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drama is tiring.” “What I really want to do,” Dalinar said frankly, “is beat the lot of them senseless. That’s what I’d do to new recruits who weren’t willing to obey orders.” “I think you’ll have a hard time spanking obedience into the highprinces, Uncle,” the king said dryly. For some reason, he absently rubbed at his chest. “You need to disarm them,” Kaladin found himself saying. All eyes in the room turned toward him. Brightness Teshav gave him a frown, as if speaking were not Kaladin’s right. It probably wasn’t. Dalinar, however, nodded toward him. “Soldier? You have a suggestion?” “Your pardon, sir,” Kaladin said. “And your pardon, Your Majesty. But if a squad is giving you trouble, the first thing you do is separate its members. Split them up, stick them in better squads. I don’t think you can do that here.” “I don’t know how we’d break apart the highprinces,” Dalinar said. “I doubt I could stop them from associating with one another. Perhaps if this war were won, I could assign different highprinces different duties, send them off, then work on them individually. But for the time being, we are trapped here.” “Well, the second thing you do to troublemakers,” Kaladin said, “is you disarm them. They’re easier to control if you make them turn in their spears. It’s embarrassing, makes them feel like recruits again. So . . . can you take their troops away from them, maybe?” “We can’t, I’m afraid,” Dalinar said. “The soldiers swore allegiance to their lighteyes, not to the Crown specifically—it’s only the highprinces who have sworn to the Crown. However, you are thinking along the right lines.” He squeezed Navani’s shoulder. “For the last two weeks,” he said, “I’ve been trying to decide how to approach this problem. My gut tells me that I need to treat the highprinces—the entire lighteyed population of Alethkar—like new recruits, in need of discipline.” “He came to me, and we talked,” Navani said. “We can’t actually bust the highprinces down to a manageable rank, as much as Dalinar would like to do just that. Instead, we need to lead them to believe that we’re going to take it all from them, if they don’t shape up.” “This proclamation will make them mad,” Dalinar said. “I want them mad. I want them to think about the war, their place here, and I want to remind them of Gavilar’s assassination. If I can push them to act more like soldiers, even if it starts with them taking up arms against me, then I might be able to persuade them. I can reason with soldiers. Regardless, a big part of this will involve the threat that I’m going to take away their authority and power if they don’t use it correctly. And that begins, as Captain Kaladin suggested, with disarming them.” “Disarm the highprinces?” the king asked. “What foolishness is this?” “It’s not foolishness,” Dalinar said, smiling. “We can’t take their armies from them, but we can do something else. Adolin, I intend to take the lock off
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your scabbard.” Adolin frowned, considering that for a moment. Then a wide grin split his face. “You mean, letting me duel again? For real?” “Yes,” Dalinar said. He turned to the king. “For the longest time, I’ve forbidden him from important bouts, as the Codes prohibit duels of honor between officers at war. More and more, however, I’ve come to realize that the others don’t see themselves as being at war. They’re playing a game. It’s time to allow Adolin to duel the camp’s other Shardbearers in official bouts.” “So he can humiliate them?” the king asked. “It wouldn’t be about humiliation; it would be about depriving them of their Shards.” Dalinar stepped into the middle of the group of chairs. “The highprinces would have a hard time fighting against us if we controlled all of the Shardblades and Shardplate in the army. Adolin, I want you to challenge the Shardbearers of other highprinces in duels of honor, the prizes being the Shards themselves.” “They won’t agree to it,” General Khal said. “They’ll refuse the bouts.” “We’ll have to make sure they agree,” Dalinar said. “Find a way to force them, or shame them, into the fights. I’ve considered that this would probably be easier if we could ever track down where Wit ran off to.” “What happens if the lad loses?” General Khal asked. “This plan seems too unpredictable.” “We’ll see,” Dalinar said. “This is only one part of what we will do, the smaller part—but also the most visible part. Adolin, everyone tells me how good you are at dueling, and you have pestered me incessantly to relax my prohibition. There are thirty Shardbearers in the army, not counting our own. Can you defeat that many men?” “Can I?” Adolin said, grinning. “I’ll do it without breaking a sweat, so long as I can start with Sadeas himself.” So he’s spoiled and cocky, Kaladin thought. “No,” Dalinar said. “Sadeas won’t accept a personal challenge, though eventually bringing him down is our goal. We start with some of the lesser Shardbearers and work up.” The others in the room seemed troubled. That included Brightness Navani, who drew her lips to a line and glanced at Adolin. She might be in on Dalinar’s plan, but she didn’t love the idea of her nephew dueling. She didn’t say so. “As Dalinar indicated,” Navani said, “this won’t be our entire plan. Hopefully, Adolin’s duels won’t need to go far. They are meant mostly to inspire worry and fear, to apply pressure to some factions who are working against us. The greater part of what we must do will entail a complex and determined political effort to connect with those who can be swayed to our side.” “Navani and I will work to persuade the highprinces of the advantages of a truly unified Alethkar,” Dalinar said, nodding. “Though the Storm-father knows, I’m less certain of my political acumen than Adolin is of his dueling. It is what must be. If Adolin is to be the stick, I must be the feather.” “There will be assassins,
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Uncle,” Elhokar said, sounding tired. “I don’t think Khal is right; I don’t think Alethkar will shatter immediately. The highprinces have come to like the idea of being one kingdom. But they also like their sport, their fun, their gemhearts. So they will send assassins. Quietly, at first, and probably not directly at you or me. Our families. Sadeas and the others will try to hurt us, make us back down. Are you willing to risk your sons on this? How about my mother?” “Yes, you are right,” Dalinar said. “I hadn’t . . . but yes. That is how they think.” He sounded regretful to Kaladin. “And you’re still willing to go through with this plan?” the king asked. “I have no choice,” Dalinar said, turning away, walking back toward the window. Looking out westward, in toward the continent. “Then at least tell me this,” Elhokar said. “What is your endgame, Uncle? What is it you want out of all of this? In a year, if we survive this fiasco, what do you want us to be?” Dalinar put his hands on the thick stone windowsill. He stared out, as if at something he could see and the rest of them could not. “I’ll have us be what we were before, son. A kingdom that can stand through storms, a kingdom that is a light and not a darkness. I will have a truly unified Alethkar, with highprinces who are loyal and just. I’ll have more than that.” He tapped the windowsill. “I’m going to refound the Knights Radiant.” Kaladin nearly dropped his spear in shock. Fortunately, nobody was watching him—they were leaping to their feet, staring at Dalinar. “The Radiants?” Brightness Teshav demanded. “Are you mad? You’re going to try to rebuild a sect of traitors who gave us over to the Voidbringers?” “The rest of this sounds good, Father,” Adolin said, stepping forward. “I know you think about the Radiants a lot, but you see them . . . differently than everyone else. It won’t go well if you announce that you want to emulate them.” The king just groaned, burying his face in his hands. “People are wrong about them,” Dalinar said. “And even if they are not, the original Radiants—the ones instituted by the Heralds—are something even the Vorin church admits were once moral and just. We’ll need to remind people that the Knights Radiant, as an order, stood for something grand. If they hadn’t, then they wouldn’t have been able to ‘fall’ as the stories claim they did.” “But why?” Elhokar asked. “What is the point?” “It is what I must do.” Dalinar hesitated. “I’m not completely certain why, yet. Only that I’ve been instructed to do it. As a protection, and a preparation, for what is coming. A storm of some sort. Perhaps it is as simple as the other highprinces turning against us. I doubt that, but perhaps.” “Father,” Adolin said, hand on Dalinar’s arm. “This is all well and good, and maybe you can change people’s perception of the Radiants, but . .
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. Ishar’s soul, Father! They could do things we cannot. Simply naming someone a Radiant won’t give them fanciful powers, like in the stories.” “The Radiants were about more than what they could do,” Dalinar said. “They were about an ideal. The kind of ideal we’re lacking, these days. We may not be able to reach for the ancient Surgebindings—the powers they had—but we can seek to emulate the Radiants in other ways. I am set on this. Do not try to dissuade me.” The others did not seem convinced. Kaladin narrowed his eyes. So did Dalinar know about Kaladin’s powers, or didn’t he? The meeting moved on to more mundane topics, such as how to maneuver Shardbearers into facing Adolin and how to step up patrols of the surrounding area. Dalinar considered making the warcamps safe to be a prerequisite for what he was attempting. When the meeting finally ended, most people inside departing to carry out orders, Kaladin was still considering what Dalinar had said about the Radiants. The man hadn’t realized it, but he’d been very accurate. The Knights Radiant did have ideals—and they’d called them that very thing. The Five Ideals, the Immortal Words. Life before death, Kaladin thought, playing with a sphere he’d pulled from his pocket, strength before weakness, journey before destination. Those Words made up the First Ideal in its entirety. He had only an inkling of what it meant, but his ignorance hadn’t stopped him from figuring out the Second Ideal of the Windrunners, the oath to protect those who could not protect themselves. Syl wouldn’t tell him the other three. She said he would know them when he needed to. Or he wouldn’t, and would not progress. Did he want to progress? To become what? A member of the Knights Radiant? Kaladin hadn’t asked for someone else’s ideals to rule his life. He’d just wanted to survive. Now, somehow, he was headed straight down a path that no man had trod in centuries. Potentially becoming something that people across Roshar would hate or revere. So much attention . . . “Soldier?” Dalinar asked, stopping by the door. “Sir.” Kaladin stood up straight again and saluted. It felt good to do that, to stand at attention, to find a place. He wasn’t certain if it was the good feeling of remembering a life he’d once loved, or if it was the pathetic feeling of an axehound finding its leash again. “My nephew was right,” Dalinar said, watching the king retreat down the hallway. “The others might try to hurt my family. It’s how they think. I’m going to need guard details on Navani and my sons at all times. Your best men.” “I’ve got about two dozen of those, sir,” Kaladin said. “That’s not enough for full guard details running all day protecting all four of you. I should have more men trained before too long, but putting a spear in the hands of a bridgeman does not make him a soldier, let alone a good bodyguard.” Dalinar nodded, looking troubled. He rubbed his
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chin. “Sir?” “Your force isn’t the only one stretched thin in this warcamp, soldier,” Dalinar said. “I lost a lot of men to Sadeas’s betrayal. Very good men. Now I have a deadline. Just over sixty days . . .” Kaladin felt a chill. The highprince was taking the number found scrawled on his wall very seriously. “Captain,” Dalinar said softly, “I need every able-bodied man I can get. I need to be training them, rebuilding my army, preparing for the storm. I need them assaulting plateaus, clashing with the Parshendi, to get battle experience.” What did this have to do with him? “You promised that my men wouldn’t be required to fight on plateau runs.” “I’ll keep that promise,” Dalinar said. “But there are two hundred and fifty soldiers in the King’s Guard. They include some of my last remaining battle-ready officers, and I will need to put them in charge of new recruits.” “I’m not just going to have to watch over your family, am I?” Kaladin asked, feeling a new weight settling in his shoulders. “You’re implying you want to turn over guarding the king to me as well.” “Yes,” Dalinar said. “Slowly, but yes. I need those soldiers. Beyond that, maintaining two separate guard forces seems like a mistake to me. I feel that your men, considering your background, are the least likely to include spies for my enemies. You should know that a while back, there may have been an attempt on the king’s life. I still haven’t figured out who was behind it, but I worry that some of his guards may have been involved.” Kaladin took a deep breath. “What happened?” “Elhokar and I hunted a chasmfiend,” Dalinar said. “During that hunt, at a time of stress, the king’s Plate came close to failing. We found that many of the gemstones powering it had likely been replaced with ones that were flawed, making them crack under stress.” “I don’t know much of Plate, sir,” Kaladin said. “Could they have just broken on their own, without sabotage?” “Possible, but unlikely. I want your men to take shifts guarding the palace and the king, alternating with some of the King’s Guard, to get you familiar with him and the palace. It might also help your men learn from the more experienced guards. At the same time, I’m going to start siphoning off the officers from his guard to train soldiers in my army. “Over the next few weeks, we’ll merge your group and the King’s Guard into one. You’ll be in charge. Once you’ve trained bridgemen from those other crews well enough, we’ll replace soldiers in the guard with your men, and move the soldiers to my army.” He looked Kaladin in the eyes. “Can you do this, soldier?” “Yes, sir,” Kaladin said, though part of him was panicking. “I can.” “Good.” “Sir, a suggestion. You’ve said you’re going to expand patrols outside the warcamps, trying to police the hills around the Shattered Plains?” “Yes. The number of bandits out there is embarrassing. This is Alethi land
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now. It needs to follow Alethi laws.” “I have a thousand men I need to train,” Kaladin said. “If I could patrol them out there, it might help them feel like soldiers. I could use a large enough force that it sends a message to the bandits, maybe making them withdraw—but my men won’t need to see much combat.” “Good. General Khal had been in command of patrol duty, but he’s now my most senior commander, and will be needed for other things. Train your men. Our goal will eventually be to have your thousand doing real roadway patrols between here, Alethkar, and the ports to the south and east. I’ll want scouting teams, watching for signs of bandit camps and searching out caravans that have been attacked. I need numbers on how much activity is out there, and just how dangerous it is.” “I’ll see to it personally, sir.” Storms. How was he going to do all of this? “Good,” Dalinar said. Dalinar walked from the chamber, clasping his hands behind him, as if lost in thought. Moash, Eth, and Mart fell in after him, as ordered by Kaladin. He’d have two men with Dalinar at all times, three if he could manage it. He’d once hoped to expand that to four or five, but storms, with so many to watch over now, that was going to be impossible. Who is this man? Kaladin thought, watching Dalinar’s retreating form. He ran a good camp. You could judge a man—and Kaladin did—by the men who followed him. But a tyrant could have a good camp with disciplined soldiers. This man, Dalinar Kholin, had helped unite Alethkar—and had done so by wading through blood. Now . . . now he spoke like a king, even when the king himself was in the room. He wants to rebuild the Knights Radiant, Kaladin thought. That wasn’t something Dalinar Kholin could accomplish through simple force of will. Unless he had help. Shallan sat again on her box on the ship’s deck, though she now wore a hat on her head, a coat over her dress, and a glove on her freehand—her safehand was, of course, pinned inside its sleeve. The chill out here on the open ocean was something unreal. The captain said that far to the south, the ocean itself actually froze. That sounded incredible; she’d like to see it. She’d occasionally seen snow and ice in Jah Keved, during the odd winter. But an entire ocean of it? Amazing. She wrote with gloved fingers as she observed the spren she’d named Pattern. At the moment, he had lifted himself up off the surface of the deck, forming a ball of swirling blackness—infinite lines that twisted in ways she could never have captured on the flat page. Instead, she wrote descriptions supplemented with sketches. “Food . . .” Pattern said. The sound had a buzzing quality and he vibrated when he spoke. “Yes,” Shallan said. “We eat it.” She selected a small limafruit from the bowl beside her and placed it in her mouth, then
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chewed and swallowed. “Eat,” Pattern said. “You . . . make it . . . into you.” “Yes! Exactly.” He dropped down, the darkness vanishing as he entered the wooden deck of the ship. Once again, he became part of the material—making the wood ripple as if it were water. He slid across the floor, then moved up the box beside her to the bowl of small green fruits. Here, he moved across them, each fruit’s rind puckering and rising with the shape of his pattern. “Terrible!” he said, the sound vibrating up from the bowl. “Terrible?” “Destruction!” “What? No, it’s how we survive. Everything needs to eat.” “Terrible destruction to eat!” He sounded aghast. He retreated from the bowl to the deck. Pattern connects increasingly complex thoughts, Shallan wrote. Abstractions come easily to him. Early, he asked me the questions “Why? Why you? Why be?” I interpreted this as asking me my purpose. When I replied, “To find truth,” he easily seemed to grasp my meaning. And yet, some simple realities—such as why people would need to eat—completely escape him. It— She stopped writing as the paper puckered and rose, Pattern appearing on the sheet itself, his tiny ridges lifting the letters she had just penned. “Why this?” he asked. “To remember.” “Remember,” he said, trying the word. “It means . . .” Stormfather. How did she explain memory? “It means to be able to know what you did in the past. In other moments, ones that happened days ago.” “Remember,” he said. “I . . . cannot . . . remember . . .” “What is the first thing you do remember?” Shallan asked. “Where were you first?” “First,” Pattern said. “With you.” “On the ship?” Shallan said, writing. “No. Green. Food. Food not eaten.” “Plants?” Shallan asked. “Yes. Many plants.” He vibrated, and she thought she could hear in that vibration the blowing of wind through branches. Shallan breathed in. She could almost see it. The deck in front of her changing to a dirt path, her box becoming a stone bench. Faintly. Not really there, but almost. Her father’s gardens. Pattern on the ground, drawn in the dust . . . “Remember,” Pattern said, voice like a whisper. No, Shallan thought, horrified. NO! The image vanished. It hadn’t really been there in the first place, had it? She raised her safehand to her breast, breathing in and out in sharp gasps. No. “Hey, young miss!” Yalb said from behind. “Tell the new kid here what happened in Kharbranth!” Shallan turned, heart still racing, to see Yalb walking over with the “new kid,” a six-foot-tall hulk of a man who was at least five years Yalb’s senior. They’d picked him up at Amydlatn, the last port. Tozbek wanted to be sure they wouldn’t be undermanned during the last leg to New Natanan. Yalb squatted down beside her stool. In the face of the chill, he’d acquiesced to wearing a shirt with ragged sleeves and a kind of headband that wrapped over his ears. “Brightness?” Yalb asked. “You all right?
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You look like you swallowed a turtle. And not just the head, neither.” “I’m well,” Shallan said. “What . . . what was it you wanted of me, again?” “In Kharbranth,” Yalb said, thumbing over his shoulder. “Did we or did we not meet the king?” “We?” Shallan asked. “I met him.” “And I was your retinue.” “You were waiting outside.” “Doesn’t matter none,” Yalb said. “I was your footman for that meeting, eh?” Footman? He’d led her up to the palace as a favor. “I . . . guess,” she said. “You did have a nice bow, as I recall.” “See,” Yalb said, standing and confronting the much larger man. “I mentioned the bow, didn’t I?” The “new kid” rumbled his agreement. “So get to washing those dishes,” Yalb said. He got a scowl in response. “Now, don’t give me that,” Yalb said. “I told you, galley duty is something the captain watches closely. If you want to fit in around here, you do it well, and do some extra. It will put you ahead with the captain and the rest of the men. I’m giving you quite the opportunity here, and I’ll have you appreciate it.” That seemed to placate the larger man, who turned around and went tromping toward the lower decks. “Passions!” Yalb said. “That fellow is as dun as two spheres made of mud. I worry about him. Somebody’s going to take advantage of him, Brightness.” “Yalb, have you been boasting again?” Shallan said. “’Tain’t boasting if some of it’s true.” “Actually, that’s exactly what boasting entails.” “Hey,” Yalb said, turning toward her. “What were you doing before? You know, with the colors?” “Colors?” Shallan said, suddenly cold. “Yeah, the deck turned green, eh?” Yalb said. “I swear I saw it. Has to do with that strange spren, does it?” “I . . . I’m trying to determine exactly what kind of spren it is,” Shallan said, keeping her voice even. “It’s a scholarly matter.” “I thought so,” Yalb said, though she’d given him nothing in the way of an answer. He raised an affable hand to her, then jogged off. She worried about letting them see Pattern. She’d tried staying in her cabin to keep him a secret from the men, but being cooped up had been too difficult for her, and he didn’t respond to her suggestions that he stay out of their sight. So, during the last four days, she’d been forced to let them see what she was doing as she studied him. They were understandably discomforted by him, but didn’t say much. Today, they were getting the ship ready to sail all night. Thoughts of the open sea at night unsettled her, but that was the cost of sailing this far from civilization. Two days back, they’d even been forced to weather a storm in a cove along the coast. Jasnah and Shallan had gone ashore to stay in a fortress maintained for the purpose—paying a steep cost to get in—while the sailors had stayed on board. That cove, though not a
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true port, had at least had a stormwall to help shelter the ship. Next highstorm, they wouldn’t even have that. They’d find a cove and try to ride out the winds, though Tozbek said he’d send Shallan and Jasnah ashore to seek shelter in a cavern. She turned back to Pattern, who had shifted into his hovering form. He looked something like the pattern of splintered light thrown on the wall by a crystal chandelier—except he was made of something black instead of light, and he was three-dimensional. So . . . Maybe not much like that at all. “Lies,” Pattern said. “Lies from the Yalb.” “Yes,” Shallan said with a sigh. “Yalb is far too skilled at persuasion for his own good, sometimes.” Pattern hummed softly. He seemed pleased. “You like lies?” Shallan asked. “Good lies,” Pattern said. “That lie. Good lie.” “What makes a lie good?” Shallan asked, taking careful notes, recording Pattern’s exact words. “True lies.” “Pattern, those two are opposites.” “Hmmmm . . . Light makes shadow. Truth makes lies. Hmmmm.” Liespren, Jasnah called them, Shallan wrote. A moniker they don’t like, apparently. When I Soulcast for the first time, a voice demanded a truth from me. I still don’t know what that means, and Jasnah has not been forthcoming. She doesn’t seem to know what to make of my experience either. I do not think that voice belonged to Pattern, but I cannot say, as he seems to have forgotten much about himself. She returned to making a few sketches of Pattern both in his floating and flattened forms. Drawing let her mind relax. By the time she was done, there were several half-remembered passages from her research that she wanted to quote in her notes. She made her way down the steps belowdecks, Pattern following. He drew looks from the sailors. Sailors were a superstitious lot, and some took him as a bad sign. In her quarters, Pattern moved up the wall beside her, watching without eyes as she searched for a passage she remembered, which mentioned spren that spoke. Not just windspren and riverspren, which would mimic people and make playful comments. Those were a step up from ordinary spren, but there was yet another level of spren, one rarely seen. Spren like Pattern, who had real conversations with people. The Nightwatcher is obviously one of these, Alai wrote, Shallan copying the passage. The records of conversations with her—and she is definitely female, despite what rural Alethi folktales would have one believe—are numerous and credible. Shubalai herself, intent on providing a firsthand scholarly report, visited the Nightwatcher and recorded her story word for word. . . . Shallan went to another reference, and before long got completely lost in her studies. A few hours later, she closed a book and set it on the table beside her bed. Her spheres were getting dim; they’d go out soon, and would need to be reinfused with Stormlight. Shallan released a contented sigh and leaned back against her bed, her notes from a dozen different sources laid out
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on the floor of her small chamber. She felt . . . satisfied. Her brothers loved the plan of fixing the Soulcaster and returning it, and seemed energized by her suggestion that all was not lost. They thought they could last longer, now that a plan was in place. Shallan’s life was coming together. How long had it been since she’d just been able to sit and read? Without worried concern for her house, without dreading the need to find a way to steal from Jasnah? Even before the terrible sequence of events that had led to her father’s death, she had always been anxious. That had been her life. She’d seen becoming a true scholar as something unreachable. Stormfather! She’d seen the next town over as being unreachable. She stood up, gathering her sketchbook and flipping through her pictures of the santhid, including several drawn from the memory of her dip in the ocean. She smiled at that, recalling how she’d climbed back up on deck, dripping wet and grinning. The sailors had all obviously thought her mad. Now she was sailing toward a city on the edge of the world, betrothed to a powerful Alethi prince, and was free to just learn. She was seeing incredible new sights, sketching them during the days, then reading through piles of books in the nights. She had stumbled into the perfect life, and it was everything she’d wished for. Shallan fished in the pocket inside her safehand sleeve, digging out some more spheres to replace those dimming in the goblet. The ones her hand emerged with, however, were completely dun. Not a glimmer of Light in them. She frowned. These had been restored during the previous highstorm, held in a basket tied to the ship’s mast. The ones in her goblet were two storms old now, which was why they were running out. How had the ones in her pocket gone dun faster? It defied reason. “Mmmmm . . .” Pattern said from the wall near her head. “Lies.” Shallan replaced the spheres in her pocket, then opened the door into the ship’s narrow companionway and moved to Jasnah’s cabin. It was the cabin that Tozbek and his wife usually shared, but they had vacated it for the third—and smallest—of the cabins to give Jasnah the better quarters. People did things like that for her, even when she didn’t ask. Jasnah would have some spheres for Shallan to use. Indeed, Jasnah’s door was cracked open, swaying slightly as the ship creaked and rocked along its evening path. Jasnah sat at the desk inside, and Shallan peeked in, suddenly uncertain if she wanted to bother the woman. She could see Jasnah’s face, hand against her temple, staring at the pages spread before her. Jasnah’s eyes were haunted, her expression haggard. This was not the Jasnah that Shallan was accustomed to seeing. The confidence had been overwhelmed by exhaustion, the poise replaced by worry. Jasnah started to write something, but stopped after just a few words. She set down the pen, closing her eyes and
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massaging her temples. A few dizzy-looking spren, like jets of dust rising into the air, appeared around Jasnah’s head. Exhaustionspren. Shallan pulled back, suddenly feeling as if she’d intruded upon an intimate moment. Jasnah with her defenses down. Shallan began to creep away, but a voice from the floor suddenly said, “Truth!” Startled, Jasnah looked up, eyes finding Shallan—who, of course, blushed furiously. Jasnah turned her eyes down toward Pattern on the floor, then reset her mask, sitting up with proper posture. “Yes, child?” “I . . . I needed spheres . . .” Shallan said. “Those in my pouch went dun.” “Have you been Soulcasting?” Jasnah asked sharply. “What? No, Brightness. I promised I would not.” “Then it is the second ability,” Jasnah said. “Come in and close that door. I should speak to Captain Tozbek; it won’t latch properly.” Shallan stepped in, pushing the door closed, though the latch didn’t catch. She stepped forward, hands clasped, feeling embarrassed. “What did you do?” Jasnah asked. “It involved light, I assume?” “I seemed to make plants appear,” Shallan said. “Well, really just the color. One of the sailors saw the deck turn green, but it vanished when I stopped thinking about the plants.” “Yes . . .” Jasnah said. She flipped through one of her books, stopping at an illustration. Shallan had seen it before; it was as ancient as Vorinism. Ten spheres connected by lines forming a shape like an hourglass on its side. Two of the spheres at the center looked almost like pupils. The Double Eye of the Almighty. “Ten Essences,” Jasnah said softly. She ran her fingers along the page. “Ten Surges. Ten orders. But what does it mean that the spren have finally decided to return the oaths to us? And how much time remains to me? Not long. Not long . . .” “Brightness?” Shallan asked. “Before your arrival, I could assume I was an anomaly,” Jasnah said. “I could hope that Surgebindings were not returning in large numbers. I no longer have that hope. The Cryptics sent you to me, of that I have no doubt, because they knew you would need training. That gives me hope that I was at least one of the first.” “I don’t understand.” Jasnah looked up toward Shallan, meeting her eyes with an intense gaze. The woman’s eyes were reddened with fatigue. How late was she working? Every night when Shallan turned in, there was still light coming from under Jasnah’s door. “To be honest,” Jasnah said, “I don’t understand either.” “Are you all right?” Shallan asked. “Before I entered, you seemed . . . distressed.” Jasnah hesitated just briefly. “I have merely been spending too long at my studies.” She turned to one of her trunks, digging out a dark cloth pouch filled with spheres. “Take these. I would suggest that you keep spheres with you at all times, so that your Surgebinding has the opportunity to manifest.” “Can you teach me?” Shallan asked, taking the pouch. “I don’t know,” Jasnah said. “I will try. On this diagram,
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one of the Surges is known as Illumination, the mastery of light. For now, I would prefer you expend your efforts on learning this Surge, as opposed to Soulcasting. That is a dangerous art, more so now than it once was.” Shallan nodded, rising. She hesitated before leaving, however. “Are you sure you are well?” “Of course.” She said it too quickly. The woman was poised, in control, but also obviously exhausted. The mask was cracked, and Shallan could see the truth. She’s trying to placate me, Shallan realized. Pat me on the head and send me back to bed, like a child awakened by a nightmare. “You’re worried,” Shallan said, meeting Jasnah’s eyes. The woman turned away. She pushed a book over something wiggling on her table—a small purple spren. Fearspren. Only one, true, but still. “No . . .” Shallan whispered. “You’re not worried. You’re terrified.” Stormfather! “It is all right, Shallan,” Jasnah said. “I just need some sleep. Go back to your studies.” Shallan sat down on the stool beside Jasnah’s desk. The older woman looked back at her, and Shallan could see the mask cracking further. Annoyance as Jasnah drew her lips to a line. Tension in the way she held her pen, in a fist. “You told me I could be part of this,” Shallan said. “Jasnah, if you’re worried about something . . .” “My worry is what it has always been,” Jasnah said, leaning back in her chair. “That I will be too late. That I’m incapable of doing anything meaningful to stop what is coming—that I’m trying to stop a highstorm by blowing against it really hard.” “The Voidbringers,” Shallan said. “The parshmen.” “In the past,” Jasnah said, “the Desolation—the coming of the Voidbringers—was supposedly always marked by a return of the Heralds to prepare mankind. They would train the Knights Radiant, who would experience a rush of new members.” “But we captured the Voidbringers,” Shallan said. “And enslaved them.” That was what Jasnah postulated, and Shallan agreed, having seen the research. “So you think a kind of revolution is coming. That the parshmen will turn against us as they did in the past.” “Yes,” Jasnah said, rifling through her notes. “And soon. Your proving to be a Surgebinder does not comfort me, as it smacks too much of what happened before. But back then, new knights had teachers to train them, generations of tradition. We have nothing.” “The Voidbringers are captive,” Shallan said, glancing toward Pattern. He rested on the floor, almost invisible, saying nothing. “The parshmen can barely communicate. How could they possibly stage a revolution?” Jasnah found the sheet of paper she’d been seeking and handed it to Shallan. Written in Jasnah’s own hand, it was an account by a captain’s wife of a plateau assault on the Shattered Plains. “Parshendi,” Jasnah said, “can sing in time with one another no matter how far they are separated. They have some ability to communicate that we do not understand. I can only assume that their cousins the parshmen have the same. They
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may not need to hear a call to action in order to revolt.” Shallan read the report, nodding slowly. “We need to warn others, Jasnah.” “You don’t think I’ve tried?” Jasnah asked. “I’ve written to scholars and kings all around the world. Most dismiss me as paranoid. The evidence you readily accept, others call flimsy. “The ardents were my best hope, but their eyes are clouded by the interference of the Hierocracy. Besides, my personal beliefs make ardents skeptical of anything I say. My mother wants to see my research, which is something. My brother and uncle might believe, and that is why we are going to them.” She hesitated. “There is another reason we seek the Shattered Plains. A way to find evidence that might convince everyone.” “Urithiru,” Shallan said. “The city you seek?” Jasnah gave her another curt glance. The ancient city was something Shallan had first learned about by secretly reading Jasnah’s notes. “You still blush too easily when confronted,” Jasnah noted. “I’m sorry.” “And apologize too easily as well.” “I’m . . . uh, indignant?” Jasnah smiled, picking up the representation of the Double Eye. She stared at it. “There is a secret hidden somewhere on the Shattered Plains. A secret about Urithiru.” “You told me the city wasn’t there!” “It isn’t. But the path to it may be.” Her lips tightened. “According to legend, only a Knight Radiant could open the way.” “Fortunately, we know two of those.” “Again, you are not a Radiant, and neither am I. Being able to replicate some of the things they could do may not matter. We don’t have their traditions or knowledge.” “We’re talking about the potential end of civilization itself, aren’t we?” Shallan asked softly. Jasnah hesitated. “The Desolations,” Shallan said. “I know very little, but the legends . . .” “In the aftermath of each one, mankind was broken. Great cities in ashes, industry smashed. Each time, knowledge and growth were reduced to an almost prehistoric state—it took centuries of rebuilding to restore civilization to what it had been before.” She hesitated. “I keep hoping that I’m wrong.” “Urithiru,” Shallan said. She tried to refrain from just asking questions, trying instead to reason her way to the answer. “You said the city was a kind of base or home to the Knights Radiant. I hadn’t heard of it before speaking with you, and so can guess that it’s not commonly referred to in the literature. Perhaps, then, it is one of the things that the Hierocracy suppressed knowledge of?” “Very good,” Jasnah said. “Although I think that it had begun to fade into legend even before then, the Hierocracy did not help.” “So if it existed before the Hierocracy, and if the pathway to it was locked at the fall of the Radiants . . . then it might contain records that have not been touched by modern scholars. Unaltered, unchanged lore about the Voidbringers and Surgebinding.” Shallan shivered. “That’s why we’re really going to the Shattered Plains.” Jasnah smiled through her fatigue. “Very good indeed. My time
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in the Palanaeum was very useful, but also in some ways disappointing. While I confirmed my suspicions about the parshmen, I also found that many of the great library’s records bore the same signs of tampering as others I’d read. This ‘cleansing’ of history, removing direct references to Urithiru or the Radiants because they were embarrassments to Vorinism—it’s infuriating. And people ask me why I am hostile to the church! I need primary sources. And then, there are stories—ones I dare to believe—claiming that Urithiru was holy and protected from the Voidbringers. Maybe that was wishful fancy, but I am not too much a scholar to hope that something like that might be true.” “And the parshmen?” “We will try to persuade the Alethi to rid themselves of those.” “Not an easy task.” “A nearly impossible one,” Jasnah said, standing. She began to pack her books away for the night, putting them in her waterproofed trunk. “Parshmen are such perfect slaves. Docile, obedient. Our society has become far too reliant upon them. The parshmen wouldn’t need to turn violent to throw us into chaos—though I’m certain that is what’s coming—they could simply walk away. It would cause an economic crisis.” She closed the trunk after removing one volume, then turned back to Shallan. “Convincing everyone of what I say is beyond us without more evidence. Even if my brother listens, he doesn’t have the authority to force the highprinces to get rid of their parshmen. And, in all honesty, I fear my brother won’t be brave enough to risk the collapse expelling the parshmen might cause.” “But if they turn on us, the collapse will come anyway.” “Yes,” Jasnah said. “You know this, and I know it. My mother might believe it. But the risk of being wrong is so immense that . . . well, we will need evidence—overwhelming and irrefutable evidence. So we find the city. At all costs, we find that city.” Shallan nodded. “I did not want to lay all of this upon your shoulders, child,” Jasnah said, sitting back down. “However, I will admit that it is a relief to speak of these things to someone who doesn’t challenge me on every other point.” “We’ll do it, Jasnah,” Shallan said. “We’ll travel to the Shattered Plains and we’ll find Urithiru. We’ll get the evidence and convince everyone to listen.” “Ah, the optimism of youth,” Jasnah said. “That is nice to hear on occasion too.” She handed the book to Shallan. “Among the Knights Radiant, there was an order known as the Lightweavers. I know precious little about them, but of all the sources I’ve read, this one has the most information.” Shallan took the volume eagerly. Words of Radiance, the title read. “Go,” Jasnah said. “Read.” Shallan glanced at her. “I will sleep,” Jasnah promised, a smile creeping to her lips. “And stop trying to mother me. I don’t even let Navani do that.” Shallan sighed, nodding, and left Jasnah’s quarters. Pattern tagged along behind; he’d spent the entire conversation silent. As she entered her cabin, she
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found herself much heavier of heart than when she’d left it. She couldn’t banish the image of terror in Jasnah’s eyes. Jasnah Kholin shouldn’t fear anything, should she? Shallan crawled onto her cot with the book she’d been given and the pouch of spheres. Part of her was eager to begin, but she was exhausted, her eyelids drooping. It really had gotten late. If she started the book now . . . Perhaps better to get a good night’s sleep, then dig refreshed into a new day’s studies. She set the book on the small table beside her bed, curled up, and let the rocking of the boat coax her to sleep. She awoke to screams, shouts, and smoke. Still half asleep, Shallan panicked. She scrambled off her cot, accidentally slapping the goblet of mostly drained spheres. Though she used wax to keep it in place, the swat knocked it free and sent spheres tumbling across her cabin. The scent of smoke was powerful. She ran to her door, disheveled, heart thumping. At least she’d fallen asleep in her clothing. She threw open the door. Three men crowded in the passageway outside, holding aloft torches, their backs to her. Torches, sparking with flamespren dancing about the fires. Who brought open flame onto a ship? Shallan stopped in numb confusion. The shouts came from the deck above, and it seemed that the ship wasn’t on fire. But who were these men? They carried axes, and were focused on Jasnah’s cabin, which was open. Figures moved inside. In a frozen moment of horror, one threw something to the floor before the others, who stepped aside to make way. A body in a thin nightgown, eyes staring sightlessly, blood blossoming from the breast. Jasnah. “Be sure,” one of the men said. The other one knelt and rammed a long, thin knife right into Jasnah’s chest. Shallan heard it hit the wood of the floor beneath the body. Shallan screamed. One of the men spun toward her. “Hey!” It was the blunt-faced, tall fellow that Yalb had called the “new kid.” She didn’t recognize the other men. Somehow fighting through the terror and disbelief, Shallan slammed her door and threw the bolt with trembling fingers. Stormfather! Stormfather! She backed away from the door as something heavy hit the other side. They wouldn’t need the axes. A few determined smashes of shoulder to door would bring it down. Shallan stumbled back against her cot, nearly slipping on the spheres rolling to and fro with the ship’s motion. The narrow window near the ceiling—far too small to fit through—revealed only the dark of night outside. Shouts continued above, feet thumping on wood. Shallan trembled, still numb. Jasnah. . . . “Sword,” a voice said. Pattern, hanging on the wall beside her. “Mmmm . . . The sword . . .” “No!” Shallan screamed, hands to the sides of her head, fingers in her hair. Stormfather! She was trembling. Nightmare. It was a nightmare! It couldn’t be— “Mmmm . . . Fight . . .” “No!” Shallan found herself
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hyperventilating as the men outside continued to ram their shoulders against her door. She was not ready for this. She was not prepared. “Mmmm . . .” Pattern said, sounding dissatisfied. “Lies.” “I don’t know how to use the lies!” Shallan said. “I haven’t practiced.” “Yes. Yes . . . remember . . . the time before . . .” The door crunched. Dared she remember? Could she remember? A child, playing with a shimmering pattern of light . . . “What do I do?” she asked. “You need the Light,” Pattern said. It sparked something deep within her memory, something prickled with barbs she dared not touch. She needed Stormlight to fuel the Surgebinding. Shallan fell to her knees beside her cot and, without knowing exactly what she was doing, breathed in sharply. Stormlight left the spheres around her, pouring into her body, becoming a storm that raged in her veins. The cabin went dark, black as a cavern deep beneath the earth. Then Light began to rise from her skin like vapors off boiling water. It lit the cabin with swimming shadows. “Now what?” she demanded. “Shape the lie.” What did that mean? The door crunched again, cracking, a large split opening down the center. Panicked, Shallan let out a breath. Stormlight streamed from her in a cloud; she almost felt as if she could touch it. She could feel its potential. “How!” she demanded. “Make the truth.” “That makes no sense!” Shallan screamed as the door broke open. New light entered the cabin, torchlight—red and yellow, hostile. The cloud of Light leaped from Shallan, more Stormlight streaming from her body to join it. It formed a vague upright shape. An illuminated blur. It washed past the men through the doorway, waving appendages that could have been arms. Shallan herself, kneeling by the bed, fell into shadow. The men’s eyes were drawn to the glowing shape. Then, blessedly, they turned and gave chase. Shallan huddled against the wall, shaking. The cabin was utterly dark. Above, men screamed. “Shallan . . .” Pattern buzzed somewhere in the darkness. “Go and look,” she said. “Tell me what is happening up on deck.” She didn’t know if he obeyed, as he made no sound when he moved. After a few deep breaths, Shallan stood up. Her legs shook, but she stood. She collected herself somewhat. This was terrible, this was awful, but nothing, nothing, could compare to what she’d had to do the night her father died. She had survived that. She could survive this. These men, they would be of the same group Kabsal had been from—the assassins Jasnah feared. They had finally gotten her. Oh, Jasnah . . . Jasnah was dead. Grieve later. What was Shallan going to do about armed men taking over the ship? How would she find a way out? She felt her way out into the passageway. There was a little light here, from torches above on the deck. The yells she heard there grew more panicked. “Killing,” a voice suddenly said. She jumped, though of
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course it was only Pattern. “What?” Shallan hissed. “Dark men killing,” Pattern said. “Sailors tied in ropes. One dead, bleeding red. I . . . I do not understand. . . .” Oh, Stormfather . . . Above, the shouting heightened, but there was no scramble of boots on the deck, no clanging of weapons. The sailors had been captured. At least one had been killed. In the darkness, Shallan saw shaking, wiggling forms creep up from the wood around her. Fearspren. “What of the men who chased after my image?” she asked. “Looking in water,” Pattern said. So they thought she’d jumped overboard. Heart thumping, Shallan felt her way to Jasnah’s cabin, expecting at any moment to trip over the woman’s corpse on the floor. She didn’t. Had the men dragged it above? Shallan entered Jasnah’s cabin and closed the door. It wouldn’t latch shut, so she pulled a box over to block it. She had to do something. She felt her way to one of Jasnah’s trunks, which had been thrown open by the men, its contents—clothing—scattered about. In the bottom, Shallan found the hidden drawer and pulled it open. Light suddenly bathed the cabin. The spheres were so bright they blinded Shallan for a moment, and she had to look away. Pattern vibrated on the floor beside her, form shaking in worry. Shallan looked about. The small cabin was a shambles, clothing on the floor, papers strewn everywhere. The trunk with Jasnah’s books was gone. Too fresh to have soaked in, blood was pooled on the bed. Shallan quickly looked away. A shout suddenly sounded above, followed by a thump. The screaming grew louder. She heard Tozbek bellow for the men to spare his wife. Almighty above . . . the assassins were executing the sailors one at a time. Shallan had to do something. Anything. Shallan looked back at the spheres in their false bottom, lined with black cloth. “Pattern,” she said, “we’re going to Soulcast the bottom of the ship and sink it.” “What!” His vibrating increased, a buzz of sound. “Humans . . . Humans . . . Eat water?” “We drink it,” Shallan said, “but we cannot breathe it.” “Mmmm . . . Confused . . .” Pattern said. “The captain and the others are captured and being executed. The best chance I can give them is chaos.” Shallan placed her hands on the spheres and drew in the Light with a sharp breath. She felt afire with it inside of her, as if she were going to burst. The Light was a living thing, trying to press out through the pores of her skin. “Show me!” she shouted, far more loudly than she’d intended. That Stormlight urged her to action. “I’ve Soulcast before. I must do it again!” Stormlight puffed from her mouth as she spoke, like breath on a cold day. “Mmmmm . . .” Pattern said anxiously. “I will intercede. See.” “See what?” “See!” Shadesmar. The last time she’d gone to that place, she’d nearly gotten herself killed. Only, it wasn’t a
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place. Or was it? Did it matter? She reached back through recent memory to the time when she’d last Soulcast and accidentally turned a goblet into blood. “I need a truth.” “You have given enough,” Pattern said. “Now. See.” The ship vanished. Everything . . . popped. The walls, the furniture, it all shattered into little globes of black glass. Shallan prepared herself to fall into the ocean of those glass beads, but instead she dropped onto solid ground. She stood in a place with a black sky and a tiny, distant sun. The ground beneath her reflected light. Obsidian? Each way she turned, the ground was made of that same blackness. Nearby, the spheres—like those that would hold Stormlight, but dark and small—bounced to a rest on the ground. Trees, like growing crystal, clustered here and there. The limbs were spiky and glassy, without leaves. Nearby, little lights hung in the air, flames without their candles. People, she realized. Those are each a person’s mind, reflected here in the Cognitive Realm. Smaller ones were scattered about her feet, dozens upon dozens, but so small she almost couldn’t make them out. The minds of fish? She turned around and came face-to-face with a creature that had a symbol for a head. Startled, she screamed and jumped back. These things . . . they had haunted her . . . they . . . It was Pattern. He stood tall and willowy, but slightly indistinct, translucent. The complex pattern of his head, with its sharp lines and impossible geometries, seemed to have no eyes. He stood with hands behind his back, wearing a robe that seemed too stiff to be cloth. “Go,” he said. “Choose.” “Choose what?” she said, Stormlight escaping her lips. “Your ship.” He did not have eyes, but she thought she could follow his gaze toward one of the little spheres on the glassy ground. She snatched it, and suddenly was given the impression of a ship. The Wind’s Pleasure. A ship that had been cared for, loved. It had carried its passengers well for years and years, owned by Tozbek and his father before him. An old ship, but not ancient, still reliable. A proud ship. It manifested here as a sphere. It could actually think. The ship could think. Or . . . well, it reflected the thoughts of the people who served on it, knew it, thought about it. “I need you to change,” Shallan whispered to it, cradling the bead in her hands. It was too heavy for its size, as if the entire weight of the ship had been compressed to this singular bead. “No,” the reply came, though it was Pattern who spoke. “No, I cannot. I must serve. I am happy.” Shallan looked to him. “I will intercede,” Pattern repeated. “. . . Translate. You are not ready.” Shallan looked back to the bead in her hands. “I have Stormlight. Lots of it. I will give it to you.” “No!” the reply seemed angry. “I serve.” It really wanted to stay a ship.
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She could feel it, the pride it took, the reinforcement of years of service. “They are dying,” she whispered. “No!” “You can feel them dying. Their blood on your deck. One by one, the people you serve will be cut down.” She could feel it herself, could see it in the ship. They were being executed. Nearby, one of the floating candle flames vanished. Three of the eight captives dead, though she did not know which ones. “There is only one chance to save them,” Shallan said. “And that is to change.” “Change,” Pattern whispered for the ship. “If you change, they might escape the evil men who kill,” Shallan whispered. “It is uncertain, but they will have a chance to swim. To do something. You can do them a last service, Wind’s Pleasure. Change for them.” Silence. “I . . .” Another light vanished. “I will change.” It happened in a hectic second; the Stormlight ripped from Shallan. She heard distant cracks from the physical world as she withdrew so much Light from the nearby gemstones that they shattered. Shadesmar vanished. She was back in Jasnah’s cabin. The floor, walls, and ceiling melted into water. Shallan was plunged into the icy black depths. She thrashed in the water, dress hampering her movements. All around her, objects sank, the common artifacts of human life. Frantic, she searched for the surface. Originally, she’d had some vague idea of swimming out and helping untie the sailors, if they were bound. Now, however, she found herself desperately even trying to find the way up. As if the darkness itself had come alive, something wrapped around her. It pulled her farther into the deep. The familiar scraping of wood as a bridge slid into place. The stomping of feet in unison, first a flat sound on stone, then the ringing thump of boots on wood. The distant calls of scouts, shouting back the all-clear. The sounds of a plateau run were familiar to Dalinar. Once, he had craved these sounds. He’d been impatient between runs, longing for the chance to strike down Parshendi with his Blade, to win wealth and recognition. That Dalinar had been seeking to cover up his shame—the shame of lying slumped in a drunken stupor while his brother fought an assassin. The setting of a plateau run was uniform: bare, jagged rocks, mostly the same dull color as the stone surface they sat on, broken only by the occasional cluster of closed rockbuds. Even those, as their name implied, could be mistaken for more rocks. There was nothing but more of the same from here where you stood, all the way out to the far horizon; and everything you’d brought with you, everything human, was dwarfed by the vastness of these endless, fractured plains and deadly chasms. Over the years, this activity had become rote. Marching beneath that white sun like molten steel. Crossing gap after gap. Eventually, plateau runs had become less something to anticipate and more a dogged obligation. For Gavilar and glory, yes, but mainly because they—and the enemy—were
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here. This was what you did. The scents of a plateau run were the scents of a great stillness: baked stone, dried crem, long-traveled winds. Most recently, Dalinar was coming to detest plateau runs. They were a frivolity, a waste of life. They weren’t about fulfilling the Vengeance Pact, but about greed. Many gemhearts appeared on the near plateaus, convenient to reach. Those didn’t sate the Alethi. They had to reach farther, toward assaults that cost dearly. Ahead, Highprince Aladar’s men fought on a plateau. They had arrived before Dalinar’s army, and the conflict told a familiar story. Men against Parshendi, fighting in a sinuous line, each army trying to shove the other back. The humans could field far more men than the Parshendi, but the Parshendi could reach plateaus faster and secure them quickly. The scattered bodies of bridgemen on the staging plateau, leading up to the chasm, attested to the danger of charging an entrenched foe. Dalinar did not miss the dark expressions on his bodyguards’ faces as they surveyed the dead. Aladar, like most of the other highprinces, used Sadeas’s philosophy on bridge runs. Quick, brutal assaults that treated manpower as an expendable resource. It hadn’t always been this way. In the past, bridges had been carried by armored troops, but success bred imitation. The warcamps needed a constant influx of cheap slaves to feed the monster. That meant a growing plague of slavers and bandits roaming the Unclaimed Hills, trading in flesh. Another thing I’ll have to change, Dalinar thought. Aladar himself didn’t fight, but had instead set up a command center on an adjacent plateau. Dalinar pointed toward the flapping banner, and one of his large mechanical bridges rolled into place. Pulled by chulls and full of gears, levers, and cams, the bridges protected the men who worked them. They were also very slow. Dalinar waited with self-disciplined patience as the workers ratcheted the bridge down, spanning the chasm between this plateau and the one where Aladar’s banner flew. Once the bridge was in position and locked, his bodyguard—led by one of Captain Kaladin’s darkeyed officers—trotted onto it, spears to shoulders. Dalinar had promised Kaladin his men would not have to fight except to defend him. Once they were across, Dalinar kicked Gallant into motion to cross to Aladar’s command plateau. Dalinar felt too light on the stallion’s back—the lack of Shardplate. In the many years since he’d obtained his suit, he’d never gone out onto a battlefield without it. Today, however, he didn’t ride to battle—not truly. Behind him, Adolin’s own personal banner flew, and he led the bulk of Dalinar’s armies to assault the plateau where Aladar’s men already fought. Dalinar didn’t send any orders regarding how the assault should go. His son had been trained well, and he was ready to take battlefield command—with General Khal at his side, of course, for advice. Yes, from now on, Adolin would lead the battles. Dalinar would change the world. He rode toward Aladar’s command tent. This was the first plateau run following his proclamation requiring the
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armies to work together. The fact that Aladar had come as commanded, and Roion had not—even though the target plateau was closest to Roion’s warcamp—was a victory unto itself. A small encouragement, but Dalinar would take what he could get. He found Highprince Aladar watching from a small pavilion set up on a secure, raised part of this plateau overlooking the battlefield. A perfect location for a command post. Aladar was a Shardbearer, though he commonly lent his Plate and Blade to one of his officers during battles, preferring to lead tactically from behind the battle lines. A practiced Shardbearer could mentally command a Blade to not dissolve when he let go of it, though—in an emergency—Aladar could summon it to himself, making it vanish from the hands of his officer in an eyeblink, then appear in his own hands ten heartbeats later. Lending a Blade required a great deal of trust on both sides. Dalinar dismounted. His horse, Gallant, glared at the groom who tried to take him, and Dalinar patted the horse on the neck. “He’ll be fine on his own, son,” he said to the groom. Most common grooms didn’t know what to do with one of the Ryshadium anyway. Trailed by his bridgeman guards, Dalinar joined Aladar, who stood at the edge of the plateau, overseeing the battlefield ahead and just below. Slender and completely bald, the man had skin a darker tan than most Alethi. He stood with hands behind his back, and wore a sharp traditional uniform with a skirtlike takama, though he wore a modern jacket above it, cut to match the takama. It was a style Dalinar had never seen before. Aladar also wore a thin mustache and a tuft of hair beneath his lip, again an unconventional choice. Aladar was powerful enough, and renowned enough, to make his own fashion—and he did so, often setting trends. “Dalinar,” Aladar said, nodding to him. “I thought you weren’t going to fight on plateau runs any longer.” “I’m not,” Dalinar said, nodding toward Adolin’s banner. There, soldiers streamed across Dalinar’s bridges to join the battle. The plateau was small enough that many of Aladar’s men had to withdraw to make way, something they were obviously all too eager to do. “You almost lost this day,” Dalinar noted. “It is well that you had support.” Below, Dalinar’s troops restored order to the battlefield and pushed against the Parshendi. “Perhaps,” Aladar said. “Yet in the past, I was victorious in one out of three assaults. Having support will mean I win a few more, certainly, but will also cost half my earnings. Assuming the king even assigns me any. I’m not convinced that I’ll be better off in the long run.” “But this way, you lose fewer men,” Dalinar said. “And the total winnings for the entire army will rise. The honor of the—” “Don’t talk to me about honor, Dalinar. I can’t pay my soldiers with honor, and I can’t use it to keep the other highprinces from snapping at my neck. Your plan favors the weakest
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among us and undercuts the successful.” “Fine,” Dalinar snapped, “honor has no value to you. You will still obey, Aladar, because your king demands it. That is the only reason you need. You will do as told.” “Or?” Aladar said. “Ask Yenev.” Aladar started as if slapped. Ten years back, Highprince Yenev had refused to accept the unification of Alethkar. At Gavilar’s order, Sadeas had dueled the man. And killed him. “Threats?” Aladar asked. “Yes.” Dalinar turned to look the shorter man in the eyes. “I’m done cajoling, Aladar. I’m done asking. When you disobey Elhokar, you mock my brother and what he stood for. I will have a unified kingdom.” “Amusing,” Aladar said. “Good of you to mention Gavilar, as he didn’t bring the kingdom together with honor. He did it with knives in the back and soldiers on the field, cutting the heads off any who resisted. Are we back to that again, then? Such things don’t sound much like the fine words of your precious book.” Dalinar ground his teeth, turning away to watch the battlefield. His first instinct was to tell Aladar he was an officer under Dalinar’s command, and take the man to task for his tone. Treat him like a recruit in need of correction. But what if Aladar just ignored him? Would he force the man to obey? Dalinar didn’t have the troops for it. He found himself annoyed—more at himself than at Aladar. He’d come on this plateau run not to fight, but to talk. To persuade. Navani was right. Dalinar needed more than brusque words and military commands to save this kingdom. He needed loyalty, not fear. But storms take him, how? What persuading he’d done in life, he’d accomplished with a sword in hand and a fist to the face. Gavilar had always been the one with the right words, the one who could make people listen. Dalinar had no business trying to be a politician. Half the lads on that battlefield probably didn’t think they had any business being soldiers, at first, a part of him whispered. You don’t have the luxury of being bad at this. Don’t complain. Change. “The Parshendi are pushing too hard,” Aladar said to his generals. “They want to shove us off the plateau. Tell the men to give a little and let the Parshendi lose their advantage of footing; that will let us surround them.” The generals nodded, one calling out orders. Dalinar narrowed his eyes at the battlefield, reading it. “No,” he said softly. The general stopped giving orders. Aladar glanced at Dalinar. “The Parshendi are preparing to pull back,” Dalinar said. “They certainly don’t act like it.” “They want some room to breathe,” Dalinar said, reading the swirl of combat below. “They nearly have the gemheart harvested. They will continue to push hard, but will break into a quick retreat around the chrysalis to buy time for the final harvesting. That’s what you’ll need to stop.” The Parshendi surged forward. “I took point on this run,” Aladar said. “By your own rules, I
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get final say over our tactics.” “I observe only,” Dalinar said. “I’m not even commanding my own army today. You may choose your tactics, and I will not interfere.” Aladar considered, then cursed softly. “Assume Dalinar is correct. Prepare the men for a withdrawal by the Parshendi. Send a strike team forward to secure the chrysalis, which should be almost opened up.” The generals set up the new details, and messengers raced off with the tactical orders. Aladar and Dalinar watched, side by side, as the Parshendi shoved forward. That singing of theirs hovered over the battlefield. Then they pulled back, careful as always to respectfully step over the bodies of the dead. Ready for this, the human troops rushed after. Led by Adolin in gleaming Plate, a strike force of fresh troops broke through the Parshendi line and reached the chrysalis. Other human troops poured through the gap they opened, shoving the Parshendi to the flanks, turning the Parshendi withdrawal into a tactical disaster. In minutes, the Parshendi had abandoned the plateau, jumping away and fleeing. “Damnation,” Aladar said softly. “I hate that you’re so good at this.” Dalinar narrowed his eyes, noticing that some of the fleeing Parshendi stopped on a plateau a short distance from the battlefield. They lingered there, though much of their force continued on away. Dalinar waved for one of Aladar’s servants to hand him a spyglass, then he raised it, focusing on that group. A figure stood at the edge of the plateau out there, a figure in glistening armor. The Parshendi Shardbearer, he thought. The one from the battle at the Tower. He almost killed me. Dalinar didn’t remember much from that encounter. He’d been beaten near senseless toward the end of it. This Shardbearer hadn’t participated in today’s battle. Why? Surely with a Shardbearer, they could have opened the chrysalis sooner. Dalinar felt a disturbing pit inside of him. This one fact, the watching Shardbearer, changed his understanding of the battle entirely. He thought he’d been able to read what was going on. Now it occurred to him that the enemy’s tactics were more opaque than he’d assumed. “Are some of them still out there?” Aladar asked. “Watching?” Dalinar nodded, lowering his spyglass. “Have they done that before in any battle you’ve fought?” Dalinar shook his head. Aladar mulled for a moment, then gave orders for his men on the plateau to remain alert, with scouts posted to watch for a surprise return of the Parshendi. “Thank you,” Aladar added, grudgingly, turning to Dalinar. “Your advice proved helpful.” “You trusted me when it came to tactics,” Dalinar said, turning to him. “Why not try trusting me in what is best for this kingdom?” Aladar studied him. Behind, soldiers cheered their victory and Adolin ripped the gemheart free from the chrysalis. Others fanned out to watch for a return attack, but none came. “I wish I could, Dalinar,” Aladar finally said. “But this isn’t about you. It’s about the other highprinces. Maybe I could trust you, but I’ll never trust them. You’re asking me
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to risk too much of myself. The others would do to me what Sadeas did to you on the Tower.” “What if I can bring the others around? What if I can prove to you that they’re worthy of trust? What if I can change the direction of this kingdom, and this war? Will you follow me then?” “No,” Aladar said. “I’m sorry.” He turned away, calling for his horse. The trip back was miserable. They’d won the day, but Aladar kept his distance. How could Dalinar do so many things so right, yet still be unable to persuade men like Aladar? And what did it mean that the Parshendi were changing tactics on the battlefield, not committing their Shardbearer? Were they too afraid to lose their Shards? When, at long last, Dalinar returned to his bunker in the warcamps—after seeing to his men and sending a report to the king—he found an unexpected letter waiting for him. He sent for Navani to read him the words. Dalinar stood waiting in his private study, staring at the wall that had borne the strange glyphs. Those had been sanded away, the scratches hidden, but the pale patch of stone whispered. Sixty-two days. Sixty-two days to come up with an answer. Well, sixty now. Not much time to save a kingdom, to prepare for the worst. The ardents would condemn the prophecy as a prank at best, or blasphemous at worst. To foretell the future was forbidden. It was of the Voidbringers. Even games of chance were suspect, for they incited men to look for the secrets of what was to come. He believed anyway. For he suspected his own hand had written those words. Navani arrived and looked over the letter, then started reading aloud. It turned out to be from an old friend who was going to arrive soon on the Shattered Plains—and who might provide a solution to Dalinar’s problems. Kaladin led the way down into the chasms, as was his right. They used a rope ladder, as they had in Sadeas’s army. Those ladders had been unsavory things, the ropes frayed and stained with moss, the planks battered by far too many highstorms. Kaladin had never lost a man because of those storming ladders, but he’d always worried. This one was brand new. He knew that for a fact, as Rind the quartermaster had scratched his head at the request, and then had one built to Kaladin’s specifications. It was sturdy and well made, like Dalinar’s army itself. Kaladin reached the bottom with a final hop. Syl floated down and landed on his shoulder as he held up a sphere to survey the chasm bottom. The single sapphire broam was worth more by itself than the entirety of his wages as a bridgeman. In Sadeas’s army, the chasms had been a frequent destination for bridgemen. Kaladin still didn’t know if the purpose had been to scavenge every possible resource from the Shattered Plains, or if it had really been about finding something menial—and will-breaking—for bridgemen to do between runs. The
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chasm bottom here, however, was untouched. There were no paths cut through the snarl of stormleavings on the ground, and there were no scratched messages or instructions in the lichen on the walls. Like the other chasms, this one opened up like a vase, wider at the bottom than at the cracked top—a result of waters rushing through during highstorms. The floor was relatively flat, smoothed by the hardened sediment of settling crem. As he moved forward, Kaladin had to pick his way over all kinds of debris. Broken sticks and logs from trees blown in from across the Plains. Cracked rockbud shells. Countless tangles of dried vines, twisted through one another like discarded yarn. And bodies, of course. A lot of corpses ended up in the chasms. Whenever men lost their battle to seize a plateau, they had to retreat and leave their dead behind. Storms! Sadeas often left the corpses behind even if he won—and bridgemen he’d leave wounded, abandoned, even if they could have been saved. After a highstorm, the dead ended up here, in the chasms. And since storms blew westward, toward the warcamps, the bodies washed in this direction. Kaladin found it hard to move without stepping on bones entwined in the accumulated foliage on the chasm floor. He picked his way through as respectfully as he could as Rock reached the bottom behind him, uttering a quiet phrase in his native tongue. Kaladin couldn’t tell if it was a curse or a prayer. Syl moved from Kaladin’s shoulder, zipping into the air, then streaking in an arc to the ground. There, she formed into what he thought of as her true shape, that of a young woman with a simple dress that frayed to mist just below the knees. She perched on a branch and stared at a femur poking up through the moss. She didn’t like violence. He wasn’t certain if, even now, she understood death. She spoke of it like a child trying to grasp something beyond her. “What a mess,” Teft said as he reached the bottom. “Bah! This place hasn’t seen any kind of care at all.” “It is a grave,” Rock said. “We walk in a grave.” “All of the chasms are graves,” Teft said, his voice echoing in the dank confines. “This one’s just a messy grave.” “Hard to find death that isn’t messy, Teft,” Kaladin said. Teft grunted, then started to greet the new recruits as they reached the bottom. Moash and Skar were watching over Dalinar and his sons as they attended some lighteyed feast—something that Kaladin was glad to be able to avoid. Instead, he’d come with Teft down here. They were joined by the forty bridgemen—two from each reorganized crew—that Teft was training with the hope that they’d make good sergeants for their own crews. “Take a good look, lads,” Teft said to them. “This is where we come from. This is why some call us the order of bone. We’re not going to make you go through everything we did, and be glad! We could
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have been swept away by a highstorm at any moment. Now, with Dalinar Kholin’s stormwardens to guide us, we won’t have nearly as much risk—and we’ll be staying close to the exit just in case . . .” Kaladin folded his arms, watching Teft instruct as Rock handed practice spears to the men. Teft himself carried no spear, and though he was shorter than the bridgemen who gathered around him—wearing simple soldiers’ uniforms—they seemed thoroughly intimidated. What else did you expect? Kaladin thought. They’re bridgemen. A stiff breeze could quell them. Still, Teft looked completely in control. Comfortably so. This was right. Something about it was just . . . right. A swarm of small glowing orbs materialized around Kaladin’s head, spren the shape of golden spheres that darted this way and that. He started, looking at them. Gloryspren. Storms. He felt as if he hadn’t seen the like in years. Syl zipped up into the air and joined them, giggling and spinning around Kaladin’s head. “Feeling proud of yourself?” “Teft,” Kaladin said. “He’s a leader.” “Of course he is. You gave him a rank, didn’t you?” “No,” Kaladin said. “I didn’t give it to him. He claimed it. Come on. Let’s walk.” She nodded, alighting in the air and settling down, her legs crossed at the knees as if she were primly seating herself in an invisible chair. She continued to hover there, moving exactly in step with him. “Giving up all pretense of obeying natural laws again, I see,” he said. “Natural laws?” Syl said, finding the concept amusing. “Laws are of men, Kaladin. Nature doesn’t have them!” “If I toss something upward, it comes back down.” “Except when it doesn’t.” “It’s a law.” “No,” Syl said, looking upward. “It’s more like . . . more like an agreement among friends.” He looked at her, raising an eyebrow. “We have to be consistent,” she said, leaning in conspiratorially. “Or we’ll break your brains.” He snorted, walking around a clump of bones and sticks pierced by a spear. Cankered with rust, it looked like a monument. “Oh, come on,” Syl said, tossing her hair. “That was worth at least a chuckle.” Kaladin kept walking. “A snort is not a chuckle,” Syl said. “I know this because I am intelligent and articulate. You should compliment me now.” “Dalinar Kholin wants to refound the Knights Radiant.” “Yes,” Syl said loftily, hanging in the corner of his vision. “A brilliant idea. I wish I’d thought of it.” She grinned triumphantly, then scowled. “What?” he said, turning back to her. “Has it ever struck you as unfair,” she said, “that spren cannot attract spren? I should really have had some gloryspren of my own there.” “I have to protect Dalinar,” Kaladin said, ignoring her complaint. “Not just him, but his family, maybe the king himself. Even though I failed to keep someone from sneaking into Dalinar’s rooms.” He still couldn’t figure out how someone had managed to get in. Unless it hadn’t been a person. “Could a spren have made those glyphs on the wall?”
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Syl had carried a leaf once. She had some physical form, just not much. “I don’t know,” she said, glancing to the side. “I’ve seen . . .” “What?” “Spren like red lightning,” Syl said softly. “Dangerous spren. Spren I haven’t seen before. I catch them in the distance, on occasion. Stormspren? Something dangerous is coming. About that, the glyphs are right.” He chewed on that for a while, then finally stopped and looked at her. “Syl, are there others like me?” Her face grew solemn. “Oh.” “Oh?” “Oh, that question.” “You’ve been expecting it, then?” “Yeah. Sort of.” “So you’ve had plenty of time to think about a good answer,” Kaladin said, folding his arms and leaning back against a somewhat dry portion of the wall. “That makes me wonder if you’ve come up with a solid explanation or a solid lie.” “Lie?” Syl said, aghast. “Kaladin! What do you think I am? A Cryptic?” “And what is a Cryptic?” Syl, still perched as if on a seat, sat up straight and cocked her head. “I actually . . . I actually have no idea. Huh.” “Syl . . .” “I’m serious, Kaladin! I don’t know. I don’t remember.” She grabbed her hair, one clump of white translucence in each hand, and pulled sideways. He frowned, then pointed. “That . . .” “I saw a woman do it in the market,” Syl said, yanking her hair to the sides again. “It means I’m frustrated. I think it’s supposed to hurt. So . . . ow? Anyway, it’s not that I don’t want to tell you what I know. I do! I just . . . I don’t know what I know.” “That doesn’t make sense.” “Well, imagine how frustrating it feels!” Kaladin sighed, then continued along the chasm, passing pools of stagnant water clotted with debris. A scattering of enterprising rockbuds grew stunted along one chasm wall. They must not get much light down here. He breathed in deeply the scents of overloaded life. Moss and mold. Most of the bodies here were mere bone, though he did steer clear of one patch of ground crawling with the red dots of rotspren. Just beside it, a group of frillblooms wafted their delicate fanlike fronds in the air, and those danced with green specks of lifespren. Life and death shook hands here in the chasms. He explored several of the chasm’s branching paths. It felt odd to not know this area; he’d learned the chasms closest to Sadeas’s camp better than the camp itself. As he walked, the chasm grew deeper and the area opened up. He made a few marks on the wall. Along one fork he found a round open area with little debris. He noted it, then walked back, marking the wall again before taking another branch. Eventually, they entered another place where the chasm opened up, widening into a roomy space. “Coming here was dangerous,” Syl said. “Into the chasms?” Kaladin asked. “There aren’t going to be any chasmfiends this close to the warcamps.” “No. I meant for
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me, coming into this realm before I found you. It was dangerous.” “Where were you before?” “Another place. With lots of spren. I can’t remember well . . . it had lights in the air. Living lights.” “Like lifespren.” “Yes. And no. Coming here risked death. Without you, without a mind born of this realm, I couldn’t think. Alone, I was just another windspren.” “But you’re not windspren,” Kaladin said, kneeling beside a large pool of water. “You’re honorspren.” “Yes,” Syl said. Kaladin closed his hand around his sphere, bringing near-darkness to the cavernous space. It was day above, but that crack of sky was distant, unreachable. Mounds of flood-borne refuse fell into shadows that seemed almost to give them flesh again. Heaps of bones took on the semblance of limp arms, of corpses piled high. In a moment, Kaladin remembered it. Charging with a yell toward lines of Parshendi archers. His friends dying on barren plateaus, thrashing in their own blood. The thunder of hooves on stone. The incongruous chanting of alien tongues. The cries of men both lighteyed and dark. A world that cared nothing for bridgemen. They were refuse. Sacrifices to be cast into the chasms and carried away by the cleansing floods. This was their true home, these rents in the earth, these places lower than any other. As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, the memories of death receded, though he would never be free of them. He would forever bear those scars upon his memory like the many upon his flesh. Like the ones on his forehead. The pool in front of him glowed a deep violet. He’d noticed it earlier, but in the light of his sphere it had been harder to see. Now, in the dimness, the pool could reveal its eerie radiance. Syl landed on the side of the pool, looking like a woman standing on an ocean’s shore. Kaladin frowned, leaning down to inspect her more closely. She seemed . . . different. Had her face changed shape? “There are others like you,” Syl whispered. “I do not know them, but I know that other spren are trying, in their own way, to reclaim what was lost.” She looked to him, and her face now had its familiar form. The fleeting change had been so subtle, Kaladin wasn’t sure if he’d imagined it. “I am the only honorspren who has come,” Syl said. “I . . .” She seemed to be stretching to remember. “I was forbidden. I came anyway. To find you.” “You knew me?” “No. But I knew I’d find you.” She smiled. “I spent the time with my cousins, searching.” “The windspren.” “Without the bond, I am basically one of them,” she said. “Though they don’t have the capacity to do what we do. And what we do is important. So important that I left everything, defying the Stormfather, to come. You saw him. In the storm.” The hair stood up on Kaladin’s arms. He had indeed seen a being in the storm. A face as vast as the
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sky itself. Whatever the thing was—spren, Herald, or god—it had not tempered its storms for Kaladin during that day he’d spent strung up. “We are needed, Kaladin,” Syl said softly. She waved for him, and he lowered his hand to the shore of the tiny violet ocean glowing softly in the chasm. She stepped onto his hand, and he stood up, lifting her. She walked up his fingers and he could actually feel a little weight, which was unusual. He turned his hand as she stepped up until she was perched on one finger, her hands clasped behind her back, meeting his eyes as he held that finger up before his face. “You,” Syl said. “You’re going to need to become what Dalinar Kholin is looking for. Don’t let him search in vain.” “They’ll take it from me, Syl,” Kaladin whispered. “They’ll find a way to take you from me.” “That’s foolishness. You know that it is.” “I know it is, but I feel it isn’t. They broke me, Syl. I’m not what you think I am. I’m no Radiant.” “That’s not what I saw,” Syl said. “On the battlefield after Sadeas’s betrayal, when men were trapped, abandoned. That day I saw a hero.” He looked into her eyes. She had pupils, though they were created only from the differing shades of white and blue, like the rest of her. She glowed more softly than the weakest of spheres, but it was enough to light his finger. She smiled, seeming utterly confident in him. At least one of them was. “I’ll try,” Kaladin whispered. A promise. “Kaladin?” The voice was Rock’s, with his distinctive Horneater accent. He pronounced the name “kal-ah-deen,” instead of the normal “kal-a-din.” Syl zipped off Kaladin’s finger, becoming a ribbon of light and flitting over to Rock. He showed respect to her in his Horneater way, touching his shoulders in turn with one hand, and then raising the hand to his forehead. She giggled; her profound solemnity had become girlish joy in moments. Syl might only be a cousin to windspren, but she obviously shared their impish nature. “Hey,” Kaladin said, nodding to Rock, and fishing in the pool. He came out with an amethyst broam and held it up. Somewhere up there on the Plains, a lighteyes had died with this in his pocket. “Riches, if we still were bridgemen.” “We are still bridgemen,” Rock said, coming over. He plucked the sphere from Kaladin’s fingers. “And this is still riches. Ha! Spices they have for us to requisition are tuma’alki! I have promised I will not fix dung for the men, but it is hard, with soldiers being accustomed to food that is not much better.” He held up the sphere. “I will use him to buy better, eh?” “Sure,” Kaladin said. Syl landed on Rock’s shoulder and became a young woman, then sat down. Rock eyed her and tried to bow to his own shoulder. “Stop tormenting him, Syl,” Kaladin said. “It’s so fun!” “You are to be praised for your aid of us, mafah’liki,” Rock
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said to her. “I will endure whatever you wish of me. And now that I am free, I can create a shrine fitting to you.” “A shrine?” Syl said, eyes widening. “Ooooh.” “Syl!” Kaladin said. “Stop it. Rock, I saw a good place for the men to practice. It’s back a couple of branches. I marked it on the walls.” “Yes, we saw this thing,” Rock said. “Teft has led the men there. It is strange. This place is frightening; it is a place that nobody comes, and yet the new recruits . . .” “They’re opening up,” Kaladin guessed. “Yes. How did you know this thing would happen?” “They were there,” Kaladin said, “in Sadeas’s warcamp, when we were assigned to exclusive duty in the chasms. They saw what we did, and have heard stories of our training here. By bringing them down here, we’re inviting them in, like an initiation.” Teft had been having problems getting the former bridgemen to show interest in his training. The old soldier was always sputtering at them in annoyance. They’d insisted on remaining with Kaladin rather than going free, so why wouldn’t they learn? They had needed to be invited. Not just with words. “Yes, well,” Rock said. “Sigzil sent me. He wishes to know if you are ready to practice your abilities.” Kaladin took a deep breath, glancing at Syl, then nodded. “Yes. Bring him. We can do it here.” “Ha! Finally. I will fetch him.” SIX YEARS AGO The world ended, and Shallan was to blame. “Pretend it never happened,” her father whispered. He wiped something wet from her cheek. His thumb came back red. “I’ll protect you.” Was the room shaking? No, that was Shallan. Trembling. She felt so small. Eleven had seemed old to her, once. But she was a child, still a child. So small. She looked up at her father with a shudder. She couldn’t blink; her eyes were frozen open. Father started to whisper, blinking tears. “Now go to sleep in chasms deep, with darkness all around you . . .” A familiar lullaby, one he always used to sing to her. In the room behind him, dark corpses stretched out on the floor. A red carpet once white. “Though rock and dread may be your bed, so sleep my baby dear.” Father gathered her into his arms, and she felt her skin squirming. No. No, this affection wasn’t right. A monster should not be held in love. A monster who killed, who murdered. No. She could not move. “Now comes the storm, but you’ll be warm, the wind will rock your basket . . .” Father carried Shallan over the body of a woman in white. Little blood there. It was the man who bled. Mother lay facedown, so Shallan couldn’t see the eyes. The horrible eyes. Almost, Shallan could imagine that the lullaby was the end to a nightmare. That it was night, that she had awakened screaming, and her father was singing her to sleep . . . “The crystals fine will glow sublime,
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so sleep my baby dear.” They passed Father’s strongbox set into the wall. It glowed brightly, light streaming from the cracks around the closed door. A monster was inside. “And with a song, it won’t be long, you’ll sleep my baby dear.” With Shallan in his arms, Father left the room and closed the door on the corpses. Shallan awoke mostly dry, lying on an uneven rock that rose from the ocean. Waves lapped at her toes, though she could barely feel them through the numbness. She groaned, lifting her cheek from the wet granite. There was land nearby, and the surf sounded against it with a low roar. In the other direction stretched only the endless blue sea. She was cold and her head throbbed as if she’d banged it repeatedly against a wall, but she was alive. Somehow. She raised her hand—rubbing at the itchy dried salt on her forehead—and hacked out a ragged cough. Her hair stuck to the sides of her face, and her dress was stained from the water and the seaweed on the rock. How . . . ? Then she saw it, a large brown shell in the water, almost invisible as it moved toward the horizon. The santhid. She stumbled to her feet, clinging to the pointy tip of her rock perch. Woozy, she watched the creature until it was gone. Something hummed beside her. Pattern formed his usual shape on the surface of the churning sea, translucent as if he were a small wave himself. “Did . . .” She coughed, clearing her voice, then groaned and sat down on the rock. “Did anyone else make it?” “Make?” Pattern asked. “Other people. The sailors. Did they escape?” “Uncertain,” Pattern said, in his humming voice. “Ship . . . Gone. Splashing. Nothing seen.” “The santhid. It rescued me.” How had it known what to do? Were they intelligent? Could she have somehow communicated with it? Had she missed an opportunity to— She almost started laughing as she realized the direction her thoughts were going. She’d nearly drowned, Jasnah was dead, the crew of the Wind’s Pleasure likely murdered or swallowed by the sea! Instead of mourning them or marveling at her survival, Shallan was engaging in scholarly speculation? That’s what you do, a deeply buried part of herself accused her. You distract yourself. You refuse to think about things that bother you. But that was how she survived. Shallan wrapped her arms around herself for warmth on her stone perch and stared out over the ocean. She had to face the truth. Jasnah was dead. Jasnah was dead. Shallan felt like weeping. A woman so brilliant, so amazing, was just . . . gone. Jasnah had been trying to save everyone, protect the world itself. And they’d killed her for it. The suddenness of what had happened left Shallan stunned, and so she sat there, shivering and cold and just staring out at the ocean. Her mind felt as numb as her feet. Shelter. She’d need shelter . . . something. Thoughts of the
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sailors, of Jasnah’s research, those were of less immediate concern. Shallan was stranded on a stretch of coast that was almost completely uninhabited, in lands that froze at night. As she’d been sitting, the tide had slowly withdrawn, and the gap between herself and the shore was not nearly as wide as it had been. That was fortunate, as she couldn’t really swim. She forced herself to move, though lifting her limbs was like trying to budge fallen tree trunks. She gritted her teeth and slipped into the water. She could still feel its biting cold. Not completely numb, then. “Shallan?” Pattern asked. “We can’t sit out here forever,” Shallan said, clinging to the rock and getting all the way down into the water. Her feet brushed rock beneath, and so she dared let go, half swimming in a splashing mess as she made her way toward the land. She probably swallowed half the water in the bay as she fought through the frigid waves until she finally was able to walk. Dress and hair streaming, she coughed and stumbled up onto the sandy shore, then fell to her knees. The ground here was strewn with seaweed of a dozen different varieties that writhed beneath her feet, pulling away, slimy and slippery. Cremlings and larger crabs scuttled in every direction, some nearby making clicking sounds at her, as if to ward her off. She dully thought it a testament to her exhaustion that she hadn’t even considered—before leaving the rock—the sea predators she’d read about: a dozen different kinds of large crustaceans that were happy to have a leg to snip free and chew on. Fearspren suddenly began to wiggle out of the sand, purple and sluglike. That was silly. Now she was frightened? After her swim? The spren soon vanished. Shallan glanced back at her rock perch. The santhid probably hadn’t been able to deposit her any closer, as the water grew too shallow. Stormfather. She was lucky to be alive. Despite her mounting anxiety, Shallan knelt down and traced a glyphward into the sand in prayer. She didn’t have a means of burning it. For now, she had to assume the Almighty would accept this. She bowed her head and sat reverently for ten heartbeats. Then she stood and, hope against hope, began to search for other survivors. This stretch of coast was pocketed with numerous beaches and inlets. She put off seeking shelter, instead walking for a long time down the shoreline. The beach was composed of sand that was coarser than she’d expected. It certainly didn’t match the idyllic stories she’d read, and it ground unpleasantly against her toes as she walked. Alongside her, it rose in a moving shape as Pattern kept pace with her, humming anxiously. Shallan passed branches, even bits of wood that might have belonged to ships. She saw no people and found no footprints. As the day grew long, she gave up, sitting down on a weathered stone. She hadn’t noticed that her feet were sliced and reddened from walking on the rocks.
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Her hair was a complete mess. Her safepouch had a few spheres in it, but none were infused. They’d be of no use unless she found civilization. Firewood, she thought. She’d gather that and build a fire. In the night, that might signal other survivors. Or it might signal pirates, bandits, or the shipboard assassins, if they had survived. Shallan grimaced. What was she going to do? Build a small fire to keep warm, she decided. Shield it, then watch the night for other fires. If you see one, try to inspect it without getting too close. A fine plan, except for the fact that she’d lived her entire life in a stately manor, with servants to light fires for her. She’d never started one in a hearth, let alone in the wilderness. Storms . . . she’d be lucky not to die of exposure out here. Or starvation. What would she do when a highstorm came? When was the next one? Tomorrow night? Or was it the night after. “Come!” Pattern said. He vibrated in the sand. Grains jumped and shook as he spoke, rising and falling around him. I recognize that . . . Shallan thought, frowning at him. Sand on a plate. Kabsal . . . “Come!” Pattern repeated, more urgent. “What?” Shallan said, standing up. Storms, but she was tired. She could barely move. “Did you find someone?” “Yes!” That got her attention immediately. She didn’t ask further questions, but instead followed Pattern, who moved excitedly down the coast. Would he know the difference between someone dangerous and someone friendly? For the moment, cold and exhausted, she almost didn’t care. He stopped beside something halfway submerged in the water and seaweed at the edge of the ocean. Shallan frowned. A trunk. Not a person, but a large wooden trunk. Shallan’s breath caught in her throat, and she dropped to her knees, working the clasps and pulling open the lid. Inside, like a glowing treasure, were Jasnah’s books and notes, carefully packed away, protected in their waterproof enclosure. Jasnah might not have survived, but her life’s work had. * * * Shallan knelt down by her improvised firepit. A grouping of rocks, filled with sticks she’d gathered from this little stand of trees. Night was almost upon her. With it came the shocking cold, as bad as the worst winter back home. Here in the Frostlands, this would be common. Her clothing, which in this humidity hadn’t completely dried despite the hours walking, felt like ice. She did not know how to build a fire, but perhaps she could make one in another way. She fought through her weariness—storms, but she was exhausted—and took out a glowing sphere, one of many she’d found in Jasnah’s trunk. “All right,” she whispered. “Let’s do this.” Shadesmar. “Mmm . . .” Pattern said. She was learning to interpret his humming. This seemed anxious. “Dangerous.” “Why?” “What is land here is sea there.” Shallan nodded dully. Wait. Think. That was growing hard, but she forced herself to go over Pattern’s words again. When
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they’d sailed the ocean, and she’d visited Shadesmar, she’d found obsidian ground beneath her. But in Kharbranth, she’d dropped into that ocean of spheres. “So what do we do?” Shallan asked. “Go slowly.” Shallan took a deep, cold breath, then nodded. She tried as she had before. Slowly, carefully. It was like . . . like opening her eyes in the morning. Awareness of another place consumed her. The nearby trees popped like bubbles, beads forming in their place and dropping toward a shifting sea of them below. Shallan felt herself falling. She gasped, then blinked back that awareness, closing her metaphoric eyes. That place vanished, and in a moment, she was back in the stand of trees. Pattern hummed nervously. Shallan set her jaw and tried again. More slowly this time, slipping into that place with its strange sky and not-sun. For a moment, she hovered between the worlds, Shadesmar overlaying the world around her like a shadowy afterimage. Holding between the two was difficult. Use the Light, Pattern said. Bring them. Shallan hesitantly drew the Light into herself. The spheres in the ocean below moved like a school of fish, surging toward her, clinking together. In her exhaustion, Shallan could barely maintain her double state, and she grew woozy, looking down. She held on, somehow. Pattern stood beside her, in his form with the stiff clothing and a head made of impossible lines, arms clasped behind his back, and hovering as if in the air. He was tall and imposing on this side, and she absently noticed that he cast a shadow the wrong way, toward the distant, cold-seeming sun instead of away from it. “Good,” he said, his voice a deeper hum here. “Good.” He cocked his head, and though he had no eyes, turned around as if regarding the place. “I am from here, yet I remember so little . . .” Shallan had a sense that her time was limited. Kneeling, she reached down and felt at the sticks she’d piled to form the place for her fire. She could feel the sticks—but as she looked into this strange realm, her fingers also found one of the glass beads that had surged up beneath her. As she touched it, she noticed something sweeping through the air above her. She cringed, looking up to find large, birdlike creatures circling around her in Shadesmar. They were a dark grey and seemed to have no specific shape, their forms blurry. “What . . .” “Spren,” Pattern said. “Drawn by you. Your . . . tiredness?” “Exhaustionspren?” she asked, shocked by their size here. “Yes.” She shivered, then looked down at the sphere beneath her hand. She was dangerously close to falling into Shadesmar completely, and could barely see the impressions of the physical realm around her. Only those beads. She felt as if she would tumble into their sea at any moment. “Please,” Shallan said to the sphere. “I need you to become fire.” Pattern buzzed, speaking with a new voice, interpreting the sphere’s words. “I am a stick,” he
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said. He sounded satisfied. “You could be fire,” Shallan said. “I am a stick.” The stick was not particularly eloquent. She supposed that she shouldn’t be surprised. “Why don’t you become fire instead?” “I am a stick.” “How do I make it change?” Shallan asked of Pattern. “Mm . . . I do not know. You must persuade it. Offer it truths, I think?” He sounded agitated. “This place is dangerous for you. For us. Please. Speed.” She looked back at the stick. “You want to burn.” “I am a stick.” “Think how much fun it would be?” “I am a stick.” “Stormlight,” Shallan said. “You could have it! All that I’m holding.” A pause. Finally, “I am a stick.” “Sticks need Stormlight. For . . . things . . .” Shallan blinked away tears of fatigue. “I am—” “—a stick,” Shallan said. She gripped the sphere, feeling both it and the stick in the physical realm, trying to think through another argument. For a moment, she hadn’t felt quite so tired, but it was returning—crashing back upon her. Why . . . Her Stormlight was running out. It was gone in a moment, drained from her, and she exhaled, slipping into Shadesmar with a sigh, feeling overwhelmed and exhausted. She fell into the sea of spheres. That awful blackness, millions of moving bits, consuming her. She threw herself from Shadesmar. The spheres expanded outward, growing into sticks and rocks and trees, restoring the world as she knew it. She collapsed into her small stand of trees, heart pounding. All grew normal around her. No more distant sun, no more sea of spheres. Just frigid cold, a night sky, and biting wind that blew between the trees. The single sphere she’d drained slipped from her fingers, clicking against the stone ground. She leaned back against Jasnah’s trunk. Her arms still ached from dragging that up the beach to the trees. She huddled there, frightened. “Do you know how to make fire?” she asked Pattern. Her teeth chattered. Stormfather. She didn’t feel cold anymore, but her teeth were chattering, and her breath was visible as vapor in the starlight. She found herself growing drowsy. Maybe she should just sleep, then try to deal with it all in the morning. “Change?” Pattern asked. “Offer the change.” “I tried.” “I know.” His vibrations sounded depressed. Shallan stared at that pile of sticks, feeling utterly useless. What was it Jasnah had said? Control is the basis of all true power? Authority and strength are matters of perception? Well, this was a direct refutation of that. Shallan could imagine herself as grand, could act like a queen, but that didn’t change a thing out here in the wilderness. Well, Shallan thought, I’m not going to sit here and freeze to death. I’ll at least freeze to death trying to find help. She didn’t move, though. Moving was hard. At least here, huddled by the trunk, she didn’t have to feel the wind so much. Just lying here until morning . . . She curled into a ball.
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No. This didn’t seem right. She coughed, then somehow got to her feet. She stumbled away from her not-fire, dug a sphere from her safepouch, then started walking. Pattern moved at her feet. Those were bloodier now. She left a red trail on the rock. She couldn’t feel the cuts. She walked and walked. And walked. And . . . Light. She didn’t move any more quickly. She couldn’t. But she did keep going, shambling directly toward that pinprick in the darkness. A numb part of her worried that the light was really Nomon, the second moon. That she’d march toward it and fall off the edge of Roshar itself. So she surprised herself by stumbling right into the middle of a small group of people sitting around a campfire. She blinked, looking from one face to another; then—ignoring the sounds they made, for words were meaningless to her in this state—she walked to the campfire and lay down, curled up, and fell asleep. * * * “Brightness?” Shallan grumbled, rolling over. Her face hurt. No, her feet hurt. Her face was nothing compared to that pain. If she slept a little longer, maybe it would fade. At least for that time. . . . “B-Brightness?” the voice asked again. “Are you feeling well, yes?” That was a Thaylen accent. Dredged from deep within her, a light surfaced, bringing memories. The ship. Thaylens. The sailors? Shallan forced her eyes open. The air smelled faintly of smoke from the still-smoldering fire. The sky was a deep violet, brightening as the sun broke the horizon. She’d slept on hard rock, and her body ached. She didn’t recognize the speaker, a portly Thaylen man with a white beard wearing a knit cap and an old suit and vest, patched in a few inconspicuous places. He wore his white Thaylen eyebrows tucked up over his ears. Not a sailor. A merchant. Shallan stifled a groan, sitting up. Then, in a moment of panic, she checked her safehand. One of her fingers had slipped out of the sleeve, and she pulled it back in. The Thaylen’s eyes flicked toward it, but he said nothing. “You are well, then?” the man asked. He spoke in Alethi. “We were going to pack to go, you see. Your arrival last night was . . . unexpected. We did not wish to disturb you, but thought perhaps you would want to wake before we depart.” Shallan ran her freehand through her hair, a mess of red locks stuck with twigs. Two other men—tall, hulking, and of Vorin descent—packed up blankets and bedrolls. She’d have killed for one of those during the night. She remembered tossing uncomfortably. Stilling the needs of nature, she turned and was surprised to see three large chull wagons with cages on the back. Inside were a handful of dirty, shirtless men. It took just a moment for it all to click. Slavers. She shoved down an initial burst of panic. Slaving was a perfectly legal profession. Most of the time. Only this was the Frostlands, far from
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the rule of any group or nation. Who was to say what was legal here and what was not? Be calm, she told herself forcefully. They wouldn’t have awakened you politely if they were planning something like that. Selling a Vorin woman of high dahn—which the dress marked her as being—would be a risky gambit for a slaver. Most owners in civilized lands would require documentation of the slave’s past, and it was rare indeed that a lighteyes was made a slave, aside from ardents. Usually someone of higher breeding would simply be executed instead. Slavery was a mercy for the lower classes. “Brightness?” the slaver asked nervously. She was thinking like a scholar again, to distract herself. She’d need to get past that. “What is your name?” Shallan asked. She hadn’t intended to make her voice quite so emotionless, but the shock of what she’d seen left her in turmoil. The man stepped back at her tone. “I am Tvlakv, humble merchant.” “Slaver,” Shallan said, standing up and pushing her hair back from her face. “As I said. A merchant.” His two guards watched her as they loaded equipment onto the lead wagon. She did not miss the cudgels they carried prominently at their waists. She’d had a sphere in her hand as she walked last night, hadn’t she? Memories of that made her feet flare up again. She had to grit her teeth against the agony as painspren, like orange hands made of sinew, clawed out of the ground nearby. She’d need to clean her wounds, but bloodied and bruised as they were, she wasn’t going to be walking anywhere anytime soon. Those wagons had seats. . . . They likely stole the sphere from me, she thought. She felt around in her safepouch. The other spheres were still there, but the the sleeve was unbuttoned. Had she done that? Had they peeked? She couldn’t suppress a blush at the thought. The two guards regarded her hungrily. Tvlakv acted humble, but his leering eyes were also very eager. These men were one step from robbing her. But if she left them, she’d probably die out here, alone. Stormfather! What could she do? She felt like sitting down and sobbing. After everything that had happened, now this? Control is the basis of all power. How would Jasnah respond to this situation? The answer was simple. She would be Jasnah. “I will allow you to assist me,” Shallan said. She somehow kept her voice even, despite the anxious terror she felt inside. “. . . Brightness?” Tvlakv asked. “As you can see,” Shallan said, “I am the victim of a shipwreck. My servants are lost to me. You and your men will do. I have a trunk. We will need to go fetch it.” She felt like one of the ten fools. Surely he would see through the flimsy act. Pretending you had authority was not the same as having it, no matter what Jasnah said. “It would . . . of course be our privilege to help,” Tvlakv said. “Brightness .
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. . ?” “Davar,” Shallan said, though she took care to soften her voice. Jasnah wasn’t condescending. Where other lighteyes, like Shallan’s father, went about with conceited egotism, Jasnah had simply expected people to do as she wished. And they had. She could make this work. She had to. “Tradesman Tvlakv,” Shallan said. “I will need to go to the Shattered Plains. Do you know the way?” “The Shattered Plains?” the man asked, glancing at his guards, one of whom had approached. “We were there a few months ago, but are now heading to catch a barge over to Thaylenah. We have completed our trading in this area, with no need to return northward.” “Ah, but you do have a need to return,” Shallan said, walking toward one of the wagons. Each step was agony. “To take me.” She glanced around, and gratefully noticed Pattern on the side of a wagon, watching. She walked to the front of that wagon, then held out her hand to the other guard, who stood nearby. He looked at the hand mutely, scratching his head. Then he looked at the wagon and climbed onto it, reaching down to help her up. Tvlakv walked over to her. “It will be an expensive trip for us to return without wares! I have only these slaves I purchased at the Shallow Crypts. Not enough to justify the trip back, not yet.” “Expensive?” Shallan asked, seating herself, trying to project amusement. “I assure you, tradesman Tvlakv, the expense is minuscule to me. You will be greatly compensated. Now, let us be moving. There are important people waiting for me at the Shattered Plains.” “But Brightness,” Tvlakv said. “You’ve obviously had a difficult time of events recently, yes, that I can see. Let me take you to the Shallow Crypts. It is much closer. You can find rest there and send word to those waiting for you.” “Did I ask to be taken to the Shallow Crypts?” “But . . .” He trailed off as she focused her gaze on him. She softened her expression. “I know what I am doing, and thank you for the advice. Now let us be moving.” The three men exchanged befuddled looks, and the slaver took his knit cap off, wringing it in his hands. Nearby, a pair of parshmen with marbled skin walked into camp. Shallan nearly jumped as they trudged by, carrying dried rockbud shells they’d apparently been gathering for fires. Tvlakv gave them no heed. Parshmen. Voidbringers. Her skin crawled, but she couldn’t worry about them right now. She looked back at the slaver, expecting him to ignore her orders. However, he nodded. And then, he and his men simply . . . did as she said. They hitched up the chulls, the slaver got directions to her trunk, and they started moving without further objection. They might just be going along for now, Shallan told herself, because they want to know what’s in my trunk. More to rob. But when they reached it, they heaved it onto the wagon, lashed it
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in place, and then turned around and headed to the north. Toward the Shattered Plains. Kaladin pressed the stone against the wall of the chasm, and it stuck there. “All right,” he said, stepping back. Rock jumped up and grabbed it, then dangled from the wall, bending legs below. His deep, bellowing laugh echoed in the chasm. “This time, he holds me!” Sigzil made a notation on his ledger. “Good. Keep hanging on, Rock.” “For how long?” Rock asked. “Until you fall.” “Until I . . .” The large Horneater frowned, hanging from the stone with both hands. “I do not like this experiment any longer.” “Oh, don’t whine,” Kaladin said, folding his arms and leaning on the wall beside Rock. Spheres lit the chasm floor around them, with its vines, debris, and blooming plants. “You’re not dropping far.” “It is not the drop,” Rock complained. “It is my arms. I am big man, you see.” “So it’s a good thing you have big arms to hold you.” “It does not work that way, I think,” Rock said, grunting. “And the handhold is not good. And I—” The stone popped free and Rock fell downward. Kaladin grabbed his arm, steadying him as he caught himself. “Twenty seconds,” Sigzil said. “Not very long.” “I warned you,” Kaladin said, picking up the fallen stone. “It lasts longer if I use more Stormlight.” “I think we need a baseline,” Sigzil said. He fished in his pocket and pulled out a glowing diamond chip, the smallest denomination of sphere. “Take all of the Stormlight from this, put it into the stone, then we’ll hang Rock from that and see how long he takes to fall.” Rock groaned. “My poor arms . . .” “Hey, mancha,” Lopen called from farther down the chasm, “at least you’ve got two of them, eh?” The Herdazian was watching to make sure none of the new recruits somehow wandered over and saw what Kaladin was doing. It shouldn’t happen—they were practicing several chasms over—but Kaladin wanted someone on guard. Eventually they’ll all know anyway, Kaladin thought, taking the chip from Sigzil. Isn’t that what you just promised Syl? That you’d let yourself become a Radiant? Kaladin drew in the chip’s Stormlight with a sharp intake of breath, then infused the Light into the stone. He was getting better at that, drawing the Stormlight into his hand, then using it like luminescent paint to coat the bottom of the rock. The Stormlight soaked into the stone, and when he pressed it against the wall, it stayed there. Smoky tendrils of luminescence rose from the stone. “We probably don’t need to make Rock hang from it,” Kaladin said. “If you need a baseline, why not just use how long the stone remains there on its own?” “Well, that’s less fun,” Sigzil said. “But very well.” He continued to write numbers on his ledger. That would have made most of the other bridgemen uncomfortable. A man writing was seen as unmasculine, even blasphemous—though Sigzil was only writing glyphs. Today, fortunately, Kaladin had with him
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Sigzil, Rock, and Lopen—all foreigners from places with different rules. Herdaz was Vorin, technically, but they had their own brand of it and Lopen didn’t seem to mind a man writing. “So,” Rock said as they waited, “Stormblessed leader, you said there was something else you could do, did you not?” “Fly!” Lopen said from down the passage. “I can’t fly,” Kaladin said dryly. “Walk on walls!” “I tried that,” Kaladin said. “I nearly broke my head from the fall.” “Ah, gancho,” Lopen said. “No flying or walking on walls? I need to impress the women. I do not think sticking rocks to walls will be enough.” “I think anyone would find that impressive,” Sigzil said. “It defies the laws of nature.” “You do not know many Herdazian women, do you?” Lopen asked, sighing. “Really, I think we should try again on the flying. It would be the best.” “There is something more,” Kaladin said. “Not flying, but still useful. I’m not certain I can replicate it. I’ve never done it consciously.” “The shield,” Rock said, standing by the wall, staring up at the rock. “On the battlefield, when the Parshendi shot at us. The arrows hit your shield. All the arrows.” “Yes,” Kaladin said. “We should test that,” Sigzil said. “We’ll need a bow.” “Spren,” Rock said, pointing. “They pull the stone against the wall.” “What?” Sigzil said, scrambling over, squinting at the rock Kaladin had pressed against the wall. “I don’t see them.” “Ah,” Rock said. “Then they do not wish to be seen.” He bowed his head toward them. “Apologies, mafah’liki.” Sigzil frowned, looking closer, holding up a sphere to light the area. Kaladin walked over and joined them. He could make out the tiny purple spren if he looked closely. “They’re there, Sig,” Kaladin said. “Then why can’t I see them?” “It has to do with my abilities,” Kaladin said, glancing at Syl, who sat on a cleft in the rock nearby, one leg draping over and swinging. “But Rock—” “I am alaii’iku,” Rock said, raising a hand to his breast. “Which means?” Sigzil asked impatiently. “That I can see these spren, and you cannot.” Rock rested a hand on the smaller man’s shoulder. “It is all right, friend. I do not blame you for being blind. Most lowlanders are. It is the air, you see. Makes your brains stop working right.” Sigzil frowned, but wrote down some notes while absently doing something with his fingers. Keeping track of the seconds? The rock finally popped off the wall, trailing a few final wisps of Stormlight as it hit the ground. “Well over a minute,” Sigzil said. “I counted eighty-seven seconds.” He looked to the rest of them. “We were supposed to be counting?” Kaladin asked, glancing at Rock, who shrugged. Sigzil sighed. “Ninety-one seconds,” Lopen called. “You’re welcome.” Sigzil sat down on a rock, ignoring a few finger bones peeking out of the moss beside him, and made some notations on his ledger. He scowled. “Ha!” Rock said, squatting down beside him. “You look like you have eaten
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bad eggs. What is problem?” “I don’t know what I’m doing, Rock,” Sigzil said. “My master taught me to ask questions and find precise answers. But how can I be precise? I would need a clock for the timing, but they are too expensive. Even if we had one, I don’t know how to measure Stormlight!” “With chips,” Kaladin said. “The gemstones are precisely weighed before being encased in glass.” “And can they all hold the same amount?” Sigzil asked. “We know that uncut gems hold less than cut ones. So is one that was cut better going to hold more? Plus, Stormlight fades from a sphere over time. How many days has it been since that chip was infused, and how much Light has it lost since then? Do they all lose the same amount at the same rate? We know too little. I think perhaps I am wasting your time, sir.” “It’s not a waste,” Lopen said, joining them. The one-armed Herdazian yawned, sitting down on the rock by Sigzil, forcing the other man over a little. “We just need to be testing other things, eh?” “Like what?” Kaladin said. “Well, gancho,” Lopen said. “Can you stick me to the wall?” “I . . . I don’t know,” Kaladin said. “Seems like it would be good to know, eh?” Lopen stood up. “Shall we try?” Kaladin glanced at Sigzil, who shrugged. Kaladin drew in more Stormlight. The raging tempest filled him, as if it were battering against his skin, a captive trying to find a way out. He drew the Stormlight into his hand and pressed it against the wall, painting the stones with luminescence. Taking a deep breath, he picked up Lopen—the slender man was startlingly easy to lift, particularly with a measure of Stormlight still inside Kaladin’s veins. He pressed Lopen against the wall. When Kaladin dubiously stepped back, the Herdazian remained there, stuck to the stone by his uniform, which bunched up under his armpits. Lopen grinned. “It worked!” “This thing could be useful,” Rock said, rubbing at his strangely cut Horneater beard. “Yes, this is what we need to test. You are a soldier, Kaladin. Can you use this in combat?” Kaladin nodded slowly, a dozen possibilities popping into his head. What if his enemies ran across a pool of Light he had put on the floor? Could he stop a wagon from rolling? Stick his spear to an enemy shield, then yank it from their hands? “How does it feel, Lopen?” Rock asked. “Does this thing hurt?” “Nah,” Lopen said, wiggling. “I’m worried my coat will rip, or the buttons will snap. Oh. Oh. Question for you! What did the one-armed Herdazian do to the man who stuck him to the wall?” Kaladin frowned. “I . . . I don’t know.” “Nothing,” Lopen said. “The Herdazian was ’armless.” The slender man burst into laughter. Sigzil groaned, though Rock laughed. Syl had cocked her head, zipping over to Kaladin. “Was that a joke?” she asked softly. “Yes,” Kaladin said. “A distinctly bad one.” “Ah, don’t say
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that!” Lopen said, still chuckling. “It’s the best one I know—and trust me, I’m an expert on one-armed Herdazian jokes. ‘Lopen,’ my mother always says, ‘you must learn these to laugh before others do. Then you steal the laughter from them, and have it all for yourself.’ She is a very wise woman. I once brought her the head of a chull.” Kaladin blinked. “You . . . What?” “Chull head,” Lopen said. “Very good to eat.” “You are a strange man, Lopen,” Kaladin said. “No,” Rock said. “They really are good. The head, he is best part of chull.” “I will trust you two on that,” Kaladin said. “Marginally.” He reached up, taking Lopen by the arm as the Stormlight holding him in place began to fade. Rock grabbed the man’s waist, and they helped him down. “All right,” Kaladin said, instinctively checking the sky for the time, though he couldn’t see the sun through the narrow chasm opening above. “Let’s experiment.” * * * Tempest stoked within him, Kaladin dashed across the chasm floor. His movement startled a group of frillblooms, which pulled in frantically, like hands closing. Vines trembled on the walls and began to curl upward. Kaladin’s feet splashed in stagnant water. He leaped over a mound of debris, trailing Stormlight. He was filled with it, pounding with it. That made it easier to use; it wanted to flow. He pushed it into his spear. Ahead, Lopen, Rock, and Sigzil waited with practice spears. Though Lopen wasn’t very good—the missing arm was a huge disadvantage—Rock made up for it. The large Horneater would not fight Parshendi and would not kill, but had agreed to spar today, in the name of “experimentation.” He fought very well, and Sigzil was acceptable with the spear. Together on the battlefield, the three bridgemen might once have given Kaladin trouble. Times changed. Kaladin tossed his spear sideways at Rock, surprising the Horneater, who had raised his weapon to block. The Stormlight made Kaladin’s spear stick to Rock’s, forming a cross. Rock cursed, trying to turn his spear around to strike, but in doing so smacked himself on the side with Kaladin’s spear. As Lopen’s spear struck, Kaladin pushed it down easily with one hand, filling the tip with Stormlight. The weapon hit the pile of refuse and stuck to the wood and bones. Sigzil’s weapon came in, missing Kaladin’s chest by a wide margin as he stepped aside. Kaladin nudged and infused the weapon with the flat of his hand, shoving it into Lopen’s, which he’d just pulled out of the refuse, plastered with moss and bone. The two spears stuck together. Kaladin slipped between Rock and Sigzil, leaving the three of them in a jumbled mess, off balance and trying to disentangle their weapons. Kaladin smiled grimly, jogging down to the other end of the chasm. He picked up a spear, then turned, dancing from one foot to the other. The Stormlight encouraged him to move. Standing still was practically impossible while holding so much. Come on, come on, he thought. The
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three others finally got their weapons apart as the Stormlight ran out. They formed up to face him again. Kaladin dashed forward. In the dim light of the chasm, the glow of the smoke rising from him was strong enough to cast shadows that leaped and spun. He crashed through pools, the water cold on his unshod feet. He’d removed his boots; he wanted to feel the stone underneath him. This time, the three bridgemen set the butts of their spears on the ground as if against a charge. Kaladin smiled, then grabbed the top of his spear—like theirs, it was a practice one, without a real spearhead—and infused it with Stormlight. He slapped it against Rock’s, intending to yank it out of the Horneater’s hands. Rock had other plans, and hauled his spear back with a strength that took Kaladin by surprise. He nearly lost his grip. Lopen and Sigzil quickly moved to come at him from either side. Nice, Kaladin thought, proud. He’d taught them formations like that, showing them how to work together on the battlefield. As they drew close, Kaladin let go of his spear and stuck out his leg. The Stormlight flowed out of his bare foot as easily as it did his hands, and he was able to swipe a large glowing arc on the ground. Sigzil stepped in it and tripped, his foot sticking to the Light. He tried to stab as he fell, but there was no force behind the blow. Kaladin slammed his weight against Lopen, whose strike was off-center. He shoved Lopen against the wall, then pulled back, leaving the Herdazian stuck to the stone, which Kaladin had infused in the heartbeat they’d been pressed together. “Ah, not again,” Lopen said with a groan. Sigzil had fallen face-first in the water. Kaladin barely had time to smile before he noticed Rock swinging a log at his head. An entire log. How had Rock lifted that thing? Kaladin threw himself out of the way, rolling on the ground and scraping his hand as the log crashed against the floor of the chasm. Kaladin growled, Stormlight passing between his teeth and rising into the air in front of him. He jumped onto Rock’s log as the Horneater tried to lift it again. Kaladin’s landing slammed the wood back against the ground. He leaped toward Rock, and part of him wondered just what he was thinking, getting into a hand-to-hand fight with someone twice his weight. He slammed into the Horneater, hurling them both to the ground. They rolled in the moss, Rock twisting to pin Kaladin’s arms. The Horneater obviously had training as a wrestler. Kaladin poured Stormlight into the ground. It wouldn’t affect or hamper him, he’d found. So, as they rolled, first Rock’s arm stuck to the ground, then his side. The Horneater kept fighting to get Kaladin into a hold. He almost had it, till Kaladin pushed with his legs, rolling both of them so Rock’s other elbow touched the ground, where it stuck. Kaladin tore away, gasping and puffing, losing
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most of his remaining Stormlight as he coughed. He leaned up against the wall, mopping sweat from his face. “Ha!” Rock said, stuck to the ground, splayed with arms to the sides. “I almost had you. Slippery as a fifth son, you are!” “Storms, Rock,” Kaladin said. “What I wouldn’t do to get you on the battlefield. You are wasted as a cook.” “You don’t like the food?” Rock asked, laughing. “I will have to try something with more grease. This thing will fit you! Grabbing you was like trying to keep my hands on a live lakefish! One that has been covered in butter! Ha!” Kaladin stepped up to him, squatting down. “You’re a warrior, Rock. I saw it in Teft, and you can say whatever you want, but I see it in you.” “I am wrong son to be soldier,” Rock said stubbornly. “It is a thing of the tuanalikina, the fourth son or below. Third son cannot be wasted in battle.” “Didn’t stop you from throwing a tree at my head.” “Was small tree,” Rock said. “And very hard head.” Kaladin smiled, then reached down, touching the Stormlight infused into the stone beneath Rock. He hadn’t ever tried to take it back after using it in this way. Could he? He closed his eyes and breathed in, trying . . . yes. Some of the tempest within him stoked again. When he opened his eyes, Rock was free. Kaladin hadn’t been able to take it all back, but some. The rest was evaporating into the air. He took Rock by the hand, helping the larger man to his feet. Rock dusted himself off. “That was embarrassing,” Sigzil said as Kaladin walked over to free him too. “It’s like we’re children. The Prime’s own eyes have not seen such a shameful show.” “I have a very unfair advantage,” Kaladin said, helping Sigzil to his feet. “Years of training as a soldier, a larger build than you. Oh, and the ability to emit Stormlight from my fingers.” He patted Sigzil on the shoulder. “You did well. This is just a test, like you wanted.” A more useful type of test, Kaladin thought. “Sure,” Lopen said from behind them. “Just go ahead and leave the Herdazian stuck to the wall. The view here is wonderful. Oh, and is that slime running down my cheek? A fresh new look for the Lopen, who cannot brush it away, because—have I mentioned?—his hand is stuck to the wall.” Kaladin smiled, walking over. “You were the one who asked me to stick you to a wall in the first place, Lopen.” “My other hand?” Lopen said. “The one that was cut off long ago, eaten by a fearsome beast? It is making a rude gesture toward you right now. I thought you would wish to know, so that you can prepare to be insulted.” He said it with the same lightheartedness with which he seemed to approach everything. He had even joined the bridge crew with a certain crazy eagerness. Kaladin let him down. “This thing,”
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Rock said, “it worked well.” “Yes,” Kaladin said. Though honestly, he probably could have dispatched the three men more easily just by using a spear and the extra speed and strength the Stormlight lent. He didn’t know yet whether that was because he was unfamiliar with these new powers, but he did think that forcing himself to use them had put him in some awkward positions. Familiarity, he thought. I need to know these abilities as well as I know my spear. That meant practice. Lots of practice. Unfortunately, the best way to practice was to find someone who matched or bested you in skill, strength, and capacity. Considering what he could now do, that was going to be a tall order. The three others walked over to dig waterskins from their packs, and Kaladin noticed a figure standing in the shadows a little ways down the chasm. Kaladin stood up, alarmed until Teft emerged into the light of their spheres. “I thought you were going to be on watch,” Teft growled at Lopen. “Too busy being stuck to walls,” Lopen said, raising his waterskin. “I thought you had a bunch of greenvines to train?” “Drehy has them in hand,” Teft said, picking his way around some debris, joining Kaladin beside the chasm wall. “I don’t know if the lads told you, Kaladin, but bringing that lot down here broke them out of their shells somehow.” Kaladin nodded. “How did you get to know people so well?” Teft asked. “It involves a lot of cutting them apart,” Kaladin said, looking down at his hand, which he’d scraped while fighting Rock. The scrape was gone, Stormlight having healed the tears in his skin. Teft grunted, glancing back at Rock and the other two, who had broken out rations. “You ought to put Rock in charge of the new recruits.” “He won’t fight.” “He just sparred with you,” Teft said. “So maybe he will with them. People like him more than me. I’m just going to screw this up.” “You’ll do a fine job, Teft, I won’t have you saying otherwise. We have resources now. No more scrimping for every last sphere. You’ll train those lads, and you’ll do it right.” Teft sighed, but said no more. “You saw what I did.” “Aye,” Teft said. “We’ll need to bring down the entire group of twenty if we want to give you a proper challenge.” “That or find another person like myself,” Kaladin said. “Someone to spar with.” “Aye,” Teft said again, nodding, as if he hadn’t considered that. “There were ten orders of knights, right?” Kaladin asked. “Do you know much of the others?” Teft had been the first one to figure out what Kaladin could do. He’d known before Kaladin himself had. “Not much,” Teft said with a grimace. “I know the orders didn’t always get along, despite what the official stories say. We’ll need to see if we can find someone who knows more than I do. I . . . I kept away. And the people I knew who could tell
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us, they aren’t around any longer.” If Teft had been in a dour mood before, this drove him down even further. He looked at the ground. He spoke of his past infrequently, but Kaladin was more and more certain that whoever these people had been, they were dead because of something Teft himself had done. “What would you think if you heard that somebody wanted to refound the Knights Radiant?” Kaladin said softly to Teft. Teft looked up sharply. “You—” “Not me,” Kaladin said, speaking carefully. Dalinar Kholin had let him listen in on the conference, and while Kaladin trusted Teft, there were certain expectations of silence that an officer was required to uphold. Dalinar is a lighteyes, part of him whispered. He wouldn’t think twice if he were revealing a secret you’d shared with him. “Not me,” Kaladin repeated. “What if a king somewhere decided he wanted to gather a group of people and name them Knights Radiant?” “I’d call him an idiot,” Teft said. “Now, the Radiants weren’t what people say. They weren’t traitors. They just weren’t. But everyone is sure they betrayed us, and you’re not going to change minds quickly. Not unless you can Surgebind to quiet them.” Teft looked Kaladin up and down. “Are you going to do it, lad?” “They’d hate me, wouldn’t they?” Kaladin said. He couldn’t help noticing Syl, who walked through the air until she was close, studying him. “For what the old Radiants did.” He held up a hand to stop Teft’s objection. “What people think they did.” “Aye,” Teft said. Syl folded her arms, giving Kaladin a look. You promised, that look said. “We’ll have to be careful about how we do it, then,” Kaladin said. “Go gather the new recruits. They’ve had enough practice down here for one day.” Teft nodded, then jogged off to do as ordered. Kaladin gathered his spear and the spheres he’d set out to light the sparring, then waved to the other three. They packed up their things and began the hike back out. “So you’re going to do it,” Syl said, landing on his shoulder. “I want to practice more first,” Kaladin said. And get used to the idea. “It will be fine, Kaladin.” “No. It will be hard. People will hate me, and even if they don’t, I’ll be set apart from them. Separated. I’ve accepted that as my lot, though. I’ll deal with it.” Even in Bridge Four, Moash was the only one who didn’t treat Kaladin like some mythological savior Herald. Him and maybe Rock. Still, the other bridgemen hadn’t reacted with the fear he’d once worried about. They might idolize him, but they did not isolate him. It was good enough. They reached the rope ladder before Teft and the greenvines, but there was no reason to wait. Kaladin climbed up out of the muggy chasm onto the plateau just east of the warcamps. It felt so strange to be able to carry his spear and money out of the chasm. Indeed, the soldiers guarding the approach to Dalinar’s warcamp
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didn’t pester him—instead, they saluted and stood up straight. It was as crisp a salute as he’d ever gotten, as crisp as the ones given to a general. “They seem proud of you,” Syl said. “They don’t even know you, but they’re proud of you.” “They’re darkeyes,” Kaladin said, saluting back. “Probably men who were fighting on the Tower when Sadeas betrayed them.” “Stormblessed,” one of them called. “Have you heard the news?” Curse the one who told them that nickname, Kaladin thought as Rock and the other two caught up to him. “No,” Kaladin called. “What news?” “A hero has come to the Shattered Plains!” the soldier yelled back. “He’s going to meet with Brightlord Kholin, perhaps support him! It’s a good sign. Might help calm things down around here.” “What’s this?” Rock called back. “Who?” The soldier said a name. Kaladin’s heart became ice. He nearly lost his spear from numb fingers. And then, he took off running. He didn’t heed Rock’s cry behind him, didn’t stop to let the others catch up with him. He dashed through the camp, running toward Dalinar’s command complex at its center. He didn’t want to believe when he saw the banner hanging in the air above a group of soldiers, probably matched by a much larger group outside the warcamp. Kaladin passed them, drawing cries and stares, questions if something was wrong. He finally stumbled to a stop outside the short set of steps into Dalinar’s bunkered complex of stone buildings. There, standing in front, the Blackthorn clasped hands with a tall man. Square-faced and dignified, the newcomer wore a pristine uniform. He laughed, then embraced Dalinar. “Old friend,” he said. “It’s been too long.” “Too long by far,” Dalinar agreed. “I’m glad you finally made your way here, after years of promises. I heard you’ve even found yourself a Shardblade!” “Yes,” the newcomer said, pulling back and holding his hand to the side. “Taken from an assassin who dared try to kill me on the field of battle.” The Blade appeared. Kaladin stared at the silvery weapon. Etched along its length, the Blade was shaped to look like flames in motion, and to Kaladin it seemed that the weapon was stained red. Names flooded his mind: Dallet, Coreb, Reesh . . . a squad before time, from another life. Men Kaladin had loved. He looked up and forced himself to see the face of the newcomer. A man Kaladin hated, hated beyond any other. A man he had once worshipped. Highlord Amaram. The man who had stolen Kaladin’s Shardblade, branded his forehead, and sold him into slavery. THE END OF Part One The Rhythm of Resolve thrummed softly in the back of Eshonai’s mind as she reached the plateau at the center of the Shattered Plains. The central plateau. Narak. Exile. Home. She ripped the helm of the Shardplate from her head, taking a deep breath of cool air. Plate ventilated wonderfully, but even it grew stuffy after extended exertions. Other soldiers landed behind her—she had taken some fifteen hundred this run.
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Fortunately, this time they’d arrived well before the humans, and had harvested the gemheart with minimal fighting. Devi carried it; he had earned the privilege by being the one to spot the chrysalis from afar. Almost she wished it had not been so easy a run. Almost. Where are you, Blackthorn? she thought, looking westward. Why have you not come to face me again? She thought she’d seen him on that run a week or so back, when they’d been forced off the plateau by his son. Eshonai had not participated in that fight; her wounded leg ached, and the jumping from plateau to plateau had stressed it, even in Shardplate. Perhaps she should not be going on these runs in the first place. She’d wanted to be there in case her strike force grew surrounded, and needed a Shardbearer—even a wounded one—to break them free. Her leg still hurt, but Plate cushioned it enough. Soon she would have to return to the fighting. Perhaps if she participated directly, the Blackthorn would appear again. She needed to speak with him. She felt an urgency to do so blowing upon the winds themselves. Her soldiers raised hands in farewell as they went their separate ways. Many softly sang or hummed a song to the Rhythm of Mourning. These days, few sang to Excitement, or even to Resolve. Step by step, storm by storm, depression claimed her people—the listeners, as they called their race. “Parshendi” was a human term. Eshonai strode toward the ruins that dominated Narak. After so many years, there wasn’t much left. Ruins of ruins, one might call them. The works of men and listeners alike did not last long before the might of the highstorms. That stone spire ahead, that had probably once been a tower. Over the centuries, it had grown a thick coating of crem from the raging storms. The soft crem had seeped into cracks and filled windows, then slowly hardened. The tower now looked like an enormous stalagmite, rounded point toward the sky, side knobbed with rock that looked as if it had been melted. The spire must have had a strong core to survive the winds so long. Other examples of ancient engineering had not fared so well. Eshonai passed lumps and mounds, remnants of fallen buildings that had slowly been consumed by the Shattered Plains. The storms were unpredictable. Sometimes huge sections of rock would break free from formations, leaving gouges and jagged edges. Other times, spires would stand for centuries, growing—not shrinking—as the winds both weathered and augmented them. Eshonai had discovered similar ruins in her explorations, such as the one she’d been on when her people had first encountered humans. Only seven years ago, but also an eternity. She had loved those days, exploring a wide world that felt infinite. And now . . . Now she spent her life trapped on this one plateau. The wilderness called to her, sang that she should gather up what things she could carry and strike out. Unfortunately, that was no longer her destiny. She
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passed into the shadow of a big lump of rock that she always imagined might have been a city gate. From what little they’d learned from their spies over the years, she knew that the Alethi did not understand. They marched over the uneven surface of the plateaus and saw only natural rock, never knowing that they traversed the bones of a city long dead. Eshonai shivered, and attuned the Rhythm of the Lost. It was a soft beat, yet still violent, with sharp, separated notes. She did not attune it for long. Remembering the fallen was important, but working to protect the living was more so. She attuned Resolve again and entered Narak. Here, the listeners had built the best home they could during the years of war. Rocky shelves had become barracks, carapace from greatshells forming the walls and roofs. Mounds that had once been buildings now grew rockbuds for food on their leeward sides. Much of the Shattered Plains had once been populated, but the largest city had been here at the center. So now the ruins of her people made their home in the ruins of a dead city. They had named it Narak—exile—for it was where they had come to be separated from their gods. Listeners, both malen and femalen, raised hands to her as she passed. So few remained. The humans were relentless in their pursuit of vengeance. She didn’t blame them. She turned toward the Hall of Art. It was nearby, and she hadn’t put in an appearance there for days. Inside, soldiers did a laughable job of painting. Eshonai strode among them, still wearing her Shardplate, helm under her arm. The long building had no roof—allowing in plenty of light to paint by—and the walls were thick with long-hardened crem. Holding thick-bristled brushes, the soldiers tried their best to depict the arrangement of rockbud flowers on a pedestal at the center. Eshonai did a round of the artists, looking at their work. Paper was precious and canvas nonexistent, so they painted on shell. The paintings were awful. Splotches of garish color, off-center petals . . . Eshonai paused beside Varanis, one of her lieutenants. He held the brush delicately between armored fingers, a hulking form before an easel. Plates of chitin armor grew from his arms, shoulders, chest, even head. They were matched by her own, under her Plate. “You are getting better,” Eshonai said to him, speaking to the Rhythm of Praise. He looked to her, and hummed softly to Skepticism. Eshonai chuckled, resting a hand on his shoulder. “It actually looks like flowers, Varanis. I mean it.” “It looks like muddy water on a brown plateau,” he said. “Maybe with some brown leaves floating in it. Why do colors turn brown when they mix? Three beautiful colors put together, and they become the least beautiful color. It makes no sense, General.” General. At times, she felt as awkward in the position as these men did trying to paint pictures. She wore warform, as she needed the armor for battle, but she preferred
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workform. More limber, more rugged. It wasn’t that she disliked leading these men, but doing the same thing every day—drills, plateau runs—numbed her mind. She wanted to be seeing new things, going new places. Instead, she joined her people in a long funeral vigil as, one by one, they died. No. We will find a way out of it. The art was part of that, she hoped. By her order, each man or woman took a turn in the Hall of Art at their appointed time. And they tried; they tried hard. So far, it had been about as successful as trying to leap a chasm with the other side out of sight. “No spren?” she asked. “Not a one.” He said it to the Rhythm of Mourning. She heard that rhythm far too often these days. “Keep trying,” she said. “We will not lose this battle for lack of effort.” “But General,” Varanis said, “what is the point? Having artists won’t save us from the swords of humans.” Nearby, other soldiers turned to hear her answer. “Artists won’t help,” she said to the Rhythm of Peace. “But my sister is confident that she is close to discovering new forms. If we can discover how to create artists, then it might teach her more about the process of change—and that might help her with her research. Help her discover forms stronger, even, than warform. Artists won’t get us out of this, but some other form might.” Varanis nodded. He was a good soldier. Not all of them were—warform did not intrinsically make one more disciplined. Unfortunately, it did hamper one’s artistic skill. Eshonai had tried painting. She couldn’t think the right way, couldn’t grasp the abstraction needed to create art. Warform was a good form, versatile. It didn’t impede thought, like mateform did. As with workform, you were yourself when you were warform. But each had its quirks. A worker had difficulty committing violence—there was a block in the mind somewhere. That was one of the reasons she liked the form. It forced her to think differently to get around problems. Neither form could create art. Not well, at least. Mateform was better, but came with a whole host of other problems. Keeping those types focused on anything productive was almost impossible. There were two other forms, though the first—dullform—was one they rarely used. It was a relic of the past, before they’d rediscovered something better. That left only nimbleform, a general form that was lithe and careful. They used it for nurturing young and doing the kind of work that required more dexterity than brawn. Few could be spared for that form, though it was more skilled at art. The old songs spoke of hundreds of forms. Now they knew of only five. Well, six if one counted slaveform, the form with no spren, no soul, and no song. The form the humans were accustomed to, the ones they called parshmen. It wasn’t really a form at all, however, but a lack of any form. Eshonai left the Hall of Art,
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helm under her arm, leg aching. She passed through the watering square, where nimbles had crafted a large pool from sculpted crem. It caught rain during the riddens of a storm, thick with nourishment. Here, workers carried buckets to fetch water. Their forms were strong, almost like that of warform, though with thinner fingers and no armor. Many nodded to her, though as a general she had no authority over them. She was their last Shardbearer. A group of three mateforms—two female, one male—played in the water, splashing at one another. Barely clothed, they dripped with what others would be drinking. “You three,” Eshonai snapped at them. “Shouldn’t you be doing something?” Plump and vapid, they grinned at Eshonai. “Come in!” one called. “It’s fun!” “Out,” Eshonai said, pointing. The three muttered to the Rhythm of Irritation as they climbed from the water. Nearby, several workers shook their heads as they passed, one singing to Praise in appreciation of Eshonai. Workers did not like confrontation. It was an excuse. Just as those who took on mateform used their form as an excuse for their inane activities. When a worker, Eshonai had trained herself to confront when necessary. She’d even been a mate once, and had proven to herself firsthand that one could indeed be productive as a mate, despite . . . distractions. Of course, the rest of her experiences as a mate had been an utter disaster. She spoke to Reprimand to the mateforms, her words so passionate that she actually attracted angerspren. She saw them coming from a ways off, drawn by her emotion, moving with an incredible speed—like lightning dancing toward her across the distant stone. The lightning pooled at her feet, turning the stones red. That put the fear of the gods into the mateforms, and they ran off to report to the Hall of Art. Hopefully, they wouldn’t end up in an alcove along the way, mating. Her stomach churned at the thought. She had never been able to fathom people who wanted to remain in mateform. Most couples, in order to have a child, would enter the form and sequester themselves away for a year—then would be out of the form as soon after the child’s birth as possible. After all, who would want to go out in public like that? The humans did it. That had baffled her during those early days, when she’d spent time learning their language, trading with them. Not only did humans not change forms, they were always ready to mate, always distracted by sexual urges. What she wouldn’t have given to be able to go among them unnoticed, to adopt their monochrome skin for a year and walk their highways, see their grand cities. Instead, she and the others had ordered the murder of the Alethi king in a desperate gambit to stop the listener gods from returning. Well, that had worked—the Alethi king hadn’t been able to put his plan into action. But now, her people were slowly being destroyed as a result. She finally reached the rock formation
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she called home: a small, collapsed dome. It reminded her of the ones on the edge of the Shattered Plains, actually—the enormous ones that the humans called warcamps. Her people had lived in those, before abandoning them for the security of the Shattered Plains, with its chasms the humans couldn’t jump. Her home was much, much smaller, of course. During the early days of living here, Venli had crafted a roof of greatshell carapace and built walls to divide the space into chambers. She’d covered it all over with crem, which had hardened with time, creating something that actually felt like a home instead of a shanty. Eshonai set her helm on a table just inside, but left the rest of her armor on. Shardplate just felt right to her. She liked the sensation of strength. It let her know that something was still reliable in the world. And with the power of Shardplate, she could mostly ignore the wound to her leg. She ducked through a few rooms, nodding to the people she passed. Venli’s associates were scholars, though no one knew the proper form for true scholarship. Nimbleform was their makeshift substitute for now. Eshonai found her sister beside the window of the farthest chamber. Demid, Venli’s once-mate, sat next to her. Venli had held nimbleform for three years, as long as they’d known of the form, though in Eshonai’s mind’s eye she still saw her sister as a worker, with thicker arms and a stouter torso. That was the past. Now, Venli was a slender woman with a thin face, her marblings delicate swirling patterns of red and white. Nimbleform grew long hairstrands, with no carapace helm to block them. Venli’s, a deep red, flowed down to her waist, where they were tied in three places. She wore a robe, drawn tight at the waist and showing a hint of breasts at the chest. This was not mateform, so they were small. Venli and her once-mate were close, though their time as mates had produced no children. If they’d gone to the battlefield, they’d have been a warpair. Instead, they were a researchpair, or something. The things they spent their days doing were very un-listener. That was the point. Eshonai’s people could not afford to be what they had been in the past. The days of lounging isolated on these plateaus—singing songs to one another, only occasionally fighting—were over. “So?” Venli asked to Curiosity. “We won,” Eshonai said, leaning back against the wall and folding her arms with a clink of Shardplate. “The gemheart is ours. We will continue to eat.” “That is well,” Venli said. “And your human?” “Dalinar Kholin. He did not come to this battle.” “He will not face you again,” Venli said. “You nearly killed him last time.” She said it to the Rhythm of Amusement as she rose, picking up a piece of paper—they made it from dried rockbud pulp following a harvest—which she handed to her once-mate. Looking it over, he nodded and began making notes on his own sheet. That paper required
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precious time and resources to make, but Venli insisted the reward would be worth the effort. She’d better be right. Venli regarded Eshonai. She had keen eyes—glassy and dark, like those of all listeners. Venli’s always seemed to have an extra depth of secret knowledge to them. In the right light, they had a violet cast. “What would you do, Sister?” Venli asked. “If you and this Kholin were actually able to stop trying to kill each other long enough to have a conversation?” “I’d sue for peace.” “We murdered his brother,” Venli said. “We slaughtered King Gavilar on a night when he’d invited us into his home. That is not something the Alethi will forget, or forgive.” Eshonai unfolded her arms and flexed a gauntleted hand. That night. A desperate plan, made between herself and five others. She had been part of it despite her youth, because of her knowledge of the humans. All had voted the same. Kill the man. Kill him, and risk destruction. For if he had lived to do what he told them that night, all would have been lost. The others who had made that decision with her were dead now. “I have discovered the secret of stormform,” Venli said. “What?” Eshonai stood up straight. “You were to be working on a form to help! A form for diplomats, or for scholars.” “Those will not save us,” Venli said to Amusement. “If we wish to deal with the humans, we will need the ancient powers.” “Venli,” Eshonai said, grabbing her sister by the arm. “Our gods!” Venli didn’t flinch. “The humans have Surgebinders.” “Perhaps not. It could have been an Honorblade.” “You fought him. Was it an Honorblade that struck you, wounded your leg, sent you limping?” “I . . .” Her leg ached. “We don’t know which of the songs are true,” Venli said. Though she said it to Resolve, she sounded tired, and she drew exhaustionspren. They came with a sound like wind, blowing in through the windows and doors like jets of translucent vapor before becoming stronger, more visible, and spinning around her head like swirls of steam. My poor sister. She works herself as hard as the soldiers do. “If the Surgebinders have returned,” Venli continued, “we must strive for something meaningful, something that can ensure our freedom. The forms of power, Eshonai . . .” She glanced at Eshonai’s hand, still on her arm. “At least sit and listen. And stop looming like a mountain.” Eshonai removed her fingers, but did not sit. Her Shardplate’s weight would break a chair. Instead, she leaned forward, inspecting the table full of papers. Venli had invented the script herself. They’d learned that concept from the humans—memorizing songs was good, but not perfect, even when you had the rhythms to guide you. Information stored on pages was more practical, especially for research. Eshonai had taught herself the script, but reading was still difficult for her. She did not have much time to practice. “So . . . stormform?” Eshonai said. “Enough people of that form,”
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Venli said, “could control a highstorm, or even summon one.” “I remember the song that speaks of this form,” Eshonai said. “It was a thing of the gods.” “Most of the forms are related to them in some way,” Venli said. “Can we really trust the accuracy of words first sung so long ago? When those songs were memorized, our people were mostly dullform.” It was a form of low intelligence, low capacity. They used it now to spy on the humans. Once, it and mateform had been the only forms her people had known. Demid shuffled some of the pages, moving a stack. “Venli is right, Eshonai. This is a risk we must take.” “We could negotiate with the Alethi,” Eshonai said. “To what end?” Venli said, again to Skepticism, her exhaustionspren finally fading, the spren spinning away to search out more fresh sources of emotion. “Eshonai, you keep saying you want to negotiate. I think it is because you are fascinated by humans. You think they’ll let you go freely among them? A person they see as having the form of a rebellious slave?” “Centuries ago,” Demid said, “we escaped both our gods and the humans. Our ancestors left behind civilization, power, and might in order to secure freedom. I would not give that up, Eshonai. Stormform. With it, we can destroy the Alethi army.” “With them gone,” Venli said, “you can return to exploration. No responsibility—you could travel, make your maps, discover places no person has ever seen.” “What I want for myself is meaningless,” Eshonai said to Reprimand, “so long as we are all in danger of destruction.” She scanned the specks on the page, scribbles of songs. Songs without music, written out as they were. Their souls stripped away. Could the listeners’ salvation really be in something so terrible? Venli and her team had spent five years recording all of the songs, learning the nuances from the elderly, capturing them in these pages. Through collaboration, research, and deep thought, they had discovered nimbleform. “It is the only way,” Venli said to Peace. “We will bring this to the Five, Eshonai. I would have you on our side.” “I . . . I will consider.” Ym carefully trimmed the wood from the side of the small block. He held it up to the spherelight beside his bench, pinching his spectacles by the rim and holding them closer to his eyes. Such delightful inventions, spectacles. To live was to be a fragment of the cosmere that was experiencing itself. How could he properly experience if he couldn’t see? The Azish man who had first created these devices was long deceased, and Ym had submitted a proposal that he be considered one of the Honored Dead. Ym lowered the piece of wood and continued to carve it, carefully whittling off the front to form a curve. Some of his colleagues bought their lasts—the wooden forms around which a cobbler built his shoes—from carpenters, but Ym had been taught to make his own. That was the old way, the way it
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had been done for centuries. If something had been done one way for such a long time, he figured there was probably a good reason. Behind him stood the shadowed cubbies of a cobbler’s shop, the toes of dozens of shoes peeking out like the noses of eels in their holes. These were test shoes, used to judge size, choose materials, and decide styles so he could construct the perfect shoe to fit the foot and character of the individual. A fitting could take quite a while, assuming you did it properly. Something moved in the dimness to his right. Ym glanced in that direction, but didn’t change his posture. The spren had been coming more often lately—specks of light, like those from a piece of crystal suspended in a sunbeam. He did not know its type, as he had never seen one like it before. It moved across the surface of the workbench, slinking closer. When it stopped, light crept upward from it, like small plants growing or climbing from their burrows. When it moved again, those withdrew. Ym returned to his sculpting. “It will be for making a shoe.” The evening shop was quiet save for the scraping of his knife on wood. “Sh-shoe . . . ?” a voice asked. Like that of a young woman, soft, with a kind of chiming musicality to it. “Yes, my friend,” he said. “A shoe for young children. I find myself in need of those more and more these days.” “Shoe,” the spren said. “For ch-children. Little people.” Ym brushed wooden scraps off the bench for later sweeping, then set the last on the bench near the spren. It shied away, like a reflection off a mirror—translucent, really just a shimmer of light. He withdrew his hand and waited. The spren inched forward—tentative, like a cremling creeping out of its crack after a storm. It stopped, and light grew upward from it in the shape of tiny sprouts. Such an odd sight. “You are an interesting experience, my friend,” Ym said as the shimmer of light moved onto the last itself. “One in which I am honored to participate.” “I . . .” the spren said. “I . . .” The spren’s form shook suddenly, then grew more intense, like light being focused. “He comes.” Ym stood up, suddenly anxious. Something moved on the street outside. Was it that one? That watcher, in the military coat? But no, it was just a child, peering in through the open door. Ym smiled, opening his drawer of spheres and letting more light into the room. The child shied back, just as the spren had. The spren had vanished somewhere. It did that when others drew near. “No need to fear,” Ym said, settling back down on his stool. “Come in. Let me get a look at you.” The dirty young urchin peered back in. He wore only a ragged pair of trousers, no shirt, though that was common here in Iri, where both days and nights were usually warm. The poor child’s feet were
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dirty and scraped. “Now,” Ym said, “that won’t do. Come, young one, settle down. Let’s get something on those feet.” He moved out one of his smaller stools. “They say you don’t charge nothin’,” the boy said, not moving. “They are quite wrong,” Ym said. “But I think you will find my cost bearable.” “Don’t have no spheres.” “No spheres are needed. Your payment will be your story. Your experiences. I would hear them.” “They said you was strange,” the boy said, finally walking into the shop. “They were right,” Ym said, patting the stool. The urchin stepped timidly up to the stool, walking with a limp he tried to hide. He was Iriali, though the grime darkened his skin and hair, both of which were golden. The skin less so—you needed the light to see it right—but the hair certainly. It was the mark of their people. Ym motioned for the child to raise his good foot, then got out a washcloth, wetted it, and cleaned away the grime. He wasn’t about to do a fitting on feet so dirty. Noticeably, the boy tucked back the foot he’d limped on, as if trying to hide that it had a rag wrapped around it. “So,” Ym said, “your story?” “You’re old,” the boy said. “Older than anyone I know. Grandpa old. You must know everythin’ already. Why do you want to hear from me?” “It is one of my quirks,” Ym said. “Come now. Let’s hear it.” The boy huffed, but talked. Briefly. That wasn’t uncommon. He wanted to hold his story to himself. Slowly, with careful questions, Ym pried the story free. The boy was the son of a whore, and had been kicked out as soon as he could fend for himself. That had been three years ago, the boy thought. He was probably eight now. As he listened, Ym cleaned the first foot, then clipped and filed the nails. Once done, he motioned for the other foot. The boy reluctantly lifted it up. Ym undid the rag, and found a nasty cut on the bottom of that foot. It was already infected, crawling with rotspren, tiny motes of red. Ym hesitated. “Needed to get some shoes,” the urchin said, looking the other way. “Can’t keep on without ’em.” The rip in the skin was jagged. Done climbing over a fence, perhaps? Ym thought. The boy looked at him, feigning nonchalance. A wound like this would slow an urchin down terribly, which on the streets could easily mean death. Ym knew that all too well. He looked up at the boy, noting the shadow of worry in those little eyes. The infection had spread up the leg. “My friend,” Ym whispered, “I believe I am going to need your help.” “What?” the urchin said. “Nothing,” Ym replied, reaching into the drawer of his table. The light spilling out was just from five diamond chips. Every urchin who had come to him had seen those. So far, Ym had been robbed of them only twice. He dug more deeply, unfolding a
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hidden compartment in the drawer and taking a more powerful sphere—a broam—from there, covering its light quickly in his hand while reaching for some antiseptic with the other hand. The medicine wasn’t going to be enough, not with the boy unable to stay off his feet. Lying in bed for weeks to heal, constantly applying expensive medication? Impossible for an urchin fighting for food each day. Ym brought his hands back, sphere tucked inside of one. Poor child. It must hurt something fierce. The boy probably ought to have been laid out in bed, feverish, but every urchin knew to chew ridgebark to stay alert and awake longer than they should. Nearby, the sparkling light spren peeked out from underneath a stack of leather squares. Ym applied the medication, then set it aside and lifted the boy’s foot, humming softly. The glow in Ym’s other hand vanished. The rotspren fled from the wound. When Ym removed his hand, the cut had scabbed over, the color returning to normal, the signs of infection gone. So far, Ym had used this ability only a handful of times, and had always disguised it as medicine. It was unlike anything he had ever heard of. Perhaps that was why he had been given it—so the cosmere could experience it. “Hey,” the boy said, “that feels a lot better.” “I’m glad,” Ym said, returning the sphere and the medicine to his drawer. The spren had retreated. “Let us see if I have something that fits you.” He began fitting shoes. Normally, after fitting, he’d send the patron away and craft a perfect set of shoes just for them. For this child, unfortunately, he’d have to use shoes he’d already made. He’d had too many urchins never return for their pair of shoes, leaving him to fret and wonder. Had something happened to them? Had they simply forgotten? Or had their natural suspicion gotten the better of them? Fortunately, he had several good, sturdy pairs that might fit this boy. I need more treated hogshide, he thought, making a note. Children would not properly care for shoes. He needed leather that would age well even if unattended. “You’re really gonna give me a pair of shoes,” the urchin said. “For nothin’?” “Nothing but your story,” Ym said, slipping another testing shoe onto the boy’s foot. He’d given up on trying to train urchins to wear socks. “Why?” “Because,” Ym said, “you and I are One.” “One what?” “One being,” Ym said. He set aside that shoe and got out another. “Long ago, there was only One. One knew everything, but had experienced nothing. And so, One became many—us, people. The One, who is both male and female, did so to experience all things.” “One. You mean God?” “If you wish to say it that way,” Ym said. “But it is not completely true. I accept no god. You should accept no god. We are Iriali, and part of the Long Trail, of which this is the Fourth Land.” “You sound like a priest.” “Accept no priests either,” Ym
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said. “Those are from other lands, come to preach to us. Iriali need no preaching, only experience. As each experience is different, it brings completeness. Eventually, all will be gathered back in—when the Seventh Land is attained—and we will once again become One.” “So you an’ me . . .” the urchin said. “Are the same?” “Yes. Two minds of a single being experiencing different lives.” “That’s stupid.” “It is simply a matter of perspective,” Ym said, dusting the boy’s feet with powder and slipping back on a pair of the test shoes. “Please walk on those for a moment.” The boy gave him a strange look, but obeyed, trying a few steps. He didn’t limp any longer. “Perspective,” Ym said, holding up his hand and wiggling his fingers. “From very close up, the fingers on a hand might seem individual and alone. Indeed, the thumb might think it has very little in common with the pinky. But with proper perspective, it is realized that the fingers are part of something much larger. That, indeed, they are One.” The urchin frowned. Some of that had probably been beyond him. I need to speak more simply, and— “Why do you get to be the finger with the expensive ring,” the boy said, pacing back the other direction, “while I gotta be the pinky with the broken fingernail?” Ym smiled. “I know it sounds unfair, but there can be no unfairness, as we are all the same in the end. Besides, I didn’t always have this shop.” “You didn’t?” “No. I think you’d be surprised at where I came from. Please sit back down.” The boy settled down. “That medicine works real well. Real, real well.” Ym slipped off the shoes, using the powder—which had rubbed off in places—to judge how the shoe fit. He fished out a pair of premade shoes, then worked at them for a moment, flexing them in his hands. He’d want a cushion on the bottom for the wounded foot, but something that would tear off after a few weeks, once the wound was healed. . . . “The things you’re talking about,” the boy said. “They sound dumb to me. I mean, if we’re all the same person, shouldn’t everyone know this already?” “As One, we knew truth,” Ym said, “but as many, we need ignorance. We exist in variety to experience all kinds of thought. That means some of us must know and others must not—just like some must be rich, and others must be poor.” He worked the shoe a moment longer. “More people did know this, once. It’s not talked about as much as it should be. Here, let’s see if these fit right.” He handed the boy the shoes, who put them on and tied the laces. “Your life might be unpleasant—” Ym began. “Unpleasant?” “All right. Downright awful. But it will get better, young one. I promise it.” “I thought,” the boy said, stamping his good foot to test the shoes, “that you were gonna tell me that life is awful, but it
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all don’t matter in the end, ’cuz we’re going the same place.” “That’s true,” Ym said, “but isn’t very comforting right now, is it?” “Nope.” Ym turned back to his worktable. “Try not to walk on that wounded foot too much, if you can help it.” The urchin strode to the door with a sudden urgency, as if eager to get away before Ym changed his mind and took back the shoes. He did stop at the doorway, though. “If we’re all just the same person trying out different lives,” the boy said, “you don’t need to give away shoes. ’Cuz it don’t matter.” “You wouldn’t hit yourself in the face, would you? If I make your life better, I make my own better.” “That’s crazy talk,” the boy said. “I think you’re just a nice person.” He ducked out, not speaking another word. Ym smiled, shaking his head. Eventually, he went back to work on his last. The spren peeked out again. “Thank you,” Ym said. “For your help.” He didn’t know why he could do what he did, but he knew the spren was involved. “He’s still here,” the spren whispered. Ym looked up toward the doorway out onto the night street. The urchin was there? Something rustled behind Ym. He jumped, spinning. The workroom was a place of dark corners and cubbies. Had he perhaps heard a rat? Why was the door into the back room—where Ym slept—open? He usually left that closed. A shadow moved in the blackness back there. “If you’ve come for the spheres,” Ym said, trembling, “I have only the five chips here.” More rustling. The shadow separated itself from the darkness, resolving into a man with dark, Makabaki skin—all save for a pale crescent on his cheek. He wore black and silver, a uniform, but not one from any military that Ym recognized. Thick gloves, with stiff cuffs at the back. “I had to look very hard,” the man said, “to discover your indiscretion.” “I . . .” Ym stammered. “Just . . . five chips . . .” “You have lived a clean life, since your youth as a carouser,” the man said, his voice even. “A young man of means who drank and partied away what his parents left him. That is not illegal. Murder, however, is.” Ym sank down onto his stool. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know it would kill her.” “Poison delivered,” the man said, stepping into the room, “in the form of a bottle of wine.” “They told me the vintage itself was the sign!” Ym said. “That she’d know the message was from them, and that it meant she would need to pay! I was desperate for money. To eat, you see. Those on the streets are not kind . . .” “You were an accomplice to murder,” the man said, pulling his gloves on more tightly, first one hand, then the other. He spoke with such a stark lack of emotion, he could have been conversing about the weather. “I didn’t know . . .” Ym
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pled. “You are guilty nonetheless.” The man reached his hand to the side, and a weapon formed from mist there, then fell into his hand. A Shardblade? What kind of constable of the law was this? Ym stared at that wondrous, silvery Blade. Then he ran. It appeared that he still had useful instincts from his time on the streets. He managed to fling a stack of leather toward the man and duck the Blade as it swung for him. Ym scrambled out onto the dark street and charged away, shouting. Perhaps someone would hear. Perhaps someone would help. Nobody heard. Nobody helped. Ym was an old man now. By the time he reached the first cross street, he was gasping for air. He stopped beside the old barber shop, dark inside, door locked. The little spren moved along beside him, a shimmering light that sprayed outward in a circle. Beautiful. “I guess,” Ym said, panting, “it is . . . my time. May One . . . find this memory . . . pleasing.” Footsteps slapped on the street behind, getting closer. “No,” the spren whispered. “Light!” Ym dug in his pocket and pulled out a sphere. Could he use it, somehow, to— The constable’s shoulder slammed Ym against the wall of the barber shop. Ym groaned, dropping the sphere. The man in silver spun him around. He looked like a shade in the night, a silhouette against the black sky. “It was forty years ago,” Ym whispered. “Justice does not expire.” The man shoved the Shardblade through Ym’s chest. Experience ended. Rysn liked to pretend that her pot of Shin grass was not stupid, but merely contemplative. She sat near the prow of her catamaran, holding the pot in her lap. The otherwise still surface of the Reshi Sea rippled from the paddling of the guide behind her. The warm, damp air made beads of sweat form on Rysn’s brow and neck. It was probably going to rain again. Precipitation here on the sea was the worst kind—not mighty or impressive like a highstorm, not even insistent like an ordinary shower. Here, it was just a misting haze, more than a fog but less than a drizzle. Enough to ruin hair, makeup, clothing—indeed, every element of a careful young woman’s efforts to present a suitable face for trading. Rysn shifted the pot in her lap. She’d named the grass Tyvnk. Sullen. Her babsk had laughed at the name. He understood. In naming the grass, she acknowledged that he was right and she had been wrong; his trade with the Shin people last year had been exceptionally profitable. Rysn chose not to be sullen at being proven so clearly wrong. She’d let her plant be sullen instead. They’d traversed these waters for two days now, and then only after waiting at port for weeks until the right time between highstorms for a trip onto the nearly enclosed sea. Today, the waters were shockingly still. Almost as serene as those of the Purelake. Vstim himself rode two boats over in their irregular
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flotilla. Paddled by new parshmen, the sixteen sleek catamarans were laden with goods that had been purchased with the profits of their last expedition. Vstim was still resting in the back of his boat. He looked like little more than another bundle of cloth, almost indistinguishable from the sacks of goods. He would be fine. People got sick. It happened, but he would become well again. And the blood you saw on his handkerchief? She suppressed the thought and pointedly turned around in her seat, shifting Tyvnk to the crook of her left arm. She kept the pot very clean. That soil stuff the grass needed in order to live was even worse than crem, and it had a proclivity for ruining clothing. Gu, the flotilla’s guide, rode in her own boat, just behind her. He looked a lot like a Purelaker with those long limbs, the leathery skin, and dark hair. Every Purelaker she’d met, however, had cared deeply about those gods of theirs. She doubted Gu had ever cared about anything. That included getting them to their destination in a timely manner. “You said we were near,” she said to him. “Oh, we are,” he said, lifting his oar and then slipping it back down into the water. “Soon, now.” He spoke Thaylen rather well, which was why he’d been hired. It certainly wasn’t for his punctuality. “Define ‘soon,’” Rysn said. “Define . . .” “What do you mean by ‘soon’?” “Soon. Today, maybe.” Maybe. Delightful. Gu continued to paddle, only doing so on one side of the boat, yet somehow keeping them from going in circles. At the rear of Rysn’s boat, Kylrm—head of their guards—played with her parasol, opening it and closing it again. He seemed to consider it a wondrous invention, though they’d been popular in Thaylenah for ages now. Shows how rarely Vstim’s workers get back to civilization. Another cheerful thought. Well, she’d apprenticed under Vstim wanting to travel to exotic places, and exotic this was. True, she’d expected cosmopolitan and exotic to go hand in hand. If she’d had half a wit—which she wasn’t sure she did, these days—she’d have realized that the really successful traders weren’t the ones who went where everyone else wanted to go. “Hard,” Gu said, still paddling with his lethargic pace. “Patterns are off, these days. The gods do not walk where they always should. We shall find her. Yes, we shall.” Rysn stifled a sigh and turned forward. With Vstim incapacitated again, she was in charge of leading the flotilla. She wished she knew where she was leading it—or even knew how to find their destination. That was the trouble with islands that moved. The boats glided past a shoal of branches breaking the sea’s surface. Encouraged by the wind, gentle waves lapped against the stiff branches, which reached out of the waters like the fingers of drowning men. The sea was deeper than the Purelake, with its bafflingly shallow waters. Those trees would be dozens of feet tall at the very least, with bark of stone. Gu called
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them i-nah, which apparently meant bad. They could slice up a boat’s hull. Sometimes they’d pass branches hiding just beneath the glassy surface, almost invisible. She didn’t know how Gu knew to steer clear of them. In this, as in so much else, they just had to trust him. What would they do if he led them into an ambush out here on these silent waters? Suddenly, she felt very glad that Vstim had ordered their guards to monitor his fabrial that showed if people were drawing near. It— Land. Rysn stood up in the catamaran, making it rock precariously. There was something ahead, a distant dark line. “Ah,” Gu said. “See? Soon.” Rysn remained standing, waving for her parasol when a sprinkle of rain started to fall. The parasol barely helped, though it was waxed to double as an umbrella. In her excitement, she hardly gave it—or her increasingly frizzy hair—a thought. Finally. The island was much bigger than she’d expected. She’d imagined it to be like a very large boat, not this towering rock formation jutting from the waters like a boulder in a field. It was different from other islands she’d seen; there didn’t seem to be any beach, and it wasn’t flat and low, but mountainous. Shouldn’t the sides and top have eroded over time? “It’s so green,” Rysn said as they drew closer. “The Tai-na is a good place to grow,” Gu said. “Good place to live. Except when it’s at war.” “When two islands get too close,” Rysn said. She’d read of this in preparation, though there were not many scholars who cared enough about the Reshi to write of them. Dozens, perhaps hundreds, of these moving islands floated in the sea. The people on them lived simple lives, interpreting the movements of the islands as divine will. “Not always,” Gu said, chuckling. “Sometimes close Tai-na is good. Sometimes bad.” “What determines?” Rysn asked. “Why, the Tai-na itself.” “The island decides,” Rysn said flatly, humoring him. Primitives. What was her babsk expecting to gain by trading here? “How can an island—” Then the island ahead of them moved. Not in the drifting way she’d imagined. The island’s very shape changed, stones twisting and undulating, a huge section of rock rising in a motion that seemed lethargic until one appreciated the grand scale. Rysn sat down with a plop, her eyes wide. The rock—the leg—lifted, streaming water like rainfall. It lurched forward, then crashed back down into the sea with incredible force. The Tai-na, the gods of the Reshi Isles, were greatshells. This was the largest beast she’d ever seen, or ever heard of. Big enough to make mythological monsters like the chasmfiends of distant Natanatan seem like pebbles in comparison! “Why didn’t anyone tell me?” she demanded, looking back at the boat’s other two occupants. Surely Kylrm at least should have said something. “Is better to see,” Gu said, paddling with his usual relaxed posture. She did not much care for his smirk. “And take away that moment of discovery?” Kylrm said. “I remember when I
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first saw one move. It’s worth not spoiling. We never tell the new guards when they first come.” Rysn contained her annoyance and looked back at the “island.” Curse those inaccurate accounts from her readings. Too much hearsay, not enough experience. She found it hard to believe that no one had ever recorded the truth. Likely, she simply had the wrong sources. A falling haze of rain shrouded the enormous beast in mist and enigma. What did a thing so big eat? Did it notice the people living upon its back; did it care? Kelek . . . What was mating like for these monsters? It had to be ancient. The boat drew into its shadow, and she could see the greenery growing across its stony skin. Shalebark mounds made vast fields of vibrant colors. Moss coated nearly everything. Vines and rockbuds wound around trunks of small trees that had gained a foothold in cracks between plates of the animal’s shell. Gu led the convoy around the hind leg—giving it a very wide berth, to her relief—and came up along the creature’s flank. Here, the shell dipped down into the water, forming a platform. She heard the people before she saw them, their laughter rising amid splashes. The rain stopped, so Rysn lowered her parasol and shook it over the water. She finally spotted the people, a group of youths both male and female climbing up onto a ridge of shell and leaping from it into the sea. That was not so surprising. The water of the Reshi Sea, like that of the Purelake, was remarkably warm. She had once ventured into the water near her homeland. It was a frigid experience, and not one to be engaged in while of sound mind. Frequently, alcohol and bravado were involved in any ocean dip. Out here, though, she expected that swimmers were commonplace. She had not expected them to be unclothed. Rysn blushed furiously as a group of people ran past on the docklike shell outcropping, as bare as the day they were born. Young men and women alike, uncaring of who saw. She was no Alethi prude, but . . . Kelek! Shouldn’t they wear something? Shamespren fell around her, shaped like white and red flower petals that drifted on a wind. Behind her, Gu chuckled. Kylrm joined him. “That’s another thing we don’t warn the newcomers about.” Primitives, Rysn thought. She shouldn’t blush so. She was an adult. Well, almost. The flotilla continued toward a section of shell that formed a kind of dock—a low plate that hung mostly above water. They settled in to wait, though for what, she didn’t know. After a few moments, the plate lurched—water streaming off it—as the beast took another lethargic step. Waves lapped against the boats from the splashdown ahead. Once things were settled, Gu guided the boat to the dock. “Up you go,” he said. “Shall we tie the boats to anything?” Rysn said. “No. Not safe, with movement. We will pull back.” “And at night? How do you dock the boats?” “When
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we sleep, we move boats away, tie together. Sleep out there. Find island again in the morning.” “Oh,” Rysn said, taking a calming breath and checking to make sure her pot of grass was carefully stored in the bottom of the catamaran. She stood up. This was not going to be kind to her shoes, which had been quite expensive. She had a feeling the Reshi wouldn’t care. She could probably meet their king barefooted. Passions! From what she’d seen, she could probably meet him bare-chested. She climbed up carefully, and was pleased to find that despite being an inch or so underwater, the shell was not slippery. Kylrm climbed up with her and she handed him the folded-up parasol, stepping back and waiting as Gu maneuvered his boat away. Another oarsman brought up his boat instead, a longer catamaran with parshmen to help row. Her babsk huddled inside, wrapped in his blanket despite the heat, head propped up against the back of the boat. His pale skin had a waxy cast. “Babsk . . .” Rysn said, heart wrenching. “We should have turned around.” “Nonsense,” he said, his voice frail. He smiled anyway. “I’ve suffered worse. The trade must happen. We’ve leveraged too much.” “I will go to the island’s king and traders,” Rysn said. “And ask for them to come here to negotiate with you on the docks.” Vstim coughed into his hand. “No. These people aren’t like the Shin. My weakness will ruin the deal. Boldness. You must be bold with the Reshi.” “Bold?” Rysn said, glancing at the boat guide, who lounged with fingers in the water. “Babsk . . . the Reshi are a relaxed people. I do not think much matters to them.” “You will be surprised, then,” Vstim said. He followed her gaze toward the nearby swimmers, who giggled and laughed as they leaped into the waters. “Life can be simple here, yes. It attracts such people like war attracts painspren.” Attracts . . . One of the women scampered past, and Rysn noticed with shock that she had Thaylen eyebrows. Her skin had been tanned in the sun, so the difference in tones hadn’t been immediately obvious. Picking through those swimming, Rysn saw others. Two that were probably Herdazians, even . . . an Alethi? Impossible. “People seek out this place,” Vstim said. “They like the life of the Reshi. Here, they can simply go with the island. Fight when it fights another island. Relax otherwise. There will be people like this in any culture, for every society is made of individuals. You must learn this. Do not let your assumptions about a culture block your ability to perceive the individual, or you will fail.” She nodded. He seemed so frail, but his words were firm. She tried not to think about the swimming people. The fact that at least one of them was of her own kind made her even more embarrassed. “If you cannot trade with them . . .” Rysn said. “You must do it.” Rysn felt cold, despite the heat.
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This was what she’d joined with Vstim to do, wasn’t it? How many times had she wished he would let her lead? Why feel so timid now? She glanced toward her own boat, moving off, carrying her pot of grass. She looked back at her babsk. “Tell me what to do.” “They know much of foreigners,” Vstim said. “More than we know of them. This is because so many of us come to live among them. Many of the Reshi are as carefree as you say, but there are also many who are not. Those prefer to fight. And a trade . . . it is like a fight to them.” “To me too,” Rysn said. “I know these people,” Vstim said. “We must have Passion that Talik is not here. He is their best, and often goes to trade with other islands. Whichever you do meet for trade, he or she will judge you as they would judge a rival in battle. And to them, battle is about posturing. “I once had the misfortune to be on an isle during war.” He paused, coughing, but spurned the drink Kylrm tried to give him. “As the two islands raged, the people climbed down into boats to exchange insults and boasts. They would each start with their weakest, who would yell out boasts, then progress in a kind of verbal duel up to their greatest. After that, arrows and spears, struggling on ships and in the water. Fortunately, there was more yelling than actual cutting.” Rysn swallowed, nodding. “You are not ready for this, child,” Vstim said. “I know.” “Good. Finally you realize it. Go now. They will not suffer us long on their island unless we agree to join them permanently.” “Which would require . . . ?” Rysn said. “Well, for one, it requires giving all you own to their king.” “Lovely,” Rysn said, rising. “I wonder how he’d look wearing my shoes.” She took a deep breath. “You still haven’t told me what we’re trading for.” “They know,” her babsk said, then coughed. “Your conversation will not be a negotiation. The terms were set years ago.” She turned to him, frowning. “What?” “This is not about what you can get,” Vstim said, “but about whether or not they think you are worthy of it. Convince them.” He hesitated. “Passions guide you, child. Do well.” It seemed a plea. If their flotilla was turned away . . . The cost of this trade was not in the goods—woods, cloth, simple supplies purchased cheaply—but in the outfitting of a convoy. It was in traveling so far, paying guides, wasting time waiting for a break between storms, then more time searching for the right island. If she was turned away, they could still sell what they had—but at a stiff devastating loss, considering the high overhead of the trip. Two of the guards, Kylrm and Nlent, joined her as she left Vstim and walked along the docklike protrusion of shell. Now that they were so close, it was difficult to see a creature
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and not an island. Just ahead of her, the patina of lichen made the shell nearly indistinguishable from rock. Trees clustered here, their roots draping into the water, their branches reaching high and creating a forest. She hesitantly stepped onto the only path leading up from the waters. Here, the “ground” formed steps that seemed far too square and regular to be natural. “They cut into its shell?” Rysn said, climbing. Kylrm grunted. “Chulls can’t feel their shells. This monster probably can’t either.” As they walked, he kept his hand on his gtet, a type of traditional Thaylen sword. The thing had a large triangular wedge of a blade with a grip directly at the base; you’d hold the grip like a fist, and the long blade would extend out down past the knuckles, with parts of the hilt resting around the wrist for support. Right now, he wore it in a sheath at his side, along with a bow on his back. Why was he was so anxious? The Reshi were not supposed to be dangerous. Perhaps when you were a paid guard, it was better to assume everyone was dangerous. The pathway wound upward through thick jungle. The trees here were limber and hale, their branches almost constantly moving. And when the beast stepped, everything shook. Vines trembled and twisted on the pathway or drooped from branches, and these pulled out of the way at her approach, but crept back quickly after her passing. Soon, she couldn’t see the sea, or even smell its brine. The jungle enveloped everything. Its thick green and brown were broken occasionally by pink and yellow mounds of shalebark that seemed to have been growing for generations. She’d found the humidity oppressive before, but here it was overwhelming. She felt as if she were swimming, and even her thin linen skirt, blouse, and vest seemed as thick as old Thaylen highland winter gear. After an interminable climb, she heard voices. To her right, the forest opened up to a view of the ocean beyond. Rysn caught her breath. Endless blue waters, clouds dropping a haze of rain in patches that seemed so distinct. And in the distance . . . “Another one?” she asked, pointing toward a shadow on the horizon. “Yeah,” Kylrm said. “Hopefully going the other way. I’d rather not be here when they decide to war.” His grip tightened on the handle of his sword. The voices came from farther up the way, so Rysn resigned herself to more climbing. Her legs ached from the effort. Though the jungle remained impenetrable to her left, it remained open to her right, where the massive flank of the greatshell formed ridges and shelves. She caught sight of some people sitting around tents, leaning back and staring out over the sea. They hardly gave her and the two guards more than a glance. Up farther, she found more Reshi. These were jumping. Men and women alike—and in various states of undress—were taking turns leaping off the shell’s outcroppings with whoops and shouts, plummeting toward the
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waters far below. Rysn grew nauseated just watching them. How high up were they? “They do it to shock you. They always jump from greater heights when a foreigner is here.” Rysn nodded, then—with a sudden start—realized that the comment hadn’t come from one of her guards. She turned and discovered that to her left, the forest had moved back around a large outcrop of shell like a rock mound. There, hanging upside down and tied by his feet to a point at the top of the shell, was a lanky man with pale white skin verging on blue. He wore only a loincloth, and his skin was covered with hundreds upon hundreds of small, intricate tattoos. Rysn took a step toward him, but Kylrm grabbed her shoulder and pulled her back. “Aimian,” he hissed. “Keep your distance.” The blue fingernails and deep blue eyes should have been a clue. Rysn stepped back, though she couldn’t see his Voidbringer shadow. “Keep your distance indeed,” the man said. “Always a wise idea.” His accent was unlike any she’d heard, though he spoke Thaylen well. He hung there with a pleasant smile on his face, as if completely indifferent to the fact that he was upside down. “Are you . . . well?” Rysn asked the man. “Hmmm?” he said. “Oh, between blackouts, yes. Quite well. I think I’m growing numb to the pain of my ankles, which is just delightful.” Rysn brought her hands up to her chest, not daring to get any closer. Aimian. Very bad luck. She wasn’t particularly superstitious—she was even skeptical of the Passions sometimes—but . . . well, this was an Aimian. “What fell curses did you bring on this people, beast?” Kylrm demanded. “Improper puns,” the man said lazily. “And a stench from something I ate that did not sit well with me. Are you off to speak with the king, then?” “I . . .” Rysn said. Behind her, another Reshi whooped and leaped from the shelf. “Yes.” “Well,” the creature said, “don’t ask about the soul of their god. They don’t like to speak of that, it turns out. Must be spectacular, to let the beasts grow this large. Beyond even the spren who inhabit the bodies of ordinary greatshells. Hmmm . . .” He seemed very pleased by something. “Do not feel for him, trademaster,” Kylrm said softly to her, steering her away from the dangling prisoner. “He could escape if he wished.” Nlent, the other guard, nodded. “They can take off their limbs. Take off their skin too. No real body to them. Just something evil, taking human form.” The squat guard wore a charm on his wrist, a charm of courage, which he took off and held tightly in one hand. The charm hadn’t any properties itself, of course. It was a reminder. Courage. Passion. Want what you need, embrace it, desire it and bring it to you. Well, what she needed was her babsk to be here with her. She turned her steps upward again, the confrontation with the Aimian leaving
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her unnerved. More people ran and leaped from the shelves to her right. Crazy. Trademaster, she thought. Kylrm called me “trademaster.” She wasn’t, not yet. She was property owned by Vstim; for now just an apprentice who provided occasional slave labor. She didn’t deserve the title, but hearing it strengthened her. She led the way up the steps, which twisted farther around the beast’s shell. They passed a place where the ground split, the shell showing skin far beneath. The rift was like a chasm; she couldn’t have leaped from one side to the other without falling in. Reshi she passed on the path refused to respond to her questions. Fortunately, Kylrm knew the way, and when the path split, he pointed to the right fork. At times, the path leveled out for significant distances, but then there were always more steps. Her legs burning, her clothing damp with sweat, they reached the top of this flight and—at long last—found no more steps. Here, the jungle fell away completely, though rockbuds clutched the shell in the open field—beyond which was only the empty sky. The head, Rysn thought. We’ve climbed all the way to the beast’s head. Soldiers lined the path, armed with spears bearing colorful tassels. Their breastplates and armguards were of carapace carved wickedly with points, and though they wore only wraps for clothing, they stood as stiff-backed as any Alethi soldier, with stern expressions to match. So her babsk was right. Not every Reshi was the “lounge and swim” type. Boldness, she thought to herself, remembering Vstim’s words. She could not show these people a timid face. The king stood at the end of the pathway of guards and rockbuds, a diminutive figure on the edge of a carapace shelf, looking toward the sun. Rysn strode forward, passing through a double row of spears. She would have expected the same kind of clothing on the king, but instead the man wore full, voluminous robes of vibrant green and yellow. They looked terribly hot. As she drew nearer, Rysn got a sense for just how high she had climbed. The waters below shimmered in the sunlight, so far down that Rysn wouldn’t have heard a rock hit if she’d dropped one. Far enough that looking over the side made her stomach twist upon itself and her legs tremble. Getting close to the king would require stepping out onto that shelf where he stood. It would place her within a breath of plummeting down hundreds and hundreds of feet. Steady, Rysn told herself. She would show her babsk that she was capable. She was not the ignorant girl who had misjudged the Shin or who had offended the Iriali. She had learned. Still, perhaps she should have asked Nlent to lend her his charm of courage. She stepped out onto the shelf. The king seemed young, at least from behind. Built like a youth, or . . . No, Rysn thought with a start as the king turned. It was a woman, old enough that her hair was greying, but not
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so old that she was bent with age. Someone stepped out onto the shelf behind Rysn. Younger, he wore the standard wrap and tassels. His hair was in two braids that fell over tan, bare shoulders. When he spoke, there wasn’t even a hint of an accent to his voice. “The king wishes to know why his old trading partner, Vstim, has not come in person, and has instead sent a child in his place.” “And are you the king?” Rysn asked the newcomer. The man laughed. “You stand beside him, yet ask that of me?” Rysn looked toward the robed figure. The robes were tied with the front open enough to show that the “king” definitely had breasts. “We are led by a king,” the newcomer said. “Gender is irrelevant.” It seemed to Rysn that gender was part of the definition, but it wasn’t worth arguing over. “My master is indisposed,” she said, addressing the newcomer—he’d be the island’s trademaster. “I am authorized to speak for him, and to accomplish the trade.” The newcomer snorted, sitting down on the edge of the shelf, legs hanging out over the edge. Rysn’s stomach did a somersault. “He should have known better. The trade is off, then.” “You are Talik, I assume?” Rysn said, folding her arms. The man was no longer facing her. It seemed an intentional slight. “Yes.” “My master warned me about you.” “Then he isn’t a complete fool,” Talik said. “Just mostly.” His pronunciation was astonishing. She found herself checking him for Thaylen eyebrows, but he was obviously Reshi. Rysn clenched her teeth, then forced herself to sit down beside him on the edge. She tried to do it as nonchalantly as he had, but she just couldn’t. Instead, she settled down—not easy in a fashionable skirt—and scooted out beside him. Oh, Passions! I’m going to fall off of this and die. Don’t look down! Do not look down! She couldn’t help it. She glanced downward, and felt immediately woozy. She could see the side of the head down there, the massive line of a jaw. Nearby, standing on a ridge above the eye to Rysn’s right, people pushed large bundles of fruit off the side. Tied with vine rope, the bundles swung down beside the maw below. Mandibles moved slowly, pulling the fruit in, jerking the ropes. The Reshi pulled those back up to affix more fruit, all under the eyes of the king, who was supervising the feeding from the very tip of the nose to Rysn’s left. “A treat,” Talik said, noticing where she watched. “An offering. These small bundles of fruit, of course, do not sustain our god.” “What does?” He smiled. “Why are you still here, young one? Did I not dismiss you?” “The trade does not have to be off,” Rysn said. “My master told me the terms were already set. We have brought everything you require in payment.” Though for what, I don’t know. “Turning me aside would be pointless.” The king, she noticed, had stepped closer to listen. “It would serve the
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same purpose as everything in life,” Talik said. “To please Relu-na.” That would be the name of their god, the greatshell. “And your island would approve of such waste? Inviting traders all this way, only to send them off empty-handed?” “Relu-na approves of boldness,” Talik said. “And, more importantly, respect. If we do not respect the one with whom we trade, then we should not do it.” What ridiculous logic. If a merchant followed that line of reasoning, he’d never be able to trade. Except . . . in her months with Vstim, it seemed that he’d often sought out people who liked trading with him. People he respected. Those kinds of people certainly would be less likely to cheat you. Perhaps it wasn’t bad logic . . . simply incomplete. Think like the other trader, she recalled. One of Vstim’s lessons—which were so different from the ones she’d learned at home. What do they want? Why do they want it? Why are you the best one to provide it? “It must be hard to live out here, in the waters,” Rysn said. “Your god is impressive, but you cannot make everything you need for yourselves.” “Our ancestors did it just fine.” “Without medicines,” Rysn said, “that could have saved lives. Without cloth from fibers that grow only on the mainland. Your ancestors survived without these things because they had to. You do not.” The trademaster hunched forward. Don’t do that! You’ll fall! “We are not idiots,” Talik said. Rysn frowned. Why— “I’m so tired of explaining this,” the man continued. “We live simply. That does not make us stupid. For years the outsiders came, trying to exploit us because of our ignorance. We are tired of it, woman. Everything you say is true. Not true—obvious. Yet you say it as if we’d never stopped to consider. ‘Oh! Medicine! Of course we need medicine! Thank you for pointing that out. I was just going to sit here and die.’” Rysn blushed. “I didn’t—” “Yes, you did mean that,” Talik said. “The condescension dripped from your lips, young lady. We’re tired of being taken advantage of. We’re tired of foreigners who try to trade us trash for riches. We don’t have knowledge of the current economic situation on the mainland, so we can’t know for certain if we are being cheated or not. Therefore, we trade only with people we know and trust. That is that.” Current economic situation on the mainland . . . ? Rysn thought. “You’ve trained in Thaylenah,” she guessed. “Of course I have,” Talik said. “You have to know a predator’s tricks before you can catch him.” He settled back, which let her relax a little. “My parents sent me to train as a child. I had one of your babsks. I made trademaster on my own before returning here.” “Your parents being the king and queen?” Rysn guessed again. He eyed her. “The king and king’s consort.” “You could just call her a queen.” “This trade is not happening,” Talik said, standing. “Go and tell your master
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we are sorry for his illness and hope that he recovers. If he does, he may return next year during the trading season and we will meet with him.” “You imply you respect him,” Rysn said, scrambling to her feet—and away from that drop. “So just trade with him!” “He is sickly,” Talik said, not looking at her. “It would not do him justice. We’d be taking advantage of him.” Taking advantage of . . . Passions, these people were strange. It seemed even odder to hear such things coming from the mouth of a man who spoke such perfect Thaylen. “You’d trade with me if you respected me,” Rysn said. “If you thought I was worthy of it.” “That will take years,” Talik said, joining his mother at the front of the shelf. “Go away, and—” He cut off as the king spoke to him softly in Reshi. Talik drew his lips into a line. “What?” Rysn asked, stepping forward. Talik turned toward her. “You have apparently impressed the king. You argue fiercely. Though you dismiss us as primitives, you’re not as bad as some.” He ground his teeth for a moment. “The king will hear your argument for a trade.” Rysn blinked, looked from one to the other. Hadn’t she just made her argument for a trade, with the king listening? The woman regarded Rysn with dark eyes and a calm expression. I’ve won the first fight, Rysn realized, like the warriors on the battlefield. I’ve dueled and been judged worthy to spar with the one of greater authority. The king spoke, and Talik interpreted. “The king says that you are talented, but that the trade cannot—of course—continue. You should return with your babsk when he comes again. In a decade or so, perhaps we will trade with you.” Rysn searched for an argument. “And is that how Vstim gained respect, Your Majesty?” She would not fail in this. She couldn’t! “Over years, with his own babsk?” “Yes,” Talik said. “You didn’t interpret that,” Rysn said. “I . . .” Talik sighed, then interpreted her question. The king smiled with apparent fondness. She spoke a few words in their language, and Talik turned to his mother, looking shocked. “I . . . Wow.” “What?” Rysn demanded. “Your babsk slew a coracot with some of our hunters,” Talik said. “On his own? A foreigner? I had not heard of such a thing.” Vstim. Slaying something? With hunters? Impossible. Though he obviously hadn’t always been the wizened old ledgerworm that he was now, she’d imagined he’d been a wizened young ledgerworm in the past. The king spoke again. “I doubt you’ll be slaying any beasts, child,” Talik interpreted. “Go. Your babsk will recover from this. He is wise.” No. He is dying, Rysn thought. It came to her mind unbidden, but the truth of it terrified her. More than the height, more than anything else she’d known. Vstim was dying. This might be his final trade. And she was ruining it. “My babsk trusts me,” Rysn said, stepping closer to the king,
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moving along the greatshell’s nose. “And you said you trust him. Can you not trust his judgment that I am worthy?” “One cannot substitute for personal experience,” Talik translated. The beast stepped, ground trembling, and Rysn clenched her teeth, imagining them all toppling off. Fortunately, up this high, the motion was more like a gentle sway. Trees rustled, and her stomach lurched, but it wasn’t any more dangerous than a ship surging on a wave. Rysn stepped closer to where the king stood beside the beast’s nose. “You are king—you know the importance of trusting those beneath you. You cannot be everywhere, know everything. At times, you must accept the judgment of those you know. My babsk is such a man.” “You make a valid point,” Talik translated, sounding surprised. “But what you do not realize is that I have already paid your babsk this respect. That is why I agreed to speak with you myself. I would not have done this for another.” “But—” “Return below,” the king said through Talik, her voice growing harder. She seemed to think this was the end. “Tell your babsk that you proceeded far enough to speak with me personally. Doubtless, this is more than he expected. You may leave the island, and return when he is well.” “I . . .” Rysn felt as if a fist were crushing her throat, making it hard for her to speak. She couldn’t fail him, not now. “Give him my best wishes for his recovery,” the king said, turning away. Talik smiled in what seemed to be satisfaction. Rysn glanced at her two guards, who bore grim expressions. Rysn stepped away. She felt numb. Turned away, like a child demanding sweets. She felt a furious blush consume her as she walked past the men and women preparing more bundles of fruit. Rysn stopped. She looked to her left, out at the endless expanse of blue. She turned back toward the king. “I believe,” Rysn said loudly, “that I need to speak with someone with more authority.” Talik turned toward her. “You have spoken to the king. There is nobody with more authority.” “I beg your pardon,” Rysn said. “But I do think there is.” One of the ropes shook from having its fruit gift consumed. This is stupid, this is stupid, this is— Don’t think. Rysn scrambled to the rope, causing her guards to cry out. She grabbed the length of rope and let herself over the side, climbing down beside the greatshell’s head. The god’s head. Passions! This was hard in a skirt. The rope bit into the skin of her arms, and it vibrated as the creature below crunched on the fruit upon its end. Talik’s head appeared above. “What in Kelek’s name are you doing, idiot woman?” he screamed. She found it amusing that he’d learned their curses while studying with them. Rysn clung to the rope, heart rushing in a mad panic. What was she doing? “Relu-na,” she yelled back at Talik, “approves of boldness!” “There is a difference between boldness and stupidity!”
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Rysn continued to climb down. It was more of a slide. Oh, Craving, Passion of need . . . “Pull her back up!” Talik ordered. “You soldiers, help.” He gave further orders in Reshi. Rysn looked up as workers grabbed the rope to haul her back upward. A new face appeared above, however, looking down. The king. She raised a hand, halting them as she studied Rysn. Rysn continued on down. She didn’t go terribly far, maybe fifty feet or so. Not even down to the creature’s eye. She stopped herself, with effort, her fingers burning. “O great Relu-na,” Rysn said loudly, “your people refuse to trade with me, and so I come to you to beg. Your people need what I have brought, but I need a trade even more. I cannot afford to return.” The creature, of course, did not reply. Rysn hung in place beside its shell, which was crusted with lichen and small rockbuds. “Please,” Rysn said. “Please.” What am I expecting to happen? Rysn wondered. She didn’t expect the thing to make any sort of reply. But maybe she could persuade those above that she was bold enough to be worthy. It couldn’t hurt, at least. The rope quivered in her hands, and she made the mistake of glancing down. Actually, what she was doing could hurt. Very much. “The king,” Talik said above, “has commanded that you return.” “Will our negotiation continue?” Rysn asked, glancing up. The king actually looked concerned. “That’s not important,” Talik said. “You have been issued a command.” Rysn gritted her teeth, clinging to the rope, looking at the plates of chitin before her. “And what do you think?” she asked softly. Down below, the thing bit down, and the rope suddenly became very tight, slapping Rysn against the side of the enormous head. Above, workers shouted. The king yelled at them in a sudden, sharp voice. Oh no . . . The rope pulled even tighter. Then snapped. The shouts grew frantic above, though Rysn barely noticed them as panic struck. She did not fall gracefully, but as a flurry of screaming cloth and legs, her skirt flapping, her stomach lurching. What had she done? She— She saw an eye. The god’s eye. Only a glimpse as she passed; it was as large as a house, glassy and black, and it reflected her falling form. She seemed to hang before it for a fraction of a second, and her scream died in her throat. It was gone in a moment. Then rushing wind, another scream, and a crash into water hard as stone. Blackness. * * * Rysn found herself floating when she awoke. She didn’t open her eyes, but she could sense that she was floating. Drifting, bobbing up and down . . . “She is an idiot.” She knew that voice. Talik, the one she’d been trading with. “Then she fits well with me,” Vstim said. He coughed. “I have to say, old friend, you were supposed to help train her, not drop her off a cliff.” Floating .
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. . Drifting . . . Wait. Rysn forced her eyes open. She was in a bed inside a hut. It was hot. Her vision swam, and she drifted . . . drifted because her mind was cloudy. What had they given her? She tried to sit up. Her legs wouldn’t move. Her legs wouldn’t move. She gasped, then began breathing quickly. Vstim’s face appeared above her, followed by a concerned Reshi woman with ribbons in her hair. Not the queen . . . king . . . whatever. This woman spoke quickly in the barking language of the Reshi. “Calm now,” Vstim said to Rysn, kneeling beside her. “Calm . . . They’ll get you something to drink, child.” “I lived,” Rysn said. Her voice rasped as she spoke. “Barely,” Vstim said, though with fondness. “The spren cushioned your fall. From that height . . . Child, what were you thinking, climbing over the side like that?” “I needed to do something,” Rysn said. “To prove courage. I thought . . . I needed to be bold . . .” “Oh, child. This is my fault.” “You were his babsk,” Rysn said. “Talik, their trader. You set this up with him, so I could have a chance to trade on my own, but in a controlled setting. The trade was never in danger, and you are not as sick as you appear.” The words boiled out, tumbling over one another like a hundred men trying to leave through the same doorway at once. “When did you figure that out?” Vstim asked, then coughed. “I . . .” She didn’t know. It just all kind of fell together for her. “Right now.” “Well, you must know that I feel a true fool,” Vstim said. “I thought this would be a perfect chance for you. A practice with real stakes. And then . . . Then you went and fell off the island’s head!” Rysn squeezed her eyes shut as the Reshi woman arrived with a cup of something. “Will I walk again?” Rysn asked softly. “Here, drink this,” Vstim said. “Will I walk again?” She didn’t take the cup, and kept her eyes closed. “I don’t know,” Vstim said. “But you will trade again. Passions! Daring to go above the king’s authority? Being saved by the island’s soul itself?” He chuckled. It sounded forced. “The other islands will be clamoring to trade with us.” “Then I accomplished something,” she said, feeling a complete and utter idiot. “Oh, you accomplished something indeed,” Vstim said. She felt a prickling pressure on her arm and opened her eyes with a snap. Something crawled there, about as big as the palm of her hand—a creature that looked like a cremling, but with wings that folded along the back. “What is it?” Rysn demanded. “Why we came here,” Vstim said. “The thing we trade for, a treasure that very few know still exists. They were supposed to have died with Aimia, you see. I came here with all of these goods in tow because Talik sent to
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me to say they had the corpse of one to trade. Kings pay fortunes for them.” He leaned down. “I have never seen one alive before. I was given the corpse I wanted in trade. This one has been given to you.” “By the Reshi?” Rysn asked, mind still clouded. She didn’t know what to make of any of this. “The Reshi could not command one of the larkin,” Vstim said, standing. “This was given you by the island itself. Now drink your medicine and sleep. You shattered both of your legs. We will be staying on this island for a long while as you recover, and as I seek forgiveness for being a foolish, foolish man.” She accepted the drink. As she drank, the small creature flew up toward the rafters of the hut and perched there, looking down at her with eyes of solid silver. “So what kind of spren is it?” Thude asked to the slow Rhythm of Curiosity. He held up the gemstone, peering in at the smoky creature moving about inside. “Stormspren, my sister says,” Eshonai replied as she leaned against the wall, arms folded. The strands of Thude’s beard were tied with bits of raw gemstone that shook and twinkled as he rubbed his chin. He held the large cut gemstone up to Bila, who took it and tapped it with her finger. They were a warpair of Eshonai’s own personal division. They dressed in simple garments that were tailored around the chitinous armor plates on their arms, legs, and chests. Thude also wore a long coat, but he wouldn’t take that to battle. Eshonai, by contrast, wore her uniform—tight red cloth that stretched over her natural armor—and a cap on her skullplate. She never spoke of how that uniform imprisoned her, felt like manacles that tied her in place. “A stormspren,” Bila said to the Rhythm of Skepticism as she turned the stone over in her fingers. “Will it help me kill humans? Otherwise, I don’t see why I should care.” “This could change the world, Bila,” Eshonai said. “If Venli is right, and she can bond with this spren and come out with anything other than dullform . . . well, at the very least we will have an entirely new form to choose. At the greatest we will have power to control the storms and tap their energy.” “So she will try this personally?” Thude asked to the Rhythm of Winds, the rhythm that they used to judge when a highstorm was near. “If the Five give her permission.” They were to discuss it, and make their decision, today. “That’s great,” Bila said, “but will it help me kill humans?” Eshonai attuned Mourning. “If stormform is truly one of the ancient powers, Bila, then yes. It will help you kill humans. Many of them.” “Good enough for me, then,” Bila said. “Why are you so worried?” “The ancient powers are said to have come from our gods.” “Who cares? If the gods would help us kill those armies out there, then I’d swear
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to them right now.” “Don’t say that, Bila,” Eshonai said to Reprimand. “Never say anything like that.” The woman quieted, tossing the stone onto the table. She hummed softly to Skepticism. That walked the line of insubordination. Eshonai met Bila’s eyes and found herself softly humming to Resolve. Thude glanced from Bila to Eshonai. “Food?” he asked. “Is that your answer to every disagreement?” Eshonai asked, breaking her song. “It’s hard to argue with your mouth full,” Thude said. “I’m sure I’ve seen you do just that,” Bila said. “Many times.” “The arguments end happy, though,” Thude said. “Because everyone is full. So . . . food?” “Fine,” Bila said, glancing at Eshonai. The two withdrew. Eshonai sat down at the table, feeling drained. When had she started worrying if her friends were insubordinate? It was this horrid uniform. She picked up the gemstone, staring into its depths. It was a large one, about a third the size of her fist, though gemstones didn’t have to be large to trap a spren inside. She hated trapping them. The right way was to go into the highstorm with the proper attitude, singing the proper song to attract the proper spren. You bonded it in the fury of the raging storm and were reborn with a new body. People had been doing this from the arrival of the first winds. The listeners had learned that capturing spren was possible from the humans, then had figured out the process on their own. A captive spren made the transformation much more reliable. Before, there had always been an element of chance. You could go into the storm wanting to become a soldier, and come out a mate instead. This is progress, Eshonai thought, staring at the little smoky spren inside the stone. Progress is learning to control your world. Put up walls to stop the storms, choose when to become a mate. Progress was taking nature and putting a box around it. Eshonai pocketed the gemstone, and checked the time. Her meeting with the rest of the Five wasn’t scheduled until the third movement of the Rhythm of Peace, and she had a good half a movement until then. It was time to speak with her mother. Eshonai stepped out into Narak and walked along the path, nodding to those who saluted. She passed mostly soldiers. So much of their population wore warform these days. Their small population. Once, there had been hundreds of thousands of listeners scattered across these plains. Now a fraction remained. Even then, the listeners had been a united people. Oh, there had been divisions, conflicts, even wars among their factions. But they had been a single people—those who had rejected their gods and sought freedom in obscurity. Bila no longer cared about their origins. There would be others like her, people who ignored the danger of the gods and focused only on the fight with the humans. Eshonai passed dwellings—ramshackle things constructed of hardened crem over frames of shell, huddled in the leeward shadow of lumps of stone. Most of those
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were empty now. They’d lost thousands to war over the years. We do have to do something, she thought, attuning the Rhythm of Peace in the back of her mind. She sought comfort in its calm, soothing beats, soft and blended. Like a caress. Then she saw the dullforms. They looked much like what the humans called “parshmen,” though they were a little taller and not nearly as stupid. Still, dullform was a limiting form, without the capacities and advantages of newer forms. There shouldn’t have been any here. Had these people bonded the wrong spren by mistake? It happened sometimes. Eshonai strode up to the group of three, two femalen and one malen. They were hauling rockbuds harvested on one of the nearby plateaus, plants which had been encouraged to grow quickly by use of Stormlight-infused gems. “What is this?” Eshonai asked. “Did you choose this form in error? Or are you new spies?” They looked at her with insipid eyes. Eshonai attuned Anxiety. She had once tried dullform—she had wanted to know what their spies would suffer. Trying to force concepts through her brain had been like trying to think rationally while in a dream. “Did someone ask you to adopt this form?” Eshonai said, speaking slowly and clearly. “Nobody asked it,” the malen said to no rhythm at all. His voice sounded dead. “We did it.” “Why?” Eshonai said. “Why would you do this?” “Humans won’t kill us when they come,” the malen said, hefting his rockbud and continuing on his way. The others joined him without a word. Eshonai gaped, the Rhythm of Anxiety strong in her mind. A few fearspren, like long purple worms, dove in and out of the rock nearby, collecting toward her until they crawled up out of the ground around her. Forms could not be commanded; every person was free to choose for themselves. Transformations could be cajoled and requested, but they could not be forced. Their gods had not allowed this freedom, so the listeners would have it, no matter what. These people could choose dullform if they wished. Eshonai could do nothing about it. Not directly. She hastened her pace. Her leg still ached from her wound, but was healing quickly. One of the benefits of warform. She could almost ignore the damage at this point. A city full of empty buildings, and Eshonai’s mother chose a shack on the very edge of the city, almost fully exposed to the storms. Mother worked her shalebark rows outside, humming softly to herself to the Rhythm of Peace. She wore workform; she’d always preferred it. Even after nimbleform had been discovered, Mother had not changed. She had said she didn’t want to encourage people to see one form as more valuable than another, that such stratification could destroy them. Wise words. The type Eshonai hadn’t heard out of her mother in years. “Child!” Mother said as Eshonai approached. Solid despite her years, Mother had a neat round face and wore her hairstrands in a braid, tied with a ribbon. Eshonai had brought her
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that ribbon from a meeting with the Alethi years ago. “Child, have you seen your sister? It is her day of first transformation! We need to prepare her.” “It is attended to, Mother,” Eshonai said to the Rhythm of Peace, kneeling down beside the woman. “How goes the pruning?” “I should be finishing soon,” Mother said. “I need to leave before the people who own this house return.” “You own it, Mother.” “No, no. It belongs to two others. They were in the house last night, and told me I needed to leave. I’ll just finish with this shalebark before I go.” She got out her file, smoothing one side of a ridge, then painting it with sap to encourage growth in that direction. Eshonai sat back, attuning Mourning, and Peace left her. Perhaps she should have chosen the Rhythm of the Lost instead. It changed in her head. She forced it back. No. No, her mother was not dead. She wasn’t fully alive, either. “Here, take this,” Mother said to Peace, handing Eshonai a file. At least Mother recognized her today. “Work on that outcropping there. I don’t want it to keep growing downward. We need to send it up, up toward the light.” “The storms are too strong on this side of the city.” “Storms? Nonsense. No storms here.” Mother paused. “I wonder where we’ll be taking your sister. She’ll need a storm for her transformation.” “Don’t worry about that, Mother,” Eshonai said, forcing herself to speak to Peace. “I will care for it.” “You are so good, Venli,” Mother said. “So helpful. Staying home, not running off, like your sister. That girl . . . She’s never where she should be.” “She is now,” Eshonai whispered. “She’s trying to be.” Mother hummed to herself, continuing working. Once, this woman had one of the best memories in the city. She still did, in a way. “Mother,” Eshonai said, “I need help. I think something terrible is going to happen. I can’t decide if it is less terrible than what is already happening.” Mother filed at a section of shalebark, then blew off the dust. “Our people are crumbling,” Eshonai said. “We’re being weathered away. We moved to Narak and chose a war of attrition. That has meant six years with steady losses. People are giving up.” “That’s not good,” Mother said. “But the alternative? Dabbling in things we shouldn’t, things that might bring the eyes of the Unmade upon us.” “You’re not working,” Mother said, pointing. “Don’t be like your sister.” Eshonai placed her hands in her lap. This wasn’t helping. Seeing Mother like this . . . “Mother,” Eshonai said to Supplication, “why did we leave the dark home?” “Ah, now that’s an old song, Eshonai,” Mother said. “A dark song, not for a child like you. Why, it’s not even your day of first transformation.” “I’m old enough, Mother. Please?” Mother blew on her shalebark. Had she forgotten, finally, this last part of what she had been? Eshonai’s heart sank. “Long are the days since we knew the
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dark home,” Mother sang softly to one of the Rhythms of Remembrance. “The Last Legion, that was our name then. Warriors who had been set to fight in the farthest plains, this place that had once been a nation and was now rubble. Dead was the freedom of most people. The forms, unknown, were forced upon us. Forms of power, yes, but also forms of obedience. The gods commanded, and we did obey, always. Always.” “Except for that day,” Eshonai said along with her mother, in rhythm. “The day of the storm when the Last Legion fled,” Mother continued in song. “Difficult was the path chosen. Warriors, touched by the gods, our only choice to seek dullness of mind. A crippling that brought freedom.” Mother’s calm, sonorous song danced with the wind. As frail as she seemed other times, when she sang the old songs, she seemed herself again. A parent who had at times conflicted with Eshonai, but a parent whom Eshonai had always respected. “Daring was the challenge made,” Mother sang, “when the Last Legion abandoned thought and power in exchange for freedom. They risked forgetting all. And so songs they composed, a hundred stories to tell, to remember. I tell them to you, and you will tell them to your children, until the forms are again discovered.” From there, Mother launched into one of the early songs, about how the people would make their home in the ruins of an abandoned kingdom. How they would spread out, act as simple tribes and refugees. It was their plan to remain hidden, or at least ignored. The songs left out so much. The Last Legion hadn’t known how to transform into anything other than dullform and mateform, at least not without the help of the gods. How had they known the other forms were possible? Had these facts originally been recorded in the songs, and then lost over the years as words changed here and there? Eshonai listened, and though her mother’s voice did help her attune Peace again, she found herself deeply troubled anyway. She had come here for answers. Once, that would have worked. No longer. Eshonai stood to leave her mother singing. “I found some of your things,” Mother said, breaking the song, “when cleaning today. You should take them. They clutter the home, and I will be moving out soon.” Eshonai hummed Mourning to herself, but went to see just what her mother had “discovered.” Another pile of rocks, in which she saw child’s playthings? Strips of cloth she imagined were clothing? Eshonai found a small sack in front of the building. She opened it to find paper. Paper made from local plants, not human paper. Rough paper, with varied color, made after the old listener way. Textured and full, not neat and sterile. The ink on it was beginning to fade, but Eshonai recognized the drawings. My maps, she thought. From those early days. Without meaning to, she attuned Remembrance. Days spent hiking across the wilderness of what the humans called Natanatan, passing through forests and
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jungles, drawing her own maps and expanding the world. She’d started alone, but her discoveries had excited an entire people. Soon, though still in her teenage years, she’d been leading entire expeditions to find new rivers, new ruins, new spren, new plants. And humans. In a way, this was all her fault. Her mother started singing again. Looking through her old maps, Eshonai found a powerful longing within her. Once, she’d seen the world as something fresh and exciting. New, like a blossoming forest after a storm. She was dying slowly, as surely as her people were. She packed up the maps and left her mother’s house, walking toward the center of town. Her mother’s song, still beautiful, echoed behind her. Eshonai attuned Peace. That let her know that she was nearly late for the meeting with the rest of the Five. She did not hasten her pace. She let the steady, sweeping beats of the Rhythm of Peace carry her forward. Unless you concentrated on attuning a certain rhythm, your body would naturally choose the one that fit your mood. Therefore, it was always a conscious decision to listen to a rhythm that did not match how you felt. She did this now with Peace. The listeners had made a decision centuries ago, a decision that set them back to primitive levels. Choosing to murder Gavilar Kholin had been an act to affirm that decision of their ancestors. Eshonai had not then been one of their leaders, but they had listened to her counsel and given her the right to vote among them. The choice, horrible though it seemed, had been one of courage. They’d hoped that a long war would bore the Alethi. Eshonai and the others had underestimated Alethi greed. The gemhearts had changed everything. In the center of town, near the pool, was a tall tower that remained proudly erect in defiance of centuries’ worth of storms. Once, there had been steps within, but crem leaking in windows had filled the building up with rock. So workers had carved steps running around its outside. Eshonai started up the steps, holding to the chain for safety. It was a long but familiar climb. Though her leg ached, warform had great endurance—though it required more food than any other form to keep it strong. She made it to the top with ease. She found the other members of the Five waiting for her, one member wearing each known form. Eshonai for warform, Davim for workform, Abronai for mateform, Chivi for nimbleform, and the quiet Zuln for dullform. Venli waited as well, with her once-mate, though he was flushed from the difficult climb. Nimbleform, though good for many delicate activities, did not have great endurance. Eshonai stepped up onto the flat top of the once-tower, wind blowing against her from the east. There were no chairs up here, and the Five sat on the bare rock itself. Davim hummed to Annoyance. With the rhythms in one’s head, it was difficult to be late by accident. They rightly suspected that Eshonai had
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dallied. She sat on the rock and took the spren-filled gemstone from her pocket, setting it on the ground in front of her. The violet stone glowed with Stormlight. “I am worried about this test,” Eshonai said. “I do not think we should allow it to proceed.” “What?” Venli said to Anxiety. “Sister, don’t be ridiculous. Our people need this.” Davim leaned forward, arms on his knees. He was broad faced, his workform skin marbled mostly of black with tiny swirls of red here and there. “If this works, it will be an amazing advance. The first of the forms of ancient power, rediscovered.” “Those forms are tied to the gods,” Eshonai said. “What if, in choosing this form, we invite them to return?” Venli hummed Irritation. “In the old day, all forms came from the gods. We have found that nimbleform does not harm us. Why would stormform?” “It is different,” Eshonai said. “Sing the song; hum it to yourself. ‘Its coming brings the gods their night.’ The ancient powers are dangerous.” “Men have them,” Abronai said. He wore mateform, lush and plump, though he controlled its passions. Eshonai had never envied him the position; she knew, from private conversations, that he would have preferred to have another form. Unfortunately, others who held mateform either did so transiently—or did not possess the proper solemnity to join the Five. “You yourself brought us the report, Eshonai,” Abronai continued. “You saw a warrior among the Alethi using ancient powers, and many others confirmed it to us. Surgebindings have returned to men. The spren again betray us.” “If Surgebindings are back,” Davim said to Consideration, “then it might indicate that the gods are returning anyway. If so, we’d best be prepared to deal with them. Forms of power will help with that.” “We don’t know they will come,” Eshonai said to Resolve. “We don’t know any of this. Who knows if men even have Surgebindings—it might be one of the Honorblades. We left one in Alethkar that night.” Chivi hummed to Skepticism. Her nimbleform face had elongated features, her hairstrands tied back in a long tail. “We are fading as a people. I passed some today who had taken dullform, and not to remember our past. They did so because they worried that men would kill them otherwise! They prepare themselves to become slaves!” “I saw them too,” Davim said to Resolve. “We must do something, Eshonai. Your soldiers are losing this war, beat by beat.” “The next storm,” Venli said. She used the Rhythm of Pleading. “I can test this at the next storm.” Eshonai closed her eyes. Pleading. It was a rhythm not often attuned. It was hard to deny her sister in this. “We must be unified in this decision,” Davim said. “I will accept nothing else. Eshonai, do you insist on objecting? Will we need to spend hours here making this decision?” She took a deep breath, coming to a decision that had been working its way through the back of her mind. The decision of an explorer. She glanced
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at the sack of maps she’d set on the floor beside her. “I will agree to this test,” Eshonai said. Nearby, Venli hummed to Appreciation. “However,” Eshonai continued to Resolve, “I must be the one who tries the new form first.” All humming stopped. The others of the Five gaped at her. “What?” Venli said. “Sister, no! It is my right.” “You are too valuable,” Eshonai said. “You know too much about the forms, and much of your research is held only in your head. I am simply a soldier. I can be spared if this goes wrong.” “You are a Shardbearer,” Davim said. “Our last.” “Thude has trained with my Blade and Plate,” Eshonai said. “I will leave both with him, just in case.” The others of the Five hummed to Consideration. “This is a good suggestion,” Abronai said. “Eshonai has both strength and experience.” “It was my discovery!” Venli said to Irritation. “And you are appreciated for it,” Davim said. “But Eshonai is right; you and your scholars are too important to our future.” “More than that,” Abronai added. “You are too close to the project, Venli. The way you speak makes that clear. If Eshonai enters the storms and discovers that something is off about this form, she can halt the experiment and return to us.” “This is a good compromise,” Chivi said, nodding. “Are we in agreement?” “I believe so,” Abronai said, turning toward Zuln. The representative of the dullforms rarely spoke. She wore the smock of a parshman, and had indicated that she considered it her duty to represent them—those with no songs—along with any dullforms among them. Hers was as noble a sacrifice as Abronai holding to mateform. More so. Dullform was a difficult form to suffer, one that only a few ever experienced for longer than a stormpause or so. “I agree to this,” Zuln said. The others hummed to Appreciation. Only Venli did not join in the song. If this stormform turned out to be real, would they add another person to the Five? At first, the Five had all been dullforms, then all workers. It was only at the discovery of nimbleform that it had been decided that they would have one of each form. A question for later. The others of the Five stood up, then began to make their way down the long flight of steps spiraling around the tower. Wind blew from the east, and Eshonai turned toward it, looking out over the broken Plains—toward the Origin of Storms. During a coming highstorm, she would step into the winds and become something new. Something powerful. Something that would change the destiny of the listeners, and perhaps the humans, forever. “I nearly had cause to hate you, Sister,” Venli said to Reprimand, idling beside where Eshonai sat. “I did not forbid this test,” Eshonai said. “Instead you take its glory.” “If there is glory to be had,” Eshonai said to Reprimand, “it will be yours for discovering the form. That should not be a consideration. Only our future should matter.” Venli
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hummed to Irritation. “They called you wise, experienced. It makes one wonder if they’ve forgotten who you were—that you went off recklessly into the wilds, ignoring your people, while I stayed home and memorized songs. When did everyone start believing you were the responsible one?” It’s this cursed uniform, Eshonai thought, rising. “Why didn’t you tell us what you were researching? You let me believe your studies were to find artform or mediationform. Instead, you were looking for one of the forms of ancient power.” “Does that matter?” “Yes. It makes all the difference, Venli. I love you, but your ambition frightens me.” “You don’t trust me,” Venli said to Betrayal. Betrayal. That was a song rarely sung. It stung enough to make Eshonai wince. “We’ll see what this form does,” Eshonai said, picking up her maps and the gemstone with the trapped spren. “Then we will talk further. I just want to be careful.” “You want to do it yourself,” Venli said to Irritation. “You always want to be first. But enough. It is done. Come with me; I will need to train you in the proper mindset to help the form work. Then we will pick a highstorm for the transformation.” Eshonai nodded. She would go through this training. In the meantime, she would consider. Perhaps there was another way. If she could get the Alethi to listen to her, find Dalinar Kholin, sue for peace . . . Perhaps then, this would not be needed. The wagon rattled and shook its way across the stone ground, Shallan perched on the hard seat next to Bluth, one of the slab-faced mercenaries Tvlakv employed. He guided the chull pulling the wagon, and didn’t speak much, though when he thought she wasn’t looking, he would inspect her with eyes like beads of dark glass. It was chilly. She wished the weather would turn, and spring—or even summer—would come for a time. That wasn’t likely in a place notorious for its permanent chill. Having improvised a blanket from the lining of Jasnah’s trunk, Shallan draped it over her knees and down to her feet, as much to obscure how tattered her skirt had become as against the cold. She tried to distract herself by studying the surroundings; the flora out here in the southern Frostlands was completely unfamiliar to her. If there was grass, it grew in patches along the leeward sides of rocks, with short spiky blades rather than long, waving ones. The rockbuds never grew larger than a fist, and they didn’t open all the way, even when she’d tried pouring water on one. Their vines were lazy and slow, as if numbed by the cold. There were also spindly little shrubs that grew in cracks and along hillsides. Their brittle branches scraped the sides of the wagon, their tiny green leaves the size of raindrops folding and pulling into the stalks. The shrubs grew prolifically, spreading wherever they could find purchase. As the wagon rolled past a particularly tall clump, Shallan reached out and snapped off a branch. It was
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tubular, with an open center, and felt rough like sand. “These are too fragile for highstorms,” Shallan said, holding it up. “How does this plant survive?” Bluth grunted. “It is common, Bluth,” Shallan said, “to engage one’s traveling companion in mutually diverting dialogue.” “I’d do that,” he said darkly, “if I knew what in Damnation half those words meant.” Shallan started. She honestly hadn’t expected a response. “Then we are even,” she said, “as you use plenty of words I don’t know. Admittedly, I think most of them are curses. . . .” She’d meant it lightheartedly, but his expression only darkened further. “You think I’m as dumb as that stick.” Stop insulting my stick. The words came to her mind, and almost to her lips, unbidden. She should have been better at holding her tongue, considering her upbringing. But freedom—without the fear that her father was looming behind every closed door—had severely diminished her self-control. She suppressed the taunt this time. “Stupidity is a function of one’s surroundings,” she said instead. “You’re saying I’m dumb because I was raised that way?” “No. I’m saying that everyone is stupid in some situations. After my ship was lost, I found myself ashore but unable to make a fire to warm myself. Would you say that I’m stupid?” He shot her a glance, but did not speak. Perhaps to a darkeyes, that question sounded like a trap. “Well I am,” Shallan said. “In many areas, I’m stupid. Perhaps when it comes to large words, you’re stupid. That’s why we need both scholars and caravan workers, guardsman Bluth. Our stupidities complement one another.” “I can see why we need fellows who know how to light fires,” Bluth said. “But I don’t see why we need people to use fancy words.” “Shhhh,” Shallan said. “Don’t say that so loudly. If the lighteyes hear, they might stop wasting their time making up new words, and instead start interfering with the business of honest men.” He glanced at her again. Not even a glimmer of humor in the eyes beneath that thick brow. Shallan sighed, but turned her attention back to the plants. How did they survive highstorms? She should get out her sketchpad and— No. She blanked her mind and let it go. A short time later, Tvlakv called the midday halt. Shallan’s wagon slowed, and one of the others pulled up beside it. Tag drove this one, with the two parshmen sitting in the cage behind, working quietly at weaving hats from reeds they’d gathered in the morning. People often ordered parshmen to do such menial work—something to make sure all of their time was spent earning money for those who owned them. Tvlakv would sell the hats for a few chips at his destination. They kept working as the wagon stopped. They would have to be told to do something else, and had to be trained specifically for each job they did. But once they were trained, they would work without complaint. Shallan had difficulty not seeing their quiet obedience as something pernicious. She shook
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her head, then held out her hand to Bluth, who helped her from the wagon without further prodding. On the ground, she rested her hand on the side of the vehicle and breathed in sharply through her teeth. Stormfather, what had she done to her feet? Painspren wiggled out of the wall beside her, little orange bits of sinew—like hands with the flesh removed. “Brightness?” Tvlakv said, waddling her direction. “I’m afraid we haven’t much to offer you in the way of meals. We are poor for merchants, you see, and cannot afford delicacies.” “Whatever you have will suffice,” Shallan said, trying to keep the pain from showing in her face, though the spren had already given her away. “Please have one of your men get down my trunk.” Tvlakv did so without complaint, though he watched hungrily as Bluth lowered it to the ground. It seemed a particularly bad idea to let him see what was inside; the less information he had, the better off she would be. “These cages,” Shallan said, looking over the back of her wagon, “from those clasps at top, it looks like the wooden sides can be affixed over the bars.” “Yes, Brightness,” Tvlakv said. “For highstorms, you see.” “You only have enough slaves to fill one of the three wagons,” Shallan said. “And the parshmen ride in another. This one is empty, and will make an excellent traveling wagon for me. Put the sides on.” “Brightness?” he said with surprise. “You want to be put into the cage?” “Why not?” Shallan asked, meeting his eyes. “Certainly I’m safe in your custody, tradesman Tvlakv.” “Er . . . yes . . .” “You and your men must be well acquainted with rough travel,” Shallan said calmly, “but I am not. Sitting day in and out in the sun on a hard bench will not suit me. A proper carriage, however, would be a welcome amelioration of this wilderness journey.” “Carriage?” Tvlakv said. “It’s a slave wagon!” “Mere words, tradesman Tvlakv,” Shallan said. “If you please?” He sighed, but gave the order, and the men pulled the sides out from beneath the wagon and hooked them up on the outside. They left off the back one, where the cage door was. The result did not look especially comfortable, but it would offer some privacy. Shallan had Bluth haul her chest up and inside, to Tvlakv’s dismay. Then, she climbed in and pulled the cage door shut. She held her hand out through the bars toward Tvlakv. “Brightness?” “The key,” she said. “Oh.” He pulled it out of a pocket, regarding it for a moment—too long a moment—before handing it to her. “Thank you,” she replied. “You may send Bluth with my meal when it is ready, but I shall require a bucket of clean water immediately. You have been most accommodating. I will not forget your service.” “Er . . . Thank you.” It almost sounded like a question, and as he walked away, he seemed confused. Good. She waited for Bluth to bring the water, then
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crawled—to stay off her feet—through the enclosed wagon. It stank of dirt and sweat, and she grew nauseated thinking of the slaves who had been held here. She would ask Bluth to have the parshmen scrub it later. She stopped before Jasnah’s trunk, then knelt and gingerly raised the lid. Light spilled out from the infused spheres inside. Pattern waited there as well—she had instructed him not to be seen—his shape raising the cover of a book. Shallan had survived, so far. She certainly wasn’t safe, but at least she wasn’t going to freeze or starve immediately. That meant she finally had to face greater questions and problems. She rested her hand on the books, ignoring her throbbing feet for the moment. “These have to reach the Shattered Plains.” Pattern vibrated with a confused sound—a questioning pitch that implied curiosity. “Someone needs to continue Jasnah’s work,” Shallan said. “Urithiru must be found, and the Alethi must be convinced that the return of the Voidbringers is imminent.” She shivered, thinking of the marbled parshmen working just one wagon over. “You . . . mmm . . . continue?” Pattern asked. “Yes.” She’d made that decision the moment she’d insisted that Tvlakv head for the Shattered Plains. “That night before the sinking, when I saw Jasnah with her guard down . . . I know what I must do.” Pattern hummed, again sounding confused. “It’s hard to explain,” Shallan said. “It’s a human thing.” “Excellent,” Pattern said, eager. She raised an eyebrow toward him. He’d quickly come a long way from spending hours spinning in the center of a room or climbing up and down walls. Shallan took out some spheres for better light, then removed one of the cloths Jasnah had wrapped around her books. It was immaculately clean. Shallan dipped the cloth into the bucket of water and began to wash her feet. “Before I saw Jasnah’s expression that night,” she explained, “before I talked to her through her fatigue and got a sense of just how worried she was, I had fallen into a trap. The trap of a scholar. Despite my initial horror at what Jasnah had described about the parshmen, I had come to see it all as an intellectual puzzle. Jasnah was so outwardly dispassionate that I assumed she did the same.” Shallan winced as she dug a bit of rock from a crack in her foot. More painspren wiggled out of the floor of the wagon. She wouldn’t be walking great distances anytime soon, but at least she didn’t see any rotspren yet. She had better find some antiseptic. “Our danger isn’t just theoretical, Pattern. It is real and it is terrible.” “Yes,” Pattern said, voice sounding grave. She looked up from her feet. He had moved up onto the inside of the chest’s lid, lit by the varied light of the differently colored spheres. “You know something about the danger? The parshmen, the Voidbringers?” Perhaps she was reading too much into his tones. He wasn’t human, and often spoke with strange inflections. “My return . .
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.” Pattern said. “Because of this.” “What? Why haven’t you said something!” “Say . . . speaking . . . Thinking . . . All hard. Getting better.” “You came to me because of the Voidbringers,” Shallan said, moving closer to the trunk, bloodied rag forgotten in her hand. “Yes. Patterns . . . we . . . us . . . Worry. One was sent. Me.” “Why to me?” “Because of lies.” She shook her head. “I don’t understand.” He buzzed in dissatisfaction. “You. Your family.” “You watched me with my family? That long ago?” “Shallan. Remember . . .” Again those memories. This time, not a garden seat, but a sterile white room. Her father’s lullaby. Blood on the floor. No. She turned away and began cleaning her feet again. “I know . . . little of humans,” Pattern said. “They break. Their minds break. You did not break. Only cracked.” She continued her washing. “It is the lies that save you,” Pattern said. “The lies that drew me.” She dipped her rag in the bucket. “Do you have a name? I’ve called you Pattern, but it’s more of a description.” “Name is numbers,” Pattern said. “Many numbers. Hard to say. Pattern . . . Pattern is fine.” “As long as you don’t start calling me Erratic as a contrast,” Shallan said. “Mmmmmm . . .” “What does that mean?” she asked. “I am thinking,” Pattern said. “Considering the lie.” “The joke?” “Yes.” “Please don’t think too hard,” Shallan said. “It wasn’t a particularly good joke. If you want to ponder a real one, consider that stopping the return of the Voidbringers might depend on me, of all people.” “Mmmmm . . .” She finished with her feet as best she could, then wrapped them with several other cloths from the trunk. She had no slippers or shoes. Perhaps she could buy an extra pair of boots from one of the slavers? The mere thought made her stomach churn, but she didn’t have a choice. Next, she sorted through the contents of the trunk. This was only one of Jasnah’s trunks, but Shallan recognized it as the one the woman kept in her own cabin—the one the assassins had taken. It contained Jasnah’s notes: books and books full of them. The trunk contained few primary sources, but that didn’t matter, as Jasnah had meticulously transcribed all relevant passages. As Shallan set aside the last book, she noticed something on the bottom of the trunk. A loose piece of paper? She picked it up, curious—then nearly dropped it in surprise. It was a picture of Jasnah, drawn by Shallan herself. Shallan had given it to the woman after being accepted as her ward. She’d assumed Jasnah had thrown it away—the woman had little fondness for visual arts, which she considered a frivolity. Instead, she’d kept it here with her most precious things. No. Shallan didn’t want to think about that, didn’t want to face it. “Mmm . . .” Pattern said. “You cannot keep all lies. Only the most important.” Shallan
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reached up and found tears in her eyes. For Jasnah. She’d been avoiding the grief, had stuffed it into a little box and set it away. As soon as she let that grief come, another piled on top of it. A grief that seemed frivolous in comparison to Jasnah’s death, but one that threatened to tow Shallan down as much, or even more. “My sketchpads . . .” she whispered. “All gone.” “Yes,” Pattern said, sounding sorrowful. “Every drawing I’ve ever kept. My brothers, my father, Mother . . .” All sunk into the depths, along with her sketches of creatures and her musings on their connections, biology, and nature. Gone. Every bit of it gone. The world didn’t depend upon Shallan’s silly pictures of skyeels. She felt as if everything was broken anyway. “You will draw more,” Pattern whispered. “I don’t want to.” Shallan blinked free more tears. “I will not stop vibrating. The wind will not stop blowing. You will not stop drawing.” Shallan brushed her fingers across the picture of Jasnah. The woman’s eyes were alight, almost alive again—it was the first picture Shallan had drawn of Jasnah, done on the day they’d met. “The broken Soulcaster was with my things. It’s now on the bottom of the ocean, lost. I won’t be able to repair it and send it to my brothers.” Pattern buzzed in what sounded like a morose tone to her. “Who are they?” Shallan asked. “The ones who did this, who killed her and took my art from me. Why would they do such horrible things?” “I do not know.” “But you are certain that Jasnah was right?” Shallan said. “The Voidbringers are going to return?” “Yes. Spren . . . spren of him. They come.” “These people,” Shallan said, “they killed Jasnah. They were probably of the same group as Kabsal, and . . . and as my father. Why would they kill the person closest to understanding how, and why, the Voidbringers are coming back?” “I . . .” He faltered. “I shouldn’t have asked,” Shallan said. “I already know the answer, and it is a very human one. These people seek to control the knowledge so that they can profit from it. Profit from the apocalypse itself. We’re going to see that doesn’t happen.” She lowered the sketch of Jasnah, setting it between the pages of a book to keep it safe. “It’s been a while,” Adolin said, kneeling and holding his Shardblade before him, point sunken a few inches into the stone ground. He was alone. Just him and the sword in one of the new preparation rooms, built alongside the dueling arena. “I remember when I won you,” Adolin whispered, looking at his reflection in the blade. “Nobody took me seriously then, either. The fop with the nice clothing. Tinalar thought to duel me just to embarrass my father. Instead I got his Blade.” If he’d lost, he would have had to give Tinalar his Plate, which he’d inherited from his mother’s side of the family. Adolin had never named
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his Shardblade. Some did, some didn’t. He’d never thought it appropriate—not because he didn’t think the Blade deserved a name, but because he figured he didn’t know the right one. This weapon had belonged to one of the Knights Radiant, long ago. That man had named the weapon, undoubtedly. To call it something else seemed presumptuous. Adolin had felt that way even before he’d started thinking of the Radiants in a good light, as his father did. This Blade would continue after Adolin died. He didn’t own it. He was borrowing it for a time. Its surface was austerely smooth, long, sinuous like an eel, with ridges at the back like growing crystals. Shaped like a larger version of a standard longsword, it bore some resemblance to the enormous, two-handed broadswords he’d seen Horneaters wield. “A real duel,” Adolin whispered to the Blade. “For real stakes. Finally. No more tiptoeing around it, no more limiting myself.” The Shardblade didn’t respond, but Adolin imagined that it listened to him. You couldn’t use a weapon like this, a weapon that seemed like an extension of the soul itself, and not feel at times that it was alive. “I speak so confidently to everyone else,” Adolin said, “since I know they rely on me. But if I lose today, that’s it. No more duels, and a severe knot in Father’s grand plan.” He could hear people outside. Stomping feet, a buzz of chatter. Scraping on the stone. They’d come. Come to see Adolin win or be humiliated. “This might be our last fight together,” Adolin said softly. “I appreciate what you’ve done for me. I know you’d do it for anyone who held you, but I still appreciate it. I . . . I want you to know: I believe in Father. I believe he’s right, that the things he sees are real. That the world needs a united Alethkar. Fights like this one are my way to make it happen.” Adolin and his father weren’t politicians. They were soldiers—Dalinar by choice, Adolin more by circumstance. They wouldn’t be able to just talk their way into a unified kingdom. They’d have to fight their way into one. Adolin stood up, patting his pocket, then dismissing his Blade to mist and crossing the small chamber. The stone walls of the narrow hallway he entered were etched with reliefs depicting the ten basic stances of swordsmanship. Those had been carved elsewhere, then placed here when this room was built—a recent addition, to replace the tents that dueling preparation had once happened in. Windstance, Stonestance, Flamestance . . . There was a relief, with depicted stance, for each of the Ten Essences. Adolin counted them off to himself as he passed. This small tunnel had been cut into the stone of the arena itself, and ended in a small room cut into the rock. The bright sunlight of the dueling grounds glared around the edges of the final pair of doors between him and his opponent. With a proper preparation room for meditation, then this staging room to
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put on armor or retreat between bouts, the dueling arena at the warcamps was transforming into one as proper as those back in Alethkar. A welcome addition. Adolin stepped into the staging room, where his brother and aunt were waiting. Stormfather, his hands were sweating. He hadn’t felt this nervous when riding into battle, when his life was actually in danger. Aunt Navani had just finished a glyphward. She stepped away from the pedestal, setting aside her brushpen, and held up the ward for him to see. It was painted in bright red on a white cloth. “Victory?” Adolin guessed. Navani lowered it, raising an eyebrow at him. “What?” Adolin said as his armorers entered, carrying the pieces of his Shardplate. “It says ‘safety and glory,’” Navani said. “It wouldn’t kill you to learn some glyphs, Adolin.” He shrugged. “Never seemed that important.” “Yes, well,” Navani said, reverently folding the prayer and setting it in the brazier to burn. “Hopefully, you will eventually have a wife to do this for you. Both the reading of glyphs and the making of them.” Adolin bowed his head, as was proper while the prayer burned. Pailiah knew, this wasn’t the time to offend the Almighty. Once it was done, however, he glanced at Navani. “And what of the news of the ship?” They had expected word from Jasnah when she reached the Shallow Crypts, but none had been forthcoming. Navani had checked in with the harbormaster’s office in that distant city. They said the Wind’s Pleasure had not yet arrived. That put it a week overdue. Navani waved a dismissive hand. “Jasnah was on that ship.” “I know, Aunt,” Adolin said, shuffling uncomfortably. What had happened? Had the ship been caught in a highstorm? What of this woman Adolin might be marrying, if Jasnah had her way? “If the ship is delayed, it’s because Jasnah is up to something,” Navani said. “Watch. We’ll get a communication from her in a few weeks, demanding some task or piece of information. I’ll have to pry from her why she vanished. Battah send that girl some sense to go with her intelligence.” Adolin didn’t press the issue. Navani knew Jasnah better than anyone else. But . . . he was certainly concerned for Jasnah, and felt a sudden worry that he might not get to meet the girl, Shallan, when expected. Of course, the causal betrothal wasn’t likely to work out—but a piece of him wished that it would. Letting someone else choose for him had a strange appeal, considering how loudly Danlan had cursed at him when he’d broken off that particular relationship. Danlan was still one of his father’s scribes, so he saw her on occasion. More glares. But storm it, that one was not his fault. The things she’d said to her friends . . . An armorer set out his boots, and Adolin stepped into them, feeling them click into place. The armorers quickly affixed the greaves, then moved upward, covering him in too-light metal. Soon, all that remained were the gauntlets and the
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helm. He knelt down, placing his hands into the gauntlets at his side, fingers in their positions. In the strange manner of Shardplate, the armor constricted on its own, like a skyeel curling around its rat, pulling to comfortable tightness around his wrists. He turned and reached for his helm from the last armorer. It was Renarin. “You ate chicken?” Renarin asked as Adolin took the helm. “For breakfast.” “And you talked to the sword?” “Had an entire conversation.” “Mother’s chain in your pocket?” “Checked three times.” Navani folded her arms. “You still hold to those foolish superstitions?” Both brothers looked at her sharply. “They’re not superstitions,” Adolin said at the same time Renarin said, “It’s just good luck, Aunt.” She rolled her eyes. “I haven’t done a formal duel in a long time,” Adolin said, pulling on the helm, faceplate open. “I don’t want anything to go wrong.” “Foolishness,” Navani repeated. “Trust in the Almighty and the Heralds, not whether or not you had the right meal before you duel. Storms. Next thing I know, you’ll be believing in the Passions.” Adolin shared a look with Renarin. His little traditions probably didn’t help him win, but, well, why risk it? Every duelist had his own quirks. His hadn’t let him down yet. “Our guards aren’t happy about this,” Renarin said softly. “They keep talking about how hard it’s going to be to protect you when someone else is swinging a Shardblade at you.” Adolin slammed down his faceplate. It misted at the sides, locking into place, becoming translucent and giving him a full view of the room. Adolin grinned, knowing full well Renarin couldn’t see the expression. “I’m so sad to be denying them the chance to babysit me.” “Why do you enjoy tormenting them?” “I don’t like minders.” “You’ve had guards before.” “On the battlefield,” Adolin said. It felt different to be followed about everywhere he went. “There’s more. Don’t lie to me, Brother. I know you too well.” Adolin inspected his brother, whose eyes were so earnest behind his spectacles. The boy was too solemn all the time. “I don’t like their captain,” Adolin admitted. “Why? He saved Father’s life.” “He just bothers me.” Adolin shrugged. “There’s something about him that is off, Renarin. That makes me suspicious.” “I think you don’t like that he ordered you around, on the battlefield.” “I barely even remember that,” Adolin said lightly, stepping toward the door out. “Well, all right then. Off with you. And Brother?” “Yes?” “Try not to lose.” Adolin pushed open the doors and stepped out onto the sand. He’d been in this arena before, using the argument that though the Alethi Codes of War proscribed duels between officers, he still needed to maintain his skills. To placate his father, Adolin had stayed away from important bouts—bouts for championships or for Shards. He hadn’t dared risk his Blade and Plate. Now everything was different. The air was still chill with winter, but the sun was bright overhead. His breath sounded against the plate of his helm, and his feet
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crunched in sand. He checked to see that his father was watching. He was. As was the king. Sadeas hadn’t come. Just as well. That might have distracted Adolin with memories of one of the last times that Sadeas and Dalinar had been amiable, sitting together up on those stone steps, watching Adolin duel. Had Sadeas been planning a betrayal even then, while laughing with his father and chatting like an old friend? Focus. His foe today wasn’t Sadeas, though someday . . . Someday soon he’d get that man in the arena. It was the goal of everything he was doing here. For now, he’d have to settle for Salinor, one of Thanadal’s Shardbearers. The man had only the Blade, though he’d been able to borrow a set of the King’s Plate for a bout with a full Shardbearer. Salinor stood on the other side of the arena, wearing the unornamented slate-grey Plate and waiting for the highjudge—Brightlady Istow—to signal the start of the bout. This fight was, in a way, an insult to Adolin. In order to get Salinor to agree to the duel, Adolin had been forced to bet both his Plate and his Blade against just Salinor’s Blade. As if Adolin weren’t worthy, and had to offer more potential spoils to justify bothering Salinor. As expected, the arena was overflowing with lighteyes. Even if it was speculated that Adolin had lost his former edge, bouts for Shards were very, very rare. This would be the first in over a year’s time. “Summon Blades!” Istow ordered. Adolin thrust his hand to the side. The Blade fell into his waiting hand ten heartbeats later—a moment before his opponent’s appeared. Adolin’s heart was beating more quickly than Salinor’s. Perhaps that meant his opponent wasn’t frightened, and underestimated him. Adolin fell into Windstance, elbows bent, turned to the side, sword’s tip pointing up and backward. His opponent fell into Flamestance, sword held one-handed, other hand touching the blade, standing with a square posture of the feet. The stances were more a philosophy than a predefined set of moves. Windstance: flowing, sweeping, majestic. Flamestance: quick and flexible, better for shorter Shardblades. Windstance was familiar to Adolin. It had served him well throughout his career. But it didn’t feel right today. We’re at war, Adolin thought as Salinor edged forward, looking to test him. And every lighteyes in this army is a raw recruit. It wasn’t time for a show. It was time for a beating. As Salinor drew close for a cautious strike to feel out his opponent, Adolin twisted and fell into Ironstance, with his sword held two-handed up beside his head. He slapped away Salinor’s first strike, then stepped in and slammed his Blade down into the man’s helm. Once, twice, three times. Salinor tried to parry, but he was obviously surprised by Adolin’s attack, and two of the blows landed. Cracks crawled across Salinor’s helm. Adolin heard grunts accompanying curses as Salinor tried to bring his weapon back to strike. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to go. Where
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were the test blows, the art, the dance? Adolin growled, feeling the old Thrill of battle as he shoved aside Salinor’s attack—careless of the hit it scored on his side—then brought his Blade in two-handed and crashed it into his opponent’s breastplate, like he was chopping wood. Salinor grunted again and Adolin raised his foot and kicked the man backward, throwing him to the ground. Salinor dropped his Blade—a weakness of Flamestance’s one-handed posture—and it vanished to mist. Adolin stepped over the man and dismissed his own Blade, then kicked down with a booted heel into Salinor’s helm. The piece of Plate exploded into molten bits, exposing a dazed, panicked face. Adolin slammed the heel of his foot against the breastplate next. Though Salinor tried to grab his foot, Adolin kicked relentlessly until the breastplate, too, shattered. “Stop! Stop!” Adolin halted, lowering his foot beside Salinor’s head, looking up at the highjudge. The woman stood in her box, face red, voice furious. “Adolin Kholin!” she shouted. “This is a duel, not a wrestling match!” “Did I break any rules?” he shouted back. Silence. It struck him, through the rush in his ears, that the entire crowd had gone quiet. He could hear their breathing. “Did I break any rules?” Adolin demanded again. “This is not how a duel—” “So I win,” Adolin said. The woman sputtered. “This duel was to three broken pieces of Plate. You broke only two.” Adolin looked down at the dazed Salinor. Then he reached down, ripped off the man’s pauldron, and smashed it between two fists. “Done.” Stunned silence. Adolin knelt beside his opponent. “Your Blade.” Salinor tried to stand, but with the breastplate missing, doing so was more difficult. His armor wouldn’t work properly, and he’d need to roll onto his side and work his way to his feet. Doable, but he obviously didn’t have the experience with Plate to perform the maneuver. Adolin slammed him back down to the sand by his shoulder. “You’ve lost,” Adolin growled. “You cheated!” Salinor sputtered. “How?” “I don’t know how! It just— It’s not supposed to . . .” He trailed off as Adolin carefully placed a gauntleted hand against his neck. Salinor’s eyes widened. “You wouldn’t.” Fearspren crawled out of the sand around him. “My prize,” Adolin said, suddenly feeling drained. The Thrill faded from him. Storms, he’d never before felt like this in a duel. Salinor’s Blade appeared in his hand. “Judgment,” the highjudge said, sounding reluctant, “goes to Adolin Kholin, the victor. Salinor Eved forfeits his Shard.” Salinor let the Blade slip from his fingers. Adolin took it and knelt beside Salinor, holding the weapon with pommel toward the man. “Break the bond.” Salinor hesitated, then touched the ruby at the weapon’s pommel. The gemstone flashed with light. The bond had been broken. Adolin stood, ripping the ruby free, then crushing it in a gauntleted hand. That wouldn’t be needed, but it was a nice symbol. Sound finally rose in the crowd, frantic chattering. They’d come for a spectacle and had instead been given brutality. Well,
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that was how things often went in war. Good for them to see it, he supposed, though as he ducked back into the waiting room he was uncertain of himself. What he’d done was reckless. Dismissing his Blade? Putting himself in a position where the enemy could have gotten at his feet? Adolin entered the staging room, where Renarin looked at him wide-eyed. “That,” his younger brother said, “was incredible. It has to be the shortest Shard bout on record! You were amazing, Adolin!” “I . . . Thanks.” He handed Salinor’s Shardblade toward Renarin. “A present.” “Adolin, are you sure? I mean, I’m not exactly the best with the Plate I already have.” “Might as well have the full set,” Adolin said. “Take it.” Renarin seemed hesitant. “Take it,” Adolin said again. Reluctantly, Renarin did so. He grimaced as he took it. Adolin shook his head, sitting down on one of the reinforced benches intended to hold a Shardbearer. Navani stepped into the room, having come down from the seats above. “What you did,” she noted, “would not have worked on a more skillful opponent.” “I know,” Adolin said. “It was wise, then,” Navani said. “You mask your true skill. People can assume this was won by trickery, pit-fighting instead of proper dueling. They might continue to underestimate you. I can work with this to get you more duels.” Adolin nodded, pretending that was why he’d done it. “Tradesman Tvlakv,” Shallan said, “I believe that you are wearing a different pair of shoes today than you were on the first day of our trip.” Tvlakv stopped on his way to the evening fire, but adapted smoothly to her challenge. He turned toward her with a smile, shaking his head. “I fear you must be mistaken, Brightness! Just after leaving on this trip, I lost one of my clothing trunks to a storm. I have but this one pair of shoes to my name.” It was a flat-out lie. However, after six days of traveling together, she had discovered that Tvlakv didn’t much mind being caught in a lie. Shallan perched on her wagon’s front seat in the dim light, feet bandaged, staring Tvlakv down. She’d spent most of the day milking knobweed stems for their sap, then rubbing it on her feet to keep away the rotspren. She felt extremely satisfied to have noticed the plants—it showed that though she lacked much practical knowledge, some of her studies could be useful in the wild. Did she confront him about his lie? What would it accomplish? He didn’t seem to get embarrassed by such things. He watched her in the darkness, eyes beady, shadowed. “Well,” Shallan said to him, “that is unfortunate. Perhaps in our travels we will meet another merchant group with whom I can trade for proper footwear.” “I will be certain to look for such an opportunity, Brightness.” Tvlakv gave her a bow and a fake smile, then continued toward the evening cook fire, which was burning fitfully—they were out of wood, and the parshmen had gone out into
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the evening to search for more. “Lies,” Pattern said softly, his shape nearly invisible on the seat beside her. “He knows if I can’t walk, I’m more dependent upon him.” Tvlakv settled down beside the struggling fire. Nearby, the chulls—unhooked from their wagons—lumbered around, crunching tiny rockbuds beneath their gargantuan feet. They never strayed far. Tvlakv started whispering quietly with Tag, the mercenary. He kept a smile on his face, but she didn’t trust those dark eyes of his, glittering in the firelight. “Go see what he’s saying,” Shallan told Pattern. “See . . . ?” “Listen to his words, then come back and repeat them to me. Don’t get too close to the light.” Pattern moved down the side of the wagon. Shallan leaned back against the hard seat, then took a small mirror she’d found in Jasnah’s trunk out of her safepouch along with a single sapphire sphere for light. Just a mark, nothing too bright, and it was failing at that. When is that next highstorm due? Tomorrow? It was nearing the start of a new year—and that meant the Weeping was coming, though not for a number of weeks. It was a Light Year, wasn’t it? Well, she could endure highstorms out here. She’d already been forced to suffer that indignity once, locked within her wagon. In the mirror, she could see that she looked awful. Red eyes with bags under them, her hair a frazzled mess, her dress frayed and soiled. She looked like a beggar who had found a once-nice dress in a trash heap. It didn’t bother her overly much. Was she worried about looking pretty for slavers? Hardly. However, Jasnah hadn’t cared what people thought of her, yet had always kept her appearance immaculate. Not that Jasnah had acted alluringly—never for a moment. In fact, she’d disparaged such behavior in no uncertain terms. Using a fetching face to make men do as you wish is no different from a man using muscle to force a woman to his will, she’d said. Both are base, and both will fail a person as they age. No, Jasnah had not approved of seduction as a tool. However, people responded differently to those who looked in control of themselves. But what can I do? Shallan thought. I have no makeup; I don’t even have shoes to wear. “. . . she could be someone important,” Tvlakv’s voice said abruptly nearby. Shallan jumped, then looked to the side, where Pattern now rested on the seat beside her. The voice came from there. “She is trouble,” Tag’s voice said. Pattern’s vibrations produced a perfect imitation. “I still think we should just leave her and go.” “It is fortunate for us,” Tvlakv’s voice said, “that the decision is not yours. You worry about making dinner. I shall worry about our little lighteyed companion. Someone is missing her, someone rich. If we can sell her back to them, Tag, it could be what finally digs us out.” Pattern imitated the sounds of a crackling fire for a short time, then fell silent.
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The precise reproduction of the conversation was marvelous. This, Shallan thought, could be very useful. Unfortunately, something needed to be done about Tvlakv. She couldn’t have him regarding her as something to be sold back to those missing her—that was discomfortingly close to viewing her as a slave. If she let him continue in such a mindset, she’d spend the entire trip worrying about him and his thugs. So what would Jasnah do, in this situation? Gritting her teeth, Shallan slipped down off the wagon, stepping gingerly on her wounded feet. She could walk, barely. She waited for the painspren to retreat, then—covering up her agony—she approached the meager fire and sat down. “Tag, you are excused.” He looked to Tvlakv, who nodded. Tag retreated to check on the parshmen. Bluth had gone to scout the area, as he often did at night, checking for signs of others passing this way. “It is time to discuss your payment,” Shallan said. “Service to one so illustrious is payment in itself, of course.” “Of course,” she said, meeting his eyes. Don’t back down. You can do this. “But a merchant must make a living. I am not blind, Tvlakv. Your men do not agree with your decision to help me. They think it a waste.” Tvlakv glanced at Tag, looking unsettled. Hopefully, he wondered what else she had guessed. “Upon arriving at the Shattered Plains,” Shallan said, “I will acquire a grand fortune. I do not have it yet.” “That is . . . unfortunate.” “Not in the slightest,” Shallan said. “It is an opportunity, tradesman Tvlakv. The fortune I will acquire is the result of a betrothal. If I arrive safely, those who rescued me—saved me from pirates, sacrificed greatly to see me brought to my new family—will undoubtedly be well rewarded.” “I am but a humble servant,” Tvlakv said with a broad, false smile. “Rewards are the farthest thing from my mind.” He thinks I’m lying about the fortune. Shallan ground her teeth in frustration, anger beginning to burn inside of her. This was just what Kabsal had done! Treating her like a plaything, a means to an end, not a real person. She leaned closer to Tvlakv into the firelight. “Do not toy with me, slaver.” “I wouldn’t dare—” “You have no idea the storm you have wandered into,” Shallan hissed, holding his eyes. “You have no idea what stakes have been wagered upon my arrival. Take your petty schemes and stuff them in a crevice. Do as I say, and I will see your debts canceled. You will be a free man again.” “What? How . . . how did you—” Shallan stood up, cutting him off. She felt somehow stronger than she had before. More determined. Her insecurities fluttered in the pit of her stomach, but she paid them no heed. Tvlakv didn’t know she was timid. He didn’t know she had been raised in rural isolation. To him, she was a woman of the court, accomplished at argument and accustomed to being obeyed. Standing before him, feeling radiant
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in the glow of the flames—towering above him and his grubby machinations—she saw. Expectation wasn’t just about what people expected of you. It was about what you expected of yourself. Tvlakv leaned away from her like a man before a raging bonfire. He shrank back, eyes wide, raising an arm. Shallan realized that she was glowing faintly with the light of spheres. Her dress no longer bore the tears and smudges it had before. It was majestic. Instinctively, she let the glow from her skin fade, hoping Tvlakv would think it a trick of the firelight. She spun and left him shaking beside the fire as she walked back to the wagon. Darkness was fully upon them, the first moon having yet to rise. As she walked, her feet didn’t hurt nearly as much as they had. Was the knobweed sap doing that much good? She reached the wagon and began climbing back into the seat, but Bluth chose that moment to crash into camp. “Put out the fire!” he cried. Tvlakv looked at him dumbfounded. Bluth dashed ahead, passing Shallan and reaching the fire, where he grabbed the pot of steaming broth. He turned it over onto the flames, splashing out ashes and steam with a hiss, scattering flamespren, which faded away. Tvlakv jumped up, looking down as filthy broth—faintly lit by the dying embers—ran past his feet. Shallan, gritting her teeth against the pain, got off the wagon and approached. Tag ran up from the other direction. “. . . seem to be several dozen of them,” Bluth was saying in a low voice. “They are well armed, but have no horses or chulls, so they are not rich.” “What is this?” Shallan demanded. “Bandits,” Bluth said. “Or mercenaries. Or whatever you want to call them.” “Nobody polices this area, Brightness,” Tvlakv said. He glanced at her, then looked away quickly, obviously still shaken. “It is truly a wilderness, you see. The presence of the Alethi on the Shattered Plains means many like to come and go. Trading caravans like ours, craftsmen seeking work, lowborn lighteyed sellswords with an eye toward enlisting. Those two conditions—no laws, but plenty of travelers—attract a certain kind of ruffian.” “Dangerous,” Tag agreed. “These types take what they want. Leave only corpses.” “Did they see our fire?” Tvlakv asked, wringing his cap in his hands. “Don’t know,” Bluth said, glancing over his shoulder. Shallan could barely make out his expression in the darkness. “Didn’t want to get close. I snuck up to get a count, then ran back here fast.” “How can you be sure they’re bandits?” Shallan asked. “They might just be soldiers on their way to the Shattered Plains, as Tvlakv said.” “They fly no banners, display no sigils,” Bluth said. “But they have good equipment and keep a tight guard. They’re deserters. I’d bet the chulls on it.” “Bah,” Tvlakv said. “You’d bet my chulls on a hand with the tower, Bluth. But Brightness, for all his terrible gambling sense, I believe the fool is right. We must harness the chulls and
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depart immediately. The night’s darkness is our ally, and we must make the most of it.” She nodded. The men moved quickly, even the portly Tvlakv, breaking down camp and hooking up the chulls. The slaves grumbled at not getting their food for the night. Shallan stopped beside their cage, feeling ashamed. Her family had owned slaves—and not just parshmen and ardents. Ordinary slaves. In most cases, they were nothing worse than darkeyes without the right of travel. These poor souls, however, were sickly and half-starved. You’re only one step from being in one of those pens yourself, Shallan, she thought with a shiver as Tvlakv passed, hissing curses at the captives. No. He wouldn’t dare put you in there. He’d just kill you. Bluth had to be reminded again to give her a hand up into the wagon. Tag ushered the parshmen into their wagon, cursing at them for moving so slowly, then climbed into his seat and took up the tail position. The first moon began to rise, making it lighter than Shallan would have liked. It seemed to her that each crunching footstep of the chulls was as loud as a highstorm’s thunder. They brushed the plants she’d named crustspines, with their branches like tubes of sandstone. Those cracked and shook. Progress was not quick—chulls never were. As they moved, she picked out lights on a hillside, frighteningly close. Campfires not a ten-minute walk away. A shifting of winds brought the sound of distant voices, of metal on metal, perhaps men sparring. Tvlakv turned the wagons eastward. Shallan frowned in the night. “Why this way?” she whispered. “Remember that gully we saw?” Bluth whispered. “Putting it between us and them, in case they hear and come looking.” Shallan nodded. “What can we do if they catch us?” “It won’t be good.” “Couldn’t we bribe our way past them?” “Deserters ain’t like common bandits,” Bluth said. “These men, they’ve given up everything. Oaths. Families. When you desert, it breaks you. It leaves you willing to do anything, because you’ve already given away everything you could have cared about losing.” “Wow,” Shallan said, looking over her shoulder. “I . . . Yeah, you spend your whole life with a decision like that, you do. You wish any honor were left for you, but know you’ve already given it away.” He fell silent, and Shallan was too nervous to prod him further. She continued watching those lights on the hillside as the wagons—blessedly—rolled farther and farther into the night, eventually escaping into the darkness. “You know,” Moash said from Kaladin’s side, “I always thought this place would be . . .” “Bigger?” Drehy offered in his lightly accented voice. “Better,” Moash said, looking around the practice grounds. “It looks just like where darkeyed soldiers practice.” These sparring grounds were reserved for Dalinar’s lighteyes. In the center, the large open courtyard was filled with a thick layer of sand. A raised wooden walkway ran around the perimeter, stretching between the sand and the narrow surrounding building, which was just one room deep. That
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narrow building wrapped around the courtyard except at the front, which had a wall with an archway for the entrance, and had a wide roof that extended, giving shade to the wooden walkway. Lighteyed officers stood chatting in the shade or watching men sparring in the sunlight of the yard, and ardents moved this way and that, delivering weapons or drinks. It was a common layout for training grounds. Kaladin had been in several buildings like this. Mostly back when he’d first been training in Amaram’s army. Kaladin set his jaw, resting his fingers on the archway leading into the training grounds. It had been seven days since Amaram’s arrival in the warcamps. Seven days of dealing with the fact that Amaram and Dalinar were friends. He’d decided to be storming happy about Amaram’s arrival. After all, it meant that Kaladin would be able to find a chance to finally stick a spear in that man. No, he thought, entering the training grounds, not a spear. A knife. I want to be up close to him, face-to-face, so I can watch him panic as he dies. I want to feel that knife going in. Kaladin waved to his men and entered through the archway, forcing himself to focus on his surroundings instead of Amaram. That archway was good stone, quarried nearby, built into a structure with the traditional eastward reinforcement. Judging by the modest crem deposits, these walls hadn’t been here long. It was another sign that Dalinar was starting to think of the warcamps as permanent—he was taking down simple, temporary buildings and replacing them with sturdy structures. “I don’t know what you expected,” Drehy said to Moash as he inspected the grounds. “How would you make sparring grounds different for the lighteyes? Use diamond dust instead of sand?” “Ouch,” Kaladin said. “I don’t know how,” Moash said. “It’s just that they make such a big deal of it. No darkeyes on the ‘special’ sparring grounds. I don’t see what makes them special.” “That’s because you don’t think like lighteyes,” Kaladin said. “This place is special for one simple reason.” “Why’s that?” Moash asked. “Because we’re not here,” Kaladin said, leading the way in. “Not normally, at least.” He had with him Drehy and Moash, along with five other men, a mix of Bridge Four members and a few survivors of the old Cobalt Guard. Dalinar had assigned those to Kaladin, and to Kaladin’s surprise and pleasure, they had accepted him as their leader without a word of complaint. To a man, he’d been impressed with them. The old Guard had deserved its reputation. A few, all darkeyed, had started eating with Bridge Four. They’d asked for Bridge Four patches, and Kaladin had gotten them some—but ordered them to put their Cobalt Guard patches on the other shoulder, and continue to wear them as a mark of pride. Spear in hand, Kaladin led his team toward a group of ardents who bustled in their direction. The ardents wore Vorin religious garb—loose trousers and tunics, tied at the waist with simple ropes.
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Pauper’s clothing. They were slaves, and then they also weren’t. Kaladin had never given much thought to them. His mother would probably lament how little Kaladin cared for religious observance. The way Kaladin figured it, the Almighty didn’t show much concern for him, so why care back? “This is the lighteyes’ training ground,” said the lead ardent sternly. She was a willowy woman, though you weren’t supposed to think of ardents as male or female. She had her head shaven, like all ardents. Her male companions wore square beards with clean upper lips. “Captain Kaladin, Bridge Four,” Kaladin said, scanning the practice grounds and shouldering his spear. It would be very easy for an accident to happen here, during sparring. He’d have to watch for that. “Here to guard the Kholin boys while they practice today.” “Captain?” one of the ardents scoffed. “You—” Another ardent silenced him by whispering something. News about Kaladin had traveled quickly through camp, but ardents could be an isolated lot, sometimes. “Drehy,” Kaladin said, pointing. “See those rockbuds growing up on the top of the wall there?” “Yup.” “They’re cultivated. That means there’s a way up.” “Of course there is,” the lead ardent said. “The stairwell is at the northwestern corner. I have the key.” “Good, you can let him in,” Kaladin said. “Drehy, keep an eye on things from up there.” “On it,” Drehy said, trotting in the direction of the stairwell. “And what kinds of danger do you expect them to be in here?” the ardent said, folding her arms. “I see lots of weapons,” Kaladin said, “lots of people moving in and out, and . . . are those Shardblades I see? I wonder what could possibly go wrong.” He gave her a pointed look. The woman sighed, then handed her key to an assistant, who jogged off after Drehy. Kaladin pointed to positions for his other men to watch from. They moved off, leaving only him and Moash. The lean man had turned immediately at the mention of Shardblades, and now watched them hungrily. A pair of lighteyed men bearing them had moved out into the center of the sands. One Blade was long and thin, with a large crossguard, while the other was wide and enormous, with wicked spikes—slightly flamelike—jutting out of both sides along the lower third. Both weapons had protective strips on the edges, like a partial sheath. “Huh,” Moash said, “I don’t recognize either of those men. I thought I knew all the Shardbearers in camp.” “They aren’t Shardbearers,” the ardent said. “They’re using the King’s Blades.” “Elhokar lets people use his Shardblade?” Kaladin asked. “It is a grand tradition,” the ardent said, seeming annoyed that she had to explain. “The highprinces used to do it in their own princedoms, before the reunification, and now it is the king’s obligation and honor. Men may use the King’s Blade and Plate to practice. The lighteyes of our armies must be trained with Shards, for the good of all. Blade and Plate are difficult to master, and if a Shardbearer falls
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