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he could understand them. And who was better to understand than God himself? “Good,” Wayne said, adopting the proper accent. Old-fashioned, but Terris. Like Harmony. He dropped his speed bubble and gathered his power. “Hold on to your robes, my dear friend. This is going to be unlike anything you have seen before, I think.” * * * Marasi strode toward Blantach’s constabulary offices, Armal and a few of her friends in her wake, through a dark city content with its own business. Ignorant of the crisis. Yet she felt something in the mists. Wax always talked about them in this supernatural way, a way she rarely felt. Tonight though, they seemed to be holding their breath. * * * Steris froze on the docks. Her workers and constables were still busy doing as she asked, but something felt … odd? About the moment? She turned toward the waters and looked out across the misty sea. Gripping the little silver spear she wore at her neck, she said a prayer. * * * “Now!” Harmony said. Wayne made the perfect speed bubble. Most Allomancers with his powers couldn’t change the shape of a bubble. But bendalloy was so expensive, people couldn’t really afford to practice. He could. He’d probably done this more than any person alive. In that moment, he made a bubble that contained the three barrel devices—but had a hole to exclude the device on the wall that coordinated the explosions. Then he burned duralumin and Pushed. People didn’t often refer to speed bubbles and slowness bubbles as Pushing and Pulling, like they talked about Steelpushes and Ironpulls. But it was the same. What Wayne did, it was Pushing on reality itself. Distorting it, shoving it inward, warping it. Today he Pushed harder than any person in history. He Pushed like a god, on account of wearing Sazed’s own hat. On account of that strange metal, and on account of Wayne bein’ the hero. Time squeezed in around him, compressed like coal bein’ made into rustin’ diamond. Further, further, as a whole damn stomach full of bendalloy was burned in an instant. God himself froze. Standing motionless. The bubble crystallized into a visible sphere. Lights that had been blinking halted, half-on. Something funny even happened to his eyesight, everything going all strange until he took another vial of Harmony’s metals and burned steel to see that way instead. Go. Canteen in hand, Wayne flooded the first bomb. He ducked back as the water dripped, then Pushed that barrel right out of the speed bubble as the explosion started. It transfixed him momentarily, fire and light erupting from the barrel, all outlined in these strange blue lines. As if that barrel was releasing its soul to the afterlife. Cracks started to appear in his crystallized speed bubble. Damn. Wayne leaped to the second barrel and poured, then Pushed it out too. It sent electric warnings up the wires—but the box that controlled the detonation was stuck in slow time, the signals moving like molasses. Damn, how fast was he moving? And
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he’d thought he was getting slow because of old age. Heh. He slammed into the third barrel and dumped the rest of the canteen’s water out into it. He Pushed it, then turned, gazing out at all three barrels hanging motionless in time. He was going so fast, only the first one was exploding, and that because he’d taken the longest to Push it out. The blast was completely halted now. He let out a breath and dropped the canteen. He’d been gobbled up, it was true. But when that happened, you strangled the monster from the inside. His crystalline speed bubble shattered. And all became red light and blossoms of fire. Wax struggled in the dark waters. Then something erupted to his right. A flash of light, blinding and dazzling. Followed by a shock wave in the air, and another in the water. For both, he thought he glimpsed—briefly, through the omnipresent light—the sight of a figure dulling the wave directly in front of him. A calm Terrisman standing tall on the surface of the water, with one hand stretched forward. Then, darkness again. Wax blinked, his eyes blinded by the blast. Debris rained around him. Splashing into the choppy waves. In moments, Wax was struggling to stay afloat. He’d hit the water hard, and thought he’d broken at least one leg. Wayne, trying to save his life? That frustrating, infuriating … … that wonderful man. “Farewell, my friend,” Wax whispered, choking on his emotion. “You incredible rusting man. Thank you.” As the waters grew more choppy, Wax had to struggle harder. He forced through pain, grief, and fatigue to keep himself—barely—afloat. He burned his steel, then … something else. Something deep within, which kept him warm. Despite that, he was lost in darkness, and even the mists kept their distance. With his leg not working, with his coat dragging him down, with the exhaustion of a nation’s hopes weighing on him, he felt himself begin to slip. Begin to lose his fight with the waters. Begin to … What was that? A tiny light, drifting closer. Small, yet unyielding in the mists. It resolved into … a lantern? On a small boat? How … The boat motored right up to him, and then a man in a coachman’s outfit with white gloves stood up on the deck and reached out to Wax. “Carriage,” Hoid said, “for you. Sir.” The shock wave hit Steris like a thunderclap. She gasped in surprise, her ears ringing from the sound of the detonation. Rusts. She and the governor had been carried via Allomancer far into the center of the city—close to their original evacuation command post—following their efforts at the docks. But that obviously hadn’t been far enough to escape completely. Around her, windows rattled. Any closer to the docks and they would have shattered. And the buildings nearest the explosion … Fortunately, the only ill effects she felt—standing atop a building this far from the blast—was that shock wave. And so, after her initial panic, she watched that brilliant light in the distance
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slowly fade. A moment ago, that explosion had been like a momentary sun on the horizon, magnificent and ominous all at once, blazing through the mists. Now, in seconds, all that remained were the afterimage and the faint ringing in her ears. The governor peeked up over the rooftop’s stone railing, where he’d ducked at the initial explosion. Then he stood up straight. “He’s done it, hasn’t he? Preservation! He’s done it! He detonated the bomb early! The city is saved!” Steris nodded, exhaling a long breath. Wax had been exactly where she’d hoped he would be. Now that she’d seen that light—then survived the detonation—a new worry struck her. You’d better not have been on that ship when the explosion happened, Waxillium Ladrian, she thought. You … just … just have gotten off, all right? “Will the tsunami come?” the governor said. “Yes,” Steris said. “Imminently.” “We … uh…” The governor straightened his cravat. “We actually helped, didn’t we?” “Yes,” she said. “The dockside buildings are going to be a disaster zone in the weeks to come—we’ll need to rebuild. But I think we evacuated most people from the dangerous section.” Water was pulling back rapidly from the docks as she watched. Receding in advance of a tsunami. Hopefully it would not be a big one. The studies she’d read were inconclusive about how water would react to explosions. “Thank the Survivor,” the governor said. “I’m … glad you let us retreat. I worried you’d insist on staying by the docks.” “There is no need to go down with the city,” Steris said, “if the city isn’t going down.” He nodded eagerly. He was actually quite an agreeable man. Which made sense. He’d been chosen by people who wanted to steer him. People who’d never expected him to put his hands on the helm and take control. She blinked, her eyes bearing the afterimage of that explosion. Just … be safe … Steris thought toward that distant, now faded, point of light. Please. Wayne floated. Floated someplace high. Damn. Was that the planet itself beneath him? It was a sphere, as everyone said. He’d always hoped maybe it would be, like, doughnut shaped or something. To throw the smart folks for a loop. Felt kinda strange to be all the way up here, in the darkness. He leaned forward and felt a disorientation, like he should be falling. He was woozy, unsteady. Huh. Who’d have thought being dead would be so much like being drunk? He could write a whole damn book of scripture about that, he could. A figure hovered next to him. Vast. His robes like the infinite colors of creation, his essence seeming to expand into the darkness of space itself. But at his core, he had the appearance of a bald, kindly Terrisman. “Hey, God,” Wayne said. “How’s … um … creation? Time and space? Reality? You know, things?” “Good,” Harmony replied. “Because of you.” “Now wait,” Wayne said. “I ain’t gonna be a ghost, am I?” “No. You were Invested when you died, so you will
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persist a short time, but will soon join the Beyond.” “Good, good.” “You don’t find that idea concerning?” “Hell no,” Wayne said. “I already done gone and died. That was the part that I worried would hurt.” He gaped down at the planet below. “It’s so big.” “Yes, Wayne,” Harmony said. “I realize that a person might become intimidated, seeing all this. Recognizing the vastness of what they’ve lived upon. It is a lot to take in, I think. It can make a person feel small, insignificant, and—” Wayne grinned. “And I saved the whole damn thing!” Harmony paused. “Well, I suppose you did. With some help from Marasi and Waxillium.” Harmony gestured toward a red haze, swirling away from the planet as if in a funnel, vanishing into the distance. Wayne felt something from it. An angry sort of respect. Begrudging. Her avatar had been defeated, and so Autonomy withdrew her touch from the planet. “Is that it, then?” Wayne asked. “For now,” Harmony said. “She was overextending to try to bring us down quickly, I think. Telsin and the Set’s failure is an enormous setback, and Marasi was quick to collapse the portal to this planet. My vision returns, and I will try to take care I am not blindsided again.” “You sound afraid?” Wayne said, cocking his head. “Nervous,” Harmony said, his expression distant. “I can see pieces moving in the cosmere. Aligning. Pointed at us. We are not free of their influence. But we have … time, now. Time to prepare. Thanks to you, Wayne.” “Me,” Wayne said. “I saved the whole damn world. I … I’m probably the best constable who ever rusting lived!” “I … suppose…” Harmony said, “that Vin, Elend, and the others weren’t constables…” “Wax ain’t never saved the whole world. And most of the others in the octant constabulary? They couldn’t save a coupon for free beer, even when I gave it to them. Stupid kandra giraffe man. Wayne, the best conner in the whole damn world … Ha! Eat that, Reddi. Eat it with hot sauce and cry!” Wayne felt something happening as he said it, though. A kind of … stretching feeling. Like he was being pulled somewhere. Somewhere … warm? “Before you go,” Harmony said, “is there anything you would like to know? I’m not truly omniscient, but my knowledge far surpasses that of mortals. Some have a final question for me before they go. Have you such a request, Wayne?” Huh. Any question? That was a hard one. He pondered a moment. “So,” he said, “before she left, MeLaan told me that I was the best lay she ever had, and I was wondering—” “Wayne,” God interrupted, “what is it Ranette always says to you?” “Try dodging this?” “The other thing.” “Don’t ruin the moment by bein’ all skeevy?” “Yes, that one.” “Right, right,” Wayne said, nodding. “Good point. Good point. You’re smart, maybe even as smart as Ranette. Suppose that makes sense and all.” He continued to think, though that stretching sensation … it was getting stronger. What
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could he ask? What … Then he grinned. That was perfect. “I’m gonna assume Wax and them will be fine,” Wayne said. “You already promised that. So I ain’t going to waste a question on them. And you can’t trick me into doing so. You’ll take care of them. I know you will.” “To the best of my ability,” Harmony said. “Good. Then tell me this, God,” Wayne said, pointing at him. “Was that the biggest damn explosion a person ever made?” Harmony raised an eyebrow. “That’s your last question? Your final request of God before you pass into eternity?” “Hell yes! Figure now that I’m dead, I’ll get the other answers right soon. You ain’t going to trick me into asking a useless question. So tell me. Was it?” Harmony smiled. “Ah, Wayne. I suppose that most other things that could rival it—like the detonations of the Ashmounts—would be categorized as acts of God. Therefore, I declare that it is. Yes, Wayne. You exploded yourself in the biggest damn explosion a person has ever made in the history of our planet.” “Make sure Steris knows,” Wayne said, grinning. “She’s always complainin’ about my exploding things. This time I saved her hide by doin’ it. Plus, I made the explosion smaller. That’s gonna break her brain. I made it smaller, and it was still the biggest one what ever was.” He felt himself really going now. So, he held out a hand to God. Who, smiling, shook it. “I knew you’d glow,” Wayne said, with a wink. With that, Wayne stretched into another place, into another time. He stretched into the wind. And into the stars. And all endless things. Marasi eventually managed to find a service ladder to get her down into the chasm and back up the other side. Worn out, she approached the main chamber, shaken by what she’d heard and been forced to do. But she carried a small book of numbers and shipping dates she’d found on the corpse, and that looked promising. She also carried something more dangerous. Four spikes. Curiously, the red-spotted one did not like touching the others—it pulled away from them if brought close. So she’d wrapped it in a bundle of cloth and kept them in separate pockets. She stumbled through the reinforced metal door and found a scene of utter chaos. A large blast had set off several other explosions, judging by the scars on the ground. The cavern was littered with shrapnel, pieces of equipment, and an alarming number of bodies. Wayne squatted in the center of it all, his clothes ripped, playing cards with a whole group of tied-up gangsters. He had their cards laid out on the floor in front of them—though their hands were tied behind their backs. “You sure you want to lead with that one, mate?” Wayne asked, nodding at the card one of the men had tapped with his toe. “It’s the high card,” the fellow said. “Yeah, but are you sure,” Wayne said, eyeing his own hand. “Um … I think so.” “Damn,”
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Wayne said, laying down his hand. “I play three eights on the back of the nines. You win.” “But…” another of the men said, “you know our hands … Why would you play it that way?” “Gotta pretend I can’t see your cards, friends,” Wayne said. “Otherwise, where’s the sport in it? Cheatin’s one thing, but if I can just see what you’re going to do, then … well, might as well be playin’ with myself. And there are much funner ways to do that.” Marasi stumbled up. He had fifteen of them in various states of captivity. Exactly as he’d said, he’d been able to use his speed bubble to counteract her slowness bubble and grab them one at a time. His control over his powers was increasingly impressive. She wasn’t surprised he’d taken so many captive—Wayne preferred not to kill. It was something they agreed on. As for the card game, well … at this point his antics barely shocked her. She settled down on the remnant of a broken crate. “Wayne, I could have used your help.” “By the time I had these chaps all trussed up,” Wayne said, “you already had that fellow in the suit down. I saw you restin’, and it seemed best to give you some time.” She hadn’t even noticed. Rusts, her shoulder still hurt. She grimaced, looking around the room. “So, uh,” Wayne said, “damn. Did you turn to cannibalism or something?” Marasi looked down at her uniform, which was covered in blood. “Cannibalism? That’s where your mind went?” “One sees a lady covered in blood,” Wayne said, “and it goes to a natural place: wonderin’ if maybe she feasts on the livers of the people what she defeated. Not that I’m judging.” “Not judging?” Marasi said. “Wayne, that’s absolutely something you should judge someone for.” “Right. Shame on you, then.” She sighed. “Here I was thinking that I was finally used to your Wayne-ness.” She proffered the spikes, each six inches long with a thick head—save for the smallest, most interesting one, which was narrow and thin, barely four inches long. “I dug these out of the Cycle’s body. He would have come back to life, healing himself, if I’d left them in.” “How?” he said. “It don’t work that way.” “Did for him. This other spike might be why.” “Is that…” “Trellium?” she said. “Yes. It has to be.” Wayne whistled softly. “We should celebrate. You save any liver for me?” She gave him a flat stare, at which he just grinned. “We don’t eat people,” she said to the captives. “He’s just joking.” “Aw, Marasi,” Wayne said. “I’ve been workin’ on my reputation with these blokes.” “We broke into their cavern,” she said, “defeated their leader, blew up most of their goods, killed half of them and captured the rest. I think your reputation is fine.” She narrowed her eyes, noticing that all of the captives were barefoot. “Dare I ask why you took off their shoes?” “Shoelaces,” Wayne said, and she glanced at their bound hands. “Old Roughs trick
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when you don’t have enough rope.” He nodded to the side, and the two of them stepped away to talk in private. “That’s a lot of captives, Marasi, and shoelaces aren’t going to hold them real well. Any moment now, one of them will pop out a knife I missed—or worse, a gun. So…” “Instant Backup?” she asked. “Rusts, I love that code name.” “As long as it gets me to a bath sooner, I’m for it. There should be a way up to the city through the door I used—and there’s a ladder to the right, inside the chasm.” She paused. “Check on the body for me? I have this terrible premonition that I missed a spike and he’ll come looking for me.” “Got it,” Wayne said. He surveyed the room. “Nice work.” “We blew the place up and killed the guy who had the most information.” “We survived,” Wayne said, “stopped a gang of miscreants, protected the city, denied our enemies resources, and recovered some important metals. In my book we did a rustin’ good job. You’re too hard on yourself, Marasi.” Well … maybe she was. It was the sort of thing you learned, growing up as she had. So she nodded and let herself take the compliment, feeling some weight lift from her. Wayne jogged off, and she walked back to the tied-up gang of thugs, pistol held in a deliberately threatening way. Judging by how they looked at her, she didn’t need to do much to intimidate them. “You’re the lucky ones,” she said—mostly to distract them. “You’re going to be treated fairly. So long as no one does anything stupid.” She fished in her pocket, ignoring the book she’d taken from the Cycle for now, instead pulling out a notebook that was only slightly coated in blood. “I have a list of rights here I’m going to read to you. Listen carefully, so you know what options and legal protections will be available to you.” She opened the notebook and burned cadmium, tossing out a bubble of slowed time that covered them all. Hopefully they’d be distracted by her lecture, because if they were watching the perimeter they’d see the smoldering fires wink out too quickly. That was probably the extent of the clues; there weren’t as many tells in a cavern as there would be outside, where the motion of the sun, falling leaves, or passing bystanders would indicate exactly what was happening. As the minutes passed in slowed time for Marasi and the gangsters, Wayne would be jogging to the constabulary to get backup. Marasi finished her recitation, then did a slow walk around the captives, pistol at the ready, metal burning within her. A few of them stilled as she passed; they’d been trying to work out the knots in their bindings. Wayne was right. This many captives presented a potentially volatile situation. Hopefully backup would come quickly. For now though, she let herself think about the Cycle, whose dying words reminded her of what Miles Hundredlives had said when he had died.
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One day, the men of gold and red, bearers of the final metal, will come to you. And you will be ruled by them. She touched the trellium spike in her pocket. The ash comes again, the Cycle had said today. That couldn’t be true. The Catacendre had marked the death and rebirth of the world. Ashfalls were a thing of myths and old stories. Not something of these days, with their electric lights and petrol-powered autos. Right? She shivered and glanced toward the door at the back of the cavern, eager to spot more constables. It was a relief when a blur indicated someone arriving. Marasi almost dropped the speed bubble, then paused as she saw it was only one person. Who was this? Wayne? The blurred figure zipped up to the perimeter of the bubble and stood there for a moment. That gave Marasi just enough time—an eyeblink really—to pick out a female figure in dark clothing, a black cloth mask over her face. Not like a Malwish mask; more like one a thief might use, prowling in the night. She was slender, with straight black hair. Her eyes seemed to meet Marasi’s, then she became a blur again. Perhaps Marasi could have dropped the bubble, but it was over too quickly. Indeed, as she was still trying to sort through what had happened, a host of other blurs in constable brown entered the room. A second later, Wayne jumped into the slowness bubble. He activated his own powers and the two canceled each other out, creating a pocket of normal time around them. Rust, could she get that good with her bubbles? Her schedule was so constrained that such experiments seemed impossible, but still … it was remarkable. And surreal, that she was now unaffected by her own slowness bubble. She turned back toward the frozen gangsters, one of whom had managed to untie himself and was trying to sneak away. “You arrived just in time,” Marasi said, noting the constables gathered around the bubble with nets and ropes. “Wayne … did you pass anyone on your way in?” “No,” he said, frowning. “Why? Your corpse is still out there, dead as when you deadified him.” “There was someone in here a moment ago,” she said. “Maybe fifteen minutes ago regular time? She inspected us, then fled.” “Bizarre,” he said. “You still have those spikes?” She checked her uniform’s pockets; three spikes on one side, one on the other, and they hadn’t been disturbed. “Yes. Ready for the bubble to go down?” He nodded and they dropped their bubbles, letting Marasi shout orders to the constables. They moved in methodically, taking the man who’d been about to escape, tightening the bonds on the others. Constable medics checked the dead just in case, and others moved in to gather evidence. Well, the evidence Wayne hadn’t detonated. “Come on,” Wayne said. “They can handle this. We should show Wax what we found.” “Well, after some cleaning up,” she said. “Judging by how you smell, Wayne, I don’t want to know how
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I smell. But yes. We need to talk to Waxillium.” About more than just the spikes. About glowing red eyes, and cryptic deaths. You will get what you deserve, and all will wither beneath a cloud of blackness and a blanket of burned bodies made ash. She left the scene to the other constables, following Wayne as he led the way out. A warship’s arrival was certainly an event, but not an unprecedented one. They visited now and then, with permission. Even its low altitude, unfortunately, was higher than Wax could reach with his Allomancy. He’d need a metal anchor of incredible size to Push himself that high—either that or he’d need … well, metals he no longer had access to. There had been a time when he’d borne them all. A transcendent flash of incredible strength—as if he’d touched the Well of Ascension itself. But it was best not to dwell too long on his experience with the Bands of Mourning, lest he make all other moments seem dull by comparison. Today, he made himself known by leaping up in a few high bounds near the ship. They sent a small skimmer down to collect him and Max, giving them medallions to decrease their weight, though Wax didn’t need one. It intimidated the masked Malwish airmen when he handed his back—a reminder that he was Twinborn. Of the five different nations that made up the Southern Continent, the Malwish—these people—were the ones Wax had interacted with the most. They were the only nation that had sent an ambassador to Elendel. And increasingly, all official interactions with the South went through them. From what he’d been able to gather, these last six years had shaken up Southern Continent politics even more than they had Basin politics. Once-tempestuous rivalries had stilled, and unity had been forged. Why squabble with one another when there were actual devils to the north who might invade at any moment? Never mind that Wax’s people couldn’t even make airships yet. A few minutes later the skimmer—which was shaped a little like an open-topped flying fishing boat—docked with the larger ship. Max was unstrapped by now and stood patiently, holding Wax’s hand. Getting to board a real airship was so exciting that Wax could feel him trembling. Indeed, as they stepped onto the main ship—into a corridor made of dark wood, the walls bowing outward at the center like a tube—Max saluted the person waiting for them. The man was the captain, judging by his intricate mask. Wooden, but carved and inlaid with six different metals in a pattern around the eyes. The man glanced at the child but made no move to salute back, as the constable officers cheekily did when Max saluted them. He didn’t raise his mask either. “Honored Metalborn,” the captain said, nodding to Wax, “and … unless I miss my guess, Honored Once-Bearer of the Bands?” “That’s me,” Wax said. “And also taker of the Bands, which should have been restored to their rightful people.” “Also me. I delivered them to the kandra, as
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agreed—to be held so that no nation could control them or their power. If you need to be reminded.” They were silent for a few moments, staring at one another. “I am Admiral Daal,” the man said—sounding reluctant. “Welcome to my former ship, Blessed Thief.” “Former?” Wax asked. “I’ve been chosen to be the new ambassador from the Malwish Consortium to your nation.” Malwish … Consortium? It seemed the unification of the South had been completed. “What about Jonnes?” Wax asked. “She will be returning home,” Daal said. “It has been determined that she has been too … familiar.” Wonderful. A political shift indeed. It was probably best not to say too much more than simple pleasantries, to avoid inflaming tensions by accident. “Then let me be the first senator to welcome you to the Basin,” Wax said. “I look forward to continued peace and favorable trade between our nations.” “Favorable?” Daal said. “For you, perhaps.” “We’ve both benefited. You’ve had access to our Allomancers.” “Limited access,” he said. “Far too limited compared to the rich accommodations you have received.” “Three skimmers?” Wax asked. “A handful of medallions? All essentially useless without the ability to maintain them on our own or create more.” “Surely you don’t expect us to give up the means of our production? One sells the goods, not the factory.” Every time they tried to get more information on medallions from people in the know, they got stonewalled. Obviously these were Malwish trade secrets, which explained part of it, but interviewing Allik they were able to consistently pick out discrepancies in what he said and what they actually saw. Why weren’t there Feruchemical soldiers in the Malwish army with extremely heightened strength, mental speed, or other dangerous Feruchemical talents? Why weren’t there Allomancer medallions? The more they learned, the more certain Wax became that there was a secret there, indicating the medallions were not as effective or as versatile as the Malwish would like people to believe. Right, Wax thought. About not inflaming tensions by accident … He was quiet, staring at the admiral. Air as tense as a midday duel. Then Max tugged his sleeve. “Uh … Dad?” “Yes?” Wax said, not looking down. “I need the potty.” Wax sighed. Tense diplomatic situations were not improved by the presence of a five-year-old. But it could have been worse—he could have brought Wayne instead. “Is there one available?” Wax asked Daal. “He can wait.” “Do you have children, Ambassador?” “No.” “Five-year-olds do not wait.” After another tense moment, the admiral sighed and spun on his heel, leading the way past masked sailors. Wax followed with his son. Years spent near Allik and others from the South had taught Wax to be comfortable around those masked faces. It was still hard to not feel intimidated by that line of shadowed eyes. Not a one speaking, not a one lifting their mask. Wax had laughed and drunk with Malwish in the past, but this crew seemed a different class entirely. Daal presented the restroom with a gesture. “Wow!” Max said, peeking
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in, the electric light flickering on inside. “It’s so small. Like it’s made for me!” “Quickly, son,” Wax said. Max closed the door and hummed softly as he did his business. Wax stood with the admiral, feeling awkward. He actually found himself wishing for Wayne, who had a way of breaking tension like this—by creating a different variety of tension entirely. One which allowed you and your presumed antagonist to share a moment of mutual embarrassment, maybe even understanding. I wonder if he does that on purpose, Wax thought. It was hard to tell with Wayne. At times he seemed deeply insightful. He inevitably ruined that impression. But you couldn’t help wondering … “The Bands of Mourning,” Daal said. “They are safe, yah?” “I assume so,” Wax replied. “I haven’t seen them since we delivered them.” “I passed the gun emplacements at the city perimeter,” Daal said. “I’ve been told about those. The maximum range straight up is what, a thousand feet? Maybe two?” Wax didn’t respond. It was a little more than that, but … honestly not much, at least not straight upward, despite what propaganda would claim. And though the skimmers that had been delivered to the Basin had a maximum altitude of around fifteen hundred feet, he knew that some Malwish ships could sail so high that the air grew thin and men would die if they remained there too long. “One wonders,” Daal said, “what would have happened if our people had met during a more … warlike era. Why, one quick bombing campaign and your city would fold like an old flag.” “Fortunate,” Wax said, “that we met now instead.” The admiral turned toward him, eyes peeking out through metal-encrusted holes. “What would you have done?” he asked. “If we had simply attacked?” “I don’t know,” Wax said. “But I think you’d have had a harder time of it than you believe.” “Curious, how often your papers repeat the same lines,” Daal said. “Boasts about the kandra assassins and Allomancer soldiers. When I know that your demon immortals can’t kill. And your Allomancers? Tell me, how did you reach this ship? By your own power, or…?” What a delightful individual. “Of course,” Daal said, “we don’t live during such … brutal times. I am not here to start a war, Honored Twinborn. Do not look so offended. But I represent many among us who feel your people have taken advantage of our … lenient nature. In particular with the Bands of Mourning. They are ours, and should reside with us.” Wax wanted to leap to arguments. Explain the Bands had been found in Basin territory. That they’d been created by someone from the North, not the South. That a deal had been fairly agreed. But this man was baiting him, and—whatever he’d done in the past—Wax didn’t speak for Elendel. He was only one representative out of many. He refused to be goaded. “Then,” he said, “that is a discussion you may have with the governor and our legislature. And perhaps with God.” The masked admiral regarded
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him, saying no more. But rusts, if tensions were getting worse … This is the absolute worst time, Wax thought with frustration. With the Supremacy Bill passed, there was a real chance the Basin would crumble as a political entity. How would the South respond to that? Daal said he didn’t want war, but what if the South saw the Basin as easy pickings? Their initial encounters had wowed the Southerners. A northern land full of Metalborn and walking myths? But the longer they’d interacted, the more each side had recognized the ordinary nature of the other. Myths became men. And every society knew how to kill other men. Max finally came out, holding up his wet hands to prove he’d washed them. Daal marched them back down the corridor, where Wax strapped his son into the harness again. “It is good to meet you, Ladrian,” the ambassador said. “Good for me, yah? It shows which stories I should believe.” “And which are those?” “The true ones, of course,” Daal said, and gestured for one of his airmen to open the doors, revealing the city below. “I trust my time here will be profitable. Good day, Senator.” With a sigh, Wax threw himself out of the airship—accompanied by a whoop from Max, who seemed to consider this encounter the highlight of an absolutely wonderful day. Wax slowed them carefully with some Pushes, then sent them through a series of quick leaps back to Ahlstrom Tower. The penthouse had a landing platform, and moments later the two of them burst into their suite—Wax carefully locking the door behind them. Steris was putting Tindwyl down for her nap, but walked out to the front room a short time later—to find Max playing with a puzzle while Wax mixed himself a drink. “Mother!” Max said, looking up. “I got to poop on an airship!” “Oh!” she said, with the enthusiasm for the topic only a mother could muster. “That’s exciting!” “I got some strange toilet paper!” he said, lifting it up. “It’s white instead of brown! Traded for it just like Uncle Wayne says!” “Oh. And what did you leave in exchange, dear?” “Well,” he said, “you know…” “Right. Of course.” Steris joined Wax behind the bar, slipping her hand around his waist. “What happened?” “New ambassador,” Wax said. “Doesn’t much like us. Wants the Bands back. Made some vague threats.” “Delightful day for that,” she said. “You were right about the unification timetable,” Wax said. “The ambassador will announce a new consortium of states under the Malwish banner.” “That won’t help our work,” Steris said. “The Elendel Senate will see today’s bill as building a nation out of squabbling cities, a counterpoint to Malwish imperialism.” “Conquest by another name,” Wax said, nursing his drink. He’d occasionaly disparaged Elendel whiskey … but the truth was, some of the stuff you could get here was fantastic. Strong flavored, smoky and complex. He’d come to like it better than Roughs varieties—and it was far, far better than whatever Jub Hending had made in his tub, which peeled
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off layers of skin as a punishment for drinking it. He did still miss good Roughs beers though. “Well, I do have some potentially good news,” Steris said, slipping a letter out of her pocket—she refused to wear skirts without them, no matter how fashionable they were. “It came while you were away.” He slipped the card out. Meet us at the mansion at 3:00. Exciting news. —Marasi They shared a look. “Do we bring Max or not?” Wax asked softly. “How likely is it to involve explosions?” Steris asked. “With us, you never can tell…” “He stays here with Kath, then. His history tutor is coming anyway.” Wax nodded. “I’m going to wash up, and then we can leave.” 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. THE LOST METAL Copyright © 2022 by Dragonsteel Entertainment, LLC Mistborn®, the Stormlight Archive®, Reckoners®, Cosmere®, and Brandon Sanderson® are registered trademarks of Dragonsteel Entertainment, LLC. All rights reserved. Interior illustrations by Isaac Stewart and Ben McSweeney © Dragonsteel Entertainment, LLC Cover art by Chris McGrath A Tor Book Published by Tom Doherty Associates 120 Broadway New York, NY 10271 www.tor-forge.com Tor® is a registered trademark of Macmillan Publishing Group, LLC. The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows: Names: Sanderson, Brandon, author. Title: The lost metal / Brandon Sanderson. Description: First edition. | New York: Tor, A Tom Doherty Associates Book, 2022. | Series: The Mistborn Saga; 7 | Identifiers: LCCN 2022040588 (print) | LCCN 2022040589 (ebook) | ISBN 9780765391193 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781250880963 (international, sold outside the U.S., subject to rights availability) | ISBN 9780765391209 (ebook) Classification: LCC PS3619.A533 L67 2022 (print) | LCC PS3619.A533 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022040588 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022040589 eISBN 9780765391209 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 U.S. Edition: 2022 First International Edition: 2022 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 ETHAN SKARSTEDT Who is a man of Honor. THREE WEEKS AFTER DETONATION Kelsier, the Survivor, liked high places. Fortunately, the city as it had become contained plenty of them. He was one of the few who could remember a time when the grand keeps of Luthadel had been considered lofty, stretching up sixteens of feet into
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the air. Today they would be quaint compared to the city’s dominating skyscrapers. The monoliths of modernity. Kelsier didn’t see quite as he once had. One eye saw as a mortal, the other as an immortal. His spiked eye not only pinned his soul to his bones, but gave him a constant overlay of blue, letting him see the world as a being like Sazed did. Outlining not only sources of metal, but all things. The very axi that made up matter had their own polarity, influenceable with Steelpushing under the right circumstances. One eye of the gods. One eye of the common men. As he had always tried to see the world. He had a spectacular view from the top of the skyscraper today. He could remember the joy, the freedom he’d felt all those years ago when he’d first crested the top of the mists and seen the stars. Now, those stars were naked and bare most nights. Even if the mists were out, it wasn’t too hard to find a building that reached up beyond them, presenting them to full view. Stars. Suns. Planets. Each one a potential threat. A figure walked along the edge of the skyscraper’s top toward Kelsier. Harmony wasn’t accompanied by his dark double, the shadowy version that sometimes appeared these days. A representation of his other self. “Marsh is going to live,” Sazed said, settling down beside Kelsier. If you didn’t look directly at him, you could almost ignore the fact that his essence extended into eternity. Sazed spoke like he always had, though he was literally a god now. Kelsier wasn’t certain if that was because Harmony presented a personality that was familiar to Kelsier, to put him at ease. Or if the man who had once been Kelsier’s friend was actually the same person somehow. “Marsh will live,” Kelsier said, musing. “Does that mean we have atium again? Or did you find another way?” “The kandra found atium dust in Waxillium’s destroyed laboratory,” Sazed said. “It appears that if you detonate harmonium against trellium—or, I suppose bavadinium would be its true name—it creates some small amount of atium as a by-product.” “Lerasium?” Kelsier asked. “I’m sorry. That is all annihilated in the explosion. We’ve tested it several times now.” Damn. Another dead end. “It wouldn’t work on you anyway,” Sazed said. “Not in your current state.” “Doesn’t matter, Saze,” Kelsier said. “We need Allomancers—real Allomancers, like in the old days—to face what is coming. This problem with Trell never would have happened if we’d had proper Metalborn.” “So you agree with the Set?” Sazed said. “And their monstrous undertakings in the name of creating Metalborn?” Did he? It was difficult to say. Sometimes to make an omelet, you had to break a few skulls. He didn’t like what the Set had done to innocent people, and would never condone such actions. But if Hemalurgy was demanded, there was always someone around who was the strict opposite of innocent. “You don’t know where the Set’s experiments could have led,” Sazed said. “Even the
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simple act of trying to breed Allomancers … it leads to darkness, Kell. Trying to create perfect people through forced breeding? You don’t have to be Terris to find that idea nauseating.” “Perhaps Ruin and Preservation should have thought about that before giving genetically derived powers to only part of the population. My goal is to democratize this. Take the power away from the few, give it to the many.” Lerasium would have been the easiest way, but it seemed he would have to keep hunting. That gave him hope for himself though. Lerasium wouldn’t have worked on him, and Hemalurgy had proven ineffective on what he’d become. It held his soul and body together, but no more. There had to be another way. He had hope. Ever, he had hope. Hope he could control the metals again. Hope he would be able to soar again. Hope he’d be able to touch the metals he could see in the world all around him. The two sat in silence for a time. They did that more and more, during their infrequent meetings. Perhaps because both knew it was better than arguing. “I’m fond of heights,” Kelsier eventually said. “More so than when I was fully mortal. Perhaps a part of me holds a grudge against the ground, and what she did to me in those caves. Maybe I just try to get as far from her as possible.” He paused. “Explosions to make atium. I wonder if there will ever be a way to get it that isn’t traumatic.” Sazed didn’t reply. “How could you let it get this far, Saze?” Kelsier eventually asked. “This was almost the end.” “I had it in hand.” “Like hell you did. You’re lucky that lawman could function after what you put him through six years ago. Lucky that the other one was a Slider. I still can’t figure out how he managed that partial detonation in the ship’s hold.” “Luck is a different thing for a god who can see futures, I think,” Sazed replied softly. “Immaterial. This ran to the last minute. You should have stopped Trell years ago. But you didn’t. Why?” Sazed stared out over the city. Beyond the city. To things Kelsier couldn’t see, even with the eye of a god. “You can’t protect this world, Saze,” Kelsier said. “We have to face it. Something’s happening to you.” “I have it in hand.” “Do you? Do you really?” Sazed remained there, seated, with his eyes closed. And damn, looking at him was disorienting. On the surface was his friend, the calm Terrisman. But he extended. Somehow he was the very stone they were sitting on. The city. The planet. And beyond. And there was a darkness within him. A different face from the one he showed. The powers were in imbalance. Ruin had always been stronger. “What would you have me do?” Sazed asked. “There are potential allies out there,” Kelsier said. “Moonlight’s world, perhaps. Or the land of the aethers. Hell, maybe even Mythos. We need a way to reach them.”
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“Shadesmar—” “Is unreliable,” Kelsier said. “I know you’re barely able to get the kandra out into the wider cosmere; it’s untenable for large-scale travel. Besides, crossing it anymore is like walking into the hands of various gods who absolutely want us dead. There’s got to be a better way.” “What are you proposing?” Sazed asked. “Lead us into a new technological age,” Kelsier said. “Help us find ways to defend ourselves, and perhaps accomplish even more. Autonomy consistently shares with her people the things they can accomplish with electricity and industry. You don’t.” “People should discover it on their own,” Sazed said. “If they do not, there are subtle consequences. We should let the decades play out, becoming centuries, and let humankind find their own path to the cosmere—” “No,” Kelsier said. “We can’t wait centuries; we can barely wait decades. If you don’t do something, we will discover technology on our own—when enemy armies bearing it arrive to destroy us. Lead us to a revolution, Saze. Bring us into a new world.” “The one we’ve arrived at isn’t progressing quickly enough?” “What do you think?” Kelsier asked. “Another few weeks, and they’d have had that rocket working, wouldn’t they? They’d have delivered it straight into the heart of Elendel, and millions would have been vaporized—and we’d have never known it was possible. Well, none of us but you.” Sazed looked down. “I will … consider.” “Consider?” Kelsier said. “This is all going to get worse, unless we can stand against the outsiders. Yes, their army withdrew from Shadesmar—you’re welcome for my people’s help with that, by the way—but only because Autonomy is regrouping. “They’re going to come back, and we need to be ready. With technology. More, with our most powerful resource. We need Allomancers and Feruchemists. Is there a way to expand our access to Metalborn? They have the seed inside them, don’t they? The heart of Preservation?” “I don’t know,” Sazed whispered. “Are you lying?” “Have I ever lied to you, old friend?” Sazed opened his eyes and met his gaze, showing infinity within those depths. “I,” Kelsier said, “am going to protect our people. Whatever it costs. Please tell me I won’t ever have to protect them from you.” “That depends,” Sazed said, “entirely upon you, old friend.” TEN HOURS AFTER DETONATION Somehow, the sun was already rising again when Marasi stumbled off the train in Elendel. She might have expected the train to be empty, considering the disasters—both prevented and diminished—that had marked the night. Yet the train was packed. Some traveling to aid those in the waterlogged and broken northwestern quarter of Elendel. Others coming to check on family. Others returning home from the evacuation to seek a place of comfort in this strange time. She let them swarm around her as she stood on the train plat- form, feeling disjointed. Out of place. Part of that was fatigue. She’d had perhaps two hours’ sleep back in Bilming, after coordinating with Constable Blantach, who had finally accepted the evidence of Entrone’s malfeasance. The testimonies of the
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people who Marasi and the others had saved—especially the journalists and politicians who TwinSoul had escorted out—would prove vital. It felt wrong to leave the lord mayor and his remaining accomplices in the hands of a constabulary department that had up until recently answered to him. But honestly, Marasi wasn’t certain what else she could do. An Elendel invasion of Bilming wasn’t feasible, considering the disasters and the political situation. She simply had to hope that the testimonies, the explosion, and the overwhelming physical evidence would be enough to force the Bilming constables to do their jobs. At the least, it seemed that Wax and Wayne had left the Set’s organizational structure—and military forces—in shambles. They’d found Telsin dead on the top of the Shaw. Written, by her own fingernail, on the strangely grey skin of her arm had been the words: You have proven yourselves. For now. The way her god had left her was eerily reminiscent of how the Ascendant Warrior and the Last Emperor had been discovered at the end of the Catacendre. Strangely peaceful, and … And rusts, Marasi was zoning out. Standing there as confused as a Roughs bumpkin her first time in the city. She forced herself to start walking, moving with the last straggling passengers to leave the train. She needed a bath. She needed something to eat. And she needed … A frantic masked figure burst from the crowd ahead, having fought his way against the flow of traffic. She wasn’t certain how he’d talked his way through the ticket gate, but Marasi finally let herself feel a measure of comfort as Allik crashed into her with a powerful embrace. This, she thought as he held her tight, was what it was for. This and a million other people. But to her … it had been for this most of all. Allik pulled back and raised his mask. He’d been crying. “It’s all right,” Marasi said, wiping his tears away. “Allik, I’m fine. I promise. I thought you were outside the city?” “I returned early,” he said. “And these tears aren’t for you, love. We tried to get word to you, but … it was chaotic, and the lines were busy…” Her world started to crack. “Who?” she whispered. “Wayne,” he said. No. It was impossible. Wayne was practically immortal. He was like … like a rock. The kind you got in your shoe and couldn’t get rid of. No … no, he was the kind you leaned against. When you needed something stable. He … He was her partner. She knew their job was dangerous. She knew they risked their lives each day. Still, she’d always assumed she would be the one who … who … “Wax?” she choked out. “Fine,” Allik said. “Well, all but one leg, yah? But he will heal up.” He winced. “He says … Wayne stayed behind. Detonated the bomb. To save the city…” She grabbed him then, because that break in his voice matched the one she felt inside her, and she needed to hold to something.
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As they embraced, she felt grief welling up to destroy her. She … she wouldn’t accept it. She wouldn’t believe he was gone. He’d … he’d survived worse than this. She would come home one day and he’d be sitting in her kitchen helping himself to the chocolate. And if that never happened? I can’t deal with that right now, she thought. Not on two hours of sleep. She let the delusion linger. So it could erode, like a stone in the waves, over time. Allik took her by the shoulders. “You,” he declared, “look like you are in need of copious amounts of baked goods. Delivered with an urgency rivaling that of a warleader in battle. Yah?” “Yah,” she said, embracing him again. “A thousand times yah, Allik.” * * * An hour later—full of exotic cakes and biscuits—Marasi snuggled in the overstuffed chair of her small flat. She’d finally changed, but not into pajamas. Instead she wore her uniform. Long skirt, blouse, constable’s overcoat. Allik had given that an odd glance before he’d slipped out—with characteristic apologies—to buy a bottle of wine. The thing was, as tired as Marasi had felt, another emotion dominated. A sense of displacement. An awareness that something was wrong. She was struggling to deal with the idea that Wayne was dead. Most of her refused to believe, for her own sanity. That was part of it. There was another part though. A sense that something was unfinished, that a question hung in the balance. One she had to answer before she could truly rest. So it was no great surprise that soon after Allik left, a knock sounded at the door. It was a young messenger girl, of the variety you could easily hire in town for a few clips. They knew the ins and outs of the many tenements, apartments, and winding streets of the octants better than most postmen. The girl delivered a small envelope before scampering off. Inside was a card with the symbol of the interlocking triangles. The Ghostbloods. There was an address on the back. Marasi checked her things. Credentials in her pocket. Handgun in the holster at her side. Insignia on her jacket. She didn’t bring a rifle. Today, she didn’t need to be armed so much as equipped. She left a quick note for Allik, promising to return soon, then made her way out into the city. Her city. She loved Elendel. The sheer variety of people. The way that the broadsheets were already selling the story of the detonation. Some called it a warning shot from the Outer Cities, others a deliberate attempt to cause a flood—as if blowing the city up wouldn’t have been a more effective choice. A surprising number actually had the right facts. DAWNSHOT AND DEPUTY SAVE DAY. DARING LAST-MINUTE RACE TO SAVE ELENDEL! BILMING BOMB PREMATURELY DETONATED BY CONSTABLE COURAGE! She wondered what they’d say when they got hold of her story. A hidden cavern full of kidnapped people being used to try to create Mistborn? Moving photos and Hemalurgic monsters? It
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was the sort of thing that would fuel broadsheet stories for decades. She strolled toward her destination. Savoring the scents—good and bad, but always potent—the sounds, the feel of a city so alive that even a disaster couldn’t stop it. The Ghostblood base in Elendel was more ostentatious than the one in Bilming. A grand old-school estate, with stained glass and manicured grounds. Marasi was ushered in without needing to knock, then led to a dimly lit room. She assumed she was to sit here and wait, until she noticed someone at the far side. Seated in a comfortable—but enveloping—chair, fine shoes catching the light, his face lost in shadows. But one feature was plain: a single spike pushed through his right eye. The Survivor himself. She’d met Death, chatted with kandra, heard Wax speak of Harmony. She was no newcomer to figures from lore stepping out of shadow and into her life. This was different somehow. This was the man who had started it all. The man who had survived his own murder. This was the man she’d been taught to worship and revere. Here he was. And it was the most intimidating experience of her life. She tried to speak, and found her mouth dry. The door opened and TwinSoul entered, stabilizing himself against the door handle. Though she’d known him only a short time, it still felt right to give him a hug, which he returned. “It is good to see you well, my lady,” he said to her. “And to hear of your accomplishments.” “Oh!” Marasi said. “TwinSoul. Moonlight, she—” “We’ve heard reports,” TwinSoul said. “She was … forced to use her stamp?” “Yes,” Marasi said. “She will be difficult to recover,” Kelsier said from the shadows. “I may have permanently lost my best agent to this fiasco.” Marasi’s first instinct was to rush to apologize. She stopped herself. “You’d rather we let the invasion happen?” Kelsier leaned forward, and she thought she caught a hint of a smile on his lips. Perhaps the stories were true. That he might be a brutal man, but he wasn’t a stern one. But who knew? Could you really trust stories from hundreds of years ago? And if you could, surely a man changed after living—or, well, not staying dead—for four centuries. “Go ahead, TwinSoul,” Kelsier said. “Marasi Colms,” TwinSoul said, “I am proud to offer you membership in the Ghostbloods. If you accept, I would be honored to become your mentor, as is our tradition. You may join me on my next mission, to track Moonlight down and attempt to restore her natural personality.” “This offer comes with access to everything the Ghostbloods know,” Kelsier said. “We don’t keep secrets from one another.” “Even you, Survivor?” Marasi asked, curious. “Do you keep secrets?” He didn’t respond to that. But he did smile again. “There is lore and arcana we have access to,” TwinSoul said, “that will delight and awe you, my lady. Our duties lead us to fascinating places—all in the service of the very thing you want: protecting Scadrial.”
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“It is not an invitation,” Kelsier added, “that we extend lightly.” So here it was. The question. Did she accept? Lately, she’d wanted so badly to do something more. Every glimpse she got of the larger conflicts—the larger cosmere—made her want to see it in full. Like a woman peeking at a sunset through a slit in the wall. And yet. “How long,” she said, “did you know about the Set? How long did you know what they were trying to do? Who Trell was?” Silence. “We provide answers,” TwinSoul said, “after oaths, my lady. It is our way.” “Did you share with Harmony?” Marasi asked. “Saze,” Kelsier said, “is … erratic lately. There’s a problem brewing with him. One I fear is going to make even today’s events seem trivial by comparison. We must, unfortunately, work in secret. We are too small, too weak, as of yet. In the open, forces in the cosmere would crush us.” She didn’t disagree, not entirely. Every lawwoman understood the need to work covertly at times. And yet. Marasi turned their card over in her fingers, then held it up and looked at the interlocking bloodred diamonds. Was this really what she wanted? She’d been dissatisfied in her service on occasion. But was there any job you didn’t dislike now and then? As she turned the card over again, she remembered why she’d first become a constable. Not just to solve crimes. To solve problems. To make the world a better place, not merely protect it. She couldn’t do that from the shadows, could she? Others might be able to, but Marasi? She’d have to lie to so many people. That violated the fundamental oaths she’d taken. Have you appreciated it? Armal had asked. That question haunted Marasi. “Once,” she said, “about seven years ago, I thought everything I’d ever wanted had fallen into my lap. I thought I’d figured out what I wanted. Then he walked away. That rejection was among the best things that ever happened to me.” “My lady?” TwinSoul said. “I guess,” Marasi continued, “it’s hard to know what you want. We never have all the information. We merely have to do what we can with what we have.” She met Kelsier’s shadowed gaze. “If I join, will you let me share what I discover with the constabulary?” “What do you think?” Kelsier asked. “I think,” she said, “that I am a servant of the people.” She moved to set the card on the table beside the door. “That any power or authority I have comes from them. They are not served by darkness and lies, no matter how well intentioned.” “Be careful,” Kelsier said before she could put the card down. “Are you certain this is what you want?” “No,” she said. “My job isn’t to be certain. My job is to do the best I can. Even with limited information.” She dropped the card. She still needed to find something. An answer for herself. But this wasn’t it. “I’m a servant of the government,” Marasi said, “and of the
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law. Things that you, I believe, have historically had a problem with, Survivor. I appreciate your help on this mission. I’d accept it again in the future.” She shook her head. “But I’m not a good match for your organization. I won’t keep secrets when the truth could save lives.” She needed to know what was hidden here—but she was a detective. She’d find answers without selling her soul. Even if it was to the Survivor himself. Kelsier did not seem like the type of man who appreciated being rejected. But he did eventually nod in acceptance. She shook hands with TwinSoul, offered to help him with Moonlight anyway, then let herself out. Back into the city. Back to the people of Elendel. And as she walked among them—hearing their concerns, their fears, their uncertainty—she remembered things she’d lost to the doldrums of daily work. Plans for her life she’d followed for years, but had eventually grown beyond. Had she grown back into them, then? Wiser, more understanding, more nuanced? It was then, wrung out and exhausted, yet victorious, that she realized what she wanted. All she needed was a plan. * * * Prasanva—TwinSoul—watched her go, then shook his head. Unfortunate. And also remarkable. He liked seeing people uphold their personal codes. The aethers, after all, had created all people to think differently from one another. As the main hallway door shut outside—and Marasi Colms left—Dlavil eased from the shadows behind Kelsier’s seat. The short man bore an intricate and fearsome mask, wooden and painted—but when he spoke, his accent was not that of the Southern Scadrians. It was of Silverlight. “We will need to deal with her,” Dlavil said softly. “She is a woman of integrity,” TwinSoul said. “I will not permit harm to come to her.” “She knows our secrets,” Dlavil said. “She knows this base. She saw what you and Moonlight can do. She glimpsed the maps, the powers, the knowledge. She is dangerous to us now.” “We offered these things freely,” TwinSoul said, “and although she rejected us, she did not take from us. Master Kelsier, rein him in.” “Enough, Dlavil,” Kelsier said, flicking on the light and leaning back in his seat. “TwinSoul is right. She knows nothing that couldn’t be learned from a cursory exploration of the cosmere. We might have to move bases, but that’s our own fault. Moonlight was so certain she’d join.” Dlavil held his tongue, his eyes inscrutable behind that cursed mask. TwinSoul hated being unable to get a full read on the man’s expressions, but Dlavil—like his sister who ran amok on Roshar—wore a mask that he never removed; it was grown in to the point that it was practically part of his skin. “I mean it, Dlavil,” Kelsier said. “You will not move against her, or anyone in this city, without my permission. You understand?” “Yes, Lord Kelsier,” Dlavil said, and withdrew through the back door. Kelsier sighed audibly, rising from his seat. He joined TwinSoul beside the window, where they looked out at the city. “Good work yesterday,”
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Kelsier told him. “Very good work, old friend. We almost lost everything.” TwinSoul bowed his head in acceptance of the praise. It felt good. You are blessed, Silajana said in his mind. And worthy of commendation. That felt even better. “It should never have gotten this far,” Kelsier said. “Something is wrong with Sazed. It’s getting worse.” “What do we do, my lord?” TwinSoul asked. Kelsier narrowed his eye. “I,” he whispered softly, “am going to have to have a difficult conversation with ‘God.’” NINETEEN MONTHS AFTER DETONATION The messenger flitted off across the dark ocean of Shadesmar, glowing faintly. MeLaan sat in a boat kept afloat by some kind of glowing substance on the hull. The blackness beneath was like a liquid, more viscous than water. It was supposed to be perfectly transparent—if a person slipped into it and sank, you were said to be able to watch them fall, and fall, and fall. “Do you know,” MeLaan said, “what those messengers even are?” “An Invested entity,” her guide said, “which can read Connection to find anyone, anywhere.” “That’s … kind of unnerving.” Her guide—Jan Ven—shrugged. She was a creature with four arms, chalk-white skin, and large almost reptilian eyes. Her white hair was wide, like blades of grass. Sho Del were apparently rare out here, but made excellent guides. Something about having a direct line to their gods. The envelope was stamped with the words SILVERLIGHT MERCANTILE. Inside she found a note from Harmony. Short, to the point, empathetic. Wayne had stopped the attack on the city. And had died in the process. Her breath caught. She found herself trembling. Rusts. She was supposed to be better than this. Immortal. Stoic. Why couldn’t she be like the others? She’d known she wouldn’t see him again. But this? She’d wanted him to find someone else. For his own good. And if she was being honest, for her own good. Because he made her forget what she was. Because with him the world was too interesting, and that made her forget what was smart. Dead? He … It was supposed to have been a mere fling. She was just too damn awful at being immortal. She folded the letter, then placed it carefully into her jacket. “Bad news?” Jan Ven asked, paddling them softly across the infinite black expanse. “Yes,” MeLaan whispered. “Do you want to put off the landing?” MeLaan turned. There was land ahead. And lights that seemed too alive for the cold fire of this strange place. People crowded around, hundreds of them, with strange outfits, many with odd red hair. Lost. This was her task. To save those people. “No,” MeLaan said, standing. “I have a duty here.” After all, she could remake, rebuild, and regenerate her heart. That was what her kind did. Begin Reading Table of Contents About the Author Copyright Page Thank you for buying this Tom Doherty Associates ebook. To receive special offers, bonus content, and info on new releases and other great reads, sign up for our newsletters. Or visit us online at
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us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup For email updates on the author, click here. Thank you for buying this Tom Doherty Associates ebook. To receive special offers, bonus content, and info on new releases and other great reads, sign up for our newsletters. Or visit us online at us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup For email updates on the author, click here. Wayne knew about beds. Other kids in Tinweight Settlement had them. A bed sounded much better than a mat on the ground—especially one he had to share with his ma when the nights were cold, because they didn’t have any coal. Plus there were monsters under beds. Yeah, he’d heard stories of mistwraiths. They’d hide unner your bed and steal the faces of people you knew. Which made beds soft and squishy on top, with someone underneath you could talk to. Sounded like rustin’ heaven. Other kids were scared of mistwraiths, but Wayne figured they just didn’t know how to negotiate properly. He could make friends with something what lived unner a bed. You just had to give it something it wanted, like someone else to eat. Anyway, no bed for him. And no proper chairs. They had a table, built by Uncle Gregr. Back before he got crushed by a billion rocks in a landslide and mushed into a pulp what couldn’t hit people no more. Wayne kicked the table sometimes, in case Gregr’s spirit was watching and was fond of it. Rusts knew there was nothing else in this one-window home Uncle Gregr had cared about. Best Wayne had was a stool, so he sat on that and played with his cards—dealing hands and hiding cards up his sleeve—as he waited. This was a nervous time of day. Every evening he feared she wouldn’t come home. Not because she didn’t love him. Ma was a burst of sweet spring flowers in a sewage pit of a world. But because one day Pa hadn’t come home. One day Uncle Gregr—Wayne kicked the table—hadn’t come home. So Ma … Don’t think about it, Wayne thought, bungling his shuffle and spilling cards over the table and floor. And don’t look. Not until you see the light. He could feel the mine out there; nobody wanted to live nexta it, so Wayne and his ma did. He thought of something else, on purpose. The pile of laundry by the wall that he’d finished washing earlier. That had been Ma’s old job what didn’t pay well enough. Now he did it while she pushed minecarts. Wayne didn’t mind the work. Got to try on all the different clothes—whether they were from old gramps or young women—and pretend to be them. His ma had caught him a few times and grown angry. Her exasperation still baffled him. Why wouldn’t you try them all on? That’s what clothes was for. It wasn’t nothing weird. Besides, sometimes folks left stuff in their pockets. Like decks of cards. He fumbled the shuffle again, and as he gathered the cards up he did not look out the window, even though he could feel the mine. That gaping artery,
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like the hole in someone’s neck, red from the inside and spurting out light like blood and fire. His ma had to go dig at the beast’s insides, searchin’ for metals, then escape its anger. You could only get lucky so many times. Then he spotted it. Light. With relief, he glanced out the window and saw someone walking along the path, holding up a lantern to illuminate her way. Wayne scrambled to hide the cards under the mat, then lay on top, feigning sleep when the door opened. She’d have seen his light go out of course, but she appreciated the effort he put into pretending. She settled on the stool, and Wayne cracked an eye. His ma wore trousers and a buttoned shirt, her hair up, her clothing and face smudged. She sat staring at the flame in the lantern, watching it flicker and dance, and her face seemed more hollow than it had been before. Like someone was taking a pickaxe to her cheeks. That mine’s eatin’ her away, he thought. It hasn’t gobbled her up like it did Pa, but it’s gnawing on her. Ma blinked, then fixated on something else. A card he’d left on the table. Aw, hell. She picked it up, then looked right at him. He didn’t pretend to be asleep no more. She’d dump water on him. “Wayne,” she said, “where did you get these cards?” “Don’t remember.” “Wayne…” “Found ’em,” he said. She held out her hand, and he reluctantly pulled the deck out and handed it over. She tucked the card she’d found into the box. Damn. She’d spend a day searching Tinweight for whoever had “lost” them. Well, he wouldn’t have her losing more sleep on account of him. “Tark Vestingdow,” Wayne mumbled. “They was inna pocket of his overalls.” “Thank you,” she said softly. “Ma, I’ve gotta learn cards. That way I can earn a good livin’ and care for us.” “A good living?” she asked. “With cards?” “Don’t worry,” he said quickly. “I’ll cheat! Can’t make a livin’ if you don’t win, see.” She sighed, rubbing her temples. Wayne glanced at the cards in their stack. “Tark,” he said. “He’s Terris. Like Pa was.” “Yes.” “Terris people always do what they’re told. So what’s wrong with me?” “Nothing’s wrong with you, love,” she said. “You just haven’t got a good parent to guide you.” “Ma,” he said, scrambling off the mat to take her arm. “Don’t talk like that. You’re a great ma.” She hugged him to her side, but he could feel her tension. “Wayne,” she asked, “did you take Demmy’s pocketknife?” “He talked?” Wayne said. “Rust that rustin’ bastard!” “Wayne! Don’t swear like that.” “Rust that rusting bastard!” he said in a railworker’s accent instead. He grinned at her innocently, and was rewarded with a smile she couldn’t hide. Silly voices always made her happy. Pa had been good at them, but Wayne was better. Particularly now that Pa was dead and couldn’t say them no more. But then her smile faded. “You can’t take things
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what don’t belong to you, Wayne. That’s somethin’ thieves do.” “I don’t wanna be a thief,” Wayne said softly, putting the pocketknife on the table beside the cards. “I want to be a good boy. It just … happens.” She hugged him closer. “You are a good boy. You’ve always been a good boy.” When she said it, he believed it. “Do you want a story, love?” she asked. “I’m too old for stories,” he lied, desperately wishing she’d tell one anyway. “I’m eleven. One more year and I can drink at the tavern.” “What? Who told you that!” “Dug.” “Dug is nine.” “Dug knows stuff.” “Dug is nine.” “So you’re sayin’ I’ll have to snitch booze for him next year, ’cuz he can’t get it himself yet?” He met her eyes, then started snickering. He helped her get dinner—cold oatmeal with some beans in it. At least it wasn’t only beans. Then he snuggled into his blankets on the mat, pretending he was a child again to listen. It was easy to feign that. He still had the clothes after all. “This is the tale,” she said, “of Blatant Barm, the Unwashed Bandit.” “Oooh…” Wayne said. “A new one?” His mother leaned forward, wagging her spoon toward him as she spoke. “He was the worst of them all, Wayne. Baddest, meanest, stinkiest bandit. He never bathed.” “’Cuz it takes too much work to get properly dirty?” “No, because he … Wait, it’s work to get dirty?” “Gotta roll around in it, you see.” “Why in Harmony’s name would you do that?” “To think like the ground,” Wayne said. “To…” She smiled. “Oh, Wayne. You’re so precious.” “Thanks,” he said. “Why ain’t you told me of this Blatant Barm before? If he was so bad wouldn’t he be the first one you told stories about?” “You were too young,” she said, sitting back. “And the story too frightening.” Ooooh … This was going to be a good one. Wayne bounced up and down. “Who got ’im? Was it a lawman?” “It was Allomancer Jak.” “Him?” Wayne said with a groan. “I thought you liked him.” Well, all the kids did. Jak was new and interesting, and had been solving all kinds of tough crimes this last year. Least according to Dug. “But Jak always brings the bad guys in,” Wayne complained. “He never shoots a single one.” “Not this time,” Ma said, digging into her oatmeal. “He knew Blatant Barm was the worst. Killer to the core. Even Barm’s sidekicks—Gud the Killer and Noways Joe—were ten times worse than any other bandit that ever walked the Roughs.” “Ten times?” Wayne said. “Yup.” “That’s a lot! Almost double!” His ma frowned for a moment, but then leaned forward again. “They’d robbed the payroll. Taking not just the money from the fat men in Elendel, but the wages of the common folk.” “Bastards!” Wayne said. “Wayne!” “Fine! Regular old turds then!” Again she hesitated. “Do you … know what the word ‘bastard’ means?” “It’s a bad turd, the kind you get when you’ve really
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got to go, but you hold it in too long.” “You know that because…” “Dug told me.” “Of course he did. Well, Jak, he wouldn’t stand for stealing from the common folk of the Roughs. Being a bandit is one thing, but everyone knows you take the money what goes toward the city. “Unfortunately, Blatant Barm, he knew the area real well. So he rode off into the most difficult land in the Roughs—and he left one of his two sidekicks to guard each of the key spots along the way. Fortunately, Jak was the bravest of men. And the strongest.” “If he was the bravest and strongest,” Wayne said, “why was he a lawman? He could be a bandit, and nobody could stop him!” “What’s harder, love?” she asked. “Doing what’s right or doing what’s wrong?” “Doing what’s right.” “So who gets stronger?” Ma asked. “The fellow what does the easy thing, or what does the hard thing?” Huh. He nodded. Yeah. Yeah, he could see that. She moved the lantern closer to her face, making it shine as she spoke. “Jak’s first test was the River Human, the vast waterway marking the border with what had once been koloss lands. The waters moved at the speed of a train; it was the fastest river in the whole world—and it was full of rocks. Gud the Killer had set up there, across the river, to watch for lawmen. He had such a good eye and steady hand that he could shoot a fly off a man at three hundred paces.” “Why’d you want to do that?” Wayne asked. “Better to shoot ’im right in the fly. That’s gotta hurt something bad.” “Not that kind of fly, love,” Ma said. “So what did Jak do?” Wayne asked. “Did he sneak up? Not very lawman-like to sneak. I don’t think they do that. I’ll bet he didn’t sneak.” “Well…” Ma said. Wayne clutched his blanket, waiting. “Jak was a better shot,” she whispered. “When Gud the Killer sighted on him, Jak shot him first—clean across the river.” “How’d Gud die?” Wayne whispered. “By bullet, love.” “Through the eye?” Wayne said. “Suppose.” “And so Gud lined up a shot and Jak did likewise—but Jak shot first, hitting Gud straight through the sights into the eye! Right, Ma!” “Yup.” “And his head exploded,” Wayne said, “like a fruit—the crunchy kind, the shell all tough but it’s gooey inside. Is that how it happened?” “Absolutely.” “Dang, Ma,” Wayne said. “That’s gruesome. You sure you should be tellin’ me this story?” “Should I stop?” “Hell no! How’d Jak get across the water?” “He flew,” Ma said. She set her bowl aside, oatmeal finished, and gave a flourish with both hands. “Using his Allomantic powers. Jak can fly, and talk to birds, and eat rocks.” “Wow. Eat rocks?” “Yup. And so he flew over that river. But the next challenge was even worse. The Canyon of Death.” “Ooooh…” Wayne said. “Bet that place was pretty.” “Why do you say that?” “’Cuz nobody’s going to visit a place called
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‘Canyon of Death’ unless it’s pretty. But somebody visited it, ’cuz we know the name. So it must be pretty.” “Beautiful,” Ma said. “A canyon carved through the middle of a bunch of crumbling rock spires—the broken peaks streaked with colors, like they was painted that way. But the place was as deadly as it was beautiful.” “Yeah,” Wayne said. “Figures.” “Jak couldn’t fly over this one, for the second of the bandits hid in the canyon. Noways Joe. He was a master of pistols, and could also fly, and turn into a dragon, and eat rocks. If Jak tried to sneak past, Joe would shoot him from behind.” “That’s the smart way to shoot someone,” Wayne said. “On account of them not bein’ able to shoot back.” “True,” Ma said. “So Jak didn’t let that happen. He had to go into the canyon—but it was filled with snakes.” “Bloody hell!” “Wayne…” “Regular old boring hell, then! How many snakes?” “A million snakes.” “Bloody hell!” “But Jak, he was smart,” Ma said. “So he’d thought to bring some snake food.” “A million bits of snake food?” “Nah, only one,” she said. “But he got the snakes to fight over it, so they mostly killed each other. And the one what was left was the strongest, naturally.” “Naturally.” “So Jak talked it into biting Noways Joe.” “And so Joe turned purple!” Wayne said. “And bled out his ears! And his bones melted, so the melty bone juice leaked out of his nose! And he collapsed into a puddle of deflated skin, all while hissing and blubbering ’cuz his teeth was melting!” “Exactly.” “Dang, Ma. You tell the best stories.” “It gets better,” she said softly, leaning down on the stool, their lantern burning low. “Because the ending has a surprise.” “What surprise?” “Once Jak was through the canyon—what now smelled like dead snakes and melted bones—he spotted the final challenge: the Lone Mesa. A giant plateau in the center of an otherwise flat plain.” “That’s not much of a challenge,” Wayne said. “He could fly to the top.” “Well he tried to,” she whispered. “But the mesa was Blatant Barm.” “WHAT?” “That’s right,” Ma said. “Barm had joined up with the koloss—the ones that change into big monsters, not the normal ones like old Mrs. Nock. And they showed him how to turn into a monster of humongous size. So when Jak tried to land on it, the mesa done gobbled him up.” Wayne gasped. “And then,” he said, “it mashed him beneath its teeth, crushing his bones like—” “No,” Ma said. “It tried to swallow him. But Jak, he wasn’t only smart and a good shot. He was something else.” “What?” “A big damn pain in the ass.” “Ma! That’s swearin’.” “It’s okay in stories,” Ma said. “Listen, Jak was a pain. He was always going about doing good. Helping people. Making life tough for bad people. Asking questions. He knew exactly how to ruin a bandit’s day. “So as he was swallowed, Jak stretched out his arms and legs, then pushed—making
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himself a lump in Blatant Barm’s throat, so the monster couldn’t breathe. Monsters like that needs lotsa air, you know. And so, Allomancer Jak done choked Barm from the inside. Then, when the monster was dead on the ground, Jak sauntered out down its tongue—like it was some fancy mat set outside a carriage for a rich man.” Whoa. “That’s a good story, Ma.” She smiled. “Ma,” he said. “Is the story … about the mine?” “Well,” she said, “I suppose we all gotta walk into the beast’s mouth now and then. So … maybe, I guess.” “You’re like the lawman then.” “Anyone can be,” she said, blowing out the lantern. “Even me?” “Especially you.” She kissed him on the forehead. “You are whatever you want to be, Wayne. You’re the wind. You’re the stars. You are all endless things.” It was a poem she liked. He liked it too. Because when she said it, he believed her. How could he not? Ma didn’t lie. So, he snuggled deeper into his blankets and let himself drift off. A lot was wrong in the world, but a few things were right. And as long as she was around, stories meant something. They was real. Until the next day, when there was another collapse at the mine. That night, his ma didn’t come home. SIX MONTHS AFTER DETONATION Ranette’s honeymoon had been dreadful. Full of relaxing and reading books and seeing sights in Malwish. Not a single gun. She’d barely been allowed to draw schematics and designs. “You’d better appreciate this,” she grumbled to Jaxy as the car pulled up to their place in Elendel. “You liked it,” Jaxy said, poking her in the side. “Don’t pretend you didn’t like it.” “Having fun gets boring too quickly,” Ranette muttered. “Just think how refreshed you are,” Jaxy replied. “How many ideas flowed when you didn’t have to worry about deadlines or delivery dates!” “I like deadlines,” Ranette said. Jaxy eyed her. “Fine,” Ranette said. “It wasn’t awful. It was almost enjoyable. Even if that place is weird. I wish Wax hadn’t discovered it. Then maybe we’d have gone to the Roughs.” “The Roughs,” Jaxy said. “For our honeymoon.” Ranette shrugged. “You’re the one who likes that dumb restaurant.” Jaxy rolled her eyes as the car—strangely—didn’t stop at their place. It kept driving. “Wait,” Ranette said, turning and looking back. “There’s something you need to see,” Jaxy said. “This isn’t more ‘fun,’ is it? I’m so full of it by this point, I feel like barfing it all right back out.” “You are so romantic,” Jaxy said, taking her arm. Ranette huffed. Well, she’d been careful not to spoil the actual honeymoon with this kind of behavior. She’d been nice and enjoyable and perky. Okay. Not perky. But not grouchy. Most of the time. And admittedly, the Southern Continent had been something special. Even if tensions were … well, growing tenser. There was constant talk of closing the borders to Northerners. It seemed that tourism was at an end. Regardless, they were home now. This was
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supposed to be her time to gripe. That was how a relationship worked. Push and Pull. She’d given. Now she could take a little. Now she could … “What the hell?” she asked as the car came to a stop outside her shop. A little place on a small plot of land—which had been expanded somehow to a very large place on a small plot of land. “A wedding gift,” Jaxy said. “How in the world did you afford this?” Ranette said, throwing the door open and stumbling out. “I didn’t. It’s not from me.” Ranette looked back. “Some nice men showed up,” Jaxy explained, “with a sum from Wayne. After … you know. They said I was supposed to do something nice for you, but—the instructions said clearly—‘Not in a skeevy way.’ He suggested a renovation to the shop.” Ranette couldn’t help smiling at that. She had been surprised by how much she’d missed Wayne. Once he had learned—shockingly, people could learn—how to not be slime, they’d actually become friends. Of course, he’d gone out in the most incredible explosion ever. So she hadn’t felt that bad. If you had to die, then hell, that was the way. She was still trying to figure out how to get her hands on some of those explosives. The things she could build with something that packed that much of a punch … “He left a note,” Jaxy said, handing it to her. Hey, it said. In crayon. These two fellows in suits told me I gotta write this and make decisions about this stuff, just in case. Apparently they think my job is “high risk.” I told them that if they wanted their jobs to become high risk, they should try pushin’ me harder to do stupid stuff. But … I guess, if you’re readin’ this, I’m done and gone. Buried. Maybe burned. Maybe I got eaten. I dunno. Whatever happened, I hope it’s Marasi’s fault, because she’s always tellin’ me I’m gonna get her into trouble and it would be nice if that hat were on her head instead. Anyway … I want to say thanks. For not throwin’ the Wayne out with the Wayne, ya know? Enjoy the gift. Build something real awesome. “Damn,” she said, putting her hands on her hips. “I really do miss that little miscreant.” Jaxy smiled, leaning into her, holding to her arm. “Ranette. That was almost kind.” “I mean it. I miss him.” She smiled. “Wasn’t ever a person I’ve known who was more fun to shoot.” TWO DAYS AFTER DETONATION On the second day of the city’s recovery, Steris finally got to bring Waxillium home from the hospital. They limped out of Hoid’s car, Wax on crutches, then looked up at the enormous skyscraper that held their suite. Wax stared at it, his eyes faintly haunted. “Thinking of the Shaw?” Steris asked softly. He nodded. “On that rooftop, Wayne made me get him a spike. If I hadn’t listened, he wouldn’t have been able to Push me away.” “So you could have done what?”
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she said gently. “Stayed with him to die? He knew what he needed to do.” Wax looked to her, and she saw the same pain in his eyes that she’d seen after Lessie’s second death. Tempered this time, but haunting nonetheless. She hated seeing him in pain. It happened far too often. “I should have at least said goodbye,” Wax whispered. “He left the Roughs because of me…” “And he lived because you gave him a second chance,” Steris said. As he was staring up at the roof, she covertly consulted her notes from the books on trauma she’d been reading. “This wasn’t your fault, Waxillium. You need to allow Wayne his agency, allow him to have made his own choice. You would have sacrificed yourself for the city; we both know it. So let him have the same decision.” He was silent for a moment, and she tried—anxiously—to figure out what he was feeling. Was that scrunched-up face annoyance? Or was it pain? Ruin, had she made it worse? “You’re right,” he said softly, then blinked tears from his eyes. “You’re right, Steris. I need to let him be the hero, don’t I? Harmony … he really is gone.” She slipped her notebook into her pocket and held him close, ignoring the world around them. She dimmed everything else, like an old gas lantern with a dial. Turned it down until only the two of them remained. Only the two of them mattered. He held to her, then took a long, deep breath. “Marasi still doesn’t believe he’s gone. She thinks he’s going to come sauntering back in a few months, wearing a straw hat and telling us how great the fruity drinks are in the Malwish Consortium. But she’s wrong. This time it’s over.” “Yes,” Steris whispered. “He’s gone. But nothing is over, Wax. You said the same thing when Lessie died. It wasn’t true then. It’s not true now. It will take time for you to believe, but you can trust that it will happen.” He squeezed her hand. “Again, you’re right. How did you get so good at this, Steris?” “I learned from Wayne.” “About … helping people deal with pain?” “No,” she said, then slipped out her notebook. “About cheating.” Waxillium smiled. The first genuine one she’d seen from him since the incident. Then he handed her his crutches and dropped a spent bullet casing to the ground. “Oh!” she said. “Are you sure this is wise?” “I might be getting old, but I’m not frail,” he said, then grabbed hold of her. “You ready?” “Always,” she said, feeling an exquisite thrill from anticipating the flight. She leaned into him. He propelled them upward, using the metal installations he’d had erected here to give him a series of appropriate anchors. A rushing, exhilarating ascent with wind in her hair, and the insignificant world became more tiny. Until it was only the two of them and the sky. Wax landed them carefully on the platform outside their suite. As he took back his crutches, Steris fished for her
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notebook. “I think…” Wax said. “I think I’m going to be all right.” “Good,” she said, flipping a few pages. “I have a Wayne quote for the moment.” “A what?” “I figured,” she said, “it would be a way of remembering him. To keep a few appropriate lines handy. Is that … morbid? That’s morbid, isn’t it? I’m sorry.” “No,” he said. “I mean, it might be, but he’d approve.” She grinned. “‘Oi,’” she said. “‘Here you carried a girl all that way, mate, and you didn’t grab ’er butt, even a little?’” “You just made that one up.” She proffered the notebook, showing the line written there. “Well, I mean,” Wax said, “we’ve got to do as he says.” “It’s the only proper way to honor the dead.” He seized her then, pulled her into a kiss, her figure sculpting to his and pushing against him in all the right places. It felt amazing—like they were liquid, aligned, alive, alight. And yes, a proper butt-grab was involved. It almost toppled them to the side, unbalancing Wax on his good leg. They broke the kiss before an accident could befall them, but stayed close. “Thank you,” Wax whispered. “For being you.” “It’s the only thing I am good at,” she said. “Other than throwing cows at people.” Wax frowned. “That is something Wayne said on occasion,” she said. In response to that, he looked to the sky. “Thank you, Wayne. Wherever you are. For letting me have this. For making me live.” She forced him inside then, so he could sit. He wasn’t supposed to put weight on that leg, cast or no cast. Even if he could cheat by making himself lighter. Unfortunately, Kath had been a little quicker than she’d expected, and the kids were already back from the Harms estate down-Basin. So Wax, in flagrant disregard for medical instructions, knelt and scooped Max up in an embrace. “Daddy!” Max said. “You did it! Kath says you did it!” “Did it?” he asked. “Stopped the bad guys! Saved the world!” “I suppose,” Wax said, “I did a little of both. Wayne helped a lot though.” “Jennid at school,” Max continued, “says that you’re also supposed to get the girl when you save the world. But that part is stupid. I don’t like girls.” “What?” Wax said. “Not even Mommy?” “Dad,” Max said, with an exaggerated sense of long-suffering—as if this were the most obvious thing a boy had ever had to describe. “Mommy’s not a girl, she’s a mom.” Steris smiled, moving over by Kath as Wax took little Tindwyl and held her tight, letting her grab at his sideburns. “This came for you,” Kath said softly, taking a letter from her handbag. “A short time ago. It looked important.” “Thank you,” Steris said, taking the letter—which was addressed to her—and noting the governor’s seal on the front. Her panic was immediate. She’d worried about this. She’d written down the possibility, but surely it wouldn’t … it couldn’t … She ripped it open, her hands shaking with terror. He’d need
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a new vice governor, now that he’d formally fired Adawathwyn. Surely he wouldn’t … Dear Steris Harms Ladrian, I would like to meet with you and discuss a possible appointment in my government. Considering your invaluable service during the recent crisis— Oh no. Oh no. Not that. —I have decided to ask you to accept a position as the city’s Disaster Preparations Officer. I would assign you a seat on my council and provide a task force for your use, ensuring the city is prepared and outfitted for any and all potential disasters or relevant dangers. Please reply with times that will work for you, so we can sit down and talk. On a more personal level, I’d like to give you my most sincere thanks. I am being hailed as a hero and a decisive leader. I would not deserve either of those accolades without your intervention. Disaster … Preparations Officer? She blinked. Why … that wasn’t terrifying at all. That might actually be fun. Wax gave Tindwyl to Kath, then hobbled over to Steris—nodding passively as Max explained at length about the new marbles game he’d been playing. Looking over her shoulder, Wax read the letter, then took her by the elbow. “Steris,” he said, “that’s wonderful.” “I don’t deserve it,” she said. “The tsunami wasn’t nearly as bad as I’d feared it would be.” “Love,” Wax said, “you do deserve it.” She turned to look him in the eyes. “What if instead of quoting Wayne,” he said softly, “we honored him in a different way. What if we decided to make an effort to let ourselves be happy? What do you think of that, Lady Ladrian?” “I think, Lord Ladrian, I should like that very, very much.” And she could already imagine an entire list of plans to make certain it happened. TWO YEARS AFTER DETONATION The most difficult thing about commissioning Wayne’s statue had been deciding which hat it should be wearing. In the end, the answer had been obvious. They had to make it changeable. So it was that Wax and Steris stood before a remarkably accurate bronze depiction of Wayne wearing a removable bronze version of his lucky hat. He was larger than life-size, smiling slyly, with an outstretched hand. Likely so that he could pick your pocket with the other, but most people would think he was offering help. They figured they’d replace the hat once a year. Keep things fresh, interesting. It wasn’t the official unveiling yet, but the artist had let Wax and Steris come to see it. Fences kept others away as they promenaded along the Field of Rebirth at the very hub of Elendel. The knoll where people had first emerged after the remaking of the world. The statues of the Ascendant Warrior and the Last Emperor were just far enough away that if Wayne’s had been alive, he could have hit them on the backs of their heads with an occasional thrown pebble. That seemed appropriate. Steris knelt down to read the inscription. “‘You’re meant to be helping people,’” she
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read, then noticed a second, smaller inscription plaque at the bottom, near the base. Wax winced as she read this one too. “‘Ain’t no fellow who regretted giving it one extra shake,’” she read, “‘but you can bet every guy has regretted giving one too few.’ I can’t believe you used that quote.” “The lower plaque can be removed,” Wax said quickly. “We’ll change it up now and then too. But … well, that quote was something he explicitly asked for.” She stood up and shook her head, but he could tell she was already thinking this would be a good place to put some of the more choice quotes she’d recorded. Wax remained standing, looking up at the visage of his friend. The dull ache remained. Always would. But Wax had been living his life. He, Steris, and the kids were preparing for another tour of the Roughs. A political tour, to drum up support for their bid to become a province in the changing face of the Basin. Two years of hard work had staved off civil war. Real progress had finally led to a national assembly for the cities of the Basin. The Roughs were next. Some there wanted to be their own country; he hoped to persuade them they’d be better united. The gate to the fence slammed, and shortly Marasi stepped up to the statue, wearing Wayne’s actual lucky hat. Wayne had left it to her. A last-minute addition to the will, they’d been told. At first, Wax had thought he hadn’t been left anything specific. Then certain items had started … showing up. He held up the latest one for Marasi to see. “A desiccated frog?” Marasi asked. “Taxidermied,” Wax said. “Was in my coat pocket this morning. Along with a note apologizing. Apparently the instructions had been for a live frog, but they hadn’t quite been able to bring themselves to do it.” “You ever find out who he paid to do this?” Marasi asked, taking the frog by one leg. “I assume it’s the men who handle his estate,” Wax said, “from how polite and apologetic the notes are. I haven’t had the heart to confront them about it.” “You should just let it keep happening,” Steris said. He frowned as she stepped up to him. “You don’t think it’s gross? Last time was half a sandwich.” “It is obviously gross,” she said. “But … well, it shows remarkable planning on Wayne’s part. It’s the sort of thing we should encourage.” “He’s dead,” Marasi pointed out. “It’s the sort of thing we should respect, then,” Steris said. Marasi eyed the frog. “They say that in gift-giving, it’s the thought that counts. So … um … how do we interpret this?” Wax sighed. “I’m sure they’ll run out of items on his list soon enough.” Both women stared at him. “Did you know Wayne?” Marasi asked. “When in his life did he ever let a joke die?” It was … a fair point. And from what they’d learned about Wayne’s remarkable finances, he’d had the
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money to keep this joke going for a long, long time. And, well, things like the frog were aggravating. And endearing. Both at once. Just like Wayne had been. “Are you ready for your trip, Marasi?” Steris asked. Marasi grimaced. “Physically? Yes. We’re packed. But mentally? Emotionally?” “You’ll do wonderfully,” Steris said. “You’re going to be the best rusting ambassador the damn Basin ever had!” Marasi cocked her head. “Using respectful language,” Steris explained, looking up at the statue of Wayne, “considering the location.” “She’s right,” Wax said to Marasi. “You’re exactly what we need. A Basin woman with a Malwish partner. A distinguished public servant with a record for being fair but tough. The leaders of the Southern nations will listen to you.” Marasi nodded, her expression firm. “Have to be honest,” Wax said, broaching the topic, “I’m a little surprised to see you leaving the constabulary behind. A part of me thought you’d never walk away. It was your dream.” “No,” she said. “My dream was to do more. Always has been.” “I suppose you can do that as ambassador,” Wax said. Marasi smiled, arms folded. He was happy to see how confident she’d been lately. “You’re planning something,” Wax said, finding himself amused. “What is it, Marasi?” “I realized a while ago that there was something I wanted to do, something I wanted to accomplish,” Marasi said. “But I needed experience I didn’t have yet. I think becoming ambassador will help.” Wax frowned at that, trying to pick out what she meant. But before he could press further, Steris spoke. “Hopefully you can calm the tensions,” she said. “If anyone can get them to start opening up trade with us again, it will be you.” He agreed with the sentiment. Wax hadn’t been in the meeting where the Bands had been brought out and found drained, but it smelled of a setup to him. Unfortunately, since the events of the detonation, relations had grown increasingly tense. The Basin felt the Bands had been taken unjustly, and the Malwish claimed that the Basin had shown aggression by even considering using them. But the Bands were merely a symbol. Part of a larger power play. A new faction in Malwish—the one in control of their unification—kept talking about how Northern disasters had caused them so much hardship over the centuries, and warned that the discovery of these bombs was only the next step. They saw the North as chaotic, unpredictable. Listening to this group, the Malwish Consortium had forbidden things like tourism and even most forms of trade between continents. Most importantly, they’d forbidden any transfer of harmonium to Northern interests. No harmonium meant no airships. And no Investiture bombs, though trellium was the rarer component of that particular device. Unfortunately, the Basin had enough of both metals squirreled away to be dangerous. And despite his arguments against it, the Basin had been looking into developing weapons using those remnants. They’d entered a new age. War was one of the main disasters Steris had to spend her time preparing for. It
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wouldn’t come to that. Hopefully. If only he could figure out who had drained the Bands … Don’t go down that path, he thought. Yet if he didn’t ask those kinds of questions, who was he? Lawman? Father? Senator? Questions were part of who he was. He just wished he knew for certain that the choice was his. Though, as he considered—his old instincts working on his behalf—he thought maybe he could piece together what Marasi was planning. Judging by the way she was glancing back at the line of political picket signs in the grass nearby. By the way she’d strategically chosen such a high-profile appointment. She said she needed experience. Negotiating, perhaps. Soothing egos. Trying to get people to get along … “Rusts,” he said, pointing at her. “You’re planning to run for governor.” She jumped at the exclamation. Then blushed. Then she raised her chin and nodded. Wax looked to Steris, who was smiling. “You knew?” “She needed help planning,” Steris said. “But the secret wasn’t mine to share.” “I had to really decide,” Marasi said. “Had to know for myself, Wax. I need experience. I need to see if I’m any good at this sort of work. But … yes.” Huh. “I found I couldn’t content myself with a constable’s job,” she said, “after what I’d seen and learned. I needed to be able to change things. Actually change things.” She glanced at him. “Do you think I’m foolish? For years, in my youth, I thought maybe I was being trained to enter politics. I ran away from that, but now…” They locked eyes. And she seemed to realize, for the first time, what she was saying. Who she was saying it to. Yes, he understood that feeling. He nodded to her, then glanced again at the quote on Wayne’s plaque. Those words he’d said, years ago now. You’re meant to be helping people. Another figure approached, this one wearing a long black coat and hat. He stepped up beside them, inspecting the statue through spiked eyes. “It looks good,” Death said. “How is it,” Steris said, “you walk around without drawing attention?” “Emotional Allomancy,” he said absently. “You seem better,” Marasi said. “The treatment is working.” “Thank you,” he replied. “I prefer not to taste of my own offerings. It seems I won’t have to for some time.” He turned to Wax. “Greetings, Brother.” Wax felt at his abdomen, where he bore his spike. Though he’d been assured being called “brother” by the likes of the kandra and Death didn’t mean he was immortal, it did make him uncomfortable. He’d joined the ranks of an extremely disturbing group. The spiked. “I’ve considered removing it,” Wax said. “I will help if you wish,” Death said. “But not all of them can be removed. I nearly lost one once that would have ended me. Still find it amazing that I survived.” “Perhaps it’s in the blood,” Steris said. “Perhaps it is at that.” He hesitated. “Harmony wants me to express his regards.” God could have spoken into Wax’s head
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because of the spike. But he had—by Wax’s request—vowed never to do so, unless asked. He said he wouldn’t even watch. The spike, though, continued to perpetuate a problem. Who was Wax? Father, lawman, senator? Or was he none of the three? A part of him still worried, after all these years, that he was something else entirely. A pawn. “Ironeyes?” Marasi asked. “Is … is Wayne really gone? Like … are we absolutely certain?” Death smiled. “I didn’t meet his soul, Marasi. I only do that some of the time, when Saze Invests me with the power. I think he likes the idea of me living up to the stories people decided to tell about me. It’s … his way. “Regardless, I didn’t meet Wayne as he left. Harmony did that personally. Yes, your friend is gone.” He nodded to the statue. “Remarkable likeness … It took an intervention to get Vin’s right. But this is spot- on from the first try.” He nodded to the group of them, then handed a small note to Wax. From there, Death withdrew. Wax didn’t buy his explanation of using emotional Allomancy to remain hidden. There was something more here. He turned over the card that Death had given him. It was from Harmony. I’ve heard distressing things, Waxillium Ladrian, that you’ve been worrying about. I would like to promise you something. With all the essence and axi of my being, I declare this. No one else moves you. Your life is yours. And you have my deepest apologies that I had a hand in teaching you otherwise. Wax held that card for a long time. Then he tucked it into his pocket. He took Steris’s hand and looked up at the statue. Who was he? He supposed … well, he was whoever he wanted to be. No decision had ever forced him to choose one role over others—and being one man did not prevent him from being the others as well. He kept making that mistake, but he vowed right then to stop. To listen to his wife, to his heart, and to Harmony himself. Father, lawman, senator. He could be all three, and more. So long as he was helping people. THE END OF ERA TWO OF MISTBORN 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. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS As you might imagine, producing a book in the Stormlight Archive is a major undertaking. It involved almost eighteen months of writing, from outline to final revision, and includes the artwork of
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four different individuals and the editorial eyes of a whole host of people, not to mention the teams at Tor who do production, publicity, marketing, and everything else a major book needs in order to be successful. For some two decades now, the Stormlight Archive has been my dream—the story I always wished I could tell. The people you’ll read about below quite literally make my dreams a reality, and there aren’t words to express my gratitude for their efforts. First in line on this novel needs to be my assistant and primary continuity editor, the incumbent Peter Ahlstrom. He worked very long hours on this book, putting up with my repeated insistence that things which did not fit continuity actually did—eventually persuading me I was wrong far more often than not. As always, Moshe Feder—the man who discovered me as a writer—did excellent editorial work on the book. Joshua Bilmes, my agent, worked hard on the book in both an agenting and editorial capacity. He’s joined by Eddie Schneider, Brady “Words of Bradiance” McReynolds, Krystyna Lopez, Sam Morgan, and Christa Atkinson at the agency. At Tor, Tom Doherty put up with me delivering a book even longer than the last one when I promised to make it shorter. Terry McGarry did the copyediting, Irene Gallo is responsible for the art direction for the cover, Greg Collins for interior design, Brian Lipofsky’s team at Westchester Publishing Services for compositing, Meryl Gross and Karl Gold for production, Patty Garcia and her team for publicity. Paul Stevens acted as superman whenever we needed him. A big thanks to all of you. You may have noticed that this volume, like the one before it, includes amazing art. My vision for the Stormlight Archive has always been of a series that transcended common artistic expectations for a book of its nature. As such, it is an honor to once again have my favorite artist, Michael Whelan, involved in the project. I feel that his cover has captured Kaladin perfectly, and I am extremely grateful for the extra time he spent on the cover—at his own insistence—going through three drafts before he was satisfied. To have endpapers of Shallan as well is more than I had hoped to see for the book, and I’m humbled by how well this whole package came together. When I pitched the Stormlight Archive, I spoke of having “guest star” artists do pieces for the books here and there. We have our first of those in this novel, for which Dan dos Santos (another of my personal favorite artists, and the man who did the cover for Warbreaker) agreed to do some interior illustrations. Ben McSweeney graciously returned to do more brilliant sketchbook pages for us, and he is a pure delight to work with. Quick to recognize what I want, sometimes even when I’m not quite sure what I want, I’ve rarely met a person who mixes talent and professionalism in the way Ben does. You can find more of his art at InkThinker.net. A long time ago, almost ten years
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now, I met a man named Isaác Stewart who—in addition to being an aspiring writer—was an excellent artist, particularly when it came to things like maps and symbols. I started collaborating with him on books (starting with Mistborn) and he eventually set me up on a blind date with a woman named Emily Bushman—whom I subsequently married. So needless to say, I owe Isaac a few big favors. With each progressive book he works on, that debt on my part grows greater as I see the amazing work he has done. This year, we decided to make his involvement a little more official as I hired him full-time to be an in-house artist and to help me with administrative tasks. So if you see him, welcome him to the team. (And tell him to keep working on his own books, which are quite good.) Also joining us at Dragonsteel Entertainment is Kara Stewart, Isaac’s wife, as our shipping manager. (I actually tried to hire Kara first—and Isaac piped up noting that some of the things I wanted to hire her for, he could do. And it ended up that I got both of them, in a very convenient deal.) She’s the one you’ll interact with if you order T-shirts, posters, or the like through my website. And she’s awesome. We used a few expert consultants on this book, including Matt Bushman for his songwriting and poetry expertise. Ellen Asher gave some great direction on the scenes with horses, and Karen Ahlstrom was an additional poetry and song consultant. Mi’chelle Walker acted as Alethi handwriting consultant. Finally, Elise Warren gave us some very nice notes relating to the psychology of a key character. Thank you all for lending me your brains. This book had an extensive beta read done under some strict time constraints, and so a hearty bridgeman salute goes to those who participated. They are: Jason Denzel, Mi’chelle Walker, Josh Walker, Eric Lake, David Behrens, Joel Phillips, Jory Phillips, Kristina Kugler, Lyndsey Luther, Kim Garrett, Layne Garrett, Brian Delambre, Brian T. Hill, Alice Arneson, Bob Kluttz, and Nathan Goodrich. Proofreaders at Tor include Ed Chapman, Brian Connolly, and Norma Hoffman. Community proofreaders include Adam Wilson, Aubree and Bao Pham, Blue Cole, Chris King, Chris Kluwe, Emily Grange, Gary Singer, Jakob Remick, Jared Gerlach, Kelly Neumann, Kendra Wilson, Kerry Morgan, Maren Menke, Matt Hatch, Patrick Mohr, Richard Fife, Rob Harper, Steve Godecke, Steve Karam, and Will Raboin. My writing group managed to get through about half of the book, which is a lot, considering how long the novel is. They are an invaluable resource to me. Members are: Kaylynn ZoBell, Kathleen Dorsey Sanderson, Danielle Olsen, Ben-son-son-Ron, E. J. Patten, Alan Layton, and Karen Ahlstrom. And finally, thanks to my loving (and rambunctious) family. Joel, Dallin, and little Oliver help keep me humble each day by always making me be the “bad guy” who gets beat up. My forgiving wife, Emily, put up with a lot this past year, as tours grew long, and I’m still not sure what I did to deserve
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her. Thank you all for making my world one of magic. CONTENTS Endpaper Title Page Copyright Notice Dedication Acknowledgments Prologue: To Question Part One: Alight 1. Santhid 2. Bridge Four 3. Pattern 4. Taker of Secrets 5. Ideals 6. Terrible Destruction 7. Open Flame 8. Knives in the Back • Soldiers on the Field 9. Walking the Grave 10. Red Carpet Once White 11. An Illusion of Perception 12. Hero Interludes I-1. Narak I-2. Ym I-3. Rysn I-4. Last Legion Part Two: Winds’ Approach 13. The Day’s Masterpiece 14. Ironstance 15. A Hand with the Tower 16. Swordmaster 17. A Pattern 18. Bruises 19. Safe Things 20. The Coldness of Clarity 21. Ashes 22. Lights in the Storm 23. Assassin 24. Tyn 25. Monsters 26. The Feather 27. Fabrications to Distract 28. Boots 29. Rule of Blood 30. Nature Blushing 31. The Stillness Before 32. The One Who Hates 33. Burdens 34. Blossoms and Cake Interludes I-5. The Rider of Storms I-6. Zahel I-7. Taln I-8. A Form of Power Part Three: Deadly 35. The Multiplied Strain of Simultaneous Infusion 36. A New Woman 37. A Matter of Perspective 38. The Silent Storm 39. Heterochromatic 40. Palona 41. Scars 42. Mere Vapors 43. The Ghostbloods 44. One Form of Justice 45. Middlefest 46. Patriots 47. Feminine Wiles 48. No More Weakness 49. Watching the World Transform 50. Uncut Gems 51. Heirs 52. Into the Sky 53. Perfection 54. Veil’s Lesson 55. The Rules of the Game 56. Whitespine Uncaged 57. To Kill the Wind 58. Never Again Interludes I-9. Lift I-10. Szeth I-11. New Rhythms Part Four: The Approach 59. Fleet 60. Veil Walks 61. Obedience 62. The One Who Killed Promises 63. A Burning World 64. Treasures 65. The One Who Deserves It 66. Stormblessings 67. Spit and Bile 68. Bridges 69. Nothing 70. From a Nightmare 71. Vigil 72. Selfish Reasons 73. A Thousand Scurrying Creatures 74. Striding the Storm 75. True Glory Interludes I-12. Lhan I-13. A Part to Play I-14. Taravangian Part Five: Winds Alight 76. The Hidden Blade 77. Trust 78. Contradictions 79. Toward the Center 80. To Fight the Rain 81. The Last Day 82. For Glory Lit 83. Time’s Illusion 84. The One Who Saves 85. Swallowed by the Sky 86. Patterns of Light 87. The Riddens 88. The Man Who Owned the Winds 89. The Four Epilogue: Art and Expectation Endnote Ars Arcanum Tor Books by Brandon Sanderson About the Author Copyright Endpaper 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 Shallan’s Sketchbook: Santhid Bridge Four Tattoos Map of the Southern Frostlands Scroll of Stances Shallan’s Sketchbook: Pattern Folio: Contemporary Male Fashion Shallan’s Sketchbook: Unclaimed Hills Lait Flora Navani’s Notebook: Archery Constructions Shallan’s Sketchbook: Shardplate Folio: Azish Public Servant Designs Shallan’s Sketchbook: Walks Map of Stormseat Life Cycle of a Chull Shallan’s Sketchbook: Chasm Life Shallan’s Sketchbook: Chasmfiend Shallan’s Sketchbook: Whitespine Representation of the Shape of the Shattered Plains Navani’s Notebook: Battle Map Navani’s Notebook: Ketek
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SIX YEARS AGO Jasnah Kholin pretended to enjoy the party, giving no indication that she intended to have one of the guests killed. She wandered through the crowded feast hall, listening as wine greased tongues and dimmed minds. Her uncle Dalinar was in the full swing of it, rising from the high table to shout for the Parshendi to bring out their drummers. Jasnah’s brother, Elhokar, hurried to shush their uncle—though the Alethi politely ignored Dalinar’s outburst. All save Elhokar’s wife, Aesudan, who snickered primly behind a handkerchief. Jasnah turned away from the high table and continued through the room. She had an appointment with an assassin, and she was all too glad to be leaving the stuffy room, which stank of too many perfumes mingling. A quartet of women played flutes on a raised platform across from the lively hearth, but the music had long since grown tedious. Unlike Dalinar, Jasnah drew stares. Like flies to rotten meat those eyes were, constantly following her. Whispers like buzzing wings. If there was one thing the Alethi court enjoyed more than wine, it was gossip. Everyone expected Dalinar to lose himself to wine during a feast—but the king’s daughter, admitting to heresy? That was unprecedented. Jasnah had spoken of her feelings for precisely that reason. She passed the Parshendi delegation, which clustered near the high table, talking in their rhythmic language. Though this celebration honored them and the treaty they’d signed with Jasnah’s father, they didn’t look festive or even happy. They looked nervous. Of course, they weren’t human, and the way they reacted was sometimes odd. Jasnah wanted to speak with them, but her appointment would not wait. She’d intentionally scheduled the meeting for the middle of the feast, as so many would be distracted and drunken. Jasnah headed toward the doors but then stopped in place. Her shadow was pointing in the wrong direction. The stuffy, shuffling, chattering room seemed to grow distant. Highprince Sadeas walked right through the shadow, which quite distinctly pointed toward the sphere lamp on the wall nearby. Engaged in conversation with his companion, Sadeas didn’t notice. Jasnah stared at that shadow—skin growing clammy, stomach clenched, the way she felt when she was about to vomit. Not again. She searched for another light source. A reason. Could she find a reason? No. The shadow languidly melted back toward her, oozing to her feet and then stretching out the other way. Her tension eased. But had anyone else seen? Blessedly, as she searched the room, she didn’t find any aghast stares. People’s attention had been drawn by the Parshendi drummers, who were clattering through the doorway to set up. Jasnah frowned as she noticed a non-Parshendi servant in loose white clothing helping them. A Shin man? That was unusual. Jasnah composed herself. What did these episodes of hers mean? Superstitious folktales she’d read said that misbehaving shadows meant you were cursed. She usually dismissed such things as nonsense, but some superstitions were rooted in fact. Her other experiences proved that. She would need to investigate further. The calm,
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scholarly thoughts felt like a lie compared to the truth of her cold, clammy skin and the sweat trickling down the back of her neck. But it was important to be rational at all times, not just when calm. She forced herself out through the doors, leaving the muggy room for the quiet hallway. She’d chosen the back exit, commonly used by servants. It was the most direct route, after all. Here, master-servants dressed in black and white moved on errands from their brightlords or ladies. She had expected that, but had not anticipated the sight of her father standing just ahead, in quiet conference with Brightlord Meridas Amaram. What was the king doing out here? Gavilar Kholin was shorter than Amaram, yet the latter stooped shallowly in the king’s company. That was common around Gavilar, who would speak with such quiet intensity that you wanted to lean in and listen, to catch every word and implication. He was a handsome man, unlike his brother, with a beard that outlined his strong jaw rather than covering it. He had a personal magnetism and intensity that Jasnah felt no biographer had yet managed to convey. Tearim, captain of the King’s Guard, loomed behind them. He wore Gavilar’s Shardplate; the king himself had stopped wearing it of late, preferring to entrust it to Tearim, who was known as one of the world’s great duelists. Instead, Gavilar wore robes of a majestic, classical style. Jasnah glanced back at the feast hall. When had her father slipped out? Sloppy, she accused herself. You should have checked to see if he was still there before leaving. Ahead, he rested his hand on Amaram’s shoulder and raised a finger, speaking harshly but quietly, the words indistinct to Jasnah. “Father?” she asked. He glanced at her. “Ah, Jasnah. Retiring so early?” “It’s hardly early,” Jasnah said, gliding forward. It seemed obvious to her that Gavilar and Amaram had ducked out to find privacy for their discussion. “This is the tiresome part of the feast, where the conversation grows louder but no smarter, and the company drunken.” “Many people consider that sort of thing enjoyable.” “Many people, unfortunately, are idiots.” Her father smiled. “Is it terribly difficult for you?” he asked softly. “Living with the rest of us, suffering our average wits and simple thoughts? Is it lonely to be so singular in your brilliance, Jasnah?” She took it as the rebuke it was, and found herself blushing. Even her mother Navani could not do that to her. “Perhaps if you found pleasant associations,” Gavilar said, “you would enjoy the feasts.” His eyes swung toward Amaram, whom he’d long fancied as a potential match for her. It would never happen. Amaram met her eyes, then murmured words of parting to her father and hastened away down the corridor. “What errand did you give him?” Jasnah asked. “What are you about this night, Father?” “The treaty, of course.” The treaty. Why did he care so much about it? Others had counseled that he either ignore the Parshendi or conquer them. Gavilar
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insisted upon an accommodation. “I should return to the celebration,” Gavilar said, motioning to Tearim. The two moved along the hallway toward the doors Jasnah had left. “Father?” Jasnah said. “What is it you aren’t telling me?” He glanced back at her, lingering. Pale green eyes, evidence of his good birth. When had he become so discerning? Storms . . . she felt as if she hardly knew this man any longer. Such a striking transformation in such a short time. From the way he inspected her, it almost seemed that he didn’t trust her. Did he know about her meeting with Liss? He turned away without saying more and pushed back into the party, his guard following. What is going on in this palace? Jasnah thought. She took a deep breath. She would have to prod further. Hopefully he hadn’t discovered her meetings with assassins—but if he had, she would work with that knowledge. Surely he would see that someone needed to keep watch on the family as he grew increasingly consumed by his fascination with the Parshendi. Jasnah turned and continued on her way, passing a master-servant, who bowed. After walking a short time in the corridors, Jasnah noticed her shadow behaving oddly again. She sighed in annoyance as it pulled toward the three Stormlight lamps on the walls. Fortunately, she’d passed from the populated area, and no servants were here to see. “All right,” she snapped. “That’s enough.” She hadn’t meant to speak aloud. However, as the words slipped out, several distant shadows—originating in an intersection up ahead—stirred to life. Her breath caught. Those shadows lengthened, deepened. Figures formed from them, growing, standing, rising. Stormfather. I’m going insane. One took the shape of a man of midnight blackness, though he had a certain reflective cast, as if he were made of oil. No . . . of some other liquid with a coating of oil floating on the outside, giving him a dark, prismatic quality. He strode toward her and unsheathed a sword. Logic, cold and resolute, guided Jasnah. Shouting would not bring help quickly enough, and the inky litheness of this creature bespoke a speed certain to exceed her own. She stood her ground and met the thing’s glare, causing it to hesitate. Behind it, a small clutch of other creatures had materialized from the darkness. She had sensed those eyes upon her during the previous months. By now, the entire hallway had darkened, as if it had been submerged and was slowly sinking into lightless depths. Heart racing, breath quickening, Jasnah raised her hand to the granite wall beside her, seeking to touch something solid. Her fingers sank into the stone a fraction, as if the wall had become mud. Oh, storms. She had to do something. What? What could she possibly do? The figure before her glanced at the wall. The wall lamp nearest Jasnah went dark. And then . . . Then the palace disintegrated. The entire building shattered into thousands upon thousands of small glass spheres, like beads. Jasnah screamed as she fell backward
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through a dark sky. She was no longer in the palace; she was somewhere else—another land, another time, another . . . something. She was left with the sight of the dark, lustrous figure hovering in the air above, seeming satisfied as he resheathed his sword. Jasnah crashed into something—an ocean of the glass beads. Countless others rained around her, clicking like hailstones into the strange sea. She had never seen this place; she could not explain what had happened or what it meant. She thrashed as she sank into what seemed an impossibility. Beads of glass on all sides. She couldn’t see anything beyond them, only felt herself descending through this churning, suffocating, clattering mass. She was going to die. Leaving work unfinished, leaving her family unprotected! She would never know the answers. No. Jasnah flailed in the darkness, beads rolling across her skin, getting into her clothing, working their way into her nose as she tried to swim. It was no use. She had no buoyancy in this mess. She raised a hand before her mouth and tried to make a pocket of air to use for breathing, and managed to gasp in a small breath. But the beads rolled around her hand, forcing between her fingers. She sank, more slowly now, as through a viscous liquid. Each bead that touched her gave a faint impression of something. A door. A table. A shoe. The beads found their way into her mouth. They seemed to move on their own. They would choke her, destroy her. No . . . no, it was just because they seemed attracted to her. An impression came to her, not as a distinct thought but a feeling. They wanted something from her. She snatched a bead in her hand; it gave her an impression of a cup. She gave . . . something . . . to it? The other beads near her pulled together, connecting, sticking like rocks sealed by mortar. In a moment she was falling not among individual beads, but through large masses of them stuck together into the shape of . . . A cup. Each bead was a pattern, a guide for the others. She released the one she held, and the beads around her broke apart. She floundered, searching desperately as her air ran out. She needed something she could use, something that would help, some way to survive! Desperate, she swept her arms wide to touch as many beads as she could. A silver platter. A coat. A statue. A lantern. And then, something ancient. Something ponderous and slow of thought, yet somehow strong. The palace itself. Frantic, Jasnah seized this sphere and forced her power into it. Her mind blurring, she gave this bead everything she had, and then commanded it to rise. Beads shifted. A great crashing sounded as beads met one another, clicking, cracking, rattling. It was almost like the sound of a wave breaking on rocks. Jasnah surged up from the depths, something solid moving beneath her, obeying her command. Beads battered her head,
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shoulders, arms, until finally she exploded from the surface of the sea of glass, hurling a spray of beads into a dark sky. She knelt on a platform of glass made up of small beads locked together. She held her hand to the side, uplifted, clutching the sphere that was the guide. Others rolled around her, forming into the shape of a hallway with lanterns on the walls, an intersection ahead. It didn’t look right, of course—the entire thing was made of beads. But it was a fair approximation. She wasn’t strong enough to form the entire palace. She created only this hallway, without even a roof—but the floor supported her, kept her from sinking. She opened her mouth with a groan, beads falling out to clack against the floor. Then she coughed, drawing in sweet breaths, sweat trickling down the sides of her face and collecting on her chin. Ahead of her, the dark figure stepped up onto the platform. He again slid his sword from his sheath. Jasnah held up a second bead, the statue she’d sensed earlier. She gave it power, and other beads collected before her, taking the shape of one of the statues that lined the front of the feast hall—the statue of Talenelat’Elin, Herald of War. A tall, muscular man with a large Shardblade. It was not alive, but she made it move, lowering its sword of beads. She doubted it could fight. Round beads could not form a sharp sword. Yet the threat made the dark figure hesitate. Gritting her teeth, Jasnah heaved herself to her feet, beads streaming from her clothing. She would not kneel before this thing, whatever it was. She stepped up beside the bead statue, noting for the first time the strange clouds overhead. They seemed to form a narrow ribbon of highway, straight and long, pointing toward the horizon. She met the oil figure’s gaze. It regarded her for a moment, then raised two fingers to its forehead and bowed, as if in respect, a cloak flourishing out behind. Others had gathered beyond it, and they turned to each other, exchanging hushed whispers. The place of beads faded, and Jasnah found herself back in the hallway of the palace. The real one, with real stone, though it had gone dark—the Stormlight dead in the lamps on the walls. The only illumination came from far down the corridor. She pressed back against the wall, breathing deeply. I, she thought, need to write this experience down. She would do so, then analyze and consider. Later. Now, she wanted to be away from this place. She hurried away, with no concern for her direction, trying to escape those eyes she still felt watching. It didn’t work. Eventually, she composed herself and wiped the sweat from her face with a kerchief. Shadesmar, she thought. That is what it is called in the nursery tales. Shadesmar, the mythological kingdom of the spren. Mythology she’d never believed. Surely she could find something if she searched the histories well enough. Nearly everything that happened had happened before.
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The grand lesson of history, and . . . Storms! Her appointment. Cursing to herself, she hurried on her way. That experience continued to distract her, but she needed to make her meeting. So she continued down two floors, getting farther from the sounds of the thrumming Parshendi drums until she could hear only the sharpest cracks of their beats. That music’s complexity had always surprised her, suggesting that the Parshendi were not the uncultured savages many took them for. This far away, the music sounded disturbingly like the beads from the dark place, rattling against one another. She’d intentionally chosen this out-of-the-way section of the palace for her meeting with Liss. Nobody ever visited this set of guest rooms. A man that Jasnah didn’t know lounged here, outside the proper door. That relieved her. The man would be Liss’s new servant, and his presence meant Liss hadn’t left, despite Jasnah’s tardiness. Composing herself, she nodded to the guard—a Veden brute with red speckling his beard—and pushed into the room. Liss stood from the table inside the small chamber. She wore a maid’s dress—low cut, of course—and could have been Alethi. Or Veden. Or Bav. Depending on which part of her accent she chose to emphasize. Long dark hair, worn loose, and a plump, attractive figure made her distinctive in all the right ways. “You’re late, Brightness,” Liss said. Jasnah gave no reply. She was the employer here, and was not required to give excuses. Instead, she laid something on the table beside Liss. A small envelope, sealed with weevilwax. Jasnah set two fingers on it, considering. No. This was too brash. She didn’t know if her father realized what she was doing, but even if he hadn’t, too much was happening in this palace. She did not want to commit to an assassination until she was more certain. Fortunately, she had prepared a backup plan. She slid a second envelope from the safepouch inside her sleeve and set it on the table in place of the first. She removed her fingers from it, rounding the table and sitting down. Liss sat back down and made the letter vanish into the bust of her dress. “An odd night, Brightness,” the woman said, “to be engaging in treason.” “I am hiring you to watch only.” “Pardon, Brightness. But one does not commonly hire an assassin to watch. Only.” “You have instructions in the envelope,” Jasnah said. “Along with initial payment. I chose you because you are expert at extended observations. It is what I want. For now.” Liss smiled, but nodded. “Spying on the wife of the heir to the throne? It will be more expensive this way. You sure you don’t simply want her dead?” Jasnah drummed her fingers on the table, then realized she was doing it to the beat of the drums above. The music was so unexpectedly complex—precisely like the Parshendi themselves. Too much is happening, she thought. I need to be very careful. Very subtle. “I accept the cost,” Jasnah replied. “In one week’s time, I will arrange
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for one of my sister-in-law’s maids to be released. You will apply for the position, using faked credentials I assume you are capable of producing. You will be hired. “From there, you watch and report. I will tell you if your other services are needed. You move only if I say. Understood?” “You’re the one payin’,” Liss said, a faint Bav dialect showing through. If it showed, it was only because she wished it. Liss was the most skilled assassin Jasnah knew. People called her the Weeper, as she gouged out the eyes of the targets she killed. Although she hadn’t coined the cognomen, it served her purpose well, since she had secrets to hide. For one thing, nobody knew that the Weeper was a woman. It was said the Weeper gouged the eyes out to proclaim indifference to whether her victims were lighteyed or dark. The truth was that the action hid a second secret—Liss didn’t want anyone to know that the way she killed left corpses with burned-out sockets. “Our meeting is done, then,” Liss said, standing. Jasnah nodded absently, mind again on her bizarre interaction with the spren earlier. That glistening skin, colors dancing across a surface the color of tar . . . She forced her mind away from that moment. She needed to devote her attention to the task at hand. For now, that was Liss. Liss hesitated at the door before leaving. “Do you know why I like you, Brightness?” “I suspect that it has something to do with my pockets and their proverbial depth.” Liss smiled. “There’s that, ain’t going to deny it, but you’re also different from other lighteyes. When others hire me, they turn up their noses at the entire process. They’re all too eager to use my services, but sneer and wring their hands, as if they hate being forced to do something utterly distasteful.” “Assassination is distasteful, Liss. So is cleaning out chamber pots. I can respect the one employed for such jobs without admiring the job itself.” Liss grinned, then cracked the door. “That new servant of yours outside,” Jasnah said. “Didn’t you say you wanted to show him off for me?” “Talak?” Liss said, glancing at the Veden man. “Oh, you mean that other one. No, Brightness, I sold that one to a slaver a few weeks ago.” Liss grimaced. “Really? I thought you said he was the best servant you’d ever had.” “Too good a servant,” Liss said. “Let’s leave it at that. Storming creepy, that Shin fellow was.” Liss shivered visibly, then slipped out the door. “Remember our first agreement,” Jasnah said after her. “Always there in the back o’ my mind, Brightness.” Liss closed the door. Jasnah settled in her seat, lacing her fingers in front of her. Their “first agreement” was that if anyone should come to Liss and offer a contract on a member of Jasnah’s family, Liss would let Jasnah match the offer in exchange for the name of the one who made it. Liss would do it. Probably. So would the dozen
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other assassins Jasnah dealt with. A repeat customer was always more valuable than a one-off contract, and it was in the best interests of a woman like Liss to have a friend in the government. Jasnah’s family was safe from the likes of these. Unless she herself employed the assassins, of course. Jasnah let out a deep sigh, then rose, trying to shrug off the weight she felt bearing her down. Wait. Did Liss say her old servant was Shin? It was probably a coincidence. Shin people weren’t plentiful in the East, but you did see them on occasion. Still, Liss mentioning a Shin man and Jasnah seeing one among the Parshendi . . . well, there was no harm in checking, even if it meant returning to the feast. Something was off about this night, and not just because of her shadow and the spren. Jasnah left the small chamber in the bowels of the palace and strode out into the hallway. She turned her steps upward. Above, the drums cut off abruptly, like an instrument’s strings suddenly cut. Was the party ending so early? Dalinar hadn’t done something to offend the celebrants, had he? That man and his wine . . . Well, the Parshendi had ignored his offenses in the past, so they probably would again. In truth, Jasnah was happy for her father’s sudden focus on a treaty. It meant she would have a chance to study Parshendi traditions and histories at her leisure. Could it be, she wondered, that scholars have been searching in the wrong ruins all these years? Words echoed in the hallway, coming from up ahead. “I’m worried about Ash.” “You’re worried about everything.” Jasnah hesitated in the hallway. “She’s getting worse,” the voice continued. “We weren’t supposed to get worse. Am I getting worse? I think I feel worse.” “Shut up.” “I don’t like this. What we’ve done was wrong. That creature carries my lord’s own Blade. We shouldn’t have let him keep it. He—” The two passed through the intersection ahead of Jasnah. They were ambassadors from the West, including the Azish man with the white birthmark on his cheek. Or was it a scar? The shorter of the two men—he could have been Alethi—cut off when he noticed Jasnah. He let out a squeak, then hurried on his way. The Azish man, the one dressed in black and silver, stopped and looked her up and down. He frowned. “Is the feast over already?” Jasnah asked down the hallway. Her brother had invited these two to the celebration along with every other ranking foreign dignitary in Kholinar. “Yes,” the man said. His stare made her uncomfortable. She walked forward anyway. I should check further into these two, she thought. She’d investigated their backgrounds, of course, and found nothing of note. Had they been talking about a Shardblade? “Come on!” the shorter man said, returning and taking the taller man by the arm. He allowed himself to be pulled away. Jasnah walked to where the corridors crossed, then watched them go. Where once
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drums had sounded, screams suddenly rose. Oh no . . . Jasnah turned with alarm, then grabbed her skirt and ran as hard as she could. A dozen different potential disasters raced through her mind. What else could happen on this broken night, when shadows stood up and her father looked upon her with suspicion? Nerves stretched thin, she reached the steps and started climbing. It took her far too long. She could hear the screams as she climbed and finally emerged into chaos. Dead bodies in one direction, a demolished wall in the other. How . . . The destruction led toward her father’s rooms. The entire palace shook, and a crunch echoed from that direction. No, no, no! She passed Shardblade cuts on the stone walls as she ran. Please. Corpses with burned eyes. Bodies littered the floor like discarded bones at the dinner table. Not this. A broken doorway. Her father’s quarters. Jasnah stopped in the hallway, gasping. Control yourself, control . . . She couldn’t. Not now. Frantic, she ran into the quarters, though a Shardbearer would kill her with ease. She wasn’t thinking straight. She should get someone who could help. Dalinar? He’d be drunk. Sadeas, then. The room looked like it had been hit by a highstorm. Furniture in a shambles, splinters everywhere. The balcony doors were broken outward. Someone lurched toward them, a man in her father’s Shardplate. Tearim, the bodyguard? No. The helm was broken. It was not Tearim, but Gavilar. Someone on the balcony screamed. “Father!” Jasnah shouted. Gavilar hesitated as he stepped out onto the balcony, looking back at her. The balcony broke beneath him. Jasnah screamed, dashing through the room to the broken balcony, falling to her knees at the edge. Wind tugged locks of hair loose from her bun as she watched two men fall. Her father, and the Shin man in white from the feast. The Shin man glowed with a white light. He fell onto the wall. He hit it, rolling, then came to a stop. He stood up, somehow remaining on the outer palace wall and not falling. It defied reason. He turned, then stalked toward her father. Jasnah watched, growing cold, helpless as the assassin stepped down to her father and knelt over him. Tears fell from her chin, and the wind caught them. What was he doing down there? She couldn’t make it out. When the assassin walked away, he left behind her father’s corpse. Impaled on a length of wood. He was dead—indeed, his Shardblade had appeared beside him, as they all did when their Bearers died. “I worked so hard . . .” Jasnah whispered, numb. “Everything I did to protect this family . . .” How? Liss. Liss had done this! No. Jasnah wasn’t thinking straight. That Shin man . . . she wouldn’t have admitted to owning him in such a case. She’d sold him. “We are sorry for your loss.” Jasnah spun, blinking bleary eyes. Three Parshendi, including Klade, stood in the doorway in their distinctive clothing. Neatly stitched cloth
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wraps for both men and women, sashes at the waist, loose shirts with no sleeves. Hanging vests, open at the sides, woven in bright colors. They didn’t segregate clothing by gender. She thought they did by caste, however, and— Stop it, she thought at herself. Stop thinking like a scholar for one storming day! “We take responsibility for his death,” said the foremost Parshendi. Gangnah was female, though with the Parshendi, the gender differences seemed minimal. The clothing hid breasts and hips, neither of which were ever very pronounced. Fortunately, the lack of a beard was a clear indication. All the Parshendi men she’d ever seen had beards, which they wore tied with bits of gemstone, and— STOP IT. “What did you say?” Jasnah demanded, forcing herself to her feet. “Why would it be your fault, Gangnah?” “Because we hired the assassin,” the Parshendi woman said in her heavily accented singsong voice. “We killed your father, Jasnah Kholin.” “You . . .” Emotion suddenly ran cold, like a river freezing in the heights. Jasnah looked from Gangnah to Klade, to Varnali. Elders, all three of them. Members of the Parshendi ruling council. “Why?” Jasnah whispered. “Because it had to be done,” Gangnah said. “Why?” Jasnah demanded, stalking forward. “He fought for you! He kept the predators at bay! My father wanted peace, you monsters! Why would you betray us now, of all times?” Gangnah drew her lips to a line. The song of her voice changed. She seemed almost like a mother, explaining something very difficult to a small child. “Because your father was about to do something very dangerous.” “Send for Brightlord Dalinar!” a voice outside in the hall shouted. “Storms! Did my orders get to Elhokar? The crown prince must be taken to safety!” Highprince Sadeas stumbled into the room along with a team of soldiers. His bulbous, ruddy face was wet with sweat, and he wore Gavilar’s clothing, the regal robes of office. “What are the savages doing here? Storms! Protect Princess Jasnah. The one who did this—he was in their retinue!” The soldiers moved to surround the Parshendi. Jasnah ignored them, turning and stepping back to the broken doorway, hand on the wall, looking down at her father splayed on the rocks below, Blade beside him. “There will be war,” she whispered. “And I will not stand in its way.” “This is understood,” Gangnah said from behind. “The assassin,” Jasnah said. “He walked on the wall.” Gangnah said nothing. In the shattering of her world, Jasnah caught hold of this fragment. She had seen something tonight. Something that should not have been possible. Did it relate to the strange spren? Her experience in that place of glass beads and a dark sky? These questions became her lifeline for stability. Sadeas demanded answers from the Parshendi leaders. He received none. When he stepped up beside her and saw the wreckage below, he went barreling off, shouting for his guards and running down below to reach the fallen king. Hours later, it was discovered that the assassination—and the surrender of
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three of the Parshendi leaders—had covered the flight of the larger portion of their number. They escaped the city quickly, and the cavalry Dalinar sent after them were destroyed. A hundred horses, each nearly priceless, lost along with their riders. The Parshendi leaders said nothing more and gave no clues, even when they were strung up, hanged for their crimes. Jasnah ignored all that. Instead, she interrogated the surviving guards on what they had seen. She followed leads about the now-famous assassin’s nature, prying information from Liss. She got almost nothing. Liss had owned him only a short time, and claimed she hadn’t known about his strange powers. Jasnah couldn’t find the previous owner. Next came the books. A dedicated, frenzied effort to distract her from what she had lost. That night, Jasnah had seen the impossible. She would learn what it meant. Shallan pinched the thin charcoal pencil and drew a series of straight lines radiating from a sphere on the horizon. That sphere wasn’t quite the sun, nor was it one of the moons. Clouds outlined in charcoal seemed to stream toward it. And the sea beneath them . . . A drawing could not convey the bizarre nature of that ocean, made not of water but of small beads of translucent glass. Shallan shivered, remembering that place. Jasnah knew much more of it than she would speak of to her ward, and Shallan wasn’t certain how to ask. How did one demand answers after a betrayal such as Shallan’s? Only a few days had passed since that event, and Shallan still didn’t know exactly how her relationship with Jasnah would proceed. The deck rocked as the ship tacked, enormous sails fluttering overhead. Shallan was forced to grab the railing with her clothed safehand to steady herself. Captain Tozbek said that so far, the seas hadn’t been bad for this part of Longbrow’s Straits. However, she might have to go below if the waves and motion got much worse. Shallan exhaled and tried to relax as the ship settled. A chill wind blew, and windspren zipped past on invisible air currents. Every time the sea grew rough, Shallan remembered that day, that alien ocean of glass beads . . . She looked down again at what she’d drawn. She had only glimpsed that place, and her sketch was not perfect. It— She frowned. On her paper, a pattern had risen, like an embossing. What had she done? That pattern was almost as wide as the page, a sequence of complex lines with sharp angles and repeated arrowhead shapes. Was it an effect of drawing that weird place, the place Jasnah said was named Shadesmar? Shallan hesitantly moved her freehand to feel the unnatural ridges on the page. The pattern moved, sliding across the page like an axehound pup under a bedsheet. Shallan yelped and leapt from her seat, dropping her sketchpad to the deck. The loose pages slumped to the planks, fluttering and then scattering in the wind. Nearby sailors—Thaylen men with long white eyebrows they combed back over their
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ears—scrambled to help, snatching sheets from the air before they could blow overboard. “You all right, young miss?” Tozbek asked, looking over from a conversation with one of his mates. The short, portly Tozbek wore a wide sash and a coat of gold and red matched by the cap on his head. He wore his eyebrows up and stiffened into a fanned shape above his eyes. “I’m well, Captain,” Shallan said. “I was merely spooked.” Yalb stepped up to her, proffering the pages. “Your accouterments, my lady.” Shallan raised an eyebrow. “Accouterments?” “Sure,” the young sailor said with a grin. “I’m practicing my fancy words. They help a fellow obtain reasonable feminine companionship. You know—the kind of young lady who doesn’t smell too bad an’ has at least a few teeth left.” “Lovely,” Shallan said, taking the sheets back. “Well, depending on your definition of lovely, at least.” She suppressed further quips, suspiciously regarding the stack of pages in her hand. The picture she’d drawn of Shadesmar was on top, no longer bearing the strange embossed ridges. “What happened?” Yalb said. “Did a cremling crawl out from under you or something?” As usual, he wore an open-fronted vest and a pair of loose trousers. “It was nothing,” Shallan said softly, tucking the pages away into her satchel. Yalb gave her a little salute—she had no idea why he had taken to doing that—and went back to tying rigging with the other sailors. She soon caught bursts of laughter from the men near him, and when she glanced at him, gloryspren danced around his head—they took the shape of little spheres of light. He was apparently very proud of the jape he’d just made. She smiled. It was indeed fortunate that Tozbek had been delayed in Kharbranth. She liked this crew, and was happy that Jasnah had selected them for their voyage. Shallan sat back down on the box that Captain Tozbek had ordered lashed beside the railing so she could enjoy the sea as they sailed. She had to be wary of the spray, which wasn’t terribly good for her sketches, but so long as the seas weren’t rough, the opportunity to watch the waters was worth the trouble. The scout atop the rigging let out a shout. Shallan squinted in the direction he pointed. They were within sight of the distant mainland, sailing parallel to it. In fact, they’d docked at port last night to shelter from the highstorm that had blown past. When sailing, you always wanted to be near to port—venturing into open seas when a highstorm could surprise you was suicidal. The smear of darkness to the north was the Frostlands, a largely uninhabited area along the bottom edge of Roshar. Occasionally, she caught a glimpse of higher cliffs to the south. Thaylenah, the great island kingdom, made another barrier there. The straits passed between the two. The lookout had spotted something in the waves just north of the ship, a bobbing shape that at first appeared to be a large log. No, it was much larger than
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that, and wider. Shallan stood, squinting, as it drew closer. It turned out to be a domed brown-green shell, about the size of three rowboats lashed together. As they passed by, the shell came up alongside the ship and somehow managed to keep pace, sticking up out of the water perhaps six or eight feet. A santhid! Shallan leaned out over the rail, looking down as the sailors jabbered excitedly, several joining her in craning out to see the creature. Santhidyn were so reclusive that some of her books claimed they were extinct and all modern reports of them untrustworthy. “You are good luck, young miss!” Yalb said to her with a laugh as he passed by with rope. “We ain’t seen a santhid in years.” “You still aren’t seeing one,” Shallan said. “Only the top of its shell.” To her disappointment, waters hid anything else—save shadows of something in the depths that might have been long arms extending downward. Stories claimed the beasts would sometimes follow ships for days, waiting out in the sea as the vessel went into port, then following them again once the ship left. “The shell is all you ever see of one,” Yalb said. “Passions, this is a good sign!” Shallan clutched her satchel. She took a Memory of the creature down there beside the ship by closing her eyes, fixing the image of it in her head so she could draw it with precision. Draw what, though? she thought. A lump in the water? An idea started to form in her head. She spoke it aloud before she could think better. “Bring me that rope,” she said, turning to Yalb. “Brightness?” he asked, stopping in place. “Tie a loop in one end,” she said, hurriedly setting her satchel on her seat. “I need to get a look at the santhid. I’ve never actually put my head underwater in the ocean. Will the salt make it difficult to see?” “Underwater?” Yalb said, voice squeaking. “You’re not tying the rope.” “Because I’m not a storming fool! Captain will have my head if . . .” “Get a friend,” Shallan said, ignoring him and taking the rope to tie one end into a small loop. “You’re going to lower me down over the side, and I’m going to get a glimpse of what’s under the shell. Do you realize that nobody has ever produced a drawing of a live santhid? All the ones that have washed up on beaches were badly decomposed. And since sailors consider hunting the things to be bad luck—” “It is!” Yalb said, voice growing more high pitched. “Ain’t nobody going to kill one.” Shallan finished the loop and hurried to the side of the ship, her red hair whipping around her face as she leaned out over the rail. The santhid was still there. How did it keep up? She could see no fins. She looked back at Yalb, who held the rope, grinning. “Ah, Brightness. Is this payback for what I said about your backside to Beznk? That was just in jest,
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but you got me good! I . . .” He trailed off as she met his eyes. “Storms. You’re serious.” “I’ll not have another opportunity like this. Naladan chased these things for most of her life and never got a good look at one.” “This is insanity!” “No, this is scholarship! I don’t know what kind of view I can get through the water, but I have to try.” Yalb sighed. “We have masks. Made from a tortoise shell with glass in hollowed-out holes on the front and bladders along the edges to keep the water out. You can duck your head underwater with one on and see. We use them to check over the hull at dock.” “Wonderful!” “Of course, I’d have to go to the captain to get permission to take one. . . .” She folded her arms. “Devious of you. Well, get to it.” It was unlikely she’d be able to go through with this without the captain finding out anyway. Yalb grinned. “What happened to you in Kharbranth? Your first trip with us, you were so timid, you looked like you’d faint at the mere thought of sailing away from your homeland!” Shallan hesitated, then found herself blushing. “This is somewhat foolhardy, isn’t it?” “Hanging from a moving ship and sticking your head in the water?” Yalb said. “Yeah. Kind of a little.” “Do you think . . . we could stop the ship?” Yalb laughed, but went jogging off to speak with the captain, taking her query as an indication she was still determined to go through with her plan. And she was. What did happen to me? she wondered. The answer was simple. She’d lost everything. She’d stolen from Jasnah Kholin, one of the most powerful women in the world—and in so doing had not only lost her chance to study as she’d always dreamed, but had also doomed her brothers and her house. She had failed utterly and miserably. And she’d pulled through it. She wasn’t unscathed. Her credibility with Jasnah had been severely wounded, and she felt that she had all but abandoned her family. But something about the experience of stealing Jasnah’s Soulcaster—which had turned out to be a fake anyway—then nearly being killed by a man she’d thought was in love with her . . . Well, she now had a better idea of how bad things could get. It was as if . . . once she had feared the darkness, but now she had stepped into it. She had experienced some of the horrors that awaited her there. Terrible as they were, at least she knew. You always knew, a voice whispered deep inside of her. You grew up with horrors, Shallan. You just won’t let yourself remember them. “What is this?” Tozbek asked as he came up, his wife, Ashlv, at his side. The diminutive woman did not speak much; she dressed in a skirt and blouse of bright yellow, a headscarf covering all of her hair except the two white eyebrows, which she had curled down beside
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her cheeks. “Young miss,” Tozbek said, “you want to go swimming? Can’t you wait until we get into port? I know of some nice areas where the water is not nearly so cold.” “I won’t be swimming,” Shallan said, blushing further. What would she wear to go swimming with men about? Did people really do that? “I need to get a closer look at our companion.” She gestured toward the sea creature. “Young miss, you know I can’t allow something so dangerous. Even if we stopped the ship, what if the beast harmed you?” “They’re said to be harmless.” “They are so rare, can we really know for certain? Besides, there are other animals in these seas that could harm you. Redwaters hunt this area for certain, and we might be in shallow enough water for khornaks to be a worry.” Tozbek shook his head. “I’m sorry, I just cannot allow it.” Shallan bit her lip, and found her heart beating traitorously. She wanted to push harder, but that decisive look in his eyes made her wilt. “Very well.” Tozbek smiled broadly. “I’ll take you to see some shells in the port at Amydlatn when we stop there, young miss. They have quite a collection!” She didn’t know where that was, but from the jumble of consonants squished together, she assumed it would be on the Thaylen side. Most cities were, this far south. Though Thaylenah was nearly as frigid as the Frostlands, people seemed to enjoy living there. Of course, Thaylens were all a little off. How else to describe Yalb and the others wearing no shirts despite the chill in the air? They weren’t the ones contemplating a dip in the ocean, Shallan reminded herself. She looked over the side of the ship again, watching waves break against the shell of the gentle santhid. What was it? A great-shelled beast, like the fearsome chasmfiends of the Shattered Plains? Was it more like a fish under there, or more like a tortoise? The santhidyn were so rare—and the occasions when scholars had seen them in person so infrequent—that the theories all contradicted one another. She sighed and opened her satchel, then set to organizing her papers, most of which were practice sketches of the sailors in various poses as they worked to maneuver the massive sails overhead, tacking against the wind. Her father would never have allowed her to spend a day sitting and watching a bunch of shirtless darkeyes. How much her life had changed in such a short time. She was working on a sketch of the santhid’s shell when Jasnah stepped up onto the deck. Like Shallan, Jasnah wore the havah, a Vorin dress of distinctive design. The hemline was down at her feet and the neckline almost at her chin. Some of the Thaylens—when they thought she wasn’t listening—referred to the clothing as prudish. Shallan disagreed; the havah wasn’t prudish, but elegant. Indeed, the silk hugged the body, particularly through the bust—and the way the sailors gawked at Jasnah indicated they didn’t find the garment unflattering. Jasnah
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was pretty. Lush of figure, tan of skin. Immaculate eyebrows, lips painted a deep red, hair up in a fine braid. Though Jasnah was twice Shallan’s age, her mature beauty was something to be admired, even envied. Why did the woman have to be so perfect? Jasnah ignored the eyes of the sailors. It wasn’t that she didn’t notice men. Jasnah noticed everything and everyone. She simply didn’t seem to care, one way or another, how men perceived her. No, that’s not true, Shallan thought as Jasnah walked over. She wouldn’t take the time to do her hair, or put on makeup, if she didn’t care how she was perceived. In that, Jasnah was an enigma. On one hand, she seemed to be a scholar concerned only with her research. On the other hand, she cultivated the poise and dignity of a king’s daughter—and, at times, used it like a bludgeon. “And here you are,” Jasnah said, walking to Shallan. A spray of water from the side of the ship chose that moment to fly up and sprinkle her. She frowned at the drops of water beading on her silk clothing, then looked back to Shallan and raised her eyebrow. “The ship, you may have noticed, has two very fine cabins that I hired out for us at no small expense.” “Yes, but they’re inside.” “As rooms usually are.” “I’ve spent most of my life inside.” “So you will spend much more of it, if you wish to be a scholar.” Shallan bit her lip, waiting for the order to go below. Curiously, it did not come. Jasnah gestured for Captain Tozbek to approach, and he did so, groveling his way over with cap in hand. “Yes, Brightness?” he asked. “I should like another of these . . . seats,” Jasnah said, regarding Shallan’s box. Tozbek quickly had one of his men lash a second box in place. As she waited for the seat to be ready, Jasnah waved for Shallan to hand over her sketches. Jasnah inspected the drawing of the santhid, then looked over the side of the ship. “No wonder the sailors were making such a fuss.” “Luck, Brightness!” one of the sailors said. “It is a good omen for your trip, don’t you think?” “I shall take any fortune provided me, Nanhel Eltorv,” she said. “Thank you for the seat.” The sailor bowed awkwardly before retreating. “You think they’re superstitious fools,” Shallan said softly, watching the sailor leave. “From what I have observed,” Jasnah said, “these sailors are men who have found a purpose in life and now take simple pleasure in it.” Jasnah looked at the next drawing. “Many people make far less out of life. Captain Tozbek runs a good crew. You were wise in bringing him to my attention.” Shallan smiled. “You didn’t answer my question.” “You didn’t ask a question,” Jasnah said. “These sketches are characteristically skillful, Shallan, but weren’t you supposed to be reading?” “I . . . had trouble concentrating.” “So you came up on deck,” Jasnah said, “to sketch pictures of
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young men working without their shirts on. You expected this to help your concentration?” Shallan blushed, as Jasnah stopped at one sheet of paper in the stack. Shallan sat patiently—she’d been well trained in that by her father—until Jasnah turned it toward her. The picture of Shadesmar, of course. “You have respected my command not to peer into this realm again?” Jasnah asked. “Yes, Brightness. That picture was drawn from a memory of my first . . . lapse.” Jasnah lowered the page. Shallan thought she saw a hint of something in the woman’s expression. Was Jasnah wondering if she could trust Shallan’s word? “I assume this is what is bothering you?” Jasnah asked. “Yes, Brightness.” “I suppose I should explain it to you, then.” “Really? You would do this?” “You needn’t sound so surprised.” “It seems like powerful information,” Shallan said. “The way you forbade me . . . I assumed that knowledge of this place was secret, or at least not to be trusted to one of my age.” Jasnah sniffed. “I’ve found that refusing to explain secrets to young people makes them more prone to get themselves into trouble, not less. Your experimentation proves that you’ve already stumbled face-first into all of this—as I once did myself, I’ll have you know. I know through painful experience how dangerous Shadesmar can be. If I leave you in ignorance, I’ll be to blame if you get yourself killed there.” “So you’d have explained about it if I’d asked earlier in our trip?” “Probably not,” Jasnah admitted. “I had to see how willing you were to obey me. This time.” Shallan wilted, and suppressed the urge to point out that back when she’d been a studious and obedient ward, Jasnah hadn’t divulged nearly as many secrets as she did now. “So what is it? That . . . place.” “It’s not truly a location,” Jasnah said. “Not as we usually think of them. Shadesmar is here, all around us, right now. All things exist there in some form, as all things exist here.” Shallan frowned. “I don’t—” Jasnah held up a finger to quiet her. “All things have three components: the soul, the body, and the mind. That place you saw, Shadesmar, is what we call the Cognitive Realm—the place of the mind. “All around us you see the physical world. You can touch it, see it, hear it. This is how your physical body experiences the world. Well, Shadesmar is the way that your cognitive self—your unconscious self—experiences the world. Through your hidden senses touching that realm, you make intuitive leaps in logic and you form hopes. It is likely through those extra senses that you, Shallan, create art.” Water splashed on the bow of the ship as it crossed a swell. Shallan wiped a drop of salty water from her cheek, trying to think through what Jasnah had just said. “That made almost no sense whatsoever to me, Brightness.” “I should hope that it didn’t,” Jasnah said. “I’ve spent six years researching Shadesmar, and I still barely know what to
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make of it. I shall have to accompany you there several times before you can understand, even a little, the true significance of the place.” Jasnah grimaced at the thought. Shallan was always surprised to see visible emotion from her. Emotion was something relatable, something human—and Shallan’s mental image of Jasnah Kholin was of someone almost divine. It was, upon reflection, an odd way to regard a determined atheist. “Listen to me,” Jasnah said. “My own words betray my ignorance. I told you that Shadesmar wasn’t a place, and yet I call it one in my next breath. I speak of visiting it, though it is all around us. We simply don’t have the proper terminology to discuss it. Let me try another tactic.” Jasnah stood up, and Shallan hastened to follow. They walked along the ship’s rail, feeling the deck sway beneath their feet. Sailors made way for Jasnah with quick bows. They regarded her with as much reverence as they would a king. How did she do it? How could she control her surroundings without seeming to do anything at all? “Look down into the waters,” Jasnah said as they reached the bow. “What do you see?” Shallan stopped beside the rail and stared down at the blue waters, foaming as they were broken by the ship’s prow. Here at the bow, she could see a deepness to the swells. An unfathomable expanse that extended not just outward, but downward. “I see eternity,” Shallan said. “Spoken like an artist,” Jasnah said. “This ship sails across depths we cannot know. Beneath these waves is a bustling, frantic, unseen world.” Jasnah leaned forward, gripping the rail with one hand unclothed and the other veiled within the safehand sleeve. She looked outward. Not at the depths, and not at the land distantly peeking over both the northern and southern horizons. She looked toward the east. Toward the storms. “There is an entire world, Shallan,” Jasnah said, “of which our minds skim but the surface. A world of deep, profound thought. A world created by deep, profound thoughts. When you see Shadesmar, you enter those depths. It is an alien place to us in some ways, but at the same time we formed it. With some help.” “We did what?” “What are spren?” Jasnah asked. The question caught Shallan off guard, but by now she was accustomed to challenging questions from Jasnah. She took time to think and consider her answer. “Nobody knows what spren are,” Shallan said, “though many philosophers have different opinions on—” “No,” Jasnah said. “What are they?” “I . . .” Shallan looked up at a pair of windspren spinning through the air above. They looked like tiny ribbons of light, glowing softly, dancing around one another. “They’re living ideas.” Jasnah spun on her. “What?” Shallan said, jumping. “Am I wrong?” “No,” Jasnah said. “You’re right.” The woman narrowed her eyes. “By my best guess, spren are elements of the Cognitive Realm that have leaked into the physical world. They’re concepts that have gained a fragment of sentience, perhaps because
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of human intervention. “Think of a man who gets angry often. Think of how his friends and family might start referring to that anger as a beast, as a thing that possesses him, as something external to him. Humans personify. We speak of the wind as if it has a will of its own. “Spren are those ideas—the ideas of collective human experience—somehow come alive. Shadesmar is where that first happens, and it is their place. Though we created it, they shaped it. They live there; they rule there, within their own cities.” “Cities?” “Yes,” Jasnah said, looking back out over the ocean. She seemed troubled. “Spren are wild in their variety. Some are as clever as humans and create cities. Others are like fish and simply swim in the currents.” Shallan nodded. Though in truth she was having trouble grasping any of this, she didn’t want Jasnah to stop talking. This was the sort of knowledge that Shallan needed, the kind of thing she craved. “Does this have to do with what you discovered? About the parshmen, the Voidbringers?” “I haven’t been able to determine that yet. The spren are not always forthcoming. In some cases, they do not know. In others, they do not trust me because of our ancient betrayal.” Shallan frowned, looking to her teacher. “Betrayal?” “They tell me of it,” Jasnah said, “but they won’t say what it was. We broke an oath, and in so doing offended them greatly. I think some of them may have died, though how a concept can die, I do not know.” Jasnah turned to Shallan with a solemn expression. “I realize this is overwhelming. You will have to learn this, all of it, if you are to help me. Are you still willing?” “Do I have a choice?” A smile tugged at the edges of Jasnah’s lips. “I doubt it. You Soulcast on your own, without the aid of a fabrial. You are like me.” Shallan stared out over the waters. Like Jasnah. What did it mean? Why— She froze, blinking. For a moment, she thought she’d seen the same pattern as before, the one that had made ridges on her sheet of paper. This time it had been in the water, impossibly formed on the surface of a wave. “Brightness . . .” she said, resting her fingers on Jasnah’s arm. “I thought I saw something in the water, just now. A pattern of sharp lines, like a maze.” “Show me where.” “It was on one of the waves, and we’ve passed it now. But I think I saw it earlier, on one of my pages. Does it mean something?” “Most certainly. I must admit, Shallan, I find the coincidence of our meeting to be startling. Suspiciously so.” “Brightness?” “They were involved,” Jasnah said. “They brought you to me. And they are still watching you, it appears. So no, Shallan, you no longer have a choice. The old ways are returning, and I don’t see it as a hopeful sign. It’s an act of self-preservation. The spren sense impending
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danger, and so they return to us. Our attention now must turn to the Shattered Plains and the relics of Urithiru. It will be a long, long time before you return to your homeland.” Shallan nodded mutely. “This worries you,” Jasnah said. “Yes, Brightness. My family . . .” Shallan felt like a traitor in abandoning her brothers, who had been depending on her for wealth. She’d written to them and explained, without many specifics, that she’d had to return the stolen Soulcaster—and was now required to help Jasnah with her work. Balat’s reply had been positive, after a fashion. He said he was glad at least one of them had escaped the fate that was coming to the house. He thought that the rest of them—her three brothers and Balat’s betrothed—were doomed. They might be right. Not only would Father’s debts crush them, but there was the matter of her father’s broken Soulcaster. The group that had given it to him wanted it back. Unfortunately, Shallan was convinced that Jasnah’s quest was of the utmost importance. The Voidbringers would soon return—indeed, they were not some distant threat from stories. They lived among men, and had for centuries. The gentle, quiet parshmen who worked as perfect servants and slaves were really destroyers. Stopping the catastrophe of the return of the Voidbringers was a greater duty than even protecting her brothers. It was still painful to admit that. Jasnah studied her. “With regard to your family, Shallan. I have taken some action.” “Action?” Shallan said, taking the taller woman’s arm. “You’ve helped my brothers?” “After a fashion,” Jasnah said. “Wealth would not truly solve this problem, I suspect, though I have arranged for a small gift to be sent. From what you’ve said, your family’s problems really stem from two issues. First, the Ghostbloods desire their Soulcaster—which you have broken—to be returned. Second, your house is without allies and deeply in debt.” Jasnah proffered a sheet of paper. “This,” she continued, “is from a conversation I had with my mother via spanreed this morning.” Shallan traced it with her eyes, noting Jasnah’s explanation of the broken Soulcaster and her request for help. This happens more often than you’d think, Navani had replied. The failing likely has to do with the alignment of the gem housings. Bring me the device, and we shall see. “My mother,” Jasnah said, “is a renowned artifabrian. I suspect she can make yours function again. We can send it to your brothers, who can return it to its owners.” “You’d let me do that?” Shallan asked. During their days sailing, Shallan had cautiously pried for more information about the sect, hoping to understand her father and his motives. Jasnah claimed to know very little of them beyond the fact that they wanted her research, and were willing to kill for it. “I don’t particularly want them having access to such a valuable device,” Jasnah said. “But I don’t have time to protect your family right now directly. This is a workable solution, assuming your brothers can stall a while
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longer. Have them tell the truth, if they must—that you, knowing I was a scholar, came to me and asked me to fix the Soulcaster. Perhaps that will sate them for now.” “Thank you, Brightness.” Storms. If she’d just gone to Jasnah in the first place, after being accepted as her ward, how much easier would it have been? Shallan looked down at the paper, noticing that the conversation continued. As for the other matter, Navani wrote, I’m very fond of this suggestion. I believe I can persuade the boy to at least consider it, as his most recent affair ended quite abruptly—as is common with him—earlier in the week. “What is this second part?” Shallan asked, looking up from the paper. “Sating the Ghostbloods alone will not save your house,” Jasnah said. “Your debts are too great, particularly considering your father’s actions in alienating so many. I have therefore arranged a powerful alliance for your house.” “Alliance? How?” Jasnah took a deep breath. She seemed reluctant to explain. “I have taken the initial steps in arranging for you to be betrothed to one of my cousins, son of my uncle Dalinar Kholin. The boy’s name is Adolin. He is handsome and well-acquainted with amiable discourse.” “Betrothed?” Shallan said. “You’ve promised him my hand?” “I have started the process,” Jasnah said, speaking with uncharacteristic anxiety. “Though at times he lacks foresight, Adolin has a good heart—as good as that of his father, who may be the best man I have ever known. He is considered Alethkar’s most eligible son, and my mother has long wanted him wed.” “Betrothed,” Shallan repeated. “Yes. Is that distressing?” “It’s wonderful!” Shallan exclaimed, grabbing Jasnah’s arm more tightly. “So easy. If I’m married to someone so powerful . . . Storms! Nobody would dare touch us in Jah Keved. It would solve many of our problems. Brightness Jasnah, you’re a genius!” Jasnah relaxed visibly. “Yes, well, it did seem a workable solution. I had wondered, however, if you’d be offended.” “Why on the winds would I be offended?” “Because of the restriction of freedom implicit in a marriage,” Jasnah said. “And if not that, because the offer was made without consulting you. I had to see if the possibility was even open first. It has proceeded further than I’d expected, as my mother has seized on the idea. Navani has . . . a tendency toward the overwhelming.” Shallan had trouble imagining anyone overwhelming Jasnah. “Stormfather! You’re worried I’d be offended? Brightness, I spent my entire life locked in my father’s manor—I grew up assuming he’d pick my husband.” “But you’re free of your father now.” “Yes, and I was so perfectly wise in my own pursuit of relationships,” Shallan said. “The first man I chose was not only an ardent, but secretly an assassin.” “It doesn’t bother you at all?” Jasnah said. “The idea of being beholden to another, particularly a man?” “It’s not like I’m being sold into slavery,” Shallan said with a laugh. “No. I suppose not.” Jasnah shook herself, her poise returning. “Well,
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I will let Navani know you are amenable to the engagement, and we should have a causal in place within the day.” A causal—a conditional betrothal, in Vorin terminology. She would be, for all intents and purposes, engaged, but would have no legal footing until an official betrothal was signed and verified by the ardents. “The boy’s father has said he will not force Adolin into anything,” Jasnah explained, “though the boy is recently single, as he has managed to offend yet another young lady. Regardless, Dalinar would rather you two meet before anything more binding is agreed upon. There have been . . . shifts in the political climate of the Shattered Plains. A great loss to my uncle’s army. Another reason for us to hasten to the Plains.” “Adolin Kholin,” Shallan said, listening with half an ear. “A duelist. A fantastic one. And even a Shardbearer.” “Ah, so you were paying attention to your readings about my father and family.” “I was—but I knew about your family before that. The Alethi are the center of society! Even girls from rural houses know the names of the Alethi princes.” And she’d be lying if she denied youthful daydreams of meeting one. “But Brightness, are you certain this match will be wise? I mean, I’m hardly the most important of individuals.” “Well, yes. The daughter of another highprince might have been preferable for Adolin. However, it seems that he has managed to offend each and every one of the eligible women of that rank. The boy is, shall we say, somewhat overeager about relationships. Nothing you can’t work through, I’m sure.” “Stormfather,” Shallan said, feeling her legs go weak. “He’s heir to a princedom! He’s in line to the throne of Alethkar itself!” “Third in line,” Jasnah said, “behind my brother’s infant son and Dalinar, my uncle.” “Brightness, I have to ask. Why Adolin? Why not the younger son? I—I have nothing to offer Adolin, or the house.” “On the contrary,” Jasnah said, “if you are what I think you are, then you will be able to offer him something nobody else can. Something more important than riches.” “What is it you think that I am?” Shallan whispered, meeting the older woman’s eyes, finally asking the question that she hadn’t dared. “Right now, you are but a promise,” Jasnah said. “A chrysalis with the potential for grandeur inside. When once humans and spren bonded, the results were women who danced in the skies and men who could destroy the stones with a touch.” “The Lost Radiants. Traitors to mankind.” She couldn’t absorb it all. The betrothal, Shadesmar and the spren, and this, her mysterious destiny. She’d known. But speaking it . . . She sank down, heedless of getting her dress wet on the deck, and sat with her back against the bulwark. Jasnah allowed her to compose herself before, amazingly, sitting down herself. She did so with far more poise, tucking her dress underneath her legs as she sat sideways. They both drew looks from the sailors. “They’re going to chew
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me to pieces,” Shallan said. “The Alethi court. It’s the most ferocious in the world.” Jasnah snorted. “It’s more bluster than storm, Shallan. I will train you.” “I’ll never be like you, Brightness. You have power, authority, wealth. Just look how the sailors respond to you.” “Am I specifically using said power, authority, or wealth right now?” “You paid for this trip.” “Did you not pay for several trips on this ship?” Jasnah asked. “They did not treat you the same as they do me?” “No. Oh, they are fond of me. But I don’t have your weight, Jasnah.” “I will assume that did not have implications toward my girth,” Jasnah said with a hint of a smile. “I understand your argument, Shallan. It is, however, dead wrong.” Shallan turned to her. Jasnah sat upon the deck of the ship as if it were a throne, back straight, head up, commanding. Shallan sat with her legs against her chest, arms around them below the knees. Even the ways they sat were different. She was nothing like this woman. “There is a secret you must learn, child,” Jasnah said. “A secret that is even more important than those relating to Shadesmar and spren. Power is an illusion of perception.” Shallan frowned. “Don’t mistake me,” Jasnah continued. “Some kinds of power are real—power to command armies, power to Soulcast. These come into play far less often than you would think. On an individual basis, in most interactions, this thing we call power—authority—exists only as it is perceived. “You say I have wealth. This is true, but you have also seen that I do not often use it. You say I have authority as the sister of a king. I do. And yet, the men of this ship would treat me exactly the same way if I were a beggar who had convinced them I was the sister to a king. In that case, my authority is not a real thing. It is mere vapors—an illusion. I can create that illusion for them, as can you.” “I’m not convinced, Brightness.” “I know. If you were, you would be doing it already.” Jasnah stood up, brushing off her skirt. “You will tell me if you see that pattern—the one that appeared on the waves—again?” “Yes, Brightness,” Shallan said, distracted. “Then take the rest of the day for your art. I need to consider how to best teach you of Shadesmar.” The older woman retreated, nodding at the bows of sailors as she passed and went back down belowdecks. Shallan rose, then turned and grabbed the railing, one hand to either side of the bowsprit. The ocean spread before her, rippling waves, a scent of cold freshness. Rhythmic crashing as the sloop pushed through the waves. Jasnah’s words fought in her mind, like skyeels with only one rat between them. Spren with cities? Shadesmar, a realm that was here, but unseen? Shallan, suddenly betrothed to the single most important bachelor in the world? She left the bow, walking along the side of the ship, freehand trailing on
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the railing. How did the sailors regard her? They smiled, they waved. They liked her. Yalb, who hung lazily from the rigging nearby, called to her, telling her that in the next port, there was a statue she had to go visit. “It’s this giant foot, young miss. Just a foot! Never finished the blustering statue . . .” She smiled to him and continued. Did she want them to look at her as they looked at Jasnah? Always afraid, always worried that they might do something wrong? Was that power? When I first sailed from Vedenar, she thought, reaching the place where her box had been tied, the captain kept urging me to go home. He saw my mission as a fool’s errand. Tozbek had always acted as if he were doing her a favor in conveying her after Jasnah. Should she have had to spend that entire time feeling as if she’d imposed upon him and his crew by hiring them? Yes, he had offered a discount to her because of her father’s business with him in the past—but she’d still been employing him. The way he’d treated her was probably a thing of Thaylen merchants. If a captain could make you feel like you were imposing on him, you’d pay better. She liked the man, but their relationship left something to be desired. Jasnah would never have stood for being treated in such a way. That santhid still swam alongside. It was like a tiny, mobile island, its back overgrown with seaweed, small crystals jutting up from the shell. Shallan turned and walked toward the stern, where Captain Tozbek spoke with one of his mates, pointing at a map covered with glyphs. He nodded to her as she approached. “Just a warning, young miss,” he said. “The ports will soon grow less accommodating. We’ll be leaving Longbrow’s Straits, curving around the eastern edge of the continent, toward New Natanan. There’s nothing of worth between here and the Shallow Crypts—and even that’s not much of a sight. I wouldn’t send my own brother ashore there without guards, and he’s killed seventeen men with his bare hands, he has.” “I understand, Captain,” Shallan said. “And thank you. I’ve revised my earlier decision. I need you to halt the ship and let me inspect the specimen swimming beside us.” He sighed, reaching up and running his fingers along one of his stiff, spiked eyebrows—much as other men might play with their mustaches. “Brightness, that’s not advisable. Stormfather! If I dropped you in the ocean . . .” “Then I would be wet,” Shallan said. “It is a state I’ve experienced one or two times in my life.” “No, I simply cannot allow it. Like I said, we’ll take you to see some shells in—” “Cannot allow it?” Shallan interrupted. She regarded him with what she hoped was a look of puzzlement, hoping he didn’t see how tightly she squeezed her hands closed at her sides. Storms, but she hated confrontation. “I wasn’t aware I had made a request you had the power
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to allow or disallow, Captain. Stop the ship. Lower me down. That is your order.” She tried to say it as forcefully as Jasnah would. The woman could make it seem easier to resist a full highstorm than to disagree with her. Tozbek worked his mouth for a moment, no sound coming out, as if his body were trying to continue his earlier objection but his mind had been delayed. “It is my ship . . .” he finally said. “Nothing will be done to your ship,” Shallan said. “Let’s be quick about it, Captain. I do not wish to overly delay our arrival in port tonight.” She left him, walking back to her box, heart thumping, hands trembling. She sat down, partially to calm herself. Tozbek, sounding profoundly annoyed, began calling orders. The sails were lowered, the ship slowed. Shallan breathed out, feeling a fool. And yet, what Jasnah said worked. The way Shallan acted created something in the eyes of Tozbek. An illusion? Like the spren themselves, perhaps? Fragments of human expectation, given life? The santhid slowed with them. Shallan rose, nervous, as sailors approached with rope. They reluctantly tied a loop at the bottom she could put her foot in, then explained that she should hold tightly to the rope as she was lowered. They tied a second, smaller rope securely around her waist—the means by which to haul her, wet and humiliated, back onto the deck. An inevitability, in their eyes. She took off her shoes, then climbed up over the railing as instructed. Had it been this windy before? She had a moment of vertigo, standing there with socked toes gripping a tiny rim, dress fluttering in the coursing winds. A windspren zipped up to her, then formed into the shape of a face with clouds behind it. Storms, the thing had better not interfere. Was it human imagination that had given windspren their mischievous spark? She stepped unsteadily into the rope loop as the sailors lowered it down beside her feet, then Yalb handed her the mask he’d told her of. Jasnah appeared from belowdecks, looking about in confusion. She saw Shallan standing off the side of the ship, and then cocked an eyebrow. Shallan shrugged, then gestured to the men to lower her. She refused to let herself feel silly as she inched toward the waters and the reclusive animal bobbing in the waves. The men stopped her a foot or two above the water, and she put on the mask, held by straps, covering most of her face including the nose. “Lower!” she shouted up at them. She thought she could feel their reluctance in the lethargic way the rope descended. Her foot hit the water, and a biting cold shot up her leg. Stormfather! But she didn’t have them stop. She let them lower her farther until her legs were submerged in the frigid water. Her skirt ballooned out in a most annoying way, and she actually had to step on the end of it—inside the loop—to prevent it from rising up about
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her waist and floating on the water’s surface as she submerged. She wrestled with the fabric for a moment, glad the men above couldn’t see her blushing. Once it got wetter, though, it was easier to manage. She finally was able to squat, still holding tightly to the rope, and go down into the water up to her waist. Then she ducked her head under the water. Light streamed down from the surface in shimmering, radiant columns. There was life here, furious, amazing life. Tiny fish zipped this way and that, picking at the underside of the shell that shaded a majestic creature. Gnarled like an ancient tree, with rippled and folded skin, the true form of the santhid was a beast with long, drooping blue tendrils, like those of a jellyfish, only far thicker. Those disappeared down into the depths, trailing behind the beast at a slant. The beast itself was a knotted grey-blue mass underneath the shell. Its ancient-looking folds surrounded one large eye on her side—presumably, its twin would be on the other side. It seemed ponderous, yet majestic, with mighty fins moving like oarsmen. A group of strange spren shaped like arrows moved through the water here around the beast. Schools of fish darted about. Though the depths seemed empty, the area just around the santhid teemed with life, as did the area under the ship. Tiny fish picked at the bottom of the vessel. They’d move between the santhid and the ship, sometimes alone, sometimes in waves. Was this why the creature swam up beside a vessel? Something to do with the fish, and their relationship to it? She looked upon the creature, and its eye—as big as her head—rolled toward her, focusing, seeing her. In that moment, Shallan couldn’t feel the cold. She couldn’t feel embarrassed. She was looking into a world that, so far as she knew, no scholar had ever visited. She blinked her eyes, taking a Memory of the creature, collecting it for later sketching. Breath. A man’s breath was his life. Exhaled, bit by bit, back into the world. Kaladin breathed deeply, eyes closed, and for a time that was all he could hear. His own life. In, out, to the beating of the thunder in his chest. Breath. His own little storm. Outside, the rain had stopped. Kaladin remained sitting in the darkness. When kings and wealthy lighteyes died, their bodies weren’t burned like those of common men. Instead, they were Soulcast into statues of stone or metal, forever frozen. The darkeyes’ bodies were burned. They became smoke, to rise toward the heavens and whatever waited there, like a burned prayer. Breath. The breath of a lighteyes was no different from that of a darkeyes. No more sweet, no more free. The breath of kings and slaves mingled, to be breathed by men again, over and over. Kaladin stood up and opened his eyes. He’d spent the highstorm in the darkness of this small room alongside Bridge Four’s new barrack. Alone. He walked to the door, but stopped. He rested his
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fingers on a cloak he knew hung from a hook there. In the darkness, he could not make out its deep blue color, nor the Kholin glyph—in the shape of Dalinar’s sigil—on the back. It seemed that every change in his life had been marked by a storm. This was a big one. He shoved open the door and stepped out into the light as a free man. He left the cloak, for now. Bridge Four cheered him as he emerged. They had gone out to bathe and shave in the riddens of the storm, as was their custom. The line was almost done, Rock having shaved each of the men in turn. The large Horneater hummed to himself as he worked the razor over Drehy’s balding head. The air smelled wet from the rain, and a washed-out firepit nearby was the only trace of the stew the group had shared the night before. In many ways, this place wasn’t so different from the lumberyards his men had recently escaped. The long, rectangular stone barracks were much the same—Soulcast rather than having been built by hand, they looked like enormous stone logs. These, however, each had a couple of smaller rooms on the sides for sergeants, with their own doors that opened to the outside. They’d been painted with the symbols of the platoons using them before; Kaladin’s men would have to paint over those. “Moash,” Kaladin called. “Skar, Teft.” The three jogged toward him, splashing through puddles left by the storm. They wore the clothing of bridgemen: simple trousers cut off at the knees, and leather vests over bare chests. Skar was up and mobile despite the wound to his foot, and he tried rather obviously not to limp. For now, Kaladin didn’t order him to bed rest. The wound wasn’t too bad, and he needed the man. “I want to look at what we’ve got,” Kaladin said, leading them away from the barrack. It would house fifty men along with a half-dozen sergeants. More barracks flanked it on either side. Kaladin had been given an entire block of them—twenty buildings—to house his new battalion of former bridgemen. Twenty buildings. That Dalinar should so easily be able to find a block of twenty buildings for the bridgemen bespoke a terrible truth—the cost of Sadeas’s betrayal. Thousands of men dead. Indeed, female scribes worked near some of the barracks, supervising parshmen who carried out heaps of clothing and other personal effects. The possessions of the deceased. Not a few of those scribes looked on with red eyes and frazzled composures. Sadeas had just created thousands of new widows in Dalinar’s camp, and likely as many orphans. If Kaladin had needed another reason to hate that man, he found it here, manifest in the suffering of those whose husbands had trusted him on the battlefield. In Kaladin’s eyes, there was no sin greater than the betrayal of one’s allies in battle. Except, perhaps, for the betrayal of one’s own men—of murdering them after they risked their lives to protect you. Kaladin felt an
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immediate flare of anger at thoughts of Amaram and what he’d done. His slave brand seemed to burn again on his forehead. Amaram and Sadeas. Two men in Kaladin’s life who would, at some point, need to pay for the things they’d done. Preferably, that payment would come with severe interest. Kaladin continued to walk with Teft, Moash, and Skar. These barracks, which were slowly being emptied of personal effects, were also crowded with bridgemen. They looked much like the men of Bridge Four—same vests and knee-trousers. And yet, in some other ways, they couldn’t have looked less like the men of Bridge Four. Shaggy-haired with beards that hadn’t been trimmed in months, they bore hollow eyes that didn’t seem to blink often enough. Slumped backs. Expressionless faces. Each man among them seemed to sit alone, even when surrounded by his fellows. “I remember that feeling,” Skar said softly. The short, wiry man had sharp features and silvering hair at the temples, despite being in his early thirties. “I don’t want to, but I do.” “We’re supposed to turn those into an army?” Moash asked. “Kaladin did it to Bridge Four, didn’t he?” Teft asked, wagging a finger at Moash. “He’ll do it again.” “Transforming a few dozen men is different from doing the same for hundreds,” Moash said, kicking aside a fallen branch from the highstorm. Tall and solid, Moash had a scar on his chin but no slave brand on his forehead. He walked straight-backed with his chin up. Save for those dark brown eyes of his, he could have passed for an officer. Kaladin led the three past barrack after barrack, doing a quick count. Nearly a thousand men, and though he’d told them yesterday that they were now free—and could return to their old lives if they wished—few seemed to want to do anything but sit. Though there had originally been forty bridge crews, many had been slaughtered during the latest assault and others had already been short-manned. “We’ll combine them into twenty crews,” Kaladin said, “of about fifty each.” Above, Syl fluttered down as a ribbon of light and zipped around him. The men gave no sign of seeing her; she would be invisible to them. “We can’t teach each of these thousand personally, not at first. We’ll want to train the more eager ones among them, then send them back to lead and train their own teams.” “I suppose,” Teft said, scratching his chin. The oldest of the bridgemen, he was one of the few who retained a beard. Most of the others had shaved theirs off as a mark of pride, something to separate the men of Bridge Four from common slaves. Teft kept his neat for the same reason. It was light brown where it hadn’t gone grey, and he wore it short and square, almost like an ardent’s. Moash grimaced, looking at the bridgemen. “You assume some of them will be ‘more eager,’ Kaladin. They all look the same level of despondent to me.” “Some will still have fight in them,” Kaladin said,
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continuing on back toward Bridge Four. “The ones who joined us at the fire last night, for a start. Teft, I’ll need you to choose others. Organize and combine crews, then pick forty men—two from each team—to be trained first. You’ll be in command of that training. Those forty will be the seed we use to help the rest.” “I suppose I can do that.” “Good. I’ll give you a few men to help.” “A few?” Teft asked. “I could use more than a few. . . .” “You’ll have to make do with a few,” Kaladin said, stopping on the path and turning westward, toward the king’s complex beyond the camp wall. It rose on a hillside overlooking the rest of the warcamps. “Most of us are going to be needed to keep Dalinar Kholin alive.” Moash and the others stopped beside him. Kaladin squinted at the palace. It certainly didn’t look grand enough to house a king—out here, everything was just stone and more stone. “You are willing to trust Dalinar?” Moash asked. “He gave up his Shardblade for us,” Kaladin said. “He owed it to us,” Skar said with a grunt. “We saved his storming life.” “It could have just been posturing,” Moash said, folding his arms. “Political games, him and Sadeas trying to manipulate each other.” Syl alighted on Kaladin’s shoulder, taking the form of a young woman with a flowing, filmy dress, all blue-white. She held her hands clasped together as she looked up at the king’s complex, where Dalinar Kholin had gone to plan. He’d told Kaladin that he was going to do something that would anger a lot of people. I’m going to take away their games. . . . “We need to keep that man alive,” Kaladin said, looking back to the others. “I don’t know if I trust him, but he’s the only person on these Plains who has shown even a hint of compassion for bridgemen. If he dies, do you want to guess how long it will take his successor to sell us back to Sadeas?” Skar snorted in derision. “I’d like to see them try with a Knight Radiant at our head.” “I’m not a Radiant.” “Fine, whatever,” Skar said. “Whatever you are, it will be tough for them to take us from you.” “You think I can fight them all, Skar?” Kaladin said, meeting the older man’s eyes. “Dozens of Shardbearers? Tens of thousands of troops? You think one man could do that?” “Not one man,” Skar said, stubborn. “You.” “I’m not a god, Skar,” Kaladin said. “I can’t hold back the weight of ten armies.” He turned to the other two. “We decided to stay here on the Shattered Plains. Why?” “What good would it do to run?” Teft asked, shrugging. “Even as free men, we’d just end up conscripted into one army or another out there in the hills. Either that, or we’d end up starving.” Moash nodded. “This is as good a place as any, so long as we’re free.” “Dalinar Kholin is our best hope
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for a real life,” Kaladin said. “Bodyguards, not conscripted labor. Free men, despite the brands on our foreheads. Nobody else will give us that. If we want freedom, we need to keep Dalinar Kholin alive.” “And the Assassin in White?” Skar asked softly. They’d heard of what the man was doing around the world, slaughtering kings and highprinces in all nations. The news was the buzz of the warcamps, ever since reports had started trickling in through spanreed. The emperor of Azir, dead. Jah Keved in turmoil. A half-dozen other nations left without a ruler. “He already killed our king,” Kaladin said. “Old Gavilar was the assassin’s first murder. We’ll just have to hope he’s done here. Either way, we protect Dalinar. At all costs.” They nodded one by one, though those nods were grudging. He didn’t blame them. Trusting lighteyes hadn’t gotten them far—even Moash, who had once spoken well of Dalinar, now seemed to have lost his fondness for the man. Or any lighteyes. In truth, Kaladin was a little surprised at himself and the trust he felt. But, storm it, Syl liked Dalinar. That carried weight. “We’re weak right now,” Kaladin said, lowering his voice. “But if we play along with this for a time, protecting Kholin, we’ll be paid handsomely. I’ll be able to train you—really train you—as soldiers and officers. Beyond that, we’ll be able to teach these others. “We could never make it on our own out there as two dozen former bridgemen. But what if we were instead a highly skilled mercenary force of a thousand soldiers, equipped with the finest gear in the warcamps? If worst comes to worst, and we have to abandon the camps, I’d like to do so as a cohesive unit, hardened and impossible to ignore. Give me a year with this thousand, and I can have it done.” “Now that plan I like,” Moash said. “Do I get to learn to use a sword?” “We’re still darkeyes, Moash.” “Not you,” Skar said from his other side. “I saw your eyes during the—” “Stop!” Kaladin said. He took a deep breath. “Just stop. No more talk of that.” Skar fell silent. “I am going to name you officers,” Kaladin said to them. “You three, along with Sigzil and Rock. You’ll be lieutenants.” “Darkeyed lieutenants?” Skar said. The rank was commonly used for the equivalent of sergeants in companies made up only of lighteyes. “Dalinar made me a captain,” Kaladin said. “The highest rank he said he dared commission a darkeyes. Well, I need to come up with a full command structure for a thousand men, and we’re going to need something between sergeant and captain. That means appointing you five as lieutenants. I think Dalinar will let me get away with it. We’ll make master sergeants if we need another rank. “Rock is going to be quartermaster and in charge of food for the thousand. I’ll appoint Lopen his second. Teft, you’ll be in charge of training. Sigzil will be our clerk. He’s the only one who can read glyphs.
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Moash and Skar . . .” He glanced toward the two men. One short, the other tall, they walked the same way, with a smooth gait, dangerous, spears always on their shoulders. They were never without. Of all the men he’d trained in Bridge Four, only these two had instinctively understood. They were killers. Like Kaladin himself. “We three,” Kaladin told them, “are each going to focus on watching Dalinar Kholin. Whenever possible, I want one of us three personally guarding him. Often one of the other two will watch his sons, but make no mistake, the Blackthorn is the man we’re going to keep alive. At all costs. He is our only guarantee of freedom for Bridge Four.” The others nodded. “Good,” Kaladin said. “Let’s go get the rest of the men. It’s time for the world to see you as I do.” * * * By common agreement, Hobber sat down to get his tattoo first. The gap-toothed man was one of the very first who had believed in Kaladin. Kaladin remembered that day; exhausted after a bridge run, wanting to simply lie down and stare. Instead, he’d chosen to save Hobber rather than letting him die. Kaladin had saved himself that day too. The rest of Bridge Four stood around Hobber in the tent, watching in silence as the tattooist worked carefully on his forehead, covering up the scar of his slave’s brand with the glyphs Kaladin had provided. Hobber winced now and then at the pain of the tattoo, but he kept a grin on his face. Kaladin had heard that you could cover a scar with a tattoo, and it ended up working quite well. Once the tattoo ink was injected, the glyphs drew the eye, and you could barely tell that the skin beneath was scarred. Once the process was finished, the tattooist provided a mirror for Hobber to look into. The bridgeman touched his forehead hesitantly. The skin was red from the needles, but the dark tattoo perfectly covered the slave brand. “What does it say?” Hobber asked softly, tears in his eyes. “Freedom,” Sigzil said before Kaladin could reply. “The glyph means freedom.” “The smaller ones above,” Kaladin said, “say the date you were freed and the one who freed you. Even if you lose your writ of freedom, anyone who tries to imprison you for being a runaway can easily find proof that you are not. They can go to Dalinar Kholin’s scribes, who keep a copy of your writ.” Hobber nodded. “That’s good, but it’s not enough. Add ‘Bridge Four’ to it. Freedom, Bridge Four.” “To imply you were freed from Bridge Four?” “No, sir. I wasn’t freed from Bridge Four. I was freed by it. I wouldn’t trade my time there for anything.” It was crazy talk. Bridge Four had been death—scores of men had been slaughtered running that cursed bridge. Even after Kaladin had determined to save the men, he’d lost far too many. Hobber would have been a fool not to take any opportunity to escape. And yet, he
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sat stubbornly until Kaladin drew out the proper glyphs for the tattooist—a calm, sturdy darkeyed woman who looked like she could have lifted a bridge all on her own. She settled down on her stool and began adding the two glyphs to Hobber’s forehead, tucked right below the freedom glyph. She spent the process explaining—again—how the tattoo would be sore for days and how Hobber would need to care for it. He accepted the new tattoos with a grin on his face. Pure foolishness, but the others nodded in agreement, clasping Hobber on the arm. Once Hobber was done, Skar sat quickly, eager, demanding the same full set of tattoos. Kaladin stepped back, folding his arms and shaking his head. Outside the tent, a bustling marketplace sold and bought. The “warcamp” was really a city, built up inside the craterlike rim of some enormous rock formation. The prolonged war on the Shattered Plains had attracted merchants of all varieties, along with tradesmen, artists, and even families with children. Moash stood nearby, face troubled, watching the tattooist. He wasn’t the only one in the bridge crew who didn’t have a slave brand. Teft didn’t either. They had been made bridgemen without technically being made slaves first. It happened frequently in Sadeas’s camp, where running bridges was a punishment that one could earn for all manner of infractions. “If you don’t have a slave’s brand,” Kaladin said loudly to the men, “you don’t need to get the tattoo. You’re still one of us.” “No,” Rock said. “I will get this thing.” He insisted on sitting down after Skar and getting the tattoo right on his forehead, though he had no slave brand. Indeed, every one of the men without a slave brand—Beld and Teft included—sat down and got the tattoo on their foreheads. Only Moash abstained, and had the tattoo placed on his upper arm. Good. Unlike most of them, he wouldn’t have to go about with a proclamation of former slavery in plain view. Moash stood up from the seat, and another took his place. A man with red and black skin in a marbled pattern, like stone. Bridge Four had a lot of variety, but Shen was in a class all his own. A parshman. “I can’t tattoo him,” the artist said. “He’s property.” Kaladin opened his mouth to object, but the other bridgemen jumped in first. “He’s been freed, like us,” Teft said. “One of the team,” Hobber said. “Give him the tattoo, or you won’t see a sphere from any of us.” He blushed after he said it, glancing at Kaladin—who would be paying for all this, using spheres granted by Dalinar Kholin. Other bridgemen spoke out, and the tattoo artist finally sighed and gave in. She pulled over her stool and began working on Shen’s forehead. “You won’t even be able to see it,” she grumbled, though Sigzil’s skin was nearly as dark as Shen’s, and the tattoo showed up fine on him. Eventually, Shen looked in the mirror, then stood up. He glanced at Kaladin, and nodded. Shen
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didn’t say much, and Kaladin didn’t know what to make of the man. It was actually easy to forget about him, usually trailing along silently at the back of the group of bridgemen. Invisible. Parshmen were often that way. Shen finished, only Kaladin himself remained. He sat down next and closed his eyes. The pain of the needles was a lot sharper than he’d anticipated. After a short time, the tattooist started cursing under her breath. Kaladin opened his eyes as she wiped a rag on his forehead. “What is it?” he asked. “The ink won’t take!” she said. “I’ve never seen anything like it. When I wipe your forehead, the ink all just comes right off! The tattoo won’t stay.” Kaladin sighed, realizing he had a little Stormlight raging in his veins. He hadn’t even noticed drawing it in, but he seemed to be getting better and better at holding it. He frequently took in a little these days while walking about. Holding Stormlight was like filling a wineskin—if you filled it to bursting and unstopped it, it would squirt out quickly, then slow to a trickle. Same with the Light. He banished it, hoping the tattoo artist didn’t notice when he breathed out a small cloud of glowing smoke. “Try again,” he said as she got out new ink. This time, the tattoo took. Kaladin sat through the process, teeth clenched against the pain, then looked up as she held the mirror for him. The face that looked back at Kaladin seemed alien. Clean-shaven, hair pulled back from his face for the tattooing, the slave brands covered up and, for the moment, forgotten. Can I be this man again? he thought, reaching up, touching his cheek. This man died, didn’t he? Syl landed on his shoulder, joining him in looking into the mirror. “Life before death, Kaladin,” she whispered. He unconsciously sucked in Stormlight. Just a little, a fraction of a sphere’s worth. It flowed through his veins like a wave of pressure, like winds trapped in a small enclosure. The tattoo on his forehead melted. His body shoved out the ink, which started to drip down his face. The tattooist cursed again and grabbed her rag. Kaladin was left with the image of those glyphs melting away. Freedom dissolved, and underneath, the violent scars of his captivity. Dominated by a branded glyph. Shash. Dangerous. The woman wiped his face. “I don’t know why this is happening! I thought it would stay that time. I—” “It’s all right,” Kaladin said, taking the rag as he stood, finishing the cleanup. He turned to face the rest of them, bridgemen now soldiers. “The scars haven’t finished with me yet, it appears. I’ll try again another time.” They nodded. He’d have to explain to them later what was happening; they knew of his abilities. “Let’s go,” Kaladin said to them, tossing a small bag of spheres to the tattooist, then taking his spear from beside the tent entrance. The others joined him, spears to shoulders. They didn’t need to be armed while in
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camp, but he wanted them to get used to the idea that they were free to carry weapons now. The market outside was crowded and vibrant. The tents, of course, would have been taken down and stowed during last night’s highstorm, but they’d already sprung up again. Perhaps because he was thinking about Shen, he noticed the parshmen. He picked out dozens of them with a cursory glance, helping set up a few last tents, carrying purchases for lighteyes, helping shopowners stack their wares. What do they think of this war on the Shattered Plains? Kaladin wondered. A war to defeat, and perhaps subjugate, the only free parshmen in the world? Would that he could get an answer out of Shen regarding questions like that. It seemed all he ever got from the parshman were shrugs. Kaladin led his men through the market, which seemed far friendlier than the one in Sadeas’s camp. Though people stared at the bridgemen, nobody sneered, and the haggling at nearby stands—while energetic—didn’t progress to shouting. There even seemed to be fewer urchins and beggars. You just want to believe that, Kaladin thought. You want to believe Dalinar is the man everyone says he is. The honorable lighteyes of the stories. But everyone said the same things about Amaram. As they walked, they did pass some soldiers. Too few. Men who had been on duty back in the camp when the others had gone on the disastrous assault where Sadeas had betrayed Dalinar. As they passed one group patrolling the market, Kaladin caught two men at their front raising their hands before themselves, crossed at the wrist. How had they learned Bridge Four’s old salute, and so quickly? These men didn’t do it as a full salute, just a small gesture, but they nodded their heads to Kaladin and his men as they passed. Suddenly, the more calm nature of the market took on another cast to Kaladin. Perhaps this wasn’t simply the order and organization of Dalinar’s army. There was an air of quiet dread over this warcamp. Thousands had been lost to Sadeas’s betrayal. Everyone here had probably known a man who had died out on those plateaus. And everyone probably wondered if the conflict between the two highprinces would escalate. “It’s nice to be seen as a hero, isn’t it?” Sigzil asked, walking beside Kaladin and watching another group of soldiers pass by. “How long will the goodwill last, do you think?” Moash asked. “How long before they resent us?” “Ha!” Rock, towering behind him, clapped Moash on the shoulder. “No complaining today! You do this thing too much. Do not make me kick you. I do not like kicking. It hurts my toes.” “Kick me?” Moash snorted. “You won’t even carry a spear, Rock.” “Spears are not for kicking complainers. But big Unkalaki feet like mine—it is what they were made for! Ha! This thing is obvious, yes?” Kaladin led the men out of the market and to a large rectangular building near the barracks. This one was constructed of worked stone, rather
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than Soulcast rock, allowing far more finesse in design. Such buildings were becoming more common in the warcamps, as more masons arrived. Soulcasting was quicker, but also more expensive and less flexible. He didn’t know much about it, only that Soulcasters were limited in what they could do. That was why the barracks were all essentially identical. Kaladin led his men inside the towering building to the counter, where a grizzled man with a belly that stretched to next week supervised a few parshmen stacking bolts of blue cloth. Rind, the Kholin head quartermaster, to whom Kaladin had sent instructions the night before. Rind was lighteyed, but what was known as a “tenner,” a lowly rank barely above darkeyes. “Ah!” Rind said, speaking with a high-pitched voice that did not match his girth. “You’re here, finally! I’ve got them all out for you, Captain. Everything I have left.” “Left?” Moash asked. “Uniforms of the Cobalt Guard! I’ve commissioned some new ones, but this is what stock remained.” Rind grew more subdued. “Didn’t expect to need so many so soon, you see.” He looked Moash up and down, then handed him a uniform and pointed to a stall for changing. Moash took it. “We going to wear our leather jerkins over these?” “Ha!” Rind said. “The ones tied with so much bone you looked like some Western skullbearer on feast day? I’ve heard of that. But no, Brightlord Dalinar says you’re each to be outfitted with breastplates, steel caps, new spears. Chain mail for the battlefield, if you need it.” “For now,” Kaladin said, “uniforms will do.” “I think I’ll look silly in this,” Moash grumbled, but walked over to change. Rind distributed the uniforms to the men. He gave Shen a strange look, but delivered the parshman a uniform without complaint. The bridgemen gathered in an eager bunch, jabbering with excitement as they unfolded their uniforms. It had been a long time since any of them had worn anything other than bridgeman leathers or slave wraps. They stopped talking when Moash stepped out. These were newer uniforms, of a more modern style than Kaladin had worn in his previous military service. Stiff blue trousers and black boots polished to a shine. A buttoned white shirt, only the edges of its collar and cuffs extending beyond the jacket, which came down to the waist and buttoned closed beneath the belt. “Now, there’s a soldier!” the quartermaster said with a laugh. “Still think you look silly?” He gestured for Moash to inspect his reflection in the mirror on the wall. Moash fixed his cuffs and actually blushed. Kaladin had rarely seen the man so out of sorts. “No,” Moash said. “I don’t.” The others moved eagerly and began changing. Some went to the stalls at the side, but most didn’t care. They were bridgemen and slaves; they’d spent most of their recent lives being paraded about in loincloths or little more. Teft had his on before anyone else, and knew to do up the buttons in the right places. “Been a long time,” he
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whispered, buckling his belt. “Don’t know that I deserve to wear something like this again.” “This is what you are, Teft,” Kaladin said. “Don’t let the slave rule you.” Teft grunted, affixing his combat knife in its place on his belt. “And you, son? When are you going to admit what you are?” “I have.” “To us. Not to everyone else.” “Don’t start this again.” “I’ll storming start whatever I want,” Teft snapped. He leaned in, speaking softly. “At least until you give me a real answer. You’re a Surgebinder. You’re not a Radiant yet, but you’re going to be one when this is all blown through. The others are right to push you. Why don’t you go have a hike up to that Dalinar fellow, suck in some Stormlight, and make him recognize you as a lighteyes?” Kaladin glanced at the men in a muddled jumble as they tried to get the uniforms on, an exasperated Rind explaining to them how to do up the coats. “Everything I’ve ever had, Teft,” Kaladin whispered, “the lighteyes have taken from me. My family, my brother, my friends. More. More than you can imagine. They see what I have, and they take it.” He held up his hand, and could faintly make out a few glowing wisps trailing from his skin, since he knew what to look for. “They’ll take it. If they can find out what I do, they’ll take it.” “Now, how in Kelek’s breath would they do that?” “I don’t know,” Kaladin said. “I don’t know, Teft, but I can’t help feeling panic when I think about it. I can’t let them have this, can’t let them take it—or you men—from me. We remain quiet about what I can do. No more talk of it.” Teft grumbled as the other men finally got themselves sorted out, though Lopen—one armed, with his empty sleeve turned inside out and pushed in so it didn’t hang down—prodded at the patch on his shoulder. “What’s this?” “It’s the insignia of the Cobalt Guard,” Kaladin said. “Dalinar Kholin’s personal bodyguard.” “They’re dead, gancho,” Lopen said. “We aren’t them.” “Yeah,” Skar agreed. To Rind’s horror, he got out his knife and cut the patch free. “We’re Bridge Four.” “Bridge Four was your prison,” Kaladin protested. “Doesn’t matter,” Skar said. “We’re Bridge Four.” The others agreed, cutting off the patches, tossing them to the ground. Teft nodded and did likewise. “We’ll protect the Blackthorn, but we’re not just going to replace what he had before. We’re our own crew.” Kaladin rubbed his forehead, but this was what he had accomplished in bringing them together, galvanizing them into a cohesive unit. “I’ll draw up a glyphpair insignia for you to use,” he told Rind. “You’ll have to commission new patches.” The portly man sighed as he gathered up the discarded patches. “I suppose. I’ve got your uniform over there, Captain. A darkeyed captain! Who would have thought it possible? You’ll be the only one in the army. The only one ever, so far as I know!” He didn’t seem
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to find it offensive. Kaladin had little experience with low-dahn lighteyes like Rind, though they were very common in the warcamps. In his hometown, there had only been the citylord’s family—of upper-middle dahn—and the darkeyes. It hadn’t been until he’d reached Amaram’s army that he’d realized there was an entire spectrum of lighteyes, many of whom worked common jobs and scrambled for money just like ordinary people. Kaladin walked over to the last bundle on the counter. His uniform was different. It included a blue waistcoat and a double-breasted blue longcoat, the lining white, the buttons of silver. The longcoat was meant to hang open, despite the rows of buttons down each side. He’d seen such uniforms frequently. On lighteyes. “Bridge Four,” he said, cutting the Cobalt Guard insignia from the shoulder and tossing it to the counter with the others. Research into times before the Hierocracy is frustratingly difficult, the book read. During the reign of the Hierocracy, the Vorin Church had near-absolute control over eastern Roshar. The fabrications they promoted—and then perpetuated as absolute truth—became ingrained in the consciousness of society. More disturbingly, modified copies of ancient texts were made, aligning history to match Hierocratic dogma. In her cabin, Shallan read by the glow of a goblet of spheres, wearing her nightgown. Her cramped chamber lacked a true porthole and had just a thin slit of a window running across the top of the outside wall. The only sound she could hear was the water lapping against the hull. Tonight, the ship did not have a port in which to shelter. The church of this era was suspicious of the Knights Radiant, the book read. Yet it relied upon the authority granted Vorinism by the Heralds. This created a dichotomy in which the Recreance, and the betrayal of the knights, was overemphasized. At the same time, the ancient knights—the ones who had lived alongside the Heralds in the shadowdays—were celebrated. This makes it particularly difficult to study the Radiants and the place named Shadesmar. What is fact? What records did the church, in its misguided attempt to cleanse the past of perceived contradictions, rewrite to suit its preferred narrative? Few documents from the period survive that did not pass through Vorin hands to be copied from the original parchment into modern codices. Shallan glanced up over the top of her book. The volume was one of Jasnah’s earliest published works as a full scholar. Jasnah had not assigned Shallan to read it. Indeed, she’d been hesitant when Shallan had asked for a copy, and had needed to dig it out of one of the numerous trunks full of books she kept in the ship’s hold. Why had she been so reluctant, when this volume dealt with the very things that Shallan was studying? Shouldn’t Jasnah have given her this right off? It— The pattern returned. Shallan’s breath caught in her throat as she saw it on the cabin wall beside the bunk, just to her left. She carefully moved her eyes back to the page in front of her. The
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pattern was the same one that she’d seen before, the shape that had appeared on her sketchpad. Ever since then, she’d been seeing it from the corner of her eye, appearing in the grain of wood, the cloth on the back of a sailor’s shirt, the shimmering of the water. Each time, when she looked right at it, the pattern vanished. Jasnah would say nothing more, other than to indicate it was likely harmless. Shallan turned the page and steadied her breathing. She had experienced something like this before with the strange symbol-headed creatures who had appeared unbidden in her drawings. She allowed her eyes to slip up off the page and look at the wall—not right at the pattern, but to the side of it, as if she hadn’t noticed it. Yes, it was there. Raised, like an embossing, it had a complex pattern with a haunting symmetry. Its tiny lines twisted and turned through its mass, somehow lifting the surface of the wood, like iron scrollwork under a taut tablecloth. It was one of those things. The symbolheads. This pattern was similar to their strange heads. She looked back at the page, but did not read. The ship swayed, and the glowing white spheres in her goblet clinked as they shifted. She took a deep breath. Then looked directly at the pattern. Immediately, it began to fade, the ridges sinking. Before it did, she got a clear look at it, and she took a Memory. “Not this time,” she muttered as it vanished. “This time I have you.” She threw away her book, scrambling to get out her charcoal pencil and a sheet of sketching paper. She huddled down beside her light, red hair tumbling around her shoulders. She worked furiously, possessed by a frantic need to have this drawing done. Her fingers moved on their own, her unclothed safehand holding the sketchpad toward the goblet, which sprinkled the paper with shards of light. She tossed aside the pencil. She needed something crisper, capable of sharper lines. Ink. Pencil was wonderful for drawing the soft shades of life, but this thing she drew was not life. It was something else, something unreal. She dug a pen and inkwell from her supplies, then went back to her drawing, replicating the tiny, intricate lines. She did not think as she drew. The art consumed her, and creationspren popped into existence all around. Dozens of tiny shapes soon crowded the small table beside her cot and the floor of the cabin near where she knelt. The spren shifted and spun, each no larger than the bowl of a spoon, becoming shapes they’d recently encountered. She mostly ignored them, though she’d never seen so many at once. Faster and faster they shifted forms as she drew, intent. The pattern seemed impossible to capture. Its complex repetitions twisted down into infinity. No, a pen could never capture this thing perfectly, but she was close. She drew it spiraling out of a center point, then re-created each branch off the center, which had its own swirl
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of tiny lines. It was like a maze created to drive its captive insane. When she finished the last line, she found herself breathing hard, as if she’d run a great distance. She blinked, again noticing the creationspren around her—there were hundreds. They lingered before fading away one by one. Shallan set the pen down beside her vial of ink, which she’d stuck to the tabletop with wax to keep it from sliding as the ship swayed. She picked up the page, waiting for the last lines of ink to dry, and felt as if she’d accomplished something significant—though she knew not what. As the last line dried, the pattern rose before her. She heard a distinct sigh from the paper, as if in relief. She jumped, dropping the paper and scrambling onto her bed. Unlike the other times, the embossing didn’t vanish, though it left the paper—budding from her matching drawing—and moved onto the floor. She could describe it in no other way. The pattern somehow moved from paper to floor. It came to the leg of her cot and wrapped around it, climbing upward and onto the blanket. It didn’t look like something moving beneath the blanket; that was simply a crude approximation. The lines were too precise for that, and there was no stretching. Something beneath the blanket would have been just an indistinct lump, but this was exact. It drew closer. It didn’t look dangerous, but she still found herself trembling. This pattern was different from the symbolheads in her drawings, but it was also somehow the same. A flattened-out version, without torso or limbs. It was an abstraction of one of them, just as a circle with a few lines in it could represent a human’s face on the page. Those things had terrified her, haunted her dreams, made her worry she was going insane. So as this one approached, she scuttled from her bed and went as far from it in the small cabin as she could. Then, heart thumping in her chest, she pulled open the door to go for Jasnah. She found Jasnah herself just outside, reaching toward the doorknob, her left hand cupped before her. A small figure made of inky blackness—shaped like a man in a smart, fashionable suit with a long coat—stood in her palm. He melted away into shadow as he saw Shallan. Jasnah looked to Shallan, then glanced toward the floor of the cabin, where the pattern was crossing the wood. “Put on some clothing, child,” Jasnah said. “We have matters to discuss.” * * * “I had originally hoped that we would have the same type of spren,” Jasnah said, sitting on a stool in Shallan’s cabin. The pattern remained on the floor between her and Shallan, who lay prone on the cot, properly clothed with a robe over the nightgown and a thin white glove on her left hand. “But of course, that would be too easy. I have suspected since Kharbranth that we would be of different orders.” “Orders, Brightness?” Shallan asked, timidly using a pencil
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to prod at the pattern on the floor. It shied away, like an animal that had been poked. Shallan was fascinated by how it raised the surface of the floor, though a part of her did not want to have anything to do with it and its unnatural, eye-twisting geometries. “Yes,” Jasnah said. The inklike spren that had accompanied her before had not reappeared. “Each order reportedly had access to two of the Surges, with overlap between them. We call the powers Surgebinding. Soulcasting was one, and is what we share, though our orders are different.” Shallan nodded. Surgebinding. Soulcasting. These were talents of the Lost Radiants, the abilities—supposedly just legend—that had been their blessing or their curse, depending upon which reports you read. Or so she’d learned from the books Jasnah had given her to read during their trip. “I’m not one of the Radiants,” Shallan said. “Of course you aren’t,” Jasnah said, “and neither am I. The orders of knights were a construct, just as all society is a construct, used by men to define and explain. Not every man who wields a spear is a soldier, and not every woman who makes bread is a baker. And yet weapons, or baking, become the hallmarks of certain professions.” “So you’re saying that what we can do . . .” “Was once the definition of what initiated one into the Knights Radiant,” Jasnah said. “But we’re women!” “Yes,” Jasnah said lightly. “Spren don’t suffer from human society’s prejudices. Refreshing, wouldn’t you say?” Shallan looked up from poking at the pattern spren. “There were women among the Knights Radiant?” “A statistically appropriate number,” Jasnah said. “But don’t fear that you will soon find yourself swinging a sword, child. The archetype of Radiants on the battlefield is an exaggeration. From what I’ve read—though records are, unfortunately, untrustworthy—for every Radiant dedicated to battle, there were another three who spent their time on diplomacy, scholarship, or other ways to aid society.” “Oh.” Why was Shallan disappointed by that? Fool. A memory rose unbidden. A silvery sword. A pattern of light. Truths she could not face. She banished them, squeezing her eyes shut. Ten heartbeats. “I have been looking into the spren you told me about,” Jasnah said. “The creatures with the symbol heads.” Shallan took a deep breath and opened her eyes. “This is one of them,” she said, pointing her pencil at the pattern, which had approached her trunk and was moving up onto it and off it—like a child jumping on a sofa. Instead of threatening, it seemed innocent, even playful—and hardly intelligent at all. She had been frightened of this thing? “Yes, I suspect that it is,” Jasnah said. “Most spren manifest differently here than they do in Shadesmar. What you drew before was their form there.” “This one is not very impressive.” “Yes. I will admit that I’m disappointed. I feel that we’re missing something important about this, Shallan, and I find it annoying. The Cryptics have a fearful reputation, and yet this one—the first specimen I’ve ever seen—seems . .
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.” It climbed up the wall, then slipped down, then climbed back up, then slipped down again. “Imbecilic?” Shallan asked. “Perhaps it simply needs more time,” Jasnah said. “When I first bonded with Ivory—” She stopped abruptly. “What?” Shallan said. “I’m sorry. He does not like me to speak of him. It makes him anxious. The knights’ breaking of their oaths was very painful to the spren. Many spren died; I’m certain of it. Though Ivory won’t speak of it, I gather that what he’s done is regarded as a betrayal by the others of his kind.” “But—” “No more of that,” Jasnah said. “I’m sorry.” “Fine. You mentioned the Cryptics?” “Yes,” Jasnah said, reaching into the sleeve that hid her safehand and slipping out a folded piece of paper—one of Shallan’s drawings of the symbolheads. “That is their own name for themselves, though we would probably name them liespren. They don’t like the term. Regardless, the Cryptics rule one of the greater cities in Shadesmar. Think of them as the lighteyes of the Cognitive Realm.” “So this thing,” Shallan said, nodding to the pattern, which was spinning in circles in the center of the cabin, “is like . . . a prince, on their side?” “Something like that. There is a complex sort of conflict between them and the honorspren. Spren politics are not something I’ve been able to devote much time to. This spren will be your companion—and will grant you the ability to Soulcast, among other things.” “Other things?” “We will have to see,” Jasnah said. “It comes down to the nature of spren. What has your research revealed?” With Jasnah, everything seemed to be a test of scholarship. Shallan smothered a sigh. This was why she had come with Jasnah, rather than returning to her home. Still, she did wish that sometimes Jasnah would just tell her answers rather than making her work so hard to find them. “Alai says that the spren are fragments of the powers of creation. A lot of the scholars I read agreed with that.” “It is one opinion. What does it mean?” Shallan tried not to let herself be distracted by the spren on the floor. “There are ten fundamental Surges—forces—by which the world works. Gravitation, pressure, transformation. That sort of thing. You told me spren are fragments of the Cognitive Realm that have somehow gained sentience because of human attention. Well, it stands to reason that they were something before. Like . . . like a painting was a canvas before being given life.” “Life?” Jasnah said, raising her eyebrow. “Of course,” Shallan said. Paintings lived. Not lived like a person or a spren, but . . . well, it was obvious to her, at least. “So, before the spren were alive, they were something. Power. Energy. Zen-daughter-Vath sketched tiny spren she found sometimes around heavy objects. Gravitationspren—fragments of the power or force that causes us to fall. It stands to reason that every spren was a power before it was a spren. Really, you can divide spren into two general
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groups. Those that respond to emotions and those that respond to forces like fire or wind pressure.” “So you believe Namar’s theory on spren categorization?” “Yes.” “Good,” Jasnah said. “As do I. I suspect, personally, that these groupings of spren—emotion spren versus nature spren—are where the ideas of mankind’s primeval ‘gods’ came from. Honor, who became Vorinism’s Almighty, was created by men who wanted a representation of ideal human emotions as they saw in emotion spren. Cultivation, the god worshipped in the West, is a female deity that is an embodiment of nature and nature spren. The various Voidspren, with their unseen lord—whose name changes depending on which culture we’re speaking of—evoke an enemy or antagonist. The Stormfather, of course, is a strange offshoot of this, his theoretical nature changing depending on which era of Vorinism is doing the talking. . . .” She trailed off. Shallan blushed, realizing she’d looked away and had begun tracing a glyphward on her blanket against the evil in Jasnah’s words. “That was a tangent,” Jasnah said. “I apologize.” “You’re so sure he isn’t real,” Shallan said. “The Almighty.” “I have no more proof of him than I do of the Thaylen Passions, Nu Ralik of the Purelake, or any other religion.” “And the Heralds? You don’t think they existed?” “I don’t know,” Jasnah said. “There are many things in this world that I don’t understand. For example, there is some slight proof that both the Stormfather and the Almighty are real creatures—simply powerful spren, such as the Nightwatcher.” “Then he would be real.” “I never claimed he was not,” Jasnah said. “I merely claimed that I do not accept him as God, nor do I feel any inclination to worship him. But this is, again, a tangent.” Jasnah stood. “You are relieved of other duties of study. For the next few days, you have only one focus for your scholarship.” She pointed toward the floor. “The pattern?” Shallan asked. “You are the only person in centuries to have the chance to interact with a Cryptic,” Jasnah said. “Study it and record your experiences—in detail. This will likely be your first writing of significance, and could be of utmost importance to our future.” Shallan regarded the pattern, which had moved over and bumped into her foot—she could feel it only faintly—and was now bumping into it time and time again. “Great,” Shallan said. “I’m running through water,” Dalinar said, coming to himself. He was moving, charging forward. The vision coalesced around him. Warm water splashed his legs. On either side of him, a dozen men with hammers and spears ran through the shallow water. They lifted their legs high with each step, feet back, thighs lifting parallel to the water’s surface, like they were marching in a parade—only no parade had ever been such a mad scramble. Obviously, running that way helped them move through the liquid. He tried to imitate the odd gait. “I’m in the Purelake, I think,” he said, under his breath. “Warm water that only comes up to the knees, no signs
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of land anywhere. It’s dusk, though, so I can’t see much. “People run with me. I don’t know if we’re running toward something or away from it. Nothing over my shoulder that I can see. These people are obviously soldiers, though the uniforms are antiquated. Leather skirts, bronze helms and breastplates. Bare legs and arms.” He looked down at himself. “I’m wearing the same.” Some highlords in Alethkar and Jah Keved still used uniforms like this, so he couldn’t place the exact era. The modern uses were all calculated revivals by traditionalist commanders who hoped a classical look would inspire their men. In those cases, however, modern steel equipment would be used alongside the antique uniforms—and he didn’t see any of that here. Dalinar didn’t ask questions. He’d found that playing along with these visions taught him more than it did to stop and demand answers. Running through this water was tough. Though he’d started near the front of the group, he was now lagging behind. The group ran toward some kind of large rock mound ahead, shadowed in the dusk. Maybe this wasn’t the Purelake. It didn’t have rock formations like— That wasn’t a rock mound. It was a fortress. Dalinar halted, looking up at the peaked, castle-like structure that rose straight from the still lake waters. He’d never seen its like before. Jet-black stone. Obsidian? Perhaps this place had been Soulcast. “There’s a fortress ahead,” he said, continuing forward. “It must not still exist—if it did, it would be famous. It looks like it’s created entirely from obsidian. Finlike sides rising toward peaked tips above, towers like arrowheads . . . Stormfather. It’s majestic. “We’re approaching another group of soldiers who stand in the water, holding spears wardingly in all directions. There are perhaps a dozen of them; I’m in the company of another dozen. And . . . yes, there’s someone in the middle of them. Shardbearer. Glowing armor.” Not just a Shardbearer. Radiant. A knight in resplendent Shardplate that glowed with a deep red at the joints and in certain markings. Armor did that in the shadowdays. This vision was taking place before the Recreance. Like all Shardplate, the armor was distinctive. With that skirt of chain links, those smooth joints, the vambraces that extended back just so . . . Storms, that looked like Adolin’s armor, though this armor pulled in more at the waist. Female? Dalinar couldn’t tell for certain, as the faceplate was down. “Form up!” the knight ordered as Dalinar’s group arrived, and he nodded to himself. Yes, female. Dalinar and the other soldiers formed a ring around the knight, weapons outward. Not far off, another group of soldiers with a knight at their center marched through the water. “Why did you call us back?” asked one of Dalinar’s companions. “Caeb thinks he saw something,” the knight said. “Be alert. Let’s move carefully.” The group started away from the fortress in another direction from the one they’d come. Dalinar held his spear outward, sweating at his temples. To his own eyes, he didn’t look
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any different from his normal self. The others, however, would see him as one of their own. He still didn’t know terribly much about these visions. The Almighty sent them to him, somehow. But the Almighty was dead, by his own admission. So how did that work? “We’re looking for something,” Dalinar said, under his breath. “Teams of knights and soldiers have been sent into the night to find something that was spotted.” “You all right, new kid?” asked one of the soldiers to his side. “Fine,” Dalinar said. “Just worried. I mean, I don’t even really know what we’re looking for.” “A spren that doesn’t act like it should,” the man said. “Keep your eyes open. Once Sja-anat touches a spren, it acts strange. Call attention to anything you see.” Dalinar nodded, then under his breath repeated the words, hoping that Navani could hear him. He and the soldiers continued their sweep, the knight at their center speaking with . . . nobody? She sounded like she was having a conversation, but Dalinar couldn’t see or hear anyone else with her. He turned his attention to the surroundings. He’d always wanted to see the center of the Purelake, but he’d never had a chance to do much besides visit the border. He’d been unable to find time for a detour in that direction during his last visit to Azir. The Azish had always acted surprised that he would want to go to such a place, as they claimed there was “nothing there.” Dalinar wore some kind of tight shoes on his feet, perhaps to keep him from cutting them on anything hidden by the water. The footing was uneven in places, with holes and ridges he felt rather than saw. He found himself watching little fish dart this way and that, shadows in the water, and next to them a face. A face. Dalinar shouted, jumping back, pointing his spear downward. “That was a face! In the water!” “Riverspren?” the knight asked, stepping up beside him. “It looked like a shadow,” Dalinar said. “Red eyes.” “It’s here, then,” the knight said. “Sja-anat’s spy. Caeb, run to the checkpoint. The rest of you, keep watching. It won’t be able to go far without a carrier.” She yanked something off her belt, a small pouch. “There!” Dalinar said, spotting a small red dot in the water. It flowed away from him, swimming like a fish. He charged after, running as he’d learned earlier. What good would it do to chase a spren, though? You couldn’t catch them. Not with any method he knew. The others charged behind. Fish scattered away, frightened by Dalinar’s splashing. “I’m chasing a spren,” Dalinar said under his breath. “It’s what we’ve been hunting. It looks a little like a face—a shadowy one, with red eyes. It swims through the water like a fish. Wait! There’s another one. Joining it. Larger, like a full figure, easily six feet. A swimming person, but like a shadow. It—” “Storms!” the knight shouted suddenly. “It brought an escort!” The larger spren twisted,
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then dove downward in the water, vanishing into the rocky ground. Dalinar stopped, uncertain if he should keep chasing the smaller one or remain here. The others turned and started to run the other way. Uh-oh . . . Dalinar scrambled back as the rocky lake bottom began to shake. He stumbled, splashing down into the water. It was so clear he could see the floor cracking under him, as if something large were pounding against it from beneath. “Come on!” one of the soldiers cried, grabbing him by the arm. Dalinar was pulled to his feet as the cracks below widened. The once-still surface of the lake churned and thrashed. The ground jolted, almost tumbling Dalinar off his feet again. Ahead of him, several of the soldiers did fall. The knight stood firm, an enormous Shardblade forming in her hands. Dalinar glanced over his shoulder in time to see rock emerging from the water. A long arm! Slender, perhaps fifteen feet long, it burst from the water, then slammed back down as if to get a firm purchase on the lakebed. Another arm rose nearby, elbow toward the sky, then they both heaved as if attached to a body doing a push-up. A giant body ripped itself out of the rocky floor. It was like someone had been buried in sand and was now emerging. Water streamed from the creature’s ridged and pocked back, which was overgrown with bits of shalebark and submarine fungus. The spren had somehow animated the stone itself. As it stood and twisted about, Dalinar could make out glowing red eyes—like molten rock—set deep in an evil stone face. The body was skeletal, with thin bony limbs and spiky fingers that ended in rocky claws. The chest was a rib cage of stone. “Thunderclast!” soldiers yelled. “Hammers! Ready hammers!” The knight stood before the rising creature, which stood thirty feet tall, dripping water. A calm, white light began to rise from her. It reminded Dalinar of the light of spheres. Stormlight. She raised her Shardblade and charged, stepping through the water with uncanny ease, as if it had no purchase on her. Perhaps it was the strength of Shardplate. “They were created to watch,” a voice said from beside him. Dalinar looked to the soldier who had helped him rise earlier, a long-faced Selay man with a balding scalp and a wide nose. Dalinar reached down to help the man to his feet. This wasn’t how the man had spoken before, but Dalinar recognized the voice. It was the same one that came at the end of most of the visions. The Almighty. “The Knights Radiant,” the Almighty said, standing up beside Dalinar, watching the knight attack the nightmare beast. “They were a solution, a way to offset the destruction of the Desolations. Ten orders of knights, founded with the purpose of helping men fight, then rebuild.” Dalinar repeated it, word for word, focused on catching every one and not on thinking about what they meant. The Almighty turned to him. “I was surprised when these orders
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arrived. I did not teach my Heralds this. It was the spren—wishing to imitate what I had given men—who made it possible. You will need to refound them. This is your task. Unite them. Create a fortress that can weather the storm. Vex Odium, convince him that he can lose, and appoint a champion. He will take that chance instead of risking defeat again, as he has suffered so often. This is the best advice I can give you.” Dalinar finished repeating the words. Beyond him, the fight began in earnest, water splashing, rock grinding. Soldiers approached bearing hammers, and unexpectedly, these men now also glowed with Stormlight, though far more faintly. “You were surprised by the coming of the knights,” Dalinar said to the Almighty. “And this force, this enemy, managed to kill you. You were never God. God knows everything. God cannot be killed. So who were you?” The Almighty did not answer. He couldn’t. Dalinar had realized that these visions were some kind of predetermined experience, like a play. The people in them could react to Dalinar, like actors who could improvise to an extent. The Almighty himself never did this. “I will do what I can,” Dalinar said. “I will refound them. I will prepare. You have told me many things, but there is one I have figured out on my own. If you could be killed, then the other like you—your enemy—probably can be as well.” The darkness came upon Dalinar. The yelling and splashing faded. Had this vision occurred during a Desolation, or between? These visions never told him enough. As the darkness evaporated he found himself lying in a small stone chamber within his complex in the warcamps. Navani knelt beside him, clipboard held before her, pen moving as she scribbled. Storms, she was beautiful. Mature, lips painted red, hair wound about her head in a complex braid that sparkled with rubies. Bloodred dress. She looked at him, noting that he was blinking back awake, and smiled. “It was—” he began. “Hush,” she said, still writing. “That last part sounded important.” She wrote for a moment, then finally removed pen from pad, the latter held through the cloth of her sleeve. “I think I got it all. It’s hard when you change languages.” “I changed languages?” he asked. “At the end. Before, you were speaking Selay. An ancient form of it, certainly, but we have records of that. I hope my translators can make sense of my transcription; my command of that language is rusty. You do need to speak more slowly when you do this, dearest.” “That can be hard, in the moment,” Dalinar said, rising. Compared to what he’d felt in the vision, the air here was cold. Rain pelted the room’s closed shutters, though he knew from experience that an end to his vision meant that the storm had nearly spent itself. Feeling drained, he walked to a seat beside the wall and settled down. Only he and Navani were in the room; he preferred it that way. Renarin and Adolin waited
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out the storm nearby, in another room of Dalinar’s quarters and under the watchful eyes of Captain Kaladin and his bridgeman bodyguards. Perhaps he should invite more scholars in to observe his visions; they could all write down his words, then consult to produce the most accurate version. But storms, he had enough trouble with one person watching him in such a state, raving and thrashing on the ground. He believed in the visions, even depended upon them, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t embarrassing. Navani sat down beside him, and wrapped her arms around him. “Was it bad?” “This one? No. Not bad. Some running, then some fighting. I didn’t participate. The vision ended before I needed to help.” “Then why that expression?” “I have to refound the Knights Radiant.” “Refound the . . . But how? What does that even mean?” “I don’t know. I don’t know anything; I only have hints and shadowy threats. Something dangerous is coming, that much is certain. I have to stop it.” She rested her head on his shoulder. He stared at the hearth, which crackled softly, giving the small room a warm glow. This was one of the few hearths that hadn’t been converted to the new fabrial heating devices. He preferred the real fire, though he wouldn’t say it to Navani. She worked so hard to bring new fabrials to them all. “Why you?” Navani asked. “Why do you have to do this?” “Why is one man born a king, and another a beggar?” Dalinar asked. “It is the way of the world.” “It is that easy for you?” “Not easy,” Dalinar said, “but there is no point in demanding answers.” “Particularly if the Almighty is dead. . . .” Perhaps he should not have shared that fact with her. Speaking of just that one idea could brand him a heretic, drive his own ardents from him, give Sadeas a weapon against the Throne. If the Almighty was dead, what did Dalinar worship? What did he believe? “We should record your memories of the vision,” Navani said with a sigh, pulling back from him. “While they are fresh.” He nodded. It was important to have a description to match the transcriptions. He began to recount what he’d seen, speaking slowly enough that she could write it all down. He described the lake, the clothing of the men, the strange fortress in the distance. She claimed there were stories of large structures on the Purelake told by some who lived there. Scholars had considered them mythological. Dalinar stood up and paced as he moved on to the description of the unholy thing that had risen from the lake. “It left behind a hole in the lakebed,” Dalinar explained. “Imagine if you were to outline a body on the floor, then watch that body rip itself free from the ground. “Imagine the tactical advantage such a thing would have. Spren move quickly and easily. One could slip in behind battle lines, then stand up and start attacking the support staff. That beast’s stone body
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must have been difficult to break. Storms . . . Shardblades. Makes me wonder if these are the things the weapons were truly designed to fight.” Navani smiled as she wrote. “What?” Dalinar asked, stopping in his pacing. “You are such a soldier.” “Yes. And?” “And it’s endearing,” she said, finishing her writing. “What happened next?” “The Almighty spoke to me.” He gave her the monologue as best he could remember while he paced in a slow, restful walk. I need to sleep more, he thought. He wasn’t the youth he’d been twenty years ago, capable of staying up all night with Gavilar, listening with a cup of wine as his brother made plans, then charging to battle the next day full of vigor and hungering for a contest. Once he was done with his narrative, Navani rose, tucking her writing implements away. She’d take what he’d said and have her scholars—well, his scholars, which she’d appropriated—work at matching his Alethi words up with the transcriptions she’d recorded. Though, of course, she’d first remove the lines where he mentioned sensitive issues, such as the Almighty’s death. She’d also search for historical references to match his descriptions. Navani liked things neat and quantified. She’d prepared a timeline of all of his visions, trying to piece them into a single narrative. “You’re still going to publish the proclamation this week?” she asked. Dalinar nodded. He’d released it to the highprinces a week ago, in private. He’d intended to release it the same day to the camps, but Navani had convinced him that this was the wiser course. News was seeping out, but this would let the highprinces prepare. “The proclamation will go to the public within a few days,” he said. “Before the highprinces can put further pressure on Elhokar to retract it.” Navani pursed her lips. “It must be done,” Dalinar said. “You’re supposed to unite them.” “The highprinces are spoiled children,” Dalinar said. “Changing them will require extreme measures.” “If you break the kingdom apart, we’ll never unify it.” “We’ll make certain that it doesn’t break.” Navani looked him up and down, then smiled. “I am fond of this more confident you, I must admit. Now, if I could just borrow a little of that confidence in regards to us . . .” “I am quite confident about us,” he said, pulling her close. “Is that so? Because this traveling between the king’s palace and your complex wastes a lot of my time each day. If I were to move my things here—say, into your quarters—think how much more convenient everything would be.” “No.” “You’re confident they won’t let us marry, Dalinar. So what else are we to do? Is it the morality of the thing? You yourself said that the Almighty was dead.” “Something is either right or it’s wrong,” Dalinar said, feeling stubborn. “The Almighty doesn’t come into it.” “God,” Navani said flatly, “doesn’t come into whether his commands are right or wrong.” “Er. Yes.” “Careful,” Navani said. “You’re sounding like Jasnah. Anyway, if God is dead—” “God isn’t dead.
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If the Almighty died, then he was never God, that’s all.” She sighed, still close to him. She went up on her toes and kissed him—and not demurely, either. Navani considered demureness for the coy and frivolous. So, a passionate kiss, pressing against his mouth, pushing his head backward, hungering for more. When she pulled away, Dalinar found himself breathless. She smiled at him, then turned and picked up her things—he hadn’t noticed her dropping them during the kiss—and then walked to the door. “I am not a patient woman, you realize. I am as spoiled as those highprinces, accustomed to getting what I want.” He snorted. Neither was true. She could be patient. When it suited her. What she meant was that it didn’t suit her at the moment. She opened the door, and Captain Kaladin himself peered in, inspecting the room. The bridgeman certainly was earnest. “Watch her as she travels home for the day, soldier,” Dalinar said to him. Kaladin saluted. Navani pushed by him and left without a goodbye, closing the door and leaving Dalinar alone again. Dalinar sighed deeply, then walked to the chair and settled down by the hearth to think. He started awake some time later, the fire having burned out. Storms. Was he falling asleep in the middle of the day, now? If only he didn’t spend so much time at night tossing and turning, head full of worries and burdens that should never have been his. What had happened to the simple days? His hand on a sword, secure in the knowledge that Gavilar would handle the difficult parts? Dalinar stretched, rising. He needed to go over preparations for releasing the king’s proclamation, and then see to the new guards— He stopped. The wall of his room bore a series of stark white scratches forming glyphs. They hadn’t been there before. Sixty-two days, the glyphs read. Death follows. * * * A short time later, Dalinar stood, straight-backed, hands clasped behind him as he listened to Navani confer with Rushu, one of the Kholin scholars. Adolin stood nearby, inspecting a chunk of white rock that had been found on the floor. It had apparently been pried from the row of ornamental stones rimming the room’s window, then used to write the glyphs. Straight back, head up, Dalinar told himself, even though you want to just slump in that chair. A leader did not slump. A leader was in control. Even when he least felt like he controlled anything. Especially then. “Ah,” said Rushu—a young female ardent with long eyelashes and buttonlike lips. “Look at the sloppy lines! The improper symmetry. Whoever did this is not practiced with drawing glyphs. They almost spelled death wrong—it looks more like ‘broken.’ And the meaning is vague. Death follows? Or is it ‘follow death’? Or Sixty-Two Days of Death and Following? Glyphs are imprecise.” “Just make the copy, Rushu,” Navani said. “And don’t speak of this to anyone.” “Not even you?” Rushu asked, sounding distracted as she wrote. Navani sighed, walking over to Dalinar and Adolin. “She
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is good at what she does,” Navani said softly, “but she’s a little oblivious sometimes. Anyway, she knows handwriting better than anyone. It’s one of her many areas of interest.” Dalinar nodded, bottling his fears. “Why would anyone do this?” Adolin asked, dropping the rock. “Is it some kind of obscure threat?” “No,” Dalinar said. Navani met Dalinar’s eyes. “Rushu,” she said. “Leave us for a moment.” The woman didn’t respond at first, but scuttled out at further prompting. As she opened the door, she revealed members of Bridge Four outside, led by Captain Kaladin, his expression dark. He’d escorted Navani away, then come back to find this—and then had immediately sent men to check on and retrieve Navani. He obviously considered this lapse his fault, thinking that someone had sneaked into Dalinar’s room while he was sleeping. Dalinar waved the captain in. Kaladin hurried over, and hopefully didn’t see how Adolin’s jaw tightened as he regarded the man. Dalinar had been fighting the Parshendi Shardbearer when Kaladin and Adolin had clashed on the battlefield, but he’d heard talk of their run-in. His son certainly did not like hearing that this darkeyed bridgeman had been put in charge of the Cobalt Guard. “Sir,” Captain Kaladin said, stepping up. “I’m embarrassed. One week on the job, and I’ve failed you.” “You did as commanded, Captain,” Dalinar said. “I was commanded to keep you safe, sir,” Kaladin said, anger bleeding into his voice. “I should have posted guards at individual doors inside your quarters, not just outside of the room complex.” “We’ll be more observant in the future, Captain,” Dalinar said. “Your predecessor always posted the same guard as you did, and it was sufficient before.” “Times were different before, sir,” Kaladin said, scanning the room and narrowing his eyes. He focused on the window, too small to let someone slip in. “I still wish I knew how they got in. The guards heard nothing.” Dalinar inspected the young soldier, scarred and dark of expression. Why, Dalinar thought, do I trust this man so much? He couldn’t put his finger on it, but over the years, he’d learned to trust his instincts as a soldier and a general. Something within him urged him to trust Kaladin, and he accepted those instincts. “This is a small matter,” Dalinar said. Kaladin looked at him sharply. “Don’t worry yourself overly much about how the person got in to scribble on my wall,” Dalinar said. “Just be more watchful in the future. Dismissed.” He nodded to Kaladin, who retreated reluctantly, pulling the door closed. Adolin walked over. The mop-haired youth was as tall as Dalinar was. That was hard to remember, sometimes. It didn’t seem so long ago that Adolin had been an eager little boy with a wooden sword. “You said you awoke to this here,” Navani said. “You said you didn’t see anyone enter or hear anyone make the drawing.” Dalinar nodded. “Then why,” she said, “do I get the sudden and distinct impression that you know why it is here?” “I don’t know for certain
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who made it, but I know what it means.” “What, then?” Navani demanded. “It means we have very little time left,” Dalinar said. “Send out the proclamation, then go to the highprinces and arrange a meeting. They’ll want to speak with me.” The Everstorm comes. . . . Sixty-two days. Not enough time. It was, apparently, all he had. “Toward victory and, at long last, vengeance.” The crier carried a writ with the king’s words on it—bound between two cloth-covered boards—though she obviously had the words memorized. Not surprising. Kaladin alone had made her repeat the proclamation three times. “Again,” he said, sitting on his stone beside Bridge Four’s firepit. Many members of the crew had lowered their breakfast bowls, going silent. Nearby, Sigzil repeated the words to himself, memorizing them. The crier sighed. She was a plump, lighteyed young woman with strands of red hair mixed in her black, bespeaking Veden or Horneater heritage. There would be dozens of women like her moving through the warcamp to read, and sometimes explain, Dalinar’s words. She opened the ledger again. In any other battalion, Kaladin thought idly, its leader would be of a high enough social class to outrank her. “Under the authority of the king,” she said, “Dalinar Kholin, Highprince of War, hereby orders changes to the manner of collection and distribution of gemhearts on the Shattered Plains. Henceforth, each gemheart will be collected in turn by two highprinces working in tandem. The spoils become the property of the king, who will determine—based on the effectiveness of the parties involved and their alacrity to obey—their share. “A prescribed rotation will detail which highprinces and armies are responsible for hunting gemhearts, and in what order. The pairings will not always be the same, and will be judged based on strategic compatibility. It is expected that by the Codes we all hold dear, the men and women of these armies will welcome this renewed focus on victory and, at long last, vengeance.” The crier snapped the book closed, looking up at Kaladin and cocking a long black eyebrow he was pretty sure had been painted on with makeup. “Thank you,” he said. She nodded to him, then moved off toward the next battalion square. Kaladin climbed to his feet. “Well, there’s the storm we’ve been expecting.” The men nodded. Conversation at Bridge Four had been subdued, following the strange break-in at Dalinar’s quarters yesterday. Kaladin felt a fool. Dalinar, however, seemed to be ignoring the break-in entirely. He knew far more than he was telling Kaladin. How am I supposed to do my job if I don’t have the information I need? Not two weeks on the job, and already the politics and machinations of the lighteyes were tripping him up. “The highprinces are going to hate this proclamation,” Leyten said from beside the firepit, where he was working on Beld’s breastplate straps, which had come from the quartermaster with the buckles twisted about. “They base pretty much everything on getting those gemhearts. We’re going to have discontent aplenty on today’s winds.” “Ha!” Rock
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said, ladling up curry for Lopen, who had come back for seconds. “Discontent? Today, this will mean riots. Did you not hear that mention of the Codes? This thing, it is an insult against the others, whom we know do not follow their oaths.” He was smiling, and seemed to consider the anger—even rioting—of the highprinces to be amusing. “Moash, Drehy, Mart, and Eth with me,” Kaladin said. “We’ve got to go relieve Skar and his team. Teft, how goes your assignment?” “Slowly,” Teft said. “Those lads in the other bridge crews . . . they have a long way to go. We need something more, Kal. Some way to inspire them.” “I’ll work on it,” Kaladin said. “For now, we should try food. Rock, we’ve only got five officers at the moment, so you can have that last room on the outside for storage. Kholin gave us requisition rights from the camp quartermaster. Pack it full.” “Full?” Rock asked, an enormous grin splitting his face. “How full?” “Very,” Kaladin said. “We’ve been eating broth and stew with Soulcast grain for months. For the next month, Bridge Four eats like kings.” “No shells, now,” Mart said, pointing at Rock as he gathered his spear and did up his uniform jacket. “Just because you can fix anything you want, it doesn’t mean we’re going to eat something stupid.” “Airsick lowlanders,” Rock said. “Don’t you want to be strong?” “I want to keep my teeth, thank you,” Mart said. “Crazy Horneater.” “I will fix two things,” Rock said, hand to his chest, as if making a salute. “One for the brave and one for the silly. You may choose between these things.” “You’ll make feasts, Rock,” Kaladin said. “I need you to train cooks for the other barracks. Even if Dalinar has extra cooks to spare now with fewer regular troops to feed, I want the bridgemen to be self-sufficient. Lopen, I’m assigning Dabbid and Shen to help you assist Rock from here on out. We need to turn those thousand men into soldiers. It starts the same way it did with all of you—by filling their stomachs.” “It will be done,” Rock said, laughing, slapping Shen on the shoulder as the parshman stepped up for seconds. He’d only just started doing things like that, and seemed to hide in the back less than he once had. “I will not even put any dung in it!” The others chuckled. Putting dung in food was what had gotten Rock turned into a bridgeman in the first place. As Kaladin started out toward the king’s palace—Dalinar had an important meeting with the king today—Sigzil joined him. “A moment of your time, sir,” Sigzil said quietly. “If you wish.” “You promised me that I could have a chance to measure your . . . particular abilities.” “Promised?” Kaladin asked. “I don’t remember a promise.” “You grunted.” “I . . . grunted?” “When I talked about taking some measurements. You seemed to think it was a good idea, and you told Skar we could help you figure out
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your powers.” “I suppose I did.” “We need to know exactly what you can do, sir—the extent of the abilities, the length of time the Stormlight remains in you. Do you agree that having a clear understanding of your limits would be valuable?” “Yes,” Kaladin said reluctantly. “Excellent. Then . . .” “Give me a couple of days,” Kaladin said. “Go prepare a place where we can’t be seen. Then . . . yes, all right. I’ll let you measure me.” “Excellent,” Sigzil said. “I’ve been devising some experiments.” He stopped on the path, allowing Kaladin and the others to draw away from him. Kaladin rested his spear on his shoulder and relaxed his hand. He frequently found his grip on the weapon too strong, his knuckles white. It was like part of him still didn’t believe he could carry it in public now, and feared it would be taken from him again. Syl floated down from her daily sprint around the camp on the morning winds. She alighted on his shoulder and sat, seeming lost in thought. Dalinar’s warcamp was an organized place. Soldiers never lounged lazily here. They were always doing something. Working on their weapons, fetching food, carrying cargo, patrolling. Men patrolled a lot in this camp. Even with the reduced army numbers, Kaladin passed three patrols as his men marched toward the gates. That was three more than he’d ever seen in Sadeas’s camp. He was reminded again of the emptiness. The dead didn’t need to become Voidbringers to haunt this camp; the empty barracks did that. He passed one woman, seated on the ground beside one of those hollow barracks, staring up at the sky and clutching a bundle of masculine clothing. Two small children stood on the path beside her. Too silent. Children that small shouldn’t be quiet. The barracks formed blocks in an enormous ring, and in the center of them was a more populated part of camp—the bustling section that contained Dalinar’s living complex, along with the quarters of the various highlords and generals. Dalinar’s complex was a moundlike stone bunker with fluttering banners and scuttling clerks carrying armfuls of ledgers. Nearby, several officers had set up recruitment tents, and a long line of would-be soldiers had formed. Some were sellswords who had made their way to the Shattered Plains seeking work. Others were bakers or the like, who had heeded the cry for more soldiers following the disaster. “Why didn’t you laugh?” Syl said, inspecting the line as Kaladin hiked around it, on toward the gates out of the warcamp. “I’m sorry,” he replied. “Did you do something funny that I didn’t see?” “I mean earlier,” she said. “Rock and the others laughed. You didn’t. When you laughed during the weeks things were hard, I knew that you were forcing yourself to. I thought, maybe, once things got better . . .” “I’ve got an entire battalion of bridgemen to keep track of now,” Kaladin said, eyes forward. “And a highprince to keep alive. I’m in the middle of a camp full of
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widows. I guess I don’t feel like laughing.” “But things are better,” she said. “For you and your men. Think of what you did, what you accomplished.” A day spent on a plateau, slaughtering. A perfect melding of himself, his weapon, and the storms themselves. And he’d killed with it. Killed to protect a lighteyes. He’s different, Kaladin thought. They always said that. “I guess I’m just waiting,” Kaladin said. “For what?” “The thunder,” Kaladin said softly. “It always follows after the lightning. Sometimes you have to wait, but eventually it comes.” “I . . .” Syl zipped up in front of him, standing in the air, moving backward as he walked. She didn’t fly—she didn’t have wings—and didn’t bob in the air. She just stood there, on nothing, and moved in unison with him. She seemed to take no notice of normal physical laws. She cocked her head at him. “I don’t understand what you mean. Drat! I thought I was figuring this all out. Storms? Lightning?” “You know how, when you encouraged me to fight to save Dalinar, it still hurt you when I killed?” “Yes.” “It’s like that,” Kaladin said softly. He looked to the side. He was again gripping his spear too tightly. Syl watched him, hands on hips, waiting for him to say more. “Something bad is going to happen,” Kaladin said. “Things can’t just continue to be good for me. That’s not how life is. It might have to do with those glyphs on Dalinar’s wall yesterday. They seemed like a countdown.” She nodded. “Have you ever seen anything like that before?” “I remember . . . something,” she whispered. “Something bad. Seeing what is to come—it isn’t of Honor, Kaladin. It’s something else. Something dangerous.” Wonderful. When he said nothing more, Syl sighed and zipped into the air, becoming a ribbon of light. She followed him up there, moving between gusts of wind. She said that she’s honorspren, Kaladin thought. So why does she still keep up the act of playing with winds? He’d have to ask her, assuming she’d answer him. Assuming she even knew the answer. * * * Torol Sadeas laced his fingers before himself, elbows on the fine stonework tabletop, as he stared at the Shardblade he’d thrust down through the center of the table. It reflected his face. Damnation. When had he gotten old? He imagined himself as a young man, in his twenties. Now he was fifty. Storming fifty. He set his jaw, looking at that Blade. Oathbringer. It was Dalinar’s Shardblade—curved, like a back arching, with a hooklike tip on the end matched by a sequence of jutting serrations by the crossguard. Like waves in motion, peeking up from the ocean below. How often had he lusted for this weapon? Now it was his, but he found the possession hollow. Dalinar Kholin—driven mad by grief, broken to the point that battle frightened him—still clung to life. Sadeas’s old friend was like a favored axehound he’d been forced to put down, only to find it whimpering at the window,
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the poison having not quite done its work. Worse, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Dalinar had gotten the better of him somehow. The door to his sitting room opened, and Ialai slipped in. With a slender neck and a large mouth, his wife had never been described as a beauty—particularly as the years stretched long. He didn’t care. Ialai was the most dangerous woman he knew. That was more attractive than any simple pretty face. “You’ve destroyed my table, I see,” she said, eyeing the Shardblade slammed down through the center. She flopped down onto the small couch beside him, draped one arm across his back, and put her feet up on the table. While with others, she was the perfect Alethi woman. In private, she preferred to lounge. “Dalinar is recruiting heavily,” she said. “I’ve taken the opportunity to place a few more of my associates among the staff of his warcamp.” “Soldiers?” “What do you take me for? That would be far too obvious; he will have new soldiers under careful watch. However, much of his support staff has holes as men join the call to take up spears and reinforce his army.” Sadeas nodded, still staring at that Blade. His wife ran the most impressive network of spies in the warcamps. Most impressive indeed, since very, very few knew of it. She scratched at his back, sending shivers up the skin. “He released his proclamation,” Ialai noted. “Yes. Reactions?” “As anticipated. The others hate it.” Sadeas nodded. “Dalinar should be dead, but since he is not, at least we can depend upon him to hang himself in time.” Sadeas narrowed his eyes. “By destroying him, I sought to prevent the collapse of the kingdom. Now I’m wondering if that collapse wouldn’t be better for us all.” “What?” “I’m not meant for this, love,” Sadeas whispered. “This stupid game on the plateaus. It sated me at first, but I’m growing to loathe it. I want war, Ialai. Not hours of marching on the off chance that we’ll find some little skirmish!” “Those little skirmishes bring us wealth.” Which was why he’d suffered them so long. He rose. “I will need to meet with some of the others. Aladar. Ruthar. We need to fan the flames among the other highprinces, raise their indignation at what Dalinar attempts.” “And our end goal?” “I will have it back, Ialai,” he said, resting his fingers on Oathbringer’s hilt. “The conquest.” It was the only thing that made him feel alive any longer. That glorious, wonderful Thrill of being on the battlefield and striving, man against man. Of risking everything for the prize. Domination. Victory. It was the only time he felt like a youth again. It was a brutal truth. The best truths, however, were simple. He grabbed Oathbringer by the hilt and yanked it up out of the table. “Dalinar wants to play politician now, which is unsurprising. He has always secretly wanted to be his brother. Fortunately for us, Dalinar is no good at this sort of thing. His proclamation will
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alienate the others. He will push the highprinces, and they’ll take up arms against him, fracturing the kingdom. And then, with blood at my feet and Dalinar’s own sword in my hand, I will forge a new Alethkar from flame and tears.” “What if, instead, he succeeds?” “That, my dear, is when your assassins will be of use.” He dismissed the Shardblade; it turned to mist and vanished. “I will conquer this kingdom anew, and then Jah Keved will follow. After all, the purpose of this life is to train soldiers. In a way, I’m only doing what God himself wants.” * * * The walk between the barracks and the king’s palace—which the king had started calling the Pinnacle—took an hour or so, which gave Kaladin plenty of time to think. Unfortunately, on his way, he passed a group of Dalinar’s surgeons in a field with servants, gathering knobweed sap for an antiseptic. Seeing them made Kaladin think not only of his own efforts gathering the sap, but of his father. Lirin. If he were here, Kaladin thought as he passed them, he’d ask why I wasn’t out there, with the surgeons. He’d demand to know why, if Dalinar had taken me in, I hadn’t requested to join his medical corps. In fact, Kaladin could probably have gotten Dalinar to employ all of Bridge Four as surgeons’ assistants. Kaladin could have trained them in medicine almost as easily as he had the spear. Dalinar would have done it. An army could never have too many good surgeons. He hadn’t even considered it. The choice for him had been simpler—either become Dalinar’s bodyguards or leave the warcamps. Kaladin had chosen to put his men in the path of the storm again. Why? Eventually, they reached the king’s palace, which was built up the side of a large stone hill, with tunnels dug down into the rock. The king’s own quarters sat at the very top. That meant lots of climbing for Kaladin and his men. They hiked up the switchbacks, Kaladin still lost in thought about his father and his duty. “That’s a tad unfair, you know,” Moash said as they reached the top. Kaladin looked to the others, realizing that they were puffing from the long climb. Kaladin, however, had drawn in Stormlight without noticing. He wasn’t even winded. He smiled pointedly for Syl’s benefit, and regarded the cavernous hallways of the Pinnacle. A few men stood guard at the entrance gates, wearing the blue and gold of the King’s Guard, a separate and distinct unit from Dalinar’s own guard. “Soldier,” Kaladin said with a nod to one of them, a lighteyes of low rank. Militarily, Kaladin outranked a man like this—but not socially. Again, he wasn’t certain how all of this was supposed to work. The man looked him up and down. “I heard you held a bridge, practically by yourself, against hundreds of Parshendi. How’d you do that?” He did not address Kaladin with “sir,” as would have been appropriate for any other captain. “You want to find out?”
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Moash snapped from behind. “We can show you. Personally.” “Hush,” Kaladin said, glaring at Moash. He turned back to the soldier. “I got lucky. That’s it.” He stared the man in the eyes. “I suppose that makes sense,” the soldier said. Kaladin waited. “Sir,” the soldier finally added. Kaladin waved his men forward, and they passed the lighteyed guards. The interior of the palace was lit by spheres grouped in lamps on the walls—sapphires and diamonds blended to give a blue-white cast. The spheres were a small but striking reminder of how things had changed. Nobody would have let bridgemen near such casual use of spheres. The Pinnacle was still unfamiliar to Kaladin—so far, his time spent guarding Dalinar had mostly been in the warcamp. However, he’d made certain to look over maps of the place, so he knew the way to the top. “Why did you cut me off like that?” Moash demanded, catching up to Kaladin. “You were in the wrong,” Kaladin said. “You’re a soldier now, Moash. You’re going to have to learn to act like one. And that means not provoking fights.” “I’m not going to scrape and bow before lighteyes, Kal. Not anymore.” “I don’t expect you to scrape, but I do expect you to watch your tongue. Bridge Four is better than petty gibes and threats.” Moash fell back, but Kaladin could tell he was still smoldering. “That’s odd,” Syl said, landing on Kaladin’s shoulder again. “He looks so angry.” “When I took over the bridgemen,” Kaladin said softly, “they were caged animals who had been beaten into submission. I brought back their fight, but they were still caged. Now the doors are off those cages. It will take time for Moash and the others to adjust.” They would. During the final weeks as bridgemen, they’d learned to act with the precision and discipline of soldiers. They stood at attention while their abusers marched across bridges, never uttering a word of derision. Their discipline itself had become their weapon. They’d learn to be real soldiers. No, they were real soldiers. Now they had to learn how to act without Sadeas’s oppression to push against. Moash moved up beside him. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “You’re right.” Kaladin smiled, this time genuinely. “I’m not going to pretend I don’t hate them,” Moash said. “But I’ll be civil. We have a duty. We’ll do it well. Better than anyone expects. We’re Bridge Four.” “Good man,” Kaladin said. Moash was going to be particularly tricky to deal with, as more and more, Kaladin found himself confiding in the man. Most of the others idolized Kaladin. Not Moash, who was as close to a real friend as Kaladin had known since being branded. The hallway grew surprisingly decorative as they approached the king’s conference chamber. There was even a series of reliefs being carved on the walls—the Heralds, embellished with gemstones on the rock to glow at appropriate locations. More and more like a city, Kaladin thought to himself. This might actually be a true palace soon. He met Skar
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and his team at the door into the king’s conference chambers. “Report?” Kaladin asked softly. “Quiet morning,” Skar said. “And I’m fine with that.” “You’re relieved for the day, then,” Kaladin said. “I’ll stay here for the meeting, then let Moash take the afternoon shift. I’ll come back for the evening shift. You and your squad get some sleep; you’ll be back on duty tonight, stretching to tomorrow morning.” “Got it, sir,” Skar said, saluting. He collected his men and moved off. The chamber beyond the doors was decorated with a thick rug and large unshuttered windows on the leeward side. Kaladin had never been in this room, and the palace maps—for the protection of the king—only included the basic hallways and routes through the servants’ quarters. This room had one other door, probably out onto the balcony, but no exits other than the one Kaladin stepped through. Two other guards in blue and gold stood on either side of the door. The king himself paced back and forth beside the room’s desk. His nose was larger than the paintings of him showed. Dalinar spoke with Highlady Navani, an elegant woman with grey in her hair. The scandalous relationship between the king’s uncle and mother would have been the talk of the warcamp, if Sadeas’s betrayal hadn’t overshadowed it. “Moash,” Kaladin said, pointing. “See where that door goes. Mart and Eth, stand watch just outside in the hall. Nobody other than a highprince comes in until you’ve checked with us in here.” Moash gave the king a salute instead of a bow, and checked on the door. It indeed led to the balcony that Kaladin had spotted from below. It ran all around this upmost room. Dalinar studied Kaladin and Moash as they worked. Kaladin saluted, and met the man’s eyes. He wasn’t going to fail again, as he’d done the day before. “I don’t recognize these guards, Uncle,” the king said with annoyance. “They’re new,” Dalinar said. “There is no other way onto that balcony, soldier. It’s a hundred feet in the air.” “Good to know,” Kaladin said. “Drehy, join Moash out there on the balcony, close the door, and keep watch.” Drehy nodded, jumping into motion. “I just said there’s no way to reach that balcony from the outside,” Dalinar said. “Then that’s the way I’d try to get in,” Kaladin said, “if I wanted to, sir.” Dalinar smiled in amusement. The king, however, was nodding. “Good . . . good.” “Are there any other ways into this room, Your Majesty?” Kaladin asked. “Secret entrances, passages?” “If there were,” the king said, “I wouldn’t want people knowing about them.” “My men can’t keep this room safe if we don’t know what to guard. If there are passages nobody is supposed to know about, those are immediately suspect. If you share them with me, I’ll use only my officers in guarding them.” The king stared at Kaladin for a moment, then turned to Dalinar. “I like this one. Why haven’t you put him in charge of your guard before?” “I haven’t
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had the opportunity,” Dalinar said, studying Kaladin with eyes that had a depth behind them. A weight. He stepped over and rested a hand on Kaladin’s shoulder, pulling him aside. “Wait,” the king said from behind, “is that a captain’s insignia? On a darkeyes? When did that start happening?” Dalinar didn’t answer, instead walking Kaladin to the side of the room. “The king,” he said softly, “is very worried about assassins. You should know this.” “A healthy paranoia makes the job easier for his bodyguards, sir,” Kaladin said. “I didn’t say it was healthy,” Dalinar said. “You call me ‘sir.’ The common address is ‘Brightlord.’” “I will use that term if you command, sir,” Kaladin said, meeting the man’s eyes. “But ‘sir’ is an appropriate address, even for a lighteyes, if he’s your direct superior.” “I’m a highprince.” “Speaking frankly,” Kaladin said—he wouldn’t ask for permission. This man had put him in the role, so Kaladin would assume it came with certain privileges, unless told otherwise. “Every man I’ve ever called ‘Brightlord’ has betrayed me. A few men I’ve called ‘sir’ still have my trust to this day. I use one more reverently than the other. Sir.” “You’re an odd one, son.” “The normal ones are dead in the chasms, sir,” Kaladin said softly. “Sadeas saw to that.” “Well, have your men on the balcony guard from farther to the side, where they can’t hear through the window.” “I’ll wait with the men in the hall, then,” Kaladin said, noticing that the two men of the King’s Guard had already moved through the doors. “I didn’t order that,” Dalinar said. “Guard the doors, but on the inside. I want you to hear what we’re planning. Just don’t repeat it outside this room.” “Yes, sir.” “Four more people are coming to the meeting,” Dalinar said. “My sons, General Khal, and Brightness Teshav, Khal’s wife. They may enter. Anyone else should be kept back until the meeting is over.” Dalinar went back to a conversation with the king’s mother. Kaladin got Moash and Drehy positioned, then explained the door protocol to Mart and Eth. He’d have to do some training later. Lighteyes never truly meant “Don’t let anyone else in” when they said “Don’t let anyone else in.” What they meant was “If you let anyone else in, I’d better agree that it was important enough, or you’re in trouble.” Then, Kaladin took his post inside the closed door, standing against a wall with carved paneling made of a rare type of wood he didn’t recognize. It’s probably worth more than I’ve earned in my entire lifetime, he thought idly. One wooden panel. The highprince’s sons arrived, Adolin and Renarin Kholin. Kaladin had seen the former on the battlefield, though he looked different without his Shardplate. Less imposing. More like a spoiled rich boy. Oh, he wore a uniform like everyone else, but the buttons were engraved, and the boots . . . those were expensive hogshide ones without a scuff on them. Brand new, likely bought at ridiculous expense. He did save that
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woman in the market, though, Kaladin thought, remembering the encounter from weeks ago. Don’t forget about that. Kaladin wasn’t sure what to make of Renarin. The youth—he might have been older than Kaladin, but sure didn’t look it—wore spectacles and walked after his brother like a shadow. Those slender limbs and delicate fingers had never known battle or real work. Syl bobbed around the room, poking into nooks, crannies, and vases. She stopped at a paperweight on the women’s writing desk beside the king’s chair, poking at the block of crystal with a strange kind of crab-thing trapped inside. Were those wings? “Shouldn’t that one wait outside?” Adolin asked, nodding toward Kaladin. “What we’re doing is going to put me in direct danger,” Dalinar said, hands clasped behind his back. “I want him to know the details. That might be important to his job.” Dalinar didn’t look toward Adolin or Kaladin. Adolin walked up, taking Dalinar by the arm and speaking in a hushed tone that was not so soft that Kaladin couldn’t hear. “We barely know him.” “We have to trust some people, Adolin,” his father said in a normal voice. “If there’s one person in this army I can guarantee isn’t working for Sadeas, it’s that soldier.” He turned and glanced at Kaladin, once again studying him with those unfathomable eyes. He didn’t see me with the Stormlight, Kaladin told himself forcefully. He was practically unconscious. He doesn’t know. Does he? Adolin threw up his hands but walked to the other side of the room, muttering something to his brother. Kaladin remained in position, standing comfortably at parade rest. Yes, definitely spoiled. The general who arrived soon after was a limber, bald man with a straight back and pale yellow eyes. His wife, Teshav, had a pinched face and hair streaked blond. She took up position by the writing desk, which Navani had made no move to occupy. “Reports,” Dalinar said from the window as the door clicked shut behind the two newcomers. “I suspect you know what you’ll hear, Brightlord,” said Teshav. “They’re irate. They sincerely hoped you would reconsider the command—and sending it out to the public has provoked them. Highprince Hatham was the only one to make a public announcement. He plans to—and I quote—‘see that the king is dissuaded from this reckless and ill-advised course.’” The king sighed, settling into his seat. Renarin sat down immediately, as did the general. Adolin found his seat more reluctantly. Dalinar remained standing, looking out the window. “Uncle?” the king asked. “Did you hear that reaction? It’s a good thing you didn’t go so far as you had considered: to proclaim that they must follow the Codes or face seizure of assets. We’d be in the middle of a rebellion.” “That will come,” Dalinar said. “I still wonder if I should have announced it all at once. When you’ve got an arrow stuck in you, it’s sometimes best to just yank it out in one pull.” Actually, when you had an arrow in you, the best thing to do was
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leave it there until you could find a surgeon. Often it would plug the blood flow and keep you alive. It was probably best not to speak up and undermine the highprince’s metaphor, however. “Storms, what a ghastly image,” the king said, wiping his face with a handkerchief. “Do you have to say such things, Uncle? I already fear we’ll be dead before the week is out.” “Your father and I survived worse than this,” Dalinar said. “You had allies, then! Three highprinces for you, only six against, and you never fought them all at the same time.” “If the highprinces unite against us,” General Khal said, “we will not be able to stand firm. We’ll have no choice but to rescind this proclamation, which will weaken the Throne considerably.” The king leaned back, hand to his forehead. “Jezerezeh, this is going to be a disaster. . . .” Kaladin raised an eyebrow. “You disagree?” Syl asked, moving over toward him as a cluster of fluttering leaves. It was disconcerting to hear her voice coming from such shapes. The others in the room, of course, couldn’t see or hear her. “No,” Kaladin whispered. “This proclamation sounds like a real tempest. I just expected the king to be less . . . well, whiny.” “We need to secure allies,” Adolin said. “Form a coalition. Sadeas will gather one, and so we counter him with our own.” “Dividing the kingdom into two?” Teshav said, shaking her head. “I don’t see how a civil war would serve the Throne. Particularly one we’re unlikely to win.” “This could be the end of Alethkar as a kingdom,” the general agreed. “Alethkar ended as a kingdom centuries ago,” Dalinar said softly, staring out that window. “This thing we have created is not Alethkar. Alethkar was justice. We are children wearing our father’s cloak.” “But Uncle,” the king said, “at least the kingdom is something. More than it has been in centuries! If we fail here, and fracture to ten warring princedoms, it will negate everything my father worked for!” “This isn’t what your father worked for, son,” Dalinar said. “This game on the Shattered Plains, this nauseating political farce. This isn’t what Gavilar envisioned. The Everstorm comes. . . .” “What?” the king asked. Dalinar turned from the window finally, walking to the others, and rested his hand on Navani’s shoulder. “We’re going to find a way to do this, or we’re going to destroy the kingdom in the process. I won’t suffer this charade any longer.” Kaladin, arms folded, tapped one finger against his elbow. “Dalinar acts like he’s the king,” he mouthed, whispering so softly only Syl could hear. “And everyone else does as well.” Troubling. It was like what Amaram had done. Seizing the power he saw before him, even if it wasn’t his. Navani looked up at Dalinar, raising her hand to rest on his. She was in on whatever he was planning, judging by that expression. The king wasn’t. He sighed lightly. “You’ve obviously got a plan, Uncle. Well? Out with it. This
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