I didn’t want rumors of an honorspren spreading from the ship’s crew.” “We can’t waste Stormlight on something like that, Syl.” “We used a mark that was running out anyway!” she said. “So it was worthless to us; it would have been depleted by the time we arrived. So it’s wasting nothing.” “What if there’s an emergency?” She stuck her tongue out at him, then at the sailors at the front of the ship. Kaladin returned the little tin cup to its place on the side of the device, then settled with his back to the ship railing. Shallan sat across the deck near the flying spren, doing sketches. “You should go talk to her,” Syl said, sitting next to him. “About wasting Stormlight?” Kaladin said. “Yes, perhaps I should. She does seem inclined to be frivolous with who she expends it for.” Syl rolled her eyes. “What?” “Don’t go lecture her, silly. Chat with her. About life. About fun things.” Syl nudged him with her foot. “I know you want to. I can feel that you do. Be glad I’m the wrong kind of spren, or I would probably be licking your forehead or something to get at your emotions.” The ship surged against a wave of beads. The souls of things in the physical world. “Shallan is betrothed to Adolin,” Kaladin said. “Which isn’t an oath,” Syl said. “It’s a promise to maybe make an oath sometime.” “It’s still not the sort of thing you play around with.” Syl rested her hand on his knee. “Kaladin. I’m your spren. It’s my duty to make sure that you’re not alone.” “Is that so? Who decided?” “I did. And don’t give me excuses about not being lonely, or about ‘only needing your brothers in arms.’ You can’t lie to me. You feel dark, sad. You need something, someone, and she makes you feel better.” Storms. It felt like Syl and his emotions were double-teaming him. One smiled with encouragement, while the other whispered terrible things. That he’d always be alone. That Tarah had been right to leave him. He filled another cup with as much water as he could get from the basin, then carried
it toward Shallan. The pitching of the ship almost made him dump the cup overboard. Shallan glanced up as he eased down beside her, his back resting against the deck’s railing. He handed her the cup. “It makes water,” he said, thumbing at the device. “By getting cold.” “Condensation? How fast does it go? Navani would be interested in that.” She sipped the water, holding it in her gloved safehand—which was strange to see on her. Even when they’d traveled the bottoms of the chasms together, she’d worn a very formal havah. “You walk like they do,” she said absently, finishing her sketch of one of the flying beasts. “They?” “The sailors. You keep your balance well. You’d have been at home as a sailor yourself, I suspect. Unlike some others.” She nodded toward Azure, who stood across the deck, holding on to the railing for dear life and occasionally shooting distrusting glares at the Reachers. Either she did not like being on a ship, or she did not trust the spren. Perhaps both. “May I?” Kaladin asked, nodding toward Shallan’s sketch. She shrugged, so he took the sketchpad and studied her pictures of the flying beasts. As always, they were excellent. “What does the text say?” “Just some theorizing,” she said, flipping back a page in her notebook. “I lost my original of this picture, so this is kind of crude. But have you ever seen something like these arrowhead spren here?” “Yeah…” Kaladin said, studying her drawing of a skyeel flying with arrowhead spren moving around it. “I’ve seen them near greatshells.” “Chasmfiends, skyeels, anything else that should be heavier than it actually is. Sailors call them luckspren on our side.” She gestured with the cup toward the front of the ship, where sailors managed the flying beasts. “They call these ‘mandras,’ but the arrowhead shapes on their heads are the same shape as luckspren. These are bigger, but I think they—or something like them—help skyeels fly.” “Chasmfiends don’t fly.” “They kind of do, mathematically. Bavamar did the calculations on Reshi greatshells, and found they should be crushed by their own weight.” “Huh,” Kaladin said. She started to get excited. “There’s more. Those mandras, they vanish sometimes. Their keepers call it ‘dropping.’ I think they must be getting pulled into the Physical Realm. It means you can never use only one mandra to pull a ship, no matter how small that ship. And you can’t take them—or most other spren—too far from human population centers on our side. They waste away and die for reasons people here don’t understand.” “Huh. So what do they eat?” “I’m not sure,” Shallan said. “Syl and Pattern talk about feeding off emotions, but there’s something else that…” She trailed off as Kaladin flipped to the next page in her notebook. It seemed like an attempt at drawing Captain Ico, but was incredibly juvenile. Basically just a stick figure. “Did Adolin get hold of your sketchbook?” he asked. She snatched the book from him and closed it. “I was just trying out a different style.
Thanks for the water.” “Yes, I had to walk all the way from over there. At least seven steps.” “Easily ten,” Shallan said. “And on this precarious deck. Very dangerous.” “Practically as bad as fighting the Fused.” “Could have stubbed your toe. Or gotten a splinter. Or pitched over the side and been lost to the depths, buried by a thousand thousand beads and the weight of the souls of an infinite number of forgotten objects.” “Or … that.” “Highly unlikely,” Shallan agreed. “They keep this deck well maintained, so there really aren’t any splinters.” “With my luck, I’d find one anyway.” “I had a splinter once,” Shallan noted. “It eventually got out of hand.” “You … you did not just say that.” “Yes, you obviously imagined it. What a sick, sick mind you have, Kaladin.” Kaladin sighed, then nodded to the sailors. “They do walk about barefoot. Have you noticed that? Something about the copper lines set into the deck.” “The copper vibrates,” Shallan said. “And they keep touching it. I think they might be using it to communicate somehow.” “That would explain why they don’t talk much,” Kaladin said. “I’d have expected them to watch us a little more than they do. They don’t seem that curious about us.” “Which is odd, considering how interesting Azure is.” “Wait. Just Azure?” “Yes. In that polished breastplate and striking figure, with her talk of chasing bounties and traveling worlds. She’s deeply mysterious.” “I’m mysterious,” Kaladin said. “I used to think you were. Then I found out you don’t like good puns—it’s truly possible to know too much about somebody.” He grunted. “I’ll try to be more mysterious. Take up bounty hunting.” His stomach growled. “Starting with a bounty on lunch, maybe.” They’d been promised two meals a day, but considering how long it had taken Ico to remember they needed water, perhaps he should ask. “I’ve been trying to track our speed,” Shallan said, flipping through her notebook. She went quickly through the pages, and he could see that—oddly—they alternated between expert renditions and comically bad ones. She landed on a map she’d made of this region in Shadesmar. Alethi rivers were now peninsulas, and the Sea of Spears was an island, with the city named Celebrant on the western side. The river peninsulas meant that in order to get to the city, the ship had to swing to the west. Shallan had marked their path with a line. “It’s hard to gauge our progress, but I’d guess that we’re moving faster than the average ship in our world. We can go directly where we want without worrying about the winds, for one thing.” “So … two more days?” Kaladin asked, guessing based on her marks. “More or less. Quick progress.” He moved his fingers down, toward the bottom of her map. “Thaylen City?” he asked, tapping one point she’d marked. “Yes. On this side, it will be on the edge of a lake of beads. We can guess the Oathgate will reflect there as a platform, like the one we left
in Kholinar. But how to activate it…” “I want to try. Dalinar is in danger. We need to get to him, Shallan. In Thaylen City.” She glanced at Azure, who maintained that was the wrong direction to go. “Kaladin … I don’t know if we can trust what you saw. It’s dangerous to presume you know the future—” “I didn’t see the future,” Kaladin said quickly. “It wasn’t like that. It was like soaring the sky with the Stormfather. I just know … I know I have to get to Dalinar.” She still seemed skeptical. Perhaps he’d told them too much of the lighthouse keeper’s theatrics. “We’ll see, once we get to Celebrant.” Shallan closed her map, then squirmed, glancing back at the railing they’d been leaning against. “Do you suppose they have chairs anywhere? These railings aren’t very comfortable for sitting against.” “Probably not.” “What do you even call these things?” Shallan said, tapping the railing. “A deck wall?” “No doubt they’ve made up some obscure nautical word,” Kaladin said. “Everything on a ship has odd names. Port and starboard instead of left and right. Galley instead of kitchen. Nuisance instead of Shallan.” “There was a name … railing? Deck guard? No, wale. It’s called a wale.” She grinned. “I don’t really like how it feels to sit against this wale, but I’m sure I’ll eventually get over it.” He groaned softly. “Really?” “Vengeance for calling me names.” “Name. One name. And it was more a declaration of fact than an attack.” She punched him lightly in the arm. “It’s good to see you smiling.” “That was smiling?” “It was the Kaladin equivalent. That scowl was almost jovial.” She smiled at him. Something felt warm within him at being near her. Something felt right. It wasn’t like with Laral, his boyhood crush. Or even like with Tarah, his first real romance. It was something different, and he couldn’t define it. He only knew he didn’t want it to stop. It pushed back the darkness. “Down in the chasms,” he said, “when we were trapped together, you talked about your life. About … your father.” “I remember,” she said softly. “In the darkness of the storm.” “How do you do it, Shallan? How do you keep smiling and laughing? How do you keep from fixating on the terrible things that have happened?” “I cover them up. I have this uncanny ability to hide away anything I don’t want to think about. It … it’s getting harder, but for most things I can just…” She trailed off, staring straight ahead. “There. Gone.” “Wow.” “I know,” she whispered. “I’m crazy.” “No. No, Shallan! I wish I could do the same.” She looked at him, brow wrinkling. “You’re crazy.” “How nice would it be, if I could simply shove it all away? Storms.” He tried to imagine it. Not spending his life worrying about the mistakes he’d made. Not hearing the constant whispers that he wasn’t good enough, or that he’d failed his men. “This way, I’ll never face it,” Shallan said. “It’s better than
being unable to function.” “That’s what I tell myself.” She shook her head. “Jasnah said that power is an illusion of perception. Act like you have authority, and you often will. But pretending fragments me. I’m too good at pretending.” “Well, whatever you’re doing, it’s obviously working. If I could smother these emotions, I’d do so eagerly.” She nodded, but fell silent, then resisted all further attempts to draw her into conversation. CONTENTS Title Page Copyright Notice Dedication Preface and Acknowledgments Book Three: Oathbringer Prologue: To Weep Part One: United 1. Broken and Divided 2. One Problem Solved 3. Momentum 4. Oaths 5. Hearthstone 6. Four Lifetimes 7. A Watcher at the Rim 8. A Powerful Lie 9. The Threads of a Screw 10. Distractions 11. The Rift 12. Negotiations 13. Chaperone 14. Squires Can’t Capture 15. Brightness Radiant 16. Wrapped Three Times 17. Trapped in Shadows 18. Double Vision 19. The Subtle Art of Diplomacy 20. Cords to Bind 21. Set Up to Fail 22. The Darkness Within 23. Storming Strange 24. Men of Blood and Sorrow 25. The Girl Who Looked Up 26. Blackthorn Unleashed 27. Playing Pretend 28. Another Option 29. No Backing Down 30. Mother of Lies 31. Demands of the Storm 32. Company Interludes I-1. Puuli I-2. Ellista I-3. The Rhythm of the Lost Part Two: New Beginnings Sing 33. A Lecture 34. Resistance 35. First into the Sky 36. Hero 37. The Last Time We March 38. Broken People 39. Notes 40. Questions, Peeks, and Inferences 41. On the Ground Looking Up 42. Consequences 43. Spearman 44. The Bright Side 45. A Revelation 46. When the Dream Dies 47. So Much Is Lost 48. Rhythm of Work 49. Born unto Light 50. Shash Thirty-Seven 51. Full Circle 52. After His Father 53. Such a Twisted Cut 54. An Ancient Singer’s Name 55. Alone Together 56. Always with You 57. Passion Interludes I-4. Kaza I-5. Taravangian I-6. This One Is Mine Part Three: Defying Truth, Love Truth 58. Burdens 59. Bondsmith 60. Winds and Oaths 61. Nightmare Made Manifest 62. Research 63. Within the Mirror 64. Binder of Gods 65. Verdict 66. Strategist 67. Mishim 68. Aim for the Sun 69. Free Meal, No Strings 70. Highmarshal Azure 71. A Sign of Humanity 72. Rockfall 73. Telling Which Stories 74. Swiftspren 75. Only Red 76. An Animal 77. Stormshelter 78. The Revel 79. Echoes of Thunder 80. Oblivious 81. Ithi and Her Sister 82. The Girl Who Stood Up 83. Crimson to Break 84. The One You Can Save 85. Grieve Later 86. That Others May Stand 87. This Place Interludes I-7. Envoy I-8. Mem I-9. True Labor Begins I-10. Sheler I-11. Her Reward Part Four: Defy! Sing Beginnings! 88. Voices 89. Damnation 90. Reborn 91. Why He Froze 92. Water Warm as Blood 93. Kata 94. A Small Bottle 95. Inescapable Void 96. Pieces of a Fabrial 97. Riino 98. Loopholes 99. Reachers 100. An Old Friend 101. Deadeye 102. Celebrant 103. Hypocrite 104. Strength 105. Spirit, Mind, and Body 106. Law Is Light 107. The
First Step 108. Honor’s Path 109. Neshua Kadal 110. A Million Stars 111. Eila Stele 112. For the Living 113. The Thing Men Do Best Interludes I-12. Rhythm of Withdrawal I-13. Rysn I-14. Teft Part Five: New Unity 114. The Cost 115. The Wrong Passion 116. Alone 117. Champion with Nine Shadows 118. The Weight of It All 119. Unity 120. The Spear That Would Not Break 121. Ideals 122. A Debt Repaid Epilogue: Great Art Endnote Ars Arcanum Books by Brandon Sanderson About the Author Copyright ILLUSTRATIONS NOTE: Many illustrations, titles included, contain spoilers for material that comes before them in the book. Look ahead at your own risk. Map of Roshar Map of the Oathgate Locations Map of Alethkar Shallan’s Sketchbook: The Tower Shallan’s Sketchbook: Corridor Shallan’s Sketchbook: Horses Shallan’s Sketchbook: Spren in the Wall Shallan’s Sketchbook: Urithiru Folio: The Vorin Havah Navani’s Notebook: Ship Designs Alethi Glyphs Page 1 Folio: Contemporary Thaylen Female Fashion Map of Kholinar Shallan’s Sketchbook: Kholinar Spren Page from Mythica: The Taker of Secrets A Portion of the Sea of Lost Lights Rosharan Wines Shallan’s Sketchbook: Mandras Navani’s Notebook: Vambrace Shallan’s Sketchbook: Shadesmar Spren Shallan’s Sketchbook: Oathgate Spren Map of Thaylen City This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. OATHBRINGER Copyright © 2017 by Dragonsteel Entertainment, LLC Brandon Sanderson® is a registered trademark of Dragonsteel Entertainment, LLC All rights reserved. Edited by Moshe Feder Illustrations preceding chapters 39 and 58 by Dan dos Santos Illustrations preceding chapters 8, 15, 25, 27, 33, 67, 99, 108, and 116 by Ben McSweeney Illustrations preceding chapters 77 and 94 by Miranda Meeks Illustrations preceding chapters 44 and 104 by Kelley Harris Maps and illustrations preceding chapters 1, 5, 53, 61, 89, and 120 by Isaac Stewart Viewpoint icons by Isaac Stewart, Ben McSweeney, and Howard Lyon A Tor Book Published by Tom Doherty Associates 175 Fifth Avenue New York, NY 10010 www.tor-forge.com Tor® is a registered trademark of Macmillan Publishing Group, LLC. The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request. ISBN 978-0-7653-2637-9 (hardcover) ISBN 978-1-250-16949-5 (international, sold outside the U.S., subject to rights availability) ISBN 978-1-250-16216-8 (signed) ISBN 978-0-7653-9983-0 (ebook) eISBN 9780765399830 Our ebooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by email at MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com. First Edition: November 2017 The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you without Digital Rights Management software (DRM) applied so that you can enjoy reading it on your personal devices. This e-book is for your personal use only. You may not print or post this e-book, or make this e-book publicly available in any way. You may not copy, reproduce, or upload this e-book, other than to read it on one of your personal devices. Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the
publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy. For Alan Layton Who was cheering for Dalinar (And me) Before Stormlight even existed. “All great art is hated,” Wit said. He shuffled in line—along with a couple hundred other people—one dreary step. “It is obscenely difficult—if not impossible—to make something that nobody hates,” Wit continued. “Conversely, it is incredibly easy—if not expected—to make something that nobody loves.” Weeks after the fall of Kholinar, the place still smelled like smoke. Though the city’s new masters had moved tens of thousands of humans out to work farms, complete resettlement would take months, if not years. Wit poked the man in front of him in the shoulder. “This makes sense, if you think about it. Art is about emotion, examination, and going places people have never gone before to discover and investigate new things. The only way to create something that nobody hates is to ensure that it can’t be loved either. Remove enough spice from soup, and you’ll just end up with water.” The brutish man in front eyed him, then turned back to the line. “Human taste is as varied as human fingerprints,” Wit said. “Nobody will like everything, everybody dislikes something, someone loves that thing you hate—but at least being hated is better than nothing. To risk metaphor, a grand painting is often about contrast: brightest brights, darkest darks. Not grey mush. That a thing is hated is not proof that it’s great art, but the lack of hatred is certainly proof that it is not.” They shuffled forward another step. He poked the man in the shoulder again. “And so, dear sir, when I say that you are the very embodiment of repulsiveness, I am merely looking to improve my art. You look so ugly, it seems that someone tried—and failed—to get the warts off your face through aggressive application of sandpaper. You are less a human being, and more a lump of dung with aspirations. If someone took a stick and beat you repeatedly, it could only serve to improve your features. “Your face defies description, but only because it nauseated all the poets. You are what parents use to frighten children into obedience. I’d tell you to put a sack over your head, but think of the poor sack! Theologians use you as proof that God exists, because such hideousness can only be intentional.” The man didn’t respond. Wit poked him again, and he muttered something in Thaylen. “You … don’t speak Alethi, do you?” Wit asked. “Of course you don’t.” Figured. Well, repeating all that in Thaylen would be monotonous. So Wit cut in front of the man in line. This finally provoked a response. The beefy man grabbed Wit and spun him around, then punched him right in the face. Wit fell backward onto the stone ground. The line continued its shuffling motion, the occupants refusing to look at him. Cautiously, he prodded at his mouth. Yes … it seemed … One of his teeth popped out. “Success!” he said in Thaylen, speaking with a faint lisp. “Thank you, dear man. I’m glad
you appreciate my performance art, accomplished by cutting in front of you.” Wit flicked the tooth aside and stood up, starting to dust off his clothing. He then stopped himself. After all, he’d worked hard to place that dust. He shoved hands in the pockets of his ragged brown coat, then slouched his way through an alley. He passed groaning humans crying for deliverance, for mercy. He absorbed that, letting it reflect in him. Not a mask he put on. Real sorrow. Real pain. Weeping echoed around him as he moved into the section of town nearest the palace. Only the most desperate or the most broken dared remain here, nearest the invaders and their growing seat of power. He rounded to the courtyard out in front of the steps leading up. Was it time for his big performance? Strangely, he found himself reluctant. Once he walked up those steps, he was committing to leave the city. He’d found a much better audience among these poor people than he had among the lighteyes of Alethkar. He’d enjoyed his time here. On the other hand, if Rayse learned that Wit was in the city, he’d order his forces to level it—and would consider that a cheap price for even the slimmest chance of ending him. Wit lingered, then moved through the courtyard, speaking softly with several of the people he’d come to know over the weeks. He eventually squatted next to Kheni, who still rocked her empty cradle, staring with haunted eyes across the square. “The question becomes,” he whispered to her, “how many people need to love a piece of art to make it worthwhile? If you’re inevitably going to inspire hate, then how much enjoyment is needed to balance out the risk?” She didn’t respond. Her husband, as usual, hovered nearby. “How’s my hair?” Wit asked Kheni. “Or lack thereof?” Again, no response. “The missing tooth is a new addition,” Wit said, poking at the hole. “I think it will add that special touch.” He had a few days, with his healing repressed, until the tooth grew back. The right concoction had made him lose his hair in patches. “Should I put an eye out?” Kheni looked at him, incredulous. So you are listening. He patted her on the shoulder. One more. One more, then I go. “Wait here,” he told her, then went walking along an alley to the north. He scooped up some rags—the remnants of a spren costume. He didn’t see many of those around anymore. He took a cord from his pocket and twisted it around the rags. Nearby, several buildings had fallen to the thunderclast’s attacks. He felt life from one, and when he drew close, a dirty little face poked out from some rubble. He smiled at the little girl. “Your teeth look funny today,” she said to him. “I take exception to that, as the funny part is not the teeth, but the lack of tooth.” He held out his hand to her, but she ducked back in. “I can’t leave Mama,” she whispered.
“I understand,” Wit said. He took the rags and cord he’d worked with earlier, forming them into the shape of a little doll. “The answer to the question has been bothering me for some time.” The little face poked out again, looking at the doll. “The question?” “I asked it earlier,” Wit said. “You couldn’t hear. Do you know the answer?” “You’re weird.” “Right answer, but wrong question.” He walked the little doll along the broken street. “For me?” the girl whispered. “I need to leave the city,” he said. “And I can’t take her with me. Someone needs to care for her.” A grimy hand reached toward the doll, but Wit pulled it back. “She’s afraid of the darkness. You’ve got to keep her in the light.” The hand vanished into the shadows. “I can’t leave Mama.” “That’s too bad,” Wit said. He raised the doll to his lips, then whispered a choice set of words. When he set it down, it started to walk on its own. A soft gasp sounded inside the shadows. The little doll toddled toward the street. Step by step by step … The girl, maybe four years old, finally emerged from the shadows and ran to get the doll. Wit stood and dusted off his coat, which was now grey. The girl hugged the patchwork creation, and he picked her up, turning away from the broken building—and the bones of a leg sticking from the rubble just inside. He carried the girl back to the square, then quietly pushed the empty cradle away from Kheni and knelt before her. “I think, in answer to my question … I think it only takes one.” She blinked, then focused on the child in his arms. “I have to leave the city,” Wit said. “And someone needs to take care of her.” He waited until, at long last, Kheni held out her arms. Wit put the child into them, then rose. Kheni’s husband took him by the arm, smiling. “Can you not stay a little longer?” “I should think you are the first to ever ask me that, Cob,” Wit said. “And in truth, the sentiment frightens me.” He hesitated, then leaned down and touched the doll in the child’s hands. “Forget what I told you before,” he whispered. “Instead, take care of her.” He turned and started up the steps toward the palace. He adopted the act as he walked. The twitch of madness, the shuffle to his step. He squinted one eye and hunched over, changed his breathing to come raggedly, with occasional sharp intakes. He muttered to himself, and exposed his teeth—but not the one that was missing, for that was impossible. He passed into the shadow of the palace, and the sentry hovering in the air nearby, wind rippling her long clothing. Vatwha was her name. Thousands of years ago, he’d shared a dance with her. Like all the others, she’d later been trained to watch for him. But not well enough. As he passed underneath, she gave him the barest of glances. He
decided not to take that as an insult, as it was what he wanted. He needed to be soup so bland, it was water. What a conundrum. In this case, his art was best when ignored. Perhaps he would need to revise his philosophy. He passed the sentry post, and wondered if anyone else thought it irregular that the Fused spent so much time here near this fallen section of the palace. Did anyone wonder why they worked so hard, clearing blocks, breaking down walls? It was good to know that his heart could still flutter at a performance. He ducked in close to the work project, and a pair of more mundane singer guards cursed at him to move on toward the gardens, with the other beggars. He bowed several times, then tried to sell them some trinkets from his pocket. One shoved him away, and so he acted panicked, scrambling past them and up a ramp into the work project itself. Nearby, some workers broke rocks, and a patch of blood stained the ground. The two singer guards shouted at him to get out. Wit adopted a frightened look, and hurried to obey, but tripped himself so he fell against the wall of the palace—a portion that was still standing. “Look,” he whispered to the wall, “you don’t have many choices right now.” Above, the Fused turned to look at him. “I know you’d rather have someone else,” Wit said, “but it isn’t the time to be picky. I’m certain now that the reason I’m in the city is to find you.” The two singer guards approached, one bowing apologetically to the Fused in the air. They still didn’t realize that sort of behavior would not impress the ancient singers. “It’s either go with me now,” Wit said to the wall, “or wait it out and get captured. I honestly don’t even know if you’ve the mind to listen. But if you do, know this: I will give you truths. And I know some juicy ones.” The guards reached him. Wit pushed against them, slamming himself against the wall again. Something slipped from one of the cracks in the wall. A moving Pattern that dimpled the stone. It crossed to his hand, which he tucked into his rags as the guards seized him under the arms and hauled him out into the gardens, then tossed him among the beggars there. Once they were gone, Wit rolled over and looked at the Pattern that now covered his palm. It seemed to be trembling. “Life before death, little one,” Wit whispered. THE END OF Book Three of THE STORMLIGHT ARCHIVE Puuli the lighthouse keeper tried not to let everyone know how excited he was for this new storm. It was truly tragic. Truly tragic. He told Sakin this as she wept. She had thought herself quite high and blessed when she’d landed her new husband. She’d moved into the man’s fine stone hut in a prime spot for growing a garden, behind the northern cliffs of the town. Puuli gathered scraps of
wood blown eastward by the strange storm, and piled them in his little cart. He pulled it with two hands, leaving Sakin to weep for her husband. Up to three now, she was, all lost at sea. Truly tragic. Still, he was excited for the storm. He pulled his cart past other broken homes here, where they should have been sheltered west of the cliffs. Puuli’s grandfather had been able to remember when those cliffs hadn’t been there. Kelek himself had broken apart the land in the middle of a storm, making a new prime spot for homes. Where would the rich people put their houses now? And they did have rich people here in town, never mind what the travelers on the ocean said. Those would stop at this little port, on the crumbling eastern edge of Roshar, and shelter from storms in their cove alongside the cliffs. Puuli pulled his cart past the cove. Here, one of the foreigner captains—with long eyebrows and tan skin, rather than the proper blue skin—was trying to make sense of her ruined ship. It had been rocked in the cove, struck by lightning, then smashed back against the stones. Now only the mast was visible. Truly tragic, Puuli said. He complimented the captain on the mast though. It was a very nice mast. Puuli picked up a few planks from the broken ship that had washed onto the shore of the cove, then threw them into his cart. Even if it had destroyed many a ship, Puuli was happy for this new storm. Secretly happy. Had the time finally come, that his grandfather had warned of? The time of changes, when the men from the hidden island of the Origin at last came to reclaim Natanatan? Even if not, this new storm brought him so much wood. Scraps of rockbuds, branches from trees. He gathered it all eagerly, piling his cart high, then pulled it past fishers in huddles, trying to decide how they’d survive in a world with storms from both directions. Fishers didn’t sleep away the Weeping, like lazy farmers. They worked it, for there were no winds. Lots of bailing, but no winds. Until now. A tragedy, he told Au-lam while helping him clear the refuse of his barn. Many of the boards ended up in Puuli’s cart. A tragedy, he agreed with Hema-Dak as he watched her children so she could run a broth to her sister, who was sick with the fever. A tragedy, he told the Drummer brothers as he helped them pull a tattered sail from the surf and stretch it out on the rocks. At last, Puuli finished his rounds and pulled his little cart up the long, twisting road toward Defiance. That was his name for the lighthouse. Nobody else called it that, because to them it was just the lighthouse. At the top, he left out an offering of fruit for Kelek, the Herald who lived in the storm. Then he pulled his wagon into the room on the bottom floor. Defiance wasn’t a
tall lighthouse. He’d seen paintings of the sleek, fashionable ones down along Longbrow’s Straits. Lighthouses for rich folks who sailed ships that didn’t catch fish. Defiance was only two stories tall, and built squat like a bunker. But she had good stonework, and a buffer of crem on the outside kept her from leaking. She’d stood for over a hundred years, and Kelek hadn’t decided to knock her down. The Stormfather knew how important she was. Puuli carried a load of wet stormwood and broken boards up to the top of the lighthouse, where he set them out beside the fire—which burned low during the day—to dry. He dusted off his hands, then stepped up to the rim of the lighthouse. At night, the mirrors would shine the light right out through this hole. He looked over the cliffs, to the east. His family was a lot like the lighthouse themselves. Squat, short, but powerful. And enduring. They’ll come with Light in their pockets, Grandfather had said. They’ll come to destroy, but you should watch for them anyway. Because they’ll come from the Origin. The sailors lost on an infinite sea. You keep that fire high at night, Puuli. You burn it bright until the day they come. They’ll arrive when the night is darkest. Surely that was now, with a new storm. Darkest nights. A tragedy. And a sign. “You have three choices,” the Herdazian general said. He had dark brown skin the color of a weathered stone, and there was a hint of grey in the thin mustache on his upper lip. He stepped up to Sheler, then put his hands to his sides. Remarkably, some men affixed manacles to the general’s own wrists. What on Roshar? “Pay attention,” the general said. “This is important.” “To the manacles?” Sheler said in Herdazian. Life on the border had forced him to learn the language. “What is going on here? Do you realize the trouble you’re in for taking me captive?” Sheler started to stand, but one of the Herdazian soldiers forced him down so hard, his knees rapped against the hard stone floor of the tent. “You have three choices.” The general’s manacles clinked as he twisted his hands in them. “First, you can choose the sword. Now, that might be a clean death. A good beheading rarely hurts. Unfortunately, it won’t be a headsman who gets the chance with you. We’ll give the sword to the women you abused. Each gets a hack, one after another. How long it goes on will depend on them.” “This is outrageous!” Sheler said. “I’m a lighteyes of the fifth dahn! I’m cousin to the highlord himself, and—” “Second option,” the general said, “is the hammer. We break your legs and arms, then hang you from the cliff by the ocean. You might last until the storm that way, but it will be miserable.” Sheler struggled to no avail. Captured by Herdazians. Their general wasn’t even a lighteyes! The general twisted his hands, then pulled them apart. The manacles clinked to the ground. Nearby,
several of his officers grinned, while others groaned. A scribe had tapped off the time, and gave an accounting of the seconds the escape had taken. The general accepted the applause of several men, then thumped another—a loser in the betting—on his back. Sheler almost seemed forgotten for a moment. Finally, the general turned back to him. “I wouldn’t take the hammer, if I were you. But there’s a third option: the hog.” “I demand the right of ransom!” Sheler said. “You must contact my highprince and accept payment based on my rank!” “Ransom is for men caught in battle,” the general said. “Not bastards caught robbing and murdering civilians.” “My homeland is under invasion!” Sheler shouted. “I was gathering resources so we might mount a resistance!” “A resistance is not what we caught you mounting.” The general kicked at the manacles by his feet. “Choose one of the three options. I don’t have all day.” Sheler licked his lips. How had he ended up in this situation? His homeland gone crazy, the parshmen rampaging, his men scattered by flying monsters? Now this? The dirty Herdazians obviously weren’t going to listen to reason. They … Wait. “Did you say hog?” Sheler asked. “It lives down by the shore,” the Herdazian general said. “That’s your third option. We grease you, and you wrestle the hog. It’s fun for the men to watch. They need sport now and then.” “And if I do this, you won’t kill me?” “No, but this isn’t as easy as you think. I’ve tried it myself, so I can speak with authority.” Crazy Herdazians. “I choose the hog.” “As you wish.” The general picked up the manacles and handed them to his officer. “Thought you’d fail these ones for sure,” the officer said. “The merchant claimed they’re from the best Thaylen locksmiths.” “Doesn’t matter how good the lock is, Jerono,” the general said with a grin, “if the cuffs are loose.” What a ridiculous little man—too-wide smile, a flat nose, a missing tooth. Why, Highlord Amaram would have— Sheler was jerked to his feet by the chains, then pulled through the camp of Herdazian soldiers on the Alethi border. There were more refugees here than actual fighting men! Give Sheler a single company, and he could rout this entire force. His insufferable captors led him down an incline, past the cliffs and toward the shore. Soldiers and refugees alike gathered above, jeering and calling. Obviously, the Herdazian general was too frightened to actually kill an Alethi officer. So they would humiliate him by making him wrestle a pig. They’d have a good laugh, then send him away smarting. Idiots. He’d come back with an army. One man locked Sheler’s chain to a metal loop on the stones. Another approached with a pitcher of oil. They poured it over Sheler’s head; he sputtered as the liquid ran down his face. “What is that stench?” Above, someone blew a horn. “I’d say ‘good luck,’ boss,” the Herdazian soldier told Sheler as his companion ran off, “but I’ve got three marks on
you not lasting a full minute. Still, who knows. When the general was chained down here, he got out in less.” The ocean started to churn. “Of course,” the soldier said, “the general likes this kind of thing. He’s a little weird.” The soldier dashed back up the bank, leaving Sheler locked in place, doused in pungent oil, and gaping as an enormous claw broke the surface of the ocean. Perhaps “the hog” was more of a nickname. Venli’s little spren—whom she’d named Timbre—peeked around the room, looking in each corner and shadowed place, like she did each time Venli let her out of the pouch. Days had passed since Venli had first arrived at Kholinar. And, as Rine had warned, this was her true labor. Venli now gave her presentation a dozen times each day, speaking to groups of singers brought out of the city for the purpose. She wasn’t allowed into Kholinar herself. They kept her sequestered in this stormshelter outside, which they called the hermitage. Venli hummed to Spite as she leaned against the window, annoyed by the incarceration. Even the window had only been installed—cut by a Shardblade and set with thick stormshutters—after her repeated requests. The city outside called to her. Majestic walls, beautiful buildings. It reminded her of Narak … which, actually, her people hadn’t built. In living there, the listeners had profited from the labors of ancient humans, as modern humans had profited from the enslaved singers. Timbre floated over to her, then hovered by the window, as if to sneak out and look around outside. “No,” Venli said. Timbre pulsed to Resolve, then inched forward in the air. “Stay inside,” Venli said to Command. “They’re watching for spren like you. Descriptions of your kind, and others, have been spread all through the city.” The little spren backed away, pulsing to Annoyance, before settling in the air beside Venli. Venli rested her head on her arms. “I feel like a relic,” she whispered. “Already I seem like a cast-off ruin from a nearly forgotten day. Are you the reason I feel like that, suddenly? I only get this way when I let you out.” Timbre pulsed to Peace. Upon hearing that, something stirred deep within Venli: the Voidspren that occupied her gemheart. That spren couldn’t think, not like Ulim or the higher Voidspren. It was a thing of emotions and animal instincts, but the bond with it granted Venli her form of power. She started to wonder. So many of the Fused were obviously unhinged; perhaps their inordinately long lives had taken a toll on their psyches. Wouldn’t Odium need new leaders for his people? If she proved herself, could she claim a place among them? New Fused. New … gods? Eshonai had always worried about Venli’s thirst for power, and had cautioned her to control her ambitions. Even Demid, at times, had been worried for her. And now … and now they were all dead. Timbre pulsed to Peace, then to Pleading, then back to Peace. “I can’t,” Venli said to Mourning. “I can’t.”
Pleading. More insistent. The Rhythm of the Lost, of Remembrance, and then Pleading. “I’m the wrong one,” Venli said to Annoyance. “I can’t do this, Timbre. I can’t resist him.” Pleading. “I made this happen,” she said to Fury. “Don’t you realize that? I’m the one who caused all this. Don’t plead to me!” The spren shrank, her light diminishing. Yet she still pulsed to Resolve. Idiot spren. Venli put a hand to her head. Why … why was she not more angry about what had happened to Demid, Eshonai, and the others? Could Venli really think about joining the Fused? Those monsters insisted her people were gone, and rebuffed her questions about the thousands of listeners who had survived the Battle of Narak. Were they all … all being turned into Fused? Shouldn’t Venli be thinking about that, not her ambitions? A form changes the way you think, Venli. Everyone knew that. Eshonai had lectured—incessantly, as had been her way—about not letting the form dictate one’s actions. Control the form, don’t let it control you. But then, Eshonai had been exemplary. A general and a hero. Eshonai had done her duty. All Venli had ever wanted was power. Timbre suddenly pulsed with a flash of light, and zipped away under the bed, terrified. “Ah,” Venli said to Mourning, looking past the city at the sudden darkening of the sky. The Everstorm. It came about every nine days, and this was the second since her arrival. “So that’s why they didn’t bring an evening batch to listen to me.” She folded her arms, took a deep breath, and hummed to Resolve until she lost track and shifted unconsciously to the Rhythm of Destruction. She didn’t close the window. He didn’t like that. Instead, she closed her eyes and listened to the thunder. Lightning flashed beyond her eyelids, red and garish. The spren in her leaped to feel it, and she grew excited, the Rhythm of Destruction swelling inside her. Her people might be gone, but this … this power was worth it. How could she not embrace this? How long can you keep being two people, Venli? She seemed to hear Eshonai’s voice. How long will you vacillate? The storm hit, wind blasting through the window, lifting her … and she entered some kind of vision. The building vanished, and she was tossed about in the storm—but she knew that after it passed, she wouldn’t be hurt. Venli eventually dropped onto a hard surface. She hummed to Destruction and opened her eyes, finding herself standing on a platform hanging high in the sky, far above Roshar, which was a blue and brown globe below. Behind her was a deep, black nothingness marred only by a tiny blip that could have been a single star. That yellow-white star expanded toward her at an awesome speed, swelling, growing, until it overwhelmed her with an incredible flame. She felt her skin melting, her flesh burning away. You are not telling the story well enough, Odium’s voice declared, speaking the ancient tongue. You grow restless. The
Fused inform me of it. This will change or you will be destroyed. “Y-yes … Lord.” Speaking burned away her tongue. She could no longer see; the fire had claimed her eyes. Pain. Agony. But she couldn’t bend to it, for the god before her demanded all of her attention. The pain of her body being consumed was nothing compared to him. You are mine. Remember this. She was vaporized completely. And woke on the floor of her hermitage, fingers bleeding from having clawed the stone again. The storm’s rumbling had grown distant—she’d been gone for hours. Had she burned the entire time? Trembling, she squeezed her eyes shut. Her skin melting, her eyes, her tongue burning away … The Rhythm of Peace pulled her out of it, and she knew Timbre hovered beside her. Venli rolled over and groaned, eyes still shut, seeking Peace in her own mind. She couldn’t find it. Odium’s presence was too fresh; the spren inside her thrummed to Craving instead. “I can’t do it,” she whispered to Derision. “You’ve got the wrong sister.” The wrong sister had died. The wrong sister lived. Venli had schemed to return their gods. This was her reward. After living for a week in a cave in Marat, Venli found herself missing the stone hermitage she’d been given outside Kholinar. Her new dwelling was even more austere, with only a single blanket for sleeping, and a simple cookfire upon which she prepared fish the crowds brought her. She was growing dirty, rough. That was what the Fused seemed to want: a hermit living in the wilds. Apparently that was more convincing for the local crowds they brought to listen to her—most of whom were former Thaylen slaves. She was instructed to speak of “Passion” and emotion more often than she had in Alethkar. “My people are dead now,” Venli said to Destruction, repeating the now-familiar speech. “They fell in that last assault, singing as they drew the storm. I remain, but my people’s work is done.” Those words hurt. Her people couldn’t be completely gone … could they? “The day now belongs to your Passion,” she continued to Command. “We had named ourselves ‘listeners’ because of the songs we heard. These are your heritage, but you are not to just listen, but sing. Adopt the rhythms and Passions of your ancestors! You must sail to battle. For the future, for your children! And for us. Those who died that you might exist.” She turned away, as instructed that she do after the end of each speech. She wasn’t allowed to answer questions any longer, not since she’d talked with some of these singers about the specific history of her people. It made her wonder. Did the Fused and the Voidspren fear the heritage of her people, even as they used her for their purposes? Or did they not trust her for other reasons? She put her hand to her pouch. Odium didn’t seem to know that she’d been in that vision with Dalinar Kholin. Behind, a Voidspren led the Thaylen singers
away. Venli moved toward her cave, but then hesitated. A Fused sat on the rocks just above the opening. “Ancient One?” she asked. He grinned at her and giggled. Another one of those. She started into the cave, but he dropped and seized her under the arms, then carried her into the sky. Venli prevented herself—with difficulty—from trying to batter him away. The Fused never touched her, not even the crazy ones, without orders. Indeed, this one flew her down to one of the many ships at the harbor, where Rine—the tall Fused who had accompanied her during her first days preaching in Alethkar—stood at the prow. He glanced toward her as she was landed—roughly—on the deck. She hummed to Conceit at her treatment. He hummed to Spite. A small acknowledgment of a wrong done, the best she’d get out of him, so she hummed to Satisfaction in response. “Ancient One?” she asked to Craving. “You are to accompany us as we sail,” he said to Command. “You may wash yourself in the cabin as we go, if you wish. There is water.” Venli hummed to Craving and looked toward the main cabin. Craving slipped into Abashment as she considered the sheer size of the fleet that was launching around her. Hundreds of ships, which must have been filled with thousands of singers, were sailing from coves all along the coast. They dotted the seas like rockbuds on the plains. “Now?” she asked to Abashment. “I wasn’t prepared! I didn’t know!” “You may wish to grab hold of something. The storm will soon arrive.” She looked to the west. A storm? She hummed to Craving again. “Ask,” Rine said to Command. “I can easily see the strength of the grand assault force we’ve gathered. But … why do we need such? Are not the Fused enough of an army themselves?” “Cowardice?” he asked to Derision. “You do not wish to fight?” “I simply seek to understand.” Rine changed to a new rhythm, one she rarely heard. The Rhythm of Withdrawal—one of the only new rhythms that had a calm tone. “The strongest and most skilled of our number have yet to awaken—but even if we were all awake, we would not fight this war alone. This world will not be ours; we fight to give it to you, our descendants. When it is won, our vengeance taken and our homeland secured at long last, we will sleep. Finally.” He then pointed at the cabin. “Go prepare. We will sail swiftly, with Odium’s own storm to guide us.” As if in agreement with his words, red lightning flashed on the western horizon. Rysn was bored. Once she’d walked to the farthest reaches of Roshar, trading with the isolationist Shin. Once she’d sailed with her babsk to Icewater and cut a deal with pirates. Once she’d climbed Reshi greatshells, which were as large as towns. Now she kept Queen Fen’s ledgers. It was a good job, with an office in the Thaylen Gemstone Reserve. Vstim—her former babsk—had traded favors to get her the job.
Her apprenticeship finished, she was a free woman. No longer a student. Now a master. Of boredom. She sat in her chair, doodling at the edges of a Liaforan word puzzle. Rysn could balance while sitting, though she couldn’t feel her legs and embarrassingly couldn’t control certain bodily functions. She had to rely upon her porters to move her. Career, over. Freedom, over. Life, over. She sighed and pushed away her word puzzle. Time to get back to work. Her duties included annotating the queen’s pending mercantile contracts with references to previous ones, keeping the queen’s personal vault in the Gemstone Reserve, preparing weekly expenditure reports, and accounting the queen’s salary as a portion of taxable income from various Thaylen interests at home and abroad. Wheeeeeeeee. She had an audit today, which had prevented her from attending Fen’s meeting with the monarchs. She might have enjoyed seeing the Blackthorn and the Azish emperor. Well, the other aides would bring her word once the meeting was through. For now, she prepared for her audit, working by spherelight, as the reserve didn’t have windows. The walls of her office were blank. She’d originally hung souvenirs from her years traveling, but those had reminded her of a life she could no longer have. A life full of promise. A life that had ended when she’d stupidly fallen from the head of a greatshell, and landed here, in this cripple’s chair. Now, the only memento she kept was a single pot of Shin grass. Well, that and the little creature sleeping among the blades. Chiri-Chiri breathed softly, rippling the too-dumb grass, which didn’t pull into burrows. It grew in something called soil, which was like crem that never hardened. Chiri-Chiri herself was a small winged beast a little longer than Rysn’s outstretched palm. The Reshi named her a larkin, and though she was the size of a large cremling, she had the snout, carapace, and build of a creature far more grand. An axehound, perhaps, with wings. A lithe little flying predator—though, for all her dangerous appearance, she sure did like to nap. As Rysn worked, Chiri-Chiri finally stirred and peeked out from the grass, then made a series of clicking sounds with her jaw. She climbed down onto the desk and eyed the diamond mark Rysn was using for light. “No,” Rysn said, double-checking numbers in her ledger. Chiri-Chiri clicked again, slinking toward the gem. “You just ate,” Rysn said, then used her palm to shoo the larkin back. “I need that for light.” Chiri-Chiri clicked in annoyance, then flew—wings beating very quickly—to the upper reaches of the room, where she settled onto one of her favorite perches, the lintel above the doorway. A short time later, a knock at the door interrupted Rysn’s tedium. “Come,” she said. Her man, Wmlak—who was half assistant, half porter—poked his head in. “Let me guess,” Rysn said, “the auditor is early.” They always were. “Yes, but…” Behind Wmlak, Rysn caught sight of a familiar flat-topped, conical hat. Wmlak stepped back and gestured toward an old man in blue
and red robes, his Thaylen eyebrows tucked behind his ears. Spry for a man past his seventieth year, Vstim had a wise but unyielding way about him. Inoffensively calculating. He carried a small box under his arm. Rysn gasped in delight; once, she would have leaped to her feet to embrace him. Now she could only sit there and gape. “But you were off to trade in New Natanan!” “The seas are not safe these days,” Vstim said. “And the queen requested my aid in difficult negotiations with the Alethi. I have returned, with some reluctance, to accept an appointment from Her Majesty.” An appointment … “In the government?” Rysn asked. “Minister of trade, and royal liaison to the guild of shipping merchants.” Rysn could only gape further. That was the highest civilian appointment in the kingdom. “But … Babsk, you’ll have to live in Thaylen City!” “Well, I am feeling my age these days.” “Nonsense. You’re as lively as I am.” Rysn glanced at her legs. “More.” “Not so lively that I wouldn’t mind a seat…” She realized he was still standing in the doorway to her office. Even all these months after her accident, she pushed with her arms as if to spring up and fetch him a seat. Idiot. “Please, sit!” she said, waving toward the room’s other chair. He settled down and placed his box on the table while she twisted to do something to welcome him, leaning over—precariously—to get the teapot. The tea was cold, unfortunately. Chiri-Chiri had drained the gemstone in her fabrial hotplate. “I can’t believe you’d agree to settle down!” she said, handing him a cup. “Some would say that the opportunity offered me is far too important to refuse.” “Storm that,” Rysn said. “Staying in one city will wilt you—you’ll spend your days doing paperwork and being bored.” “Rysn,” he said, taking her hand. “Child.” She looked away. Chiri-Chiri flew down and landed on her head, clicking angrily at Vstim. “I promise I’m not going to hurt her,” the old man said, grinning and releasing Rysn’s hand. “Here, I brought you something. See?” He held up a ruby chip. Chiri-Chiri considered, then hovered down above his hand—not touching it—and sucked the Stormlight out. It flew to her in a little stream, and she clicked happily, then zipped over to the pot of grass and wriggled into it, peeking out at Vstim. “You still have the grass, I see,” he said. “You ordered me to keep it.” “You’re now a master merchant, Rysn! You needn’t obey the orders of a doddering old man.” The grass rustled as Chiri-Chiri shifted. She was too big to hide in it, though that never stopped her from trying. “Chiri-Chiri likes it,” Rysn said. “Maybe because it can’t move. Kind of like me…” “Have you tried that Radiant who—” “Yes. He can’t heal my legs. It’s been too long since my accident, which is appropriate. This is my consequence—payment for a contract I entered into willingly the moment I climbed down the side of that greatshell.” “You don’t have
to lock yourself away, Rysn.” “This is a good job. You yourself got it for me.” “Because you refused to go on further trading expeditions!” “What good would I be? One must trade from a position of power, something I can never do again. Besides, an exotic goods merchant who can’t walk? You know how much hiking is required.” Vstim took her hand again. “I thought you were frightened. I thought you wanted something safe and secure. But I’ve been listening. Hmalka has told me—” “You spoke to my superior?” “People talk.” “My work has been exemplary,” Rysn said. “It isn’t your work she’s worried about.” He turned and brushed the grass, drawing Chiri-Chiri’s attention to his hand. She narrowed her eyes at it. “Do you remember what I told you, when you cut out that grass?” “That I was to keep it. Until it no longer seemed odd.” “You’ve always been so quick to make assumptions. About yourself, now, more than others. Here, perhaps this will … anyway, have a look.” Vstim handed her the box. She frowned, then slid off the wooden lid. Inside was a wound-up cord of white rope. Beside that, a slip of paper? Rysn took out the sheet, reading it. “A deed of ownership?” she whispered. “To a ship?” “Brand new,” Vstim said. “A three-masted frigate, the largest I’ve ever owned—with fabrial stabilizers for storms, of the finest Thaylen engineering. I had her built in the shipyards of Klna City, which luckily sheltered her from both storms. While I’ve given the rest of my fleet—what’s left of it—to the queen for use against the invasion, this one I reserved.” “Wandersail,” Rysn said, reading the ship’s name. “Babsk, you are a romantic. Don’t tell me you believe that old story?” “One can believe in a story without believing it happened.” He smiled. “Whose rules are you following, Rysn? Who is forcing you to stay here? Take the ship. Go! I wish to fund your initial trade run, as an investment. After that, you’ll have to do well to maintain a vessel of this size!” Rysn recognized the white rope now. It was a captain’s cord some twenty feet long, used as a traditional Thaylen mark of ownership. She’d wrap it in her colors and string it in the rigging of her ship. It was a gift worth a fortune. “I can’t take this,” she said, putting the box on the desk. “I’m sorry. I—” He pushed the cord into her hands. “Just think about it, Rysn. Humor an old man who can no longer travel.” She held the rope and found her eyes watering. “Bother. Babsk, I have an auditor coming today! I need to be composed and ready to account the queen’s vault!” “Fortunately, the auditor is an old friend who has seen much worse from you than a few tears.” “… But you’re the minister of trade!” “They were going to make me go to a stuffy meeting with old Kholin and his soldiers,” Vstim said, leaning in, “but I insisted on coming to do
this. I’ve always wanted to see the queen’s vault in person.” Rysn wiped her tears, trying to recover some of her decorum. “Well, let’s be to it then. I assure you, everything is in order.” * * * The Sphere Vault’s thick steel door required three numbers to open, each rolled into a different dial, in three separate rooms. Rysn and other scribes knew one number, the door guards protected another, and an auditor—like Vstim—was typically given a third by the queen or the minister of the treasury. All were changed at random intervals. Rysn knew for a fact that this was mostly for show. In a world of Shardblades, the real defense of the vault was in the layers of guards who surrounded the building, and—more importantly—in the careful auditing of its contents. Though novels were full of stories of the vault being robbed, the only real thefts had occurred through embezzlement. Rysn moved her dial to the proper number, then pulled the lever in her room. The vault door finally opened with a resounding thump, and she scrambled her dial and called for Wmlak. Her porter entered, then pushed down on the back handles of her chair, lifting the front legs so he could wheel it out to meet the others. Vstim stood by the now-open vault door with several soldiers. Today’s inner door guard—Tlik—stood with crossbow at the ready, barring entry. There was a slot that let the men stationed in the vault communicate with those outside, but the door couldn’t be opened from within. “Scheduled accounting of the queen’s personal vault,” Rysn said to him. “Daily passcode: lockstep.” Tlik nodded, stepping back and lowering his crossbow. Vstim entered with ledger in hand, trailed by a member of the Queen’s Guard: a rough-looking man with a shaved head and spiked eyebrows. Once they were in, Wmlak wheeled Rysn through the vault door, down a short corridor, and into a little alcove, where another guard—Fladm, today—waited. Her porter brushed off his hands, then nodded to her and retreated. Tlik shut the vault door after him, the metal making a deep thump as it locked into place. The inner vault guards didn’t like anyone coming in who wasn’t specifically authorized—and that included her servant. She’d have to rely on the guards to move her now—but unfortunately, her large wheeled chair was too bulky to fit between the rows of shelves in the main vault. Rysn felt a healthy dose of shame in front of her former babsk as she was taken—like a sack of roots—from her chair with rear wheels to a smaller chair with poles along the sides. Being carried was the most humiliating part. The guards left her usual chair in the alcove, near the steps down to the lower level. Then, Tlik and the guardsman the queen had sent—Rysn didn’t know his name—took the poles and carried her into the main vault chamber. Even here, in this job where she sat most of the time, her inability was a huge inconvenience. Her embarrassment was exacerbated as Chiri-Chiri—who wasn’t
allowed in the vault for practical reasons—flitted by in a buzz of wings. How had she gotten in? Tlik chuckled, but Rysn only sighed. The main vault chamber was filled with metal racks, like bookcases, containing display boxes of gemstones. It smelled stale. Of a place that never changed, and was never intended to change. The guards carried her down one of the narrow rows, light from spheres tied to their belts providing the only illumination. Rysn carried the captain’s rope in her lap, and fingered it with one hand. Surely she couldn’t take this offer. It was too generous. Too incredible. Too difficult. “So dark!” Vstim said. “A room full of a million gemstones, and it’s dark?” “Most gems never leave,” Rysn said. “The personal merchant vaults are on the lower level, and there’s some light to those, with the spheres everyone has been bringing lately. These, though … they’re always here.” Possession of these gems changed frequently, but it was all done with numbers in a ledger. It was a quirk of the Thaylen system of underwriting trades; as long as everyone was confident that these gemstones were here, large sums could change hands without risk of anything being stolen. Each gemstone was carefully annotated with numbers inscribed both on a plate glued to its bottom and on the rack that held it. Those numbers were what people bought and sold—Rysn was shocked by how few people actually asked to come down and view the thing they were trading to own. “0013017-36!” Vstim said. “The Benval Diamond! I owned that way back when. Memorized the number even. Huh. You know, it’s smaller than I thought it would be.” She and the two guards led Vstim to the back wall, which held a series of smaller metal vault doors. The main vault behind them was silent; no other scribes were working today, though Chiri-Chiri did flit past. She hovered down toward the queen’s guardsman—eyeing the spheres on his belt—but Rysn snatched her from the air. Chiri-Chiri griped, buzzing her wings against Rysn’s hand and clicking. Rysn blushed, but held tight. “Sorry.” “Must be like a buffet for her down here!” Tlik said. “A buffet of empty plates,” Rysn said. “Keep an eye on your belt, Tlik.” The two guards set her chair down near a specific vault. With her free hand, Rysn dug a key from her pocket and handed it to Vstim. “Go ahead. Vault Thirteen.” Vstim unlocked and swung open the smaller vault-within-the-vault, which was roughly the size of a closet. Light poured from it. The shelves inside were filled with gemstones, spheres, jewelry, and even some mundane objects like letters and an old knife. But the most stunning item in the collection was obviously the large ruby on the center shelf. The size of a child’s head, it glowed brightly. The King’s Drop. Gemstones of its size weren’t unheard of—most greatshells had gemhearts as big. What made the King’s Drop unique was that it was still glowing—over two hundred years after being first locked into the vault. Vstim
touched it with one finger. The light shone with such brilliance that the room seemed almost to be in daylight, though shaded bloodred by the gemstone’s color. “Amazing,” Vstim whispered. “As far as scholars can tell,” Rysn said, “the King’s Drop never loses its Stormlight. A stone this large should have run out after a month. It’s something about the crystal lattice, the lack of flaws and imperfections.” “They say it’s a chunk off the Stone of Ten Dawns.” “Another story?” Rysn said. “You are a romantic.” Her former babsk smiled, then placed a cloth shade over the gemstone to reduce its glare so it wouldn’t interfere with their work. He opened his ledger. “Let’s start with the smaller gemstones and work our way up, shall we?” Rysn nodded. The queen’s guard killed Tlik. He did it with a knife, right into the neck. Tlik dropped without a word, though the sound of the knife being ripped free shocked Rysn. The treacherous guard knocked against her chair, toppling her over as he slashed at Vstim. The enemy underestimated the merchant’s spryness. Vstim dodged backward into the queen’s vault, screaming, “Murder! Robbery! Raise the alarm!” Rysn untangled herself from her toppled chair and, panicked, pulled herself away by her arms, dragging legs like cordwood. The murderer reached into the vault to deal with her babsk, and she heard a grunt. A moment later, the traitor stepped out, carrying a large red light in his hand. The King’s Drop, shining brightly enough despite its black wrapping cloth. Rysn caught a glimpse of Vstim collapsed on the floor inside the vault, holding his side. The traitor kicked the door closed—locking the old merchant away. He glanced toward her. And a crossbow bolt hit him. “Thief in the vault!” Fladm’s voice said. “Alarm!” Rysn pulled herself to a row of gemstone racks. Behind her, the thief took a second crossbow bolt, but didn’t seem to notice. How … The thief stepped over and picked up poor Tlik’s crossbow. Footsteps and calls indicated that several guards from the lower level had heard Fladm, and were coming up the steps. The thief fired the crossbow once down a nearby row, and a shout of pain from Fladm indicated it had connected. Another guardsman arrived a second later and attacked the thief with his sword. He should have run for help! Rysn thought as she huddled by the shelf. The thief took a cut along the face from the sword, then set his prize down and caught the guard’s arm. The two struggled, and Rysn watched the cut on the thief’s face reknit. He was healing? Could … could this man be a Knight Radiant? Rysn’s eyes flicked toward the large ruby the thief had set down. Four more guards joined the fight, obviously assuming they could subdue one man on their own. Sit back. Let them handle it. Chiri-Chiri suddenly darted past, ignoring the combatants and making for the glowing gemstone. Rysn lunged forward—well, more flopped forward—to grab at the larkin, but missed. Chiri-Chiri landed on the cloth
containing the enormous ruby. Nearby, the thief stabbed one of the guards. Rysn winced at the awful sight of their struggle, lit by the ruby, then crawled forward—dragging her legs—and snatched the gemstone. Chiri-Chiri clicked at her in annoyance as Rysn dragged the ruby with her around the corner. Another guard screamed. They were dropping quickly. Have to do something. Can’t just sit here, can I? Rysn clutched the gemstone and looked down the row between shelves. An impossible distance, hundreds of feet, to the corridor and the exit. The door was locked, but she could call through the communication slot for help. But why? If five guards couldn’t handle the thief, what could one crippled woman do? My babsk is locked in the queen’s vault. Bleeding. She looked down the long row again, then used the cord Vstim had given her to tie the ruby’s cloth closed around it, and attached it to her ankle so she wouldn’t have to carry it. Then she started pulling herself along the shelves. Chiri-Chiri rode behind on the ruby, and its light dimmed. Everyone else was struggling for their lives, but the little larkin was feasting. Rysn made faster progress than she had expected to, though soon her arms began to ache. Behind, the fighting stilled, the last guard’s shout cutting off. Rysn redoubled her efforts, pulling herself along toward the exit, reaching the alcove where they’d left her chair. Here, she found blood. Fladm lay at the threshold of the entry corridor, a bolt in him, his own crossbow on the floor beside him. Rysn collapsed a couple of feet from him, muscles burning. Spheres on his belt illuminated her chair and the steps down to the lower vault level. No more help would be coming from down there. Past Fladm’s body, the corridor led to the door out. “Help!” she shouted. “Thief!” She thought she heard voices on the other side, through the communication slot. But … it would take the guards outside time to get it open, as they didn’t know all three codes. Maybe that was good. The thief couldn’t get out until they opened it, right? Of course, that meant she was trapped inside with him while Vstim bled.… The silence from behind haunted her. Rysn heaved herself to Fladm’s corpse and took his crossbow and bolts, then pulled herself toward the steps. She turned over, putting the enormous ruby beside her, and pushed up so that she was seated against the wall. She waited, sweating, struggling to point the unwieldy weapon into the darkness of the vault. Footsteps sounded somewhere inside, coming closer. Trembling, she swung the crossbow back and forth, searching for motion. Only then did she notice that the crossbow wasn’t loaded. She gasped, then hastily pulled out a bolt. She looked from it to the crossbow, helpless. You were supposed to cock the weapon by stepping into a stirrup on the front, then pulling it upward. Easy to do, if you could step in the first place. A figure emerged from the darkness. The bald
guard, his clothing ripped, a sword dripping blood in his shadowed hand. Rysn lowered the crossbow. What did it matter? Did she think she could fight? That man could just heal anyway. She was alone. Helpless. Live or die. Did she care? I … Yes. Yes, I care! I want to sail my own ship! A sudden blur darted out of the darkness and flew around the thief. Chiri-Chiri moved with blinding speed, hovering about the man, drawing his attention. Rysn frantically placed the crossbow bolt, then took the captain’s cord off the ruby’s sack and tied one end to the stirrup at the front of the crossbow. She tied the other end to the back of her heavy wooden chair. That done, she spared a glance for Chiri-Chiri, then hesitated. The larkin was feeding off the thief. A line of light streamed from him, but it was a strange dark violet light. Chiri-Chiri flew about, drawing it from the man, whose face melted away, revealing marbled skin underneath. A parshman? Wearing some kind of disguise? No, a Voidbringer. He growled and said something in an unfamiliar language, batting at Chiri-Chiri, who buzzed away into the darkness. Rysn gripped the crossbow tightly with one hand, then with the other she shoved her chair down the long stairway. It fell in a clatter, the rope playing out after it. Rysn grabbed on to the crossbow with the other hand. The cord pulled taut as the chair jerked to a stop partway down the steps, and she yanked back on the crossbow at the same time, hanging on for all she was worth. Click. She cut the rope free with her belt knife. The thief lunged for her, and she twisted—screaming—and pulled the firing lever on the crossbow. She didn’t know how to aim properly, but the thief obligingly loomed over her. The crossbow bolt hit him right in the chin. He dropped and, blessedly, fell still. Whatever power had been healing him was gone, consumed by Chiri-Chiri. The larkin buzzed over and landed on her stomach, clicking happily. “Thank you,” Rysn whispered, sweat streaming down the sides of her face. “Thank you, thank you.” She hesitated. “Are you … bigger?” Chiri-Chiri clicked happily. Vstim. I need the second set of keys. And … that ruby, the King’s Drop. The Voidbringers had been trying to steal it. Why? Rysn tossed aside the crossbow, then pulled herself toward the vault door. Teft could function. You learned how to do that. How to cling to the normal parts of your life so that people wouldn’t be too worried. So that you wouldn’t be too undependable. He stumbled sometimes. That eroded trust, to the point where it was hard to keep telling himself that he could handle it. He knew, deep down, that he’d end up alone again. The men of Bridge Four would tire of digging him out of trouble. But for now, Teft functioned. He nodded to Malata, who was working the Oathgate, then led his men across the platform and down the ramp toward
Urithiru. They were a subdued group. Few grasped the meaning of what they’d learned, but they all sensed that something had changed. Made perfect sense to Teft. It couldn’t be easy, now, could it. Not in his storming life. A winding path through corridors and a stairwell led them back toward their barracks. As they walked, a woman appeared in the hallway beside Teft, roughly his height, glowing with soft blue-white light. Storming spren. He pointedly did not look at her. You have Words to speak, Teft, she said in his mind. “Storm you,” he muttered. You have started on this path. When will you tell the others the oaths you have sworn? “I didn’t—” She turned away from him suddenly, becoming alert, looking down the corridor toward the Bridge Four barracks. “What?” Teft stopped. “Something wrong?” Something is very wrong. Run quickly, Teft! He charged out in front of the men, causing them to shout after him. He scrambled to the door into their barracks and threw it open. The scent of blood immediately assaulted him. The Bridge Four common room was in shambles, and blood stained the floor. Teft shouted, rushing through the room to find three corpses near the back. He dropped his spear and fell to his knees beside Rock, Bisig, and Eth. Still breathing, Teft thought, feeling at Rock’s neck. Still breathing. Remember Kaladin’s training, you fool. “Check the others!” he shouted as more bridgemen joined him. He pulled off his coat and used it on Rock’s wounds; the Horneater was sliced up good, a half dozen cuts that looked like they’d come from a knife. “Bisig’s alive,” Peet called. “Though … storms, that’s a Shardblade wound!” “Eth…” Lopen said, kneeling beside the third body. “Storms…” Teft hesitated. Eth had been the one carrying the Honorblade today. Dead. They came for the Blade, he realized. Huio—who was better at field medicine than Teft—took over ministering to Rock. Blood on his hands, Teft stumbled back. “We need Renarin,” Peet said. “It’s Rock’s best chance!” “But where did he go?” Lyn said. “He was at the meeting, but left.” She looked toward Laran, one of the other former messengers—fastest among them. “Run for the guard post! They should have a spanreed to contact the Oathgate!” Laran dashed out of the room. Nearby, Bisig groaned. His eyes fluttered open. His entire arm was grey, and his uniform had been sliced through. “Bisig!” Peet asked. “Storms, what happened!” “Thought … thought it was one of us,” Bisig muttered. “I didn’t really look—until he attacked.” He leaned back, groaning, closing his eyes. “He had on a bridgeman coat.” “Stormfather!” Leyten said. “Did you see the face?” Bisig nodded. “Nobody I recognize. A short man, Alethi. Bridge Four coat, lieutenant’s knots on the shoulder…” Lopen, nearby, frowned, then glanced toward Teft. A Bridge Four officer’s coat, worn as a disguise. Teft’s coat, which he’d sold weeks ago in the market. To get a few spheres. He stumbled back as they hovered around Rock and Bisig, then fled through a falling patch of shamespren
into the hallway outside. The Jokasha Monastery was ordinarily a very quiet place. Nestled in the forests on the western slopes of the Horneater Peaks, the monastery felt only rain at the passing of a highstorm. Furious rain, yes, but none of the terrible violence known in most parts of the world. Ellista reminded herself every passing storm how lucky she was. Some ardents had fought half their lives to be transferred to Jokasha. Away from politics, storms, and other annoyances, at Jokasha you could simply think. Usually. “Are you looking at these numbers? Are your eyes disconnected from your brain?” “We can’t judge yet. Three instances are not enough!” “Two data points to make a coincidence, three to make a sequence. The Everstorm travels at a consistent speed, unlike the highstorm.” “You can’t possibly say that! One of your data points, so highly touted, is from the original passing of the storm, which happened as an uncommon event.” Ellista slammed her book closed and stuffed it into her satchel. She burst from her reading nook and gave a glare to the two ardents arguing in the hall outside, both wearing the caps of master scholars. They were so involved in their shouting match that they didn’t even respond to the glare, though it had been one of her best. She bustled from the library, entering a long hallway with sides open to the elements. Peaceful trees. A quiet brook. Humid air and mossy vines that popped and stretched as they lay out for the evening. Well, yes, a large swath of trees out there had been flattened by the new storm. But that was no reason for everyone to get upset! The rest of the world could worry. Here, at the central home of the Devotary of the Mind, she was supposed to be able to just read. She set her things out at a reading desk near an open window. The humidity wasn’t good for books, but weak storms went hand-in-hand with fecundity. You simply had to accept that. Hopefully those new fabrials to draw water from the air would— “… Telling you, we’re going to have to move!” a new voice echoed through the hallway. “Look, the storm is going to ravage those woods. Before long, this slope will be barren, and the storm will be hitting us full force.” “The new storm doesn’t have that strong a wind factor, Bettam. It’s not going to blow down the trees. Have you looked at my measurements?” “I’ve disputed those measurements.” “But—” Ellista rubbed her temples. She wore her head shaved, like the other ardents. Her parents still joked that she’d joined the ardentia simply because she hated bothering with her hair. She tried earplugs, but could hear the arguing through them, so she packed up her things again. Maybe the low building? She took the long set of steps outside, traveling down the slope along a forested path. Before arriving at the monastery for the first time, she’d had illusions about what it would be like to live among scholars.
No bickering. No politicking. She hadn’t found that to be true—but generally people left her alone. And so she was lucky to be here. She told herself that again as she entered the lower building. It was basically a zoo. Dozens of people gathering information from spanreeds, talking to one another, buzzing with talk of this or that highprince or king. She stopped in the doorway, took it all in for a moment, then turned on her heel and stalked back out. Now what? She started back up the steps, but slowed. It’s probably the only route to peace … she thought, looking out into the forest. Trying not to think about the dirt, the cremlings, and the fact that something might drip on her head, she strode off into the forest. She didn’t want to go too far, as who knew what might be out here? She chose a stump without too much moss on it and settled down among bobbing lifespren, book across her lap. She could still hear ardents arguing, but they were distant. She opened her book, intent on finally getting something done today. Wema spun away from Brightlord Sterling’s forward advances, tucking her safehand to her breast and lowering her gaze from his comely locks. Such affection as to excite the unsavory mind could surely not satisfy her for an extended period, as though his attentions had at one time been fanciful delights to entertain her leisure hours, they now seemed to manifest his utmost impudence and greatest faults of character. “What!” Ellista exclaimed, reading. “No, you silly girl! He’s finally pronounced his affection for you. Don’t you dare turn away now.” How could she accept this wanton justification of her once single-minded desires? Should she not, instead, select the more prudent choice, as advocated by the undeviating will of her uncle? Brightlord Vadam had an endowment of land upon the highprince’s grace, and would have means to provide far beyond the satisfactions available to a simple officer, no matter how well regarded or what winds had graced his temperament, features, and gentle touch. Ellista gasped. “Brightlord Vadam? You little whore! Have you forgotten how he locked away your father?” “Wema,” Brightlord Sterling intoned, “it seems I have gravely misjudged your attentions. In this, I find myself deposited deep within an embarrassment of folly. I shall be away, to the Shattered Plains, and you shall not again suffer the torment of my presence.” He bowed a true gentleman’s bow, possessed of all proper refinement and deference. It was a supplication beyond what even a monarch could rightly demand, and in it Wema ascertained the true nature of Brightlord Sterling’s regard. Simple, yet passionate. Respectful in deed. It lent great context to his earlier advance, which now appeared all at once to be a righteous division in otherwise sure armor, a window of vulnerability, rather than a model of avarice. As he lifted the door’s latch to forever make his exodus from her life, Wema surged with unrivaled shame and longing, twisted together not unlike two threads winding
in a loom to construct a grand tapestry of desire. “Wait!” Wema cried. “Dear Sterling, wait upon my words.” “Storms right you’d better wait, Sterling.” Ellista leaned closer to the book, flipping the page. Decorum seemed a vain thing to her now, lost upon the sea that was her need to feel Sterling’s touch. She rushed to him, and upon his arm pressed her ensleeved hand, which then she lifted to caress his sturdy jaw. It was so warm out here in the forest. Practically sweltering. Ellista put her hand to her lips, reading with wide eyes, trembling. Would that the window through that statuesque armor could still be located, and that a similar wound within herself might be found, to press against his own and offer passage deep within her soul. If only— “Ellista?” a voice asked. “Yip!” she said, bolting upright, snapping the book closed, and spun toward the sound. “Um. Oh! Ardent Urv.” The young Siln ardent was tall, gangly, and obnoxiously loud at times. Except, apparently, when sneaking up on colleagues in the forest. “What was that you were studying?” he asked. “Important works,” Ellista said, then sat on the book. “Nothing to mind yourself with. What is it you want?” “Um…” He looked down at her satchel. “You were the last one to check out the transcriptions from Bendthel’s collected Dawnchant? The old versions? I just wanted to check on your progress.” Dawnchant. Right. They’d been working on that before this storm came, and everyone got distracted. Old Navani Kholin, in Alethkar, had somehow cracked the Dawnchant. Her story about visions was nonsense—the Kholin family was known for opaque politics—but her key was authentic, and had let them slowly work through the old texts. Ellista started digging in her satchel. She came up with three musty codices and a sheaf of papers, the latter being the work she’d done so far. Annoyingly, Urv settled on the ground beside her stump, taking the papers as she offered them. He laid his satchel across his lap and began reading. “Incredible,” he said a few moments later. “You’ve made more progress than I have.” “Everyone else is too busy worrying about that storm.” “Well, it is threatening to wipe out civilization.” “An overreaction. Everyone always overreacts to every little gust of wind.” He flipped through her pages. “What’s this section? Why take such care for where each text was found? Fiksin concluded that these Dawnchant books had all spread from a central location, and so there’s nothing to learn by where they ended up.” “Fiksin was a boot-licker, not a scholar,” Ellista said. “Look, there’s easy proof here that the same writing system was once used all across Roshar. I have references in Makabakam, Sela Tales, Alethela … Not a diaspora of texts, but real evidence they wrote naturally in the Dawnchant.” “Do you suppose they all spoke the same language?” “Hardly.” “But Jasnah Kholin’s Relic and Monument?” “Doesn’t claim everyone spoke the same language, only that they wrote it. It’s foolish to assume that everyone used the same language
across hundreds of years and dozens of nations. It makes more sense that there was a codified written language, the language of scholarship, just like you’ll find many undertexts written in Alethi now.” “Ah…” he said. “And then a Desolation hit.…” Ellista nodded, showing him a later page in her sheaf of notes. “This in-between, weird language is where people started using the Dawnchant script to phonetically transcribe their language. It didn’t work so well.” She flipped two more pages. “In this scrap we have one of the earliest emergences of the proto-Thaylo-Vorin glyphic radicals, and here is one showing a more intermediate Thaylen form. “We’ve always wondered what happened to the Dawnchant. How could people forget how to read their own language? Well, it seems clear now. By the point this happened, the language had been moribund for millennia. They weren’t speaking it, and hadn’t been for generations.” “Brilliant,” Urv said. He wasn’t so bad, for a Siln. “I’ve been translating what I can, but got stuck on the Covad Fragment. If what you’ve been doing here is correct, it might be because Covad isn’t true Dawnchant, but a phonetic transcription of another ancient language.…” He glanced to the side, then cocked his head. Was he looking at her— Oh, no. It was just the book, which she was still sitting on. “An Accountability of Virtue.” He grunted. “Good book.” “You’ve read it?” “I have a fondness for Alethi epics,” he said absently, flipping through her pages. “She really should have picked Vadam though. Sterling was a flatterer and a cadger.” “Sterling is a noble and upright officer!” She narrowed her eyes. “And you are just trying to get a rise out of me, Ardent Urv.” “Maybe.” He flipped through her pages, studying a diagram she’d made of various Dawnchant grammars. “I have a copy of the sequel.” “There’s a sequel?” “About her sister.” “The mousy one?” “She is elevated to courtly attention and has to choose between a strapping naval officer, a Thaylen banker, and the King’s Wit.” “Wait. There are three different men this time?” “Sequels always have to be bigger,” he said, then offered her the stack of pages back. “I’ll lend it to you.” “Oh you will, will you? And what is the cost for this magnanimous gesture, Brightlord Urv?” “Your help translating a stubborn section of Dawnchant. A particular patron of mine has a strict deadline upon its delivery.” Venli attuned the Rhythm of Craving as she climbed down into the chasm. This wondrous new form, stormform, gave her hands a powerful grip, allowing her to hang hundreds of feet in the air, yet never fear that she would fall. The chitin plating under her skin was far less bulky than that of the old warform, but at the same time nearly as effective. During the summoning of the Everstorm, a human soldier had struck her directly across the face. His spear had cut her cheek and across the bridge of her nose, but the mask of chitin armor underneath had deflected the weapon. She continued
to climb down the wall of stone, followed by Demid, her once-mate, and a group of her loyal friends. In her mind she attuned the Rhythm of Command—a similar, yet more powerful version of the Rhythm of Appreciation. Every one of her people could hear the rhythms—beats with some tones attached—yet she no longer heard the old, common ones. Only these new, superior rhythms. Beneath her the chasm opened, where water from highstorms had carved a bulge. She eventually reached the bottom, and the others dropped around her, each landing with a thumping crunch. Ulim moved down the stone wall; the spren usually took the form of rolling lightning, moving across surfaces. At the bottom, he formed from lightning into a human shape with odd eyes. Ulim settled on a patch of broken branches, arms folded, his long hair rippling in an unseen wind. She wasn’t certain why a spren sent by Odium himself would look human. “Around here somewhere,” Ulim said, pointing. “Spread out and search.” Venli set her jaw, humming to the Rhythm of Fury. Lines of power rippled up her arms. “Why should I continue to obey your orders, spren? You should obey me.” The spren ignored her, which further stoked her anger. Demid, however, placed his hand on her shoulder and squeezed, humming to the Rhythm of Satisfaction. “Come, look with me this way.” She curtailed her humming and turned south, joining Demid, picking her way through debris. Crem buildup had smoothed the floor of the chasm, but the storm had left a great deal of refuse. She attuned the Rhythm of Craving. A quick, violent rhythm. “I should be in charge, Demid. Not that spren.” “You are in charge.” “Then why haven’t we been told anything? Our gods have returned, yet we’ve barely seen them. We sacrificed greatly for these forms, and to create the glorious true storm. We … we lost how many?” Sometimes she thought about that, in strange moments when the new rhythms seemed to retreat. All of her work, meeting with Ulim in secret, guiding her people toward stormform. It had been about saving her people, hadn’t it? Yet of the tens of thousands of listeners who had fought to summon the storm, only a fraction remained. Demid and she had been scholars. Yet even scholars had gone to battle. She felt at the wound on her face. “Our sacrifice was worthwhile,” Demid told her to the Rhythm of Derision. “Yes, we have lost many, but humans sought our extinction. At least this way some of our people survived, and now we have great power!” He was right. And, if she was being honest, a form of power was what she had always wanted. And she’d achieved one, capturing a spren in the storm within herself. That hadn’t been one of Ulim’s species, of course—lesser spren were used for changing forms. She could occasionally feel the pulsing, deep within, of the one she’d bonded. In any case, this transformation had given her great power. The good of her people had always been secondary
to Venli; now was a late time to be having a bout of conscience. She resumed humming to Craving. Demid smiled and gripped her shoulder again. They’d shared something once, during their days in mateform. Those silly, distracting passions were not ones they currently felt, nor were they something that any sane listener would desire. But the memories of them did create a bond. They picked through the refuse, passing several fresh human corpses, smashed into a cleft in the rock. Good to see those. Good to remember that her people had killed many, despite their losses. “Venli!” Demid said. “Look!” He scrambled over a log from a large wooden bridge that was wedged in the center of the chasm. She followed, pleased by her strength. She would probably always remember Demid as the gangly scholar he had been before this change, but she doubted either of them would ever willingly return. Forms of power were simply too intoxicating. Once across the log, she could see what Demid had spotted: a figure slumped by the wall of the chasm, helmeted head bowed. A Shardblade—shaped like frozen flames—rose from the ground beside her, rammed into the stone floor. “Eshonai! Finally!” Venli leaped from the top of the log, landing near Demid. Eshonai looked exhausted. In fact, she wasn’t moving. “Eshonai?” Venli said, kneeling beside her sister. “Are you well? Eshonai?” She gripped the Plated figure by the shoulders and lightly shook it. The head rolled on its neck, limp. Venli felt cold. Demid solemnly lifted Eshonai’s faceplate, revealing dead eyes set in an ashen face. Eshonai … no … “Ah,” Ulim’s voice said. “Excellent.” The spren approached across the stone wall, like crackling lightning moving through the stone. “Demid, your hand.” Demid obediently raised his hand, palm up, and Ulim shot across from the wall to the hand, then formed into his human shape, standing on the perch. “Hmmm. Plate looks completely drained. Broken along the back, I see. Well, it’s said to regrow on its own, even now that it is separated from its master from so long ago.” “The … Plate,” Venli said softly, numb. “You wanted the Plate.” “Well, the Blade too, of course. Why else would we be hunting a corpse? You … Oh, you thought she was alive?” “When you said we needed to find my sister,” Venli said, “I thought…” “Yes, looks like she drowned in the storm’s floodwaters,” Ulim said, making a sound like a tongue clicking. “Rammed the sword into the stone, held on to it to stay in place, but couldn’t breathe.” Venli attuned the Rhythm of the Lost. It was one of the old, inferior rhythms. She hadn’t been able to find those since transforming, and she had no idea how she happened upon this one. The mournful, solemn tone felt distant to her. “Eshonai…?” she whispered, and nudged the corpse again. Demid gasped. Touching the bodies of the fallen was taboo. The old songs spoke of days when humans had hacked apart listener corpses, searching for gemhearts. Leave the dead to peace
instead; it was their way. Venli stared into Eshonai’s dead eyes. You were the voice of reason, Venli thought. You were the one who argued with me. You … you were supposed to keep me grounded. What do I do without you? “Well, let’s get that Plate off, kids,” Ulim said. “Show respect!” Venli snapped. “Respect for what? It’s for the best that this one died.” “For the best?” Venli said. “For the best?” She stood, confronting the little spren on Demid’s outstretched palm. “That is my sister. She is one of our greatest warriors. An inspiration, and a martyr.” Ulim rolled his head in an exaggerated way, as if perturbed—and bored—by the chastisement. How dare he! He was merely a spren. He was to be her servant. “Your sister,” Ulim said, “didn’t undergo the transformation properly. She resisted, and we’d have eventually lost her. She was never dedicated to our cause.” Venli attuned the Rhythm of Fury, speaking in a loud, punctuating sequence. “You will not say such things. You are spren! You are to serve.” “And I do.” “Then you must obey me!” “You?” Ulim laughed. “Child, how long have you been fighting your little war against the humans? Three, four years?” “Six years, spren,” Demid said. “Six long, bloody years.” “Well, do you want to guess how long we’ve been fighting this war?” Ulim asked. “Go ahead. Guess. I’m waiting.” Venli seethed. “It doesn’t matter—” “Oh, but it does,” Ulim said, his red figure electrifying. “Do you know how to lead armies, Venli? True armies? Supply troops across a battlefront that spans hundreds of miles? Do you have memories and experiences that span eons?” She glared at him. “Our leaders,” Ulim said, “know exactly what they’re doing. Them I obey. But I am the one who escaped, the spren of redemption. I don’t have to listen to you.” “I will be a queen,” Venli said to Spite. “If you survive? Maybe. But your sister? She and the others sent that assassin to kill the human king specifically to keep us from returning. Your people are traitors—though your personal efforts do you justice, Venli. You may be blessed further, if you are wise. Regardless, get that armor off your sister, shed your tears, and get ready to climb back up. These plateaus are crawling with men who stink of Honor. We must be away and see what your ancestors need us to do.” “Our ancestors?” Demid said. “What do the dead have to do with this?” “Everything,” Ulim replied, “seeing as they’re the ones in charge. Armor. Now.” He zipped to the wall as a tiny streak of lightning, then moved off. Venli attuned Derision at the way she’d been treated, then—defying taboos—helped Demid remove the Shardplate. Ulim returned with the others and ordered them to gather up the armor. They hiked off, leaving Venli to bring the Blade. She lifted it from the stone, then lingered, regarding her sister’s corpse—which lay there in only padded underclothing. Venli felt something stir inside her. Again, distantly, she was able to hear
the Rhythm of the Lost. Mournful, slow, with separated beats. “I…” Venli said. “Finally, I don’t have to listen to you call me a fool. I don’t have to worry about you getting in the way. I can do what I want.” That terrified her. She turned to go, but paused as she saw something. What was that small spren that had crept out from beneath Eshonai’s corpse? It looked like a small ball of white fire; it gave off little rings of light and trailed a streak behind it. Like a comet. “What are you?” Venli demanded to Spite. “Shoo.” She hiked off, leaving her sister’s corpse there at the bottom of the chasm, stripped and alone. Food for either a chasmfiend or a storm. The ship First Dreams crashed through a wave, prompting Kaza to cling tightly to the rigging. Her gloved hands already ached, and she was certain each new wave would toss her overboard. She refused to go down below. This was her destiny. She was not a thing to be carted from place to place, not any longer. Besides, that dark sky—suddenly stormy, even though the sailing had been easy up until an hour ago—was no more disconcerting than her visions. Another wave sent water crashing across the deck. Sailors scrambled and screamed, mostly hirelings out of Steen, as no rational crew would make this trip. Captain Vazrmeb stalked among them, shouting orders, while Droz—the helmsman—kept them on a steady heading. Into the storm. Straight. Into. The storm. Kaza held tight, feeling her age as her arms started to weaken. Icy water washed over her, pushing back the hood of her robe, exposing her face—and its twisted nature. Most sailors weren’t paying attention, though her cry did bring Vazrmeb’s attention. The only Thaylen on board, the captain didn’t much match her image of the people. Thaylens, to her, were portly little men in vests—merchants with styled hair who haggled for every last sphere. Vazrmeb, however, was as tall as an Alethi, with hands wide enough to palm boulders and forearms large enough to lift them. Over the crashing of waves, he yelled, “Someone get that Soulcaster below deck!” “No,” she shouted back at him. “I stay.” “I didn’t pay a prince’s ransom to bring you,” he said, stalking up to her, “only to lose you over the side!” “I’m not a thing to—” “Captain!” a sailor shouted. “Captain!” They both looked as the ship tipped over the peak of a huge wave, then teetered, before just kind of falling over the other side. Storms! Kaza’s stomach practically squeezed up into her throat, and she felt her fingers sliding on the ropes. Vazrmeb seized her by the side of her robe, holding her tight as they plunged into the water beyond the wave. For a brief terrifying moment, they seemed entombed in the chill water. As if the entire ship had sunk. The wave passed, and Kaza found herself lying in a sodden heap on the deck, held by the captain. “Storming fool,” he said to her. “You’re
my secret weapon. You drown yourself when you’re not in my pay, understand?” She nodded limply. And then realized, with a shock, she’d been able to hear him easily. The storm … Was gone? Vazrmeb stood up straight, grinning broadly, his white eyebrows combed back into his long mane of dripping hair. All across the deck, the sailors who had survived were climbing to their feet, sopping wet and staring at the sky. It maintained its overcast gloom—but the winds had fallen completely still. Vazrmeb bellowed out a laugh, sweeping back his long, curling hair. “What did I tell you, men! That new storm came from Aimia! Now it has gone and escaped, leaving the riches of its homeland to be plundered!” Everyone knew you didn’t linger around Aimia, though everyone had different explanations why. Some rumors told of a vengeful storm here, one that sought out and destroyed approaching ships. The strange wind they’d encountered—which didn’t match the timing of highstorm or Everstorm—seemed to support that. The captain started shouting orders, getting the men back into position. They hadn’t been sailing long, only a short distance out of Liafor, along the Shin coast, then westward toward this northern section of Aimia. They’d soon spotted the large main island, but had not visited it. Everyone knew that was barren, lifeless. The treasures were on the hidden islands, supposedly lying in wait to enrich those willing to brave the winds and treacherous straits. She cared less for that—what were riches to her? She had come because of another rumor, one spoken of only among her kind. Perhaps here, at last, she could find a cure for her condition. Even as she righted herself, she felt in her pouch, seeking the comforting touch of her Soulcaster. Hers, no matter what the rulers of Liafor claimed. Had they spent their youths caressing it, learning its secrets? Had they spent their middle years in service, stepping—with each use—closer and closer to oblivion? The common sailors gave Kaza space, refusing to look her in the eyes. She pulled her hood up, unaccustomed to the gaze of ordinary people. She’d entered the stage where her … disfigurements were starkly obvious. Kaza was, slowly, becoming smoke. Vazrmeb took the helm himself, giving Droz a break. The lanky man stepped down from the poop deck, noting her by the side of the ship. He grinned at her, which she found curious. She hadn’t ever spoken to him. Now he sauntered over, as if intending to make small talk. “So…” he said. “Up on deck? Through that? You’ve got guts.” She hesitated, considering this strange creature, then lowered her hood. He didn’t flinch, even though her hair, her ears, and now parts of her face were disintegrating. There was a hole in her cheek through which you could see her jaw and teeth. Lines of smoke rimmed the hole; the flesh seemed to be burning away. Air passed through it when she spoke, altering her voice, and she had to tip her head all the way back to drink anything. Even
then, it dribbled out. The process was slow. She had a few years left until the Soulcasting killed her. Droz seemed intent on pretending nothing was wrong. “I can’t believe we got through that storm. You think it hunts ships, like the stories say?” He was Liaforan like herself, with deep brown skin and dark brown eyes. What did he want? She tried to remember the ordinary passions of human life, which she’d begun to forget. “Is it sex you want?… No, you are much younger than I am. Hmmm…” Curious. “Are you frightened, and wishing for comfort?” He started to fidget, playing with the end of a tied-off rope. “Um … So, I mean, the prince sent you, right?” “Ah.” So he knew that she was the prince’s cousin. “You wish to connect yourself to royalty. Well, I came on my own.” “Surely he let you go.” “Of course he didn’t. If not for my safety, then for that of my device.” It was hers. She looked off across the too-still ocean. “They locked me up each day, gave me comforts they assumed would keep me happy. They realized that at any moment, I could literally make walls and bonds turn to smoke.” “Does … does it hurt?” “It is blissful. I slowly connect to the device, and through it to Roshar. Until the day it will take me fully into its embrace.” She lifted a hand and pulled her black glove off, one finger at a time, revealing a hand that was disintegrating. Five lines of darkness, one rising from the tip of each finger. She turned it, palm toward him. “I could show you. Feel my touch, and you can know. One moment, and then you will mingle with the air itself.” He fled. Excellent. The captain steered them toward a small island, poking from the placid ocean right where the captain’s map had claimed it would be. It had dozens of names. The Rock of Secrets. The Void’s Playground. So melodramatic. She preferred the old name for the place: Akinah. Supposedly, there had once been a grand city here. But who would put a city on an island you couldn’t approach? For, jutting from the ocean here were a set of strange rock formations. They ringed the entire island like a wall, each some forty feet tall, resembling spearheads. As the ship drew closer, the sea grew choppy again, and she felt a bout of nausea. She liked that. It was a human feeling. Her hand again sought her Soulcaster. That nausea mixed with a faint sense of hunger. Food was something she often forgot about these days, as her body needed less of it now. Chewing was annoying, with the hole in her cheek. Still, she liked the scents from whatever the cook was stirring up below. Perhaps the meal would calm the men, who seemed agitated about approaching the island. Kaza moved to the poop deck, near the captain. “Now you earn your keep, Soulcaster,” he said. “And I’m justified in hauling you all the way
out here.” “I’m not a thing,” she said absently, “to be used. I am a person. Those spikes of stone … they were Soulcast there.” The enormous stone spearheads were too even in a ring about the island. Judging by the currents ahead, some lurked beneath the waters as well, to rip up the hulls of approaching vessels. “Can you destroy one?” the captain asked her. “No. They are much larger than you indicated.” “But—” “I can make a hole in them, Captain. It is easier to Soulcast an entire object, but I am no ordinary Soulcaster. I have begun to see the dark sky and the second sun, the creatures that lurk, hidden, around the cities of men.” He shivered visibly. Why should that have frightened him? She’d merely stated facts. “We need you to transform the tips of a few under the waves,” he said. “Then make a hole at least large enough for the dinghies to get in to the island beyond.” “I will keep my word, but you must remember. I do not serve you. I am here for my own purposes.” They dropped anchor as close to the spikes as they dared get. The spikes were even more daunting—and more obviously Soulcast—from here. Each would have required several Soulcasters in concert, she thought, standing at the prow of the ship as the men ate a hasty meal of stew. The cook was a woman, Reshi from the looks of her, with tattoos all across her face. She pushed the captain to eat, claiming that if he went in hungry, he’d be distracted. Even Kaza took some, though her tongue no longer tasted food. It all felt like the same mush to her, and she ate with a napkin pressed to her cheek. The captain drew anticipationspren as he waited—ribbons that waved in the wind—and Kaza could see the beasts beyond, the creatures that accompanied the spren. The ship’s four dinghies were cramped, with rowers and officers all together, but they made space for her at the front of one. She pulled up her hood, which still hadn’t dried, and sat on her bench. What had the captain been planning to do if the storm hadn’t stopped? Would he seriously have tried to use her and a dinghy to remove these spears in the middle of a tempest? They reached the first spike, and Kaza carefully unwrapped her Soulcaster, releasing a flood of light. Three large gemstones connected by chains, with loops for her fingers. She put it on, with the gemstones on the back of her hand. She sighed softly to feel the metal against her skin again. Warm, welcoming, a part of her. She reached over the side into the chill water and pressed her hand against the tip of the stone spear—smoothed from years in the ocean. Light from the gemstones lit the water, reflections dancing across her robe. She closed her eyes, and felt the familiar sensation of being drawn into the other world. Of another will reinforcing her own, something commanding and powerful,
attracted by her request for aid. The stone did not wish to change. It was content with its long slumber in the ocean. But … yes, yes, it remembered. It had once been air, until someone had locked it into this shape. She could not make it air again; her Soulcaster had only one mode, not the full three. She did not know why. Smoke, she whispered to the stone. Freedom in the air. Remember? She tempted it, picking at its memories of dancing free. Yes … freedom. She nearly gave in herself. How wonderful would it be to no longer fear? To soar into infinity on the air? To be free of mortal pains? The tip of the stone burst into smoke, sending an explosion of bubbles up around the dinghy. Kaza was shocked back into the real world, and a piece deep within her trembled. Terrified. She’d almost gone that time. Smoke bubbles rattled the dinghy, which nearly upended. She should have warned them. Sailors muttered, but in the next dinghy over, the captain praised her. She removed two more spear tips beneath the waves before finally reaching the wall. Here, the spearheadlike formations had been grown so close together, there was barely a handspan gap between them. It took three tries to get the dinghy close enough—as soon as they got into position, some turning of the waves would pull them away again. Finally, the sailors managed to keep the dinghy steady. Kaza reached out with the Soulcaster—two of the three gems were almost out of Stormlight, and glowed only faintly. She should have enough. She pressed her hand against the spike, then convinced it to become smoke. It was … easy this time. She felt the explosion of wind from the transformation, her soul crying in delight at the smoke, thick and sweet. She breathed it in through the hole in her cheek while sailors coughed. She looked up at the smoke, drifting away. How wonderful it would be to join it.… No. The island proper loomed beyond that hole. Dark, like its stones had been stained by smoke themselves, it had tall rock formations along its center. They looked almost like the walls of a city. The captain’s dinghy pulled up to hers, and the captain transferred to her boat. His began to row backward. “What?” she asked. “Why is your boat heading back?” “They claim to not be feeling well,” the captain said. Was he abnormally pale? “Cowards. They won’t have any of the prize, then.” “Gemstones lay around just for the plucking here,” Droz added. “Generations of greatshells have died here, leaving their hearts. We’re going to be rich, rich men.” As long as the secret was here. She settled into her place at the prow of the boat as the sailors guided the three dinghies through the gap. The Aimians had known about Soulcasters. This was where you’d come to get the devices, in the old days. You’d come to the ancient island of Akinah. If there was a secret of how to avoid
death by the device she loved, she would find it here. Her stomach began acting up again as they rowed. Kaza endured it, though she felt as if she were slipping into the other world. That wasn’t an ocean beneath her, but deep black glass. And two suns in the sky, one that drew her soul toward it. Her shadow, to stretch out in the wrong direction … Splash. She started. One of the sailors had slipped from his boat into the water. She gaped as another slumped to the side, oar falling from his fingers. “Captain?” She turned to find him with drooping eyes. He went limp, then fell backward, unconscious, knocking his head against the back seat of the boat. The rest of the sailors weren’t doing any better. The other two dinghies had begun to drift aimlessly. Not a single sailor seemed to be conscious. My destiny, Kaza thought. My choice. Not a thing to be carted from place to place, and ordered to Soulcast. Not a tool. A person. She shoved aside an unconscious sailor and took the oars herself. It was difficult work. She was unaccustomed to physical labor, and her fingers had trouble gripping. They’d started to dissolve further. Perhaps a year or two for her survival was optimistic. Still, she rowed. She fought the waters until she at long last got close enough to hop out into the water and feel rock beneath her feet. Her robes billowing up around her, she finally thought to check if Vazrmeb was alive. None of the sailors in her dinghy were breathing, so she let the boat slip backward on the waves. Alone, Kaza fought through the surf and—finally—on hands and knees, crawled up onto the stones of the island. There, she collapsed, drowsy. Why was she so sleepy? She awoke to a small cremling scuttling across the rocks near her. It had a strange shape, with large wings and a head that made it look like an axehound. Its carapace shimmered with dozens of colors. Kaza could remember a time when she’d collected cremlings, pinning them to boards and proclaiming she’d become a natural historian. What had happened to that girl? She was transformed by necessity. Given the Soulcaster, which was always to be kept in the royal family. Given a charge. And a death sentence. She stirred, and the cremling scrambled away. She coughed, then began to crawl toward those rock formations. That city? Dark city of stone? She could barely think, though she did notice a gemstone as she passed it—a large uncut gemheart among the bleached white carapace leftovers of a dead greatshell. Vazrmeb had been right. She collapsed again near the perimeter of the rock formations. They looked like large, ornate buildings, crusted with crem. “Ah…” a voice said from behind her. “I should have guessed the drug would not affect you as quickly. You are barely human anymore.” Kaza rolled over and found someone approaching on quiet, bare feet. The cook? Yes, that was her, with the tattooed face. “You…” Kaza croaked,
“you poisoned us.” “After many warnings not to come to this place,” the cook said. “It is rare I must guard it so … aggressively. Men must not again discover this place.” “The gemstones?” Kaza asked, growing more drowsy. “Or … is it something else … something … more…” “I cannot speak,” the cook said, “even to sate a dying demand. There are those who could pull secrets from your soul, and the cost would be the ends of worlds. Sleep now, Soulcaster. This is the most merciful end I could give.” The cook began to hum. Pieces of her broke off. She crumbled to a pile of chittering little cremlings that moved out of her clothing, leaving it in a heap. A hallucination? Kaza wondered as she drifted. She was dying. Well, that was nothing new. The cremlings began to pick at her hand, taking off her Soulcaster. No … she had one last thing to do. With a defiant shout, she pressed her hand to the rocky ground beneath her and demanded it change. When it became smoke, she went with it. Her choice. Her destiny. Taravangian paced in his rooms in Urithiru as two servants from the Diagram arranged his table, and fidgety Dukar—head of the King’s Testers, who each wore a ridiculous stormwarden robe with glyphs all along the seams—set out the tests, though they needn’t have bothered. Today, Taravangian was a storming genius. The way he thought, breathed, even moved, implicitly conveyed that today was a day of intelligence—perhaps not as brilliant as that single transcendent one when he’d created the Diagram, but he finally felt like himself after so many days trapped in the mausoleum of his own flesh, his mind like a master painter allowed only to whitewash walls. Once the table was finished, Taravangian pushed a nameless servant aside and sat down, grabbing a pen and launching into the problems—starting at the second page, as the first was too simple—and flicking ink at Dukar when the idiot started to complain. “Next page,” he snapped. “Quickly, quickly. Let’s not waste this, Dukar.” “You still must—” “Yes, yes. Prove myself not an idiot. The one day I’m not drooling and lying in my own waste, you tax my time with this idiocy.” “You set—” “It up. Yes, the irony is that you let the prohibitions instituted by my idiot self control my true self when it finally has opportunity to emerge.” “You weren’t an idiot when you—” “Here,” Taravangian said, proffering the sheet of math problems to him. “Done.” “All but the last on this sheet,” Dukar said, taking it in cautious fingers. “Do you want to try that one, or…” “No need. I know I can’t solve it; too bad. Make quick with the requisite formalities. I have work to do.” Adrotagia had entered with Malata, the Dustbringer; they were growing in companionship as Adrotagia attempted to secure an emotional bond with this lesser Diagram member who had suddenly been thrust into its upper echelons, an event predicted by the Diagram—which explained that the Dustbringers
would be the Radiants most likely to accept their cause, and at that Taravangian felt proud, for actually locating one of their number who could bond a spren had not, by any means, been an assured accomplishment. “He’s smart,” Dukar said to Mrall. The bodyguard was the final adjudicator of Taravangian’s daily capacity—an infuriating check necessary to prevent his stupid side from ruining anything, but a mere annoyance when Taravangian was like this. Energized. Awake. Brilliant. “He’s almost to the danger line,” Dukar said. “I can see that,” Adrotagia said. “Vargo, are you—” “I feel perfect. Can’t we be done with this? I can interact, and make policy decisions, and need no restrictions.” Dukar nodded, reluctantly, in agreement. Mrall assented. Finally! “Get me a copy of the Diagram,” Taravangian said, pushing past Adrotagia. “And some music, something relaxing but not too slow. Clear the chambers of nonessential persons, empty the bedroom of furniture, and don’t interrupt me.” It took them a frustratingly long time to accomplish, almost half an hour, which he spent on his balcony, contemplating the large space for a garden outside and wondering how big it was. He needed measurements.… “Your room is prepared, Your Majesty,” Mrall said. “Thank you, Uscritic one, for your leave to go into my own bedroom. Have you been drinking salt?” “… What?” Taravangian strode through the small room beside the balcony and into his bedroom, then breathed deeply, pleased to find it completely empty of furniture—only four blank stone walls, no window, though it had a strange rectangular outcropping along the back wall, like a high step, which Maben was dusting. Taravangian seized the maid by the arm and hauled her out, to where Adrotagia was bringing him a thick book bound in hogshide. A copy of the Diagram. Excellent. “Measure the available gardening area of the stone field outside our balcony and report it to me.” He carried the Diagram into the room, and then shut himself into blissful self-company, in which he arranged a diamond in each corner—a light to accompany that of his own spark, which shone in truth where others could not venture—and as he finished, a small choir of children started to sing Vorin hymns outside the room per his request. He breathed in, out, bathed in light and encouraged by song, his hands to the sides; capable of anything, he was consumed by the satisfaction of his own working mind, unclogged and flowing freely for the first time in what seemed like ages. He opened the Diagram. In it, Taravangian finally faced something greater than himself: a different version of himself. The Diagram—which was the name for this book and for the organization that studied it—had not originally been written merely on paper, for on that day of majestic capacity, Taravangian had annexed every surface to hold his genius—from the cabinetry to the walls—and while so doing had invented new languages to better express ideas that had to be recorded, by necessity, in a medium less perfect than his thoughts. Even as the intellect he was today,
the sight of that writing enforced humility; he leafed through pages packed with tiny scrawls, copied—spots, scratches, and all—from the original Diagram room, created during what felt like a different lifetime, as alien to him now as was the drooling idiot he sometimes became. More alien. Everyone understood stupidity. He knelt on the stones, ignoring his aches of body, reverently leafing through the pages. Then he slipped out his belt knife, and began to cut it up. The Diagram had not been written on paper, and interacting with its transcription bound into codex form must necessarily have influenced their thinking, so to obtain true perspective—he now decided—he needed the flexibility of seeing the pieces, then arranging them in new ways, for his thoughts had not been locked down on that day and he should not perceive them as such today. He was not as brilliant as he’d been on that day, but he didn’t need to be. That day, he’d been God. Today, he could be God’s prophet. He arranged the cut-out pages, and found numerous new connections simply by how the sheets were placed next to each other—indeed, this page here actually connected to this page here … yes. Taravangian cut them both down the middle, dividing sentences. When he put the halves of separate pages beside one another, they made a more complete whole. Ideas he’d missed before seemed to rise from the pages like spren. Taravangian did not believe in any religion, for they were unwieldy things, designed to fill gaps in human understanding with nonsensical explanations, allowing people to sleep well at night, granting them a false sense of comfort and control and preventing them from stretching further for true understanding, yet there was something strangely holy about the Diagram, the power of raw intelligence, the only thing man should worship, and oh how little most understood it—oh, how little they deserved it—in handling purity while corrupting it with flawed understanding and silly superstitions. Was there a way he could prevent any but the most intelligent from learning to read? That would accomplish so much good; it seemed insane that nobody had implemented such a ban, for while Vorinism forbade men to read, that merely prevented an arbitrary half of the population from handling information, when it was the stupid who should be barred. He paced in the room, then noted a scrap of paper under the door; it contained the answer to his question about the size of the farming platform. He looked over the calculations, listening with half an ear to voices outside, almost overwhelmed by the singing children. “Uscritic,” Adrotagia said, “seems to refer to Uscri, a figure from a tragic poem written seventeen hundred years ago. She drowned herself after hearing her lover had died, though the truth was that he’d not died at all, and she misunderstood the report about him.” “All right…” Mrall said. “She was used in following centuries as an example of acting without information, though the term eventually came to simply mean ‘stupid.’ The salt seems to refer to
the fact that she drowned herself in the sea.” “So it was an insult?” Mrall asked. “Using an obscure literary reference. Yes.” He could almost hear Adrotagia’s sigh. Best to interrupt her before she thought on this further. Taravangian flung open the door. “Gum paste for sticking paper to this wall. Fetch it for me, Adrotagia.” They’d put paper in a stack by the door without being asked, which surprised him, as they usually had to be ordered to do everything. He closed the door, then knelt and did some calculations relating to the size of the tower city. Hmmmm … It provided a fine distraction, but he was soon drawn back to the true work, interrupted only by the arrival of his gum paste, which he used to begin sticking fragments of the Diagram to his walls. This, he thought, arranging pages with numbers interspersing the text, pages they’d never been able to make sense of. It’s a list of what? Not code, like the other numbers. Unless … could this be shorthand for words? Yes … yes, he’d been too impatient to write the actual words. He’d numbered them in his head—alphabetically perhaps—so he could write quickly. Where was the key? This is reinforcement, he thought as he worked, of the Dalinar paradigm! His hands shook with excitement as he wrote out possible interpretations. Yes … Kill Dalinar, or he will resist your attempts to take over Alethkar. So Taravangian had sent the Assassin in White, which—incredibly—had failed. Fortunately, there were contingencies. Here, Taravangian thought, bringing up another scrap from the Diagram and gluing it to the wall beside the others. The initial explanation of the Dalinar paradigm, from the catechism of the headboard, back side, third quadrant. It had been written in meter, as a poem, and presaged that Dalinar would attempt to unite the world. So if he looked to the second contingency … Taravangian wrote furiously, seeing words instead of numbers, and—full of energy—for a time he forgot his age, his aches, the way his fingers trembled—sometimes—even when he wasn’t so excited. The Diagram hadn’t seen the effect the second son, Renarin, would have—he was a completely wild element. Taravangian finished his notations, proud, and wandered toward the door, which he opened without looking up. “Get me a copy of the surgeon’s words upon my birth,” he said to those outside. “Oh, and kill those children.” The music trailed off as the children heard what he’d said. Musicspren flitted away. “You mean, quiet them from singing,” Mrall said. “Whatever. I’m perturbed by the Vorin hymns as a reminder of historic religious oppression of ideas and thought.” Taravangian returned to his work, but a short time later a knock came at the door. He flung it open. “I was not to be—” “Interrupted,” Adrotagia said, proffering him a sheet of paper. “The surgeon’s words you requested. We keep them handy now, considering how often you ask for them.” “Fine.” “We need to talk, Vargo.” “No we—” She walked in anyway, then stopped, inspecting the cut-up pieces of the
Diagram. Her eyes widened as she turned about. “Are you…” “No,” he said. “I haven’t become him again. But I am me, for the first time in weeks.” “This isn’t you. This is the monster you sometimes become.” “I am not smart enough to be in the dangerous zone.” The zone where, annoyingly, they claimed he was too smart to be allowed to make decisions. As if intelligence were somehow a liability! She unfolded a piece of paper from the pocket of her skirt. “Yes, your daily test. You stopped on this page, claiming you couldn’t answer the next question.” Damnation. She’d seen it. “If you’d answered,” she said, “it would have proved you were intelligent enough to be dangerous. Instead, you decided you couldn’t manage. A loophole we should have considered. You knew that if you finished the question, we’d restrict your decision-making for the day.” “Do you know about Stormlight growth?” he said, brushing past her and taking one of the pages he’d written earlier. “Vargo…” “Calculating the total surface area for farming at Urithiru,” he said, “and comparing it to the projected number of rooms that could be occupied, I have determined that even if food grew here naturally—as it would at the temperatures of your average fecund plain—it could not provide enough to sustain the entire tower.” “Trade,” she said. “I have trouble believing the Knights Radiant, always threatened with war, would build a fortress like this to be anything but self-sufficient. Have you read Golombi?” “Of course I have, and you know it,” she said. “You think they enhanced the growth by use of Stormlight-infused gemstones, providing light to darkened places?” “Nothing else makes sense, does it?” “The tests are inconclusive,” she said. “Yes, spherelight inspires growth in a dark room, when candlelight cannot, but Golombi says that the results may have been compromised, and the efficiency is … Oh, bah! That’s a distraction, Vargo. We were discussing what you’ve done to circumvent the rules you yourself set out!” “When I was stupid.” “When you were normal.” “Normal is stupid, Adro.” He took her by the shoulders and firmly pushed her from the room. “I won’t make policy decisions, and I’ll avoid ordering the murder of any further groups of melodic children. Fine? All right? Now leave me alone. You’re stinking up the place with an air of contented idiocy.” He shut the door, and—deep down—felt a glimmer of shame. Had he called Adrotagia, of all people, an idiot? Well. Nothing to do about it now. She would understand. He set to work again, cutting out more of the Diagram, arranging it, searching for any mentions of the Blackthorn, as there was too much in the book to study today, and he had to be focused on their current problem. Dalinar lived. He was building a coalition. So what did Taravangian do now? Another assassin? What is the secret? he thought, holding up sheets from the Diagram, finding one where he could see the words on the other side through the paper. Could that have been intentional?
What should I do? Please. Show me the way. He scribbled words on a page. Light. Intelligence. Meaning. He hung them on the wall to inspire him, but he couldn’t help reading the surgeon’s words—the words of a master healer who had delivered Taravangian through a cut in his mother’s belly. He had the cord wrapped around his neck, the surgeon had said. The queen will know the best course, but I regret to inform her that while he lives, your son may have diminished capacity. Perhaps this is one to keep on outer estates, in favor of other heirs. The “diminished capacity” hadn’t appeared, but the reputation had chased Taravangian from childhood, so pervasive in people’s minds that not a one had seen through his recent act of stupidity, which they’d attributed to a stroke or to simple senility. Or maybe, some said, that was the way he’d always been. He’d overcome that reputation in magnificent ways. Now he’d save the world. Well, the part of the world that mattered. He worked for hours, pinning up more portions of the Diagram, then scribbling on them as connections came to him, using beauty and light to chase away the shadows of dullness and ignorance, giving him answers—they were here, he merely needed to interpret them. His maid finally interrupted him; the annoying woman was always bustling around, trying to make him do this or that, as if he didn’t have more important concerns than soaking his feet. “Idiot woman!” he shouted. She didn’t flinch, but walked forward and put a tray of food down beside him. “Can’t you see that my work here is important?” he demanded. “I haven’t time for food.” She set out drink for him, then, infuriatingly, patted him on the shoulder. As she left, he noticed Adrotagia and Mrall standing right outside. “I don’t suppose,” he said to Mrall, “you’d execute that maid if I demanded it?” “We have decided,” the bodyguard said, “that you are not allowed to make such decisions today.” “To Damnation with you then. I almost have the answers anyway. We must not assassinate Dalinar Kholin. The time has passed for that. Instead, we must support his coalition. Then we force him to step down, so that I can take his place at the head of the monarchs.” Adrotagia walked in and inspected his work. “I doubt Dalinar will simply give leadership of the coalition to you.” Taravangian rapped on a set of pages stuck to the wall. “Look here. It should be clear, even to you. I foresaw this.” “You’ve made changes,” Mrall said, aghast. “To the Diagram.” “Only little ones,” Taravangian said. “Look, see the original writing here? I didn’t change that, and it’s clear. Our task now is to make Dalinar withdraw from leadership, take his place.” “We don’t kill him?” Mrall asked. Taravangian eyed him, then turned and waved toward the other wall, with even more papers stuck to it. “Killing him now would only raise suspicion.” “Yes,” Adrotagia said, “I see this interpretation of the headboard—we must push the
Blackthorn so hard that he collapses. But we’ll need secrets to use against him.” “Easy,” Taravangian said, pushing her toward another set of notations on the wall. “We send that Dustbringer’s spren to spy. Dalinar Kholin reeks of secrets. We can break him, and I can take his place—as the coalition will see me as nonthreatening—whereupon we’ll be in a position of power to negotiate with Odium—who will, by laws of spren and gods, be bound by the agreement made.” “Can’t we … beat Odium instead?” Mrall asked. Muscle-bound idiot. Taravangian rolled his eyes, but Adrotagia—more sentimental than he was—turned and explained. “The Diagram is clear, Mrall,” she said. “This is the purpose of its creation. We cannot beat the enemy; so instead, we save whatever we can.” “The only way,” Taravangian agreed. Dalinar would never accept this fact. Only one man would be strong enough to make that sacrifice. Taravangian felt a glimmer of … something. Memory. Give me the capacity to save us. “Take this,” he said to Adrotagia, pulling down a sheet he’d annotated. “This will work.” She nodded, towing Mrall from the room as Taravangian knelt before the broken, ripped, sliced-up remnants of the Diagram. Light and truth. Save what he could. Abandon the rest. Thankfully, he had been given that capacity. Venli was determined to live worthy of power. She presented herself with the others, a small group selected from the remaining listeners, and braced for the oncoming storm. She didn’t know if Ulim—or his phantom masters, the ancient listener gods—could read her mind. But if they could, they’d find that she was loyal. This was war, and Venli among its vanguard. She had discovered the first Voidspren. She had discovered stormform. She had redeemed her people. She was blessed. Today would prove it. Nine of them had been selected from among the two thousand listener survivors, Venli included. Demid stood beside her with a wide grin on his face. He loved to learn new things, and the storm was another adventure. They’d been promised something great. See, Eshonai? Venli thought. See what we can do, if you don’t hold us back? “All right, yes, that’s it,” Ulim said, rippling across the ground as vibrant red energy. “Good, good. All in a line. Keep facing west.” “Should we seek for cover before the storm, Envoy?” Melu asked to the Rhythm of Agony. “Or carry shields?” Ulim took the form of a small person before them. “Don’t be silly. This is our storm. You have nothing to fear.” “And it will bring us power,” Venli said. “Power beyond even that of stormform?” “Great power,” Ulim said. “You’ve been chosen. You’re special. But you must embrace this. Welcome it. You have to want it, or the powers will not be able to take a place in your gemhearts.” Venli had suffered so much, but this was her reward. She was done with a life spent wasting away under human oppression. She would never again be trapped, impotent. With this new power, she would always, always be able to fight
back. The Everstorm appeared from the west, returning as it had before. A tiny village in the near distance fell into the storm’s shadow, then was illuminated by the striking of bright red lightning. Venli stepped forward and hummed to Craving, holding her arms out to the sides. The storm wasn’t like the highstorms—no stormwall of blown debris and cremwater. This was far more elegant. It was a billowing cloud of smoke and darkness, lightning breaking out on all sides, coloring it crimson. She tipped her head back to meet the boiling, churning clouds, and was consumed by the storm. Angry, violent darkness overshadowed her. Flecks of burning ash streamed past her on all sides, and she felt no rain this time. Just the beat of thunder. The storm’s pulse. Ash bit into her skin, and something crashed down beside her, rolling on the stones. A tree? Yes, a burning tree. Sand, shredded bark, and pebbles washed across her skin and carapace. She knelt down, eyes squeezed closed, arms protecting her face from the blown debris. Something larger glanced off her arm, cracking her carapace. She gasped and dropped to the stone ground, curling up. A pressure enveloped her, pushing at her mind, her soul. Let Me In. With difficulty, she opened herself up to this force. This was just like adopting a new form, right? Pain seared her insides, as if someone had set fire to her veins. She screamed, and sand bit her tongue. Tiny coals ripped at her clothing, singeing her skin. And then, a voice. WHAT IS THIS? It was a warm voice. An ancient, paternal voice, kindly and enveloping. “Please,” Venli said, gasping in breaths of smoky air. “Please.” YES, the voice said. CHOOSE ANOTHER. THIS ONE IS MINE. The force that had been pushing against her retreated, and the pain stopped. Something else—something smaller, less domineering—took its place. She accepted this spren gladly, then whimpered in relief, attuned to Agony. An eternity seemed to pass as she lay huddled before the storm. Finally, the winds weakened. The lightning faded. The thunder moved into the distance. She blinked the grit from her eyes. Bits of cremstone and broken bark streamed from her as she moved. She coughed, then stood, looking at her ruined clothing and singed skin. She no longer bore stormform. She’d changed to … was this nimbleform? Her clothing felt large on her, and her body no longer bore its impressive musculature. She attuned the rhythms, and found they were still the new ones—the violent, angry rhythms that came with forms of power. This wasn’t nimbleform, but it also wasn’t anything she recognized. She had breasts—though they were small, as with most forms outside of mateform—and long hairstrands. She turned about to see if the others were the same. Demid stood nearby, and though his clothing was in tatters, his well-muscled body wasn’t scored. He stood tall—far taller than her—with a broad chest and powerful stance. He seemed more like a statue than a listener. He flexed, eyes glowing red, and his body pulsed with
a dark violet power—a glow that somehow evoked both light and darkness at once. It retreated, but Demid seemed pleased by his ability to invoke it. What form was that? So majestic, with ridges of carapace poking through his skin along the arms and at the corners of the face. “Demid?” she asked. He turned toward Melu, who strode up in a similar form and said something in a language Venli didn’t recognize. The rhythms were there though, and this was to Derision. “Demid?” Venli asked again. “How do you feel? What happened?” He spoke again in that strange language, and his next words seemed to blur in her mind, somehow shifting until she understood them. “… Odium rides the very winds, like the enemy once did. Incredible. Aharat, is that you?” “Yes,” Melu said. “This … this feels … good.” “Feel,” Demid said. “It feels.” He took a long, deep breath. “It feels.” Had they gone mad? Nearby, Mrun pulled himself past a large boulder, which had not been there before. With horror, Venli realized that she could see a broken arm underneath it, blood leaking out. In direct defiance of Ulim’s promise of safety, one of them had been crushed. Though Mrun had been blessed with a tall, imperious form like the others, he stumbled as he stepped away from the boulder. He grabbed the stone, then fell to his knees. His body coursing with that dark violet light, he groaned, muttering gibberish. Altoki approached from the other direction, standing low, teeth bared, her steps like those of a predator. When she drew closer, Venli could hear her whispering between bared teeth. “High sky. Dead winds. Blood rain.” “Demid,” Venli said to Destruction. “Something has gone wrong. Sit down, wait. I will find the spren.” Demid looked at her. “You knew this corpse?” “This corpse? Demid, why—” “Oh no. Oh no. Oh no!” Ulim coursed across the ground to her. “You— You aren’t— Oh, bad, bad.” “Ulim!” Venli demanded, attuning Derision and gesturing at Demid. “Something is wrong with my companions. What have you brought upon us?” “Don’t talk to them, Venli!” Ulim said, forming into the shape of a little man. “Don’t point at them!” Nearby, Demid was pooling dark violet power in his hand somehow, studying her and Ulim. “It is you,” he said to Ulim. “The Envoy. You have my respect for your work, spren.” Ulim bowed to Demid. “Please, grand of the Fused, see passion and forgive this child.” “You should explain to her,” Demid said, “so she does not … aggravate me.” Venli frowned. “What is—” “Come with me,” Ulim said, rippling across the ground. Concerned, overwhelmed by her experience, Venli attuned Agony and followed. Behind, Demid and the others were gathering. Ulim formed as a person again before her. “You’re lucky. He could have destroyed you.” “Demid would never do that.” “Unfortunately for you, your once-mate is gone. That’s Hariel—and he has one of the worst tempers of all the Fused.” “Hariel? What do you mean by…” She trailed off as the others spoke
softly to Demid. They stood so tall, so haughty, and their mannerisms—all wrong. Each new form changed a listener, down to their ways of thinking, even their temperament. Despite that, you were always you. Even stormform hadn’t changed her into someone else. Perhaps … she had become less empathetic, more aggressive. But she’d still been herself. This was different. Demid didn’t stand like her once-mate, or speak like him. “No…” she whispered. “You said we were opening ourselves up to a new spren, a new form!” “I said,” Ulim hissed, “that you were opening yourselves up. I didn’t say what would enter. Look, your gods need bodies. It’s like this every Return. You should be flattered.” “Flattered to be killed?” “Yeah, for the good of the race,” Ulim said. “Those are the Fused: ancient souls reborn. What you have, apparently, is just another form of power. A bond with a lesser Voidspren, which puts you above common listeners—who have normal forms—but a step below the Fused. A big step.” She nodded, then started to walk back toward the group. “Wait,” Ulim said, rippling across the ground before her. “What are you doing? What is wrong with you?” “I’m going to send that soul out,” she said. “Bring Demid back. He needs to know the consequences before he can choose such a drastic—” “Back?” Ulim said. “Back? He’s dead. As you should be. This is bad. What did you do? Resist, like that sister of yours?” “Out of my way.” “He’ll kill you. I warned of his temper—” “Envoy,” Demid said to Destruction, turning toward them. It wasn’t his voice. She attuned Agony. It wasn’t his voice. “Let her pass,” the thing with Demid’s body said. “I will speak with her.” Ulim sighed. “Bother.” “You speak like a human, spren,” Demid said. “Your service here was grand, but you use their ways, their language. I find that displeasing.” Ulim rippled away across the stones. Venli stepped up to the group of Fused. Two still had trouble moving. They lurched, stumbled, fell to their knees. A different two wore smiles, twisted and wrong. The listener gods were not completely sane. “I regret the death of your friend, good servant,” Demid said with a deep voice, fully in sync with the Rhythm of Command. “Though you are the children of traitors, your war here is to be commended. You faced our hereditary enemies and gave no quarter, even when doomed.” “Please,” Venli said. “He was precious to me. Can you return him?” “He has passed into the blindness beyond,” Demid said. “Unlike the witless Voidspren you bonded—which resides in your gemheart—my soul cannot share its dwelling. Nothing, not Regrowth or act of Odium, can restore him now.” He reached out and took Venli by the chin, lifting her face, inspecting it. “You were to bear a soul I have fought beside for thousands of years. She was turned away, and you were reserved. Odium has a purpose for you. Revel in that, and mourn not your friend’s passing. Odium will bring vengeance at long last
to those we fight.” He let go of her, and she had to struggle to keep herself from collapsing. No. No, she would not show weakness. But … Demid … She put him out of her mind, like Eshonai before him. This was the path she had placed herself on from the moment she’d first listened to Ulim years ago, deciding that she would risk the return of her people’s gods. Demid had fallen, but she had been preserved. And Odium himself, god of gods, had a purpose for her. She sat down on the ground to wait as the Fused conversed in their strange language. As she waited, she noted something hovering near the ground a short distance away. A little spren that looked like a ball of light. Yes … she’d seen one of those near Eshonai. What was it? It seemed agitated, and scooted across the stone closer to her. She instantly knew something—an instinctive truth, as sure as the storms and the sun. If the creatures standing nearby saw this spren, they would destroy it. She slapped her hand down over the spren as the creature wearing Demid’s body turned toward her. She cupped the little spren against the stone, and attuned Abashment. He didn’t seem to notice what she’d done. “Ready yourself to be carried,” he said. “We must travel to Alethela.” Odium’s grand purpose for Venli meant turning her into a showpiece. “Then, the humans waged a war of extermination against us,” she told the assembled crowd. “My sister tried to negotiate, to explain that we had no blame for the assassination of their king. They would not listen. They saw us only as slaves to be dominated.” The wagon upon which she stood wasn’t a particularly inspiring dais, but it was better than the pile of boxes she’d used in the last town. At least her new form—envoyform—was tall, the tallest she’d ever worn. It was a form of power, and brought strange abilities, primarily the ability to speak and understand all languages. That made it perfect for instructing the crowds of Alethi parshmen. “They fought for years to exterminate us,” she said to Command. “They could not suffer slaves who could think, who could resist. They worked to crush us, lest we inspire a revolution!” The people gathered around the wagon bore thick lines of marbling—of red and either black or white. Venli’s own white and red was far more delicate, with intricate swirls. She continued, speaking triumphantly to the Rhythm of Command, telling these people—as she’d told many others—her story. At least the version of it that Odium had instructed her to tell. She told them she’d personally discovered new spren to bond, creating a form that would summon the Everstorm. The story left out that Ulim had done much of the work, giving her the secrets of stormform. Odium obviously wanted to paint the listeners as a heroic group, with Venli their brave leader. The listeners were to be the foundation myth of his growing empire: the last of the old generation,
who had fought bravely against the Alethi, then sacrificed themselves to free their enslaved brothers and sisters. Hauntingly, the narrative said that Venli’s people were now extinct, save herself. The former slaves listened, rapt by her narrative. She told it well; she should, given how often she’d related it these last weeks. She ended with the call to action, as specifically instructed. “My people have passed, joining the eternal songs of Roshar,” she said. “The day now belongs to you. We had named ourselves ‘listeners’ because of the songs we heard. These are your heritage, but you are not to merely listen, but sing. Adopt the rhythms of your ancestors and build a nation here! You must work. Not for the slavers who once held your minds, but for the future, for your children! And for us. Those who died that you might exist.” They cheered to the Rhythm of Excitement. That was good to hear, even if it was an inferior rhythm. Venli heard something better now: new, powerful rhythms that accompanied forms of power. Yet … hearing those old rhythms awakened something in her. A memory. She put her hand to the pouch at her belt. How like the Alethi these people act, she thought. She had found humans to be … stern. Angry. Always walking about with their emotions worn openly, prisoners to what they felt. These former slaves were similar. Even their jokes were Alethi, often biting toward those to whom they were closest. At the conclusion of her speech, an unfamiliar Voidspren ushered the people back to work. She’d learned there were three levels in the hierarchy of Odium’s people. There were these common singers, who wore the ordinary forms Venli’s people had used. Then there were those called Regals, like herself, who were distinguished by forms of power—created by bonding one of several varieties of Voidspren. At the top were the Fused—though she had trouble placing spren like Ulim and others. They obviously outranked the common singers, but what of the Regals? She saw no humans in this town; those had been rounded up or chased off. She’d overheard some Fused saying that human armies still fought in western Alethkar, but this eastern section was completely singer controlled—remarkable, considering how the humans greatly outnumbered the singers. The Alethi collapse was due in part to the Everstorm, in part to the arrival of the Fused, and in part to the fact that the Alethi had repeatedly conscripted eligible men for their wars. Venli settled down on the back of the cart, and a femalen singer brought her a cup of water, which she took gladly. Proclaiming yourself as the savior of an entire people was thirsty work. The singer woman lingered. She wore an Alethi dress, with the left hand covered up. “Is your story really true?” “Of course it is,” Venli said to Conceit. “You doubt?” “No, of course not! It’s just … it’s hard to imagine. Parshmen fighting.” “Call yourselves singers, not parshmen.” “Yes. Um, of course.” The femalen held her hand to her face,
as if embarrassed. “Speak to the rhythms to express apology,” Venli said. “Use Appreciation to thank someone for correction, or Anxiety to highlight your frustration. Consolation if you are truly contrite.” “Yes, Brightness.” Oh, Eshonai. They have so far to go. The woman scampered away. That lopsided dress looked ridiculous. There was no reason to distinguish between the genders except in mateform. Humming to Ridicule, Venli hopped down, then walked through the town, head high. The singers wore mostly workform or nimbleform, though a few—like the femalen who had brought the water—wore scholarform, with long hairstrands and angular features. She hummed to Fury. Her people had spent generations struggling to discover new forms, and here these people were given a dozen different options? How could they value that gift without knowing the struggle? They gave Venli deference, bowing like humans, as she approached the town’s mansion. She had to admit there was something very satisfying about that. “What are you so smug about?” Rine demanded to Destruction when Venli stepped inside. The tall Fused waited by the window, hovering—as always—a few feet off the ground, his cloak hanging down and resting on the floor. Venli’s sense of authority evaporated. “I can’t help but feel as if I’m among babes, here.” “If they are babes, you are a toddler.” A second Fused sat on the floor amid the chairs. That one never spoke. Venli didn’t know the femalen’s name, and found her constant grin and unblinking eyes … upsetting. Venli joined Rine by the window, looking out at the singers who populated the village. Working the land. Farming. Their lives might not have changed much, but they had their songs back. That meant everything. “We should bring them human slaves, Ancient One,” Venli said to Subservience. “I fear that there is too much land here. If you really want these villages to supply your armies, they’ll need more workers.” Rine glanced at her. She’d found that if she spoke to him respectfully—and if she spoke in the ancient tongue—her words were less likely to be dismissed. “There are those among us who agree with you, child,” Rine said. “You do not?” “No. We will need to watch the humans constantly. At any moment, any of them could manifest powers from the enemy. We killed him, and yet he fights on through his Surgebinders.” Surgebinders. Foolishly, the old songs spoke highly of them. “How can they bind spren, Ancient One?” she asked to Subservience. “Humans don’t … you know…” “So timid,” he said to Ridicule. “Why is mentioning gemhearts so difficult?” “They are sacred and personal.” Listener gemhearts were not gaudy or ostentatious, like those of greatshells. Clouded white, almost the color of bone, they were beautiful, intimate things. “They’re a part of you,” Rine said. “The dead bodies taboo, the refusal to talk of gemhearts—you’re as bad as those out there, walking around with one hand covered.” What? That was unfair. She attuned Fury. “It … shocked us when it first happened,” Rine eventually said. “Humans don’t have gemhearts. How could they bond
spren? It was unnatural. Yet somehow, their bond was more powerful than ours. I always said the same thing, and believe it even more strongly now: We must exterminate them. Our people will never be safe on this world as long as the humans exist.” Venli felt her mouth grow dry. Distantly, she heard a rhythm. The Rhythm of the Lost? An inferior one. It was gone in a moment. Rine hummed to Conceit, then turned and barked a command to the crazy Fused. She scrambled to her feet and loped after him as he floated out the door. He was probably going to confer with the town’s spren. He’d give orders and warnings, which he usually only did right before they left one town for another. Despite having unpacked her things, working under the assumption she’d be here for the night, now Venli suspected they would soon be moving on. She went to her room on the second floor of the mansion. As usual, the luxury of these buildings astounded her. Soft beds you felt you would sink into. Fine woodworking. Blown-glass vases and crystal sconces on the walls for holding spheres. She’d always hated the Alethi, who had acted like they were benevolent parents encountering wild children to be educated. They had pointedly ignored the culture and advancements of Venli’s people, eyeing only the hunting grounds of the greatshells that they—because of translation errors—decided must be the listeners’ gods. Venli felt at the beautiful swirls in the glass of a wall sconce. How had they colored some of it white, but not all of it? Whenever she encountered things like this, she had to remind herself forcefully that the Alethi being technologically superior did not make them culturally superior. They’d simply had access to more resources. Now that the singers had access to artform, they would be able to create works like this too. But still … it was so beautiful. Could they really exterminate the people who had created such beautiful and delicate swirls in the glass? The decorations reminded her of her own pattern of marbling. The pouch at her waist started vibrating. She wore a listener’s leather skirt below a tight shirt, topped with a looser overshirt. Part of Venli’s place was to show the singers that someone like them—not some distant, fearsome creature from the past—had brought the storms and freed the singers. Her eyes lingered on the sconce, and then she dumped out her pouch on the room’s stumpweight desk. Spheres bounced free, along with a larger number of uncut gemstones, which her people had used instead. The little spren rose from where it had been hiding among the light. It looked like a comet when it moved, though sitting still—as it did now—it only glowed like a spark. “Are you one of them?” she asked softly. “The spren that move in the sky some nights?” It pulsed, sending off a ring of light that dissipated like glowing smoke. Then it began zipping through the room, looking at things. “The room isn’t any different from
the last one you looked at,” she said to Amusement. The spren zipped to the wall sconce, where it let off a pulse in awe, then moved to the identical one on the opposite side of the door. Venli moved to gather her clothing and writings from the drawers in the dresser. “I don’t know why you stay with me. It can’t be comfortable in that bag.” The spren zipped past her, looking in the drawer that she’d opened. “It’s a drawer,” she said. The spren peeked out, then pulsed in a quick blinking succession. That’s Curiosity, she thought, recognizing the rhythm. She hummed it to herself as she packed her things, then hesitated. Curiosity was an old rhythm. Like … Amusement, which she’d attuned moments ago. She could hear the normal rhythms again. She looked at the little spren. “Is this your doing?” she demanded to Irritation. It shrank, but pulsed to Resolve. “What are you hoping to accomplish? Your kind betrayed us. Go find a human to bother.” It shrank further. Then pulsed to Resolve again. Bother. Down below, the door slammed open. Rine was back already. “In the pouch,” she hissed to Command. “Quickly.” There was art to doing laundry. Sure, everyone knew the basics, just like every child could hum a tune. But did they know how to relax the fibers of a stubborn seasilk dress by returning it to a warm brine, then restore its natural softness by rinsing it and brushing with the grain? Could they spot the difference between a mineral dye from Azir and a floral dye from the Veden slopes? You used different soaps for each one. Mem toiled at her canvas—which was, in this case, a pair of vivid red trousers. She scooped some powder soap—hog fat based, mixed with fine abrasive—and rubbed at a stain on the leg. She wetted the trousers again, then with a fine brush she worked in the soap. Oil stains were challenging enough, but this man had gotten blood on the same spot. She had to get the stain out without fading that fine Mycalin red—they got it from a slug on the shores of the Purelake—or ruining the cloth. Mraize did like his clothing to look sharp. Mem shook her head. What was this stain? She had to go through four soaps, then try some of her drying powder, before she got it to budge, and then she moved on to the rest of the suit. Hours passed. Clean this spot, rinse that shirt. Hang it up for all to see. She didn’t notice the time until the other Veden washwomen started to leave in clumps, returning to their homes, some of which were empty and cold, their husbands and sons dead in the civil war. The need for clean clothing outlived disasters. The end of the world could come, but that would only mean more bloodstains to wash. Mem finally stepped back before her drying racks, hands on hips, basking in the accomplishment of a day’s work well done. Drying her hands, Mem went
to check on her new assistant, Pom, who was washing underclothes. The dark-skinned woman was obviously of mixed blood, both Easterner and Westerner. She was finishing an undershirt, and didn’t say anything as Mem stepped up beside her. Storms, why hasn’t anyone snatched her up? Mem thought as the gorgeous woman rubbed the shirt, then dunked it, then rubbed it again. Women like Pom didn’t usually end up as washgirls, though she did tend to stare daggers at any man who got too close. Maybe that was it. “Well done,” Mem said. “Hang that to dry and help me gather the rest of this.” They piled clothing in baskets, then made the short hike through the city. Vedenar still smelled like smoke to Mem. Not the good smoke of bakeries, but rather of the enormous pyres that had burned outside on the plain. Her employer lived near the markets, in a large townhome beside some rubble—a lingering reminder of when siege weapons had rained boulders upon Vedenar. The two washwomen passed guards at the front and headed up the steps. Mem insisted on not using the servants’ entrance. Mraize was one of the few who humored her. “Keep close,” she said to Pom, who dallied once they were inside. They hurried down a long, unornamented corridor, then up a staircase. People said that servants were invisible. Mem had never found that to be true, particularly around people like Mraize. Not only did the house steward notice if someone so much as moved a candlestick, Mraize’s friends were the type who kept careful track of everyone near them. Two of them stood in a doorway Mem passed, a man and woman speaking quietly. Both wore swords, and though they didn’t interrupt their conversation as the washwomen passed, they watched. Mraize’s quarters were at the top of a staircase. He wasn’t there today—he appeared on occasion to drop off dirty clothing, then gallivanted off someplace to find new types of crem to stain his shirts. Mem and Pom went into his den first—he kept his evening jackets there. Pom froze in the doorway. “Stop dallying,” Mem reminded her, covering a smile. After stark, empty hallways and stairwells, this overstuffed den was a little overwhelming. She’d marveled too, her first time here. A mantel covered in curiosities, each in its own glass display. Deep rugs from Marat. Five paintings of the finest skill, each of a different Herald. “You were right,” Pom said from behind. “Of course I was right,” Mem said, setting down her basket in front of the corner wardrobe. “Mraize—remember, he doesn’t want to be called ‘master’—is of the finest and most refined taste. He employs only the best of—” She was interrupted by a ripping sound. It was a sound that inspired terror. The sound of a seam splitting, or of a delicate chemise tearing as it caught on part of a washtub. It was the sound of disaster incarnate. Mem turned to find her new assistant standing on a chair, attacking one of Mraize’s paintings with a knife. A piece
of Mem’s brain stopped working. A whine escaped from the back of her throat and her vision grew dark. Pom was … she was destroying one of Mraize’s paintings. “I’ve been looking for that,” Pom said, stepping back and putting hands on hips, still standing on the chair. Two guards burst into the room, perhaps drawn by the noise. They looked at Pom and their jaws dropped. In turn, she flipped her knife about in her hand and pointed it threateningly at the men. Then, horror of horrors, Mraize himself appeared behind the soldiers, wearing an evening jacket and slippers. “What is this ruckus?” So refined. Yes, his face looked like it had seen the wrong side of a sword a couple of times. But he had exquisite taste in clothing and—of course—in garment-care professionals. “Ah!” he said, noticing Pom. “Finally! The masterpiece of the Oilsworn was all it took, was it? Excellent!” Mraize shoved out the confused guards, then pulled the door shut. He didn’t even seem to notice Mem. “Ancient One, would you care for something to drink?” Pom narrowed her eyes at him, then hopped off the chair. She walked quickly to Mraize and used one hand on his chest to push him aside. She pulled open the door. “I know where Talenelat is,” Mraize said. Pom froze. “Yes … let’s have that drink, shall we?” Mraize asked. “My babsk has been eager to speak with you.” He glanced at Mem. “Is that my Azish cavalrylord’s suit?” “Um … yes…” “You got the aether out of it?” “The … what?” He strode over and pulled the red trousers out of the basket to inspect them. “Mem, you are an absolute genius. Not every hunter carries a spear, and this is proof indeed. Go to Condwish and tell him I approve a three-firemark bonus for you.” “Th-thank you, Mraize.” “Go collect your bonus, and leave,” Mraize said. “Note that you will need to find a new washgirl to help you, after today.” Eshonai would have loved this, Venli thought as she flew hundreds of feet in the air. Rine and the other Fused carried her by means of linked harnesses. It made her feel like a sack of grain being hauled to market, but it gave her quite an amazing view. Endless hills of stone. Patches of green, often in the shadows of hillsides. Thick forests snarled with undergrowth to present a unified front against the storms. Eshonai would have been thrilled; she’d have begun drawing maps, talking about the places she could go. Venli, on the other hand, spent most of these trips feeling sick to her stomach. Normally she didn’t have to suffer for long; towns were close together here in Alethkar. Yet today, her ancestors flew her past many occupied towns without stopping. Eventually, what first appeared to be another ridge of stones resolved into the walls of a large city, easily twice the size of one of the domes at the Shattered Plains. Stone buildings and reinforced towers. Marvels and wonders. It had been years since

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