text
stringlengths 1.73k
3.83k
|
|---|
in battle, it is important that others be capable of their immediate use.” That made sense, Kaladin supposed, though he found it hard to imagine any lighteyes letting someone else touch his Blade. “The king has two Shardblades?” “One is that of his father, kept for the tradition of training Shardbearers.” The ardent glanced at the sparring men. “Alethkar has always had the finest Shardbearers in the world. This tradition is part of it. The king has hinted that someday, he might bestow his father’s Blade upon a worthy warrior.” Kaladin nodded in appreciation. “Not bad,” he said. “I’ll bet that a lot of men come to practice with them, each hoping to prove he’s the most skilled and most deserving. A good way for Elhokar to trick a bunch of men into training.” The ardent huffed and walked away. Kaladin watched the Shardblades flash in the air. The men using them barely knew what they were doing. The real Shardbearers he’d seen, the real Shardbearers he’d fought, hadn’t lurched about swinging the oversized swords like polearms. Even Adolin’s duel the other day had— “Storms, Kaladin,” Moash said, watching the ardent stalk away. “And you were telling me to be respectful?” “Hmm?” “You didn’t use an honorific for the king,” Moash said. “Then you implied that the lighteyes coming to practice were lazy and needed to be tricked into it. I thought we were supposed to avoid antagonizing the lighteyes?” Kaladin looked away from the Shardbearers. Distracted, he’d spoken thoughtlessly. “You’re right,” he said. “Thanks for the reminder.” Moash nodded. “I want you by the gate,” Kaladin said, pointing. A group of parshmen came in, bearing boxes, probably foodstuffs. Those wouldn’t be dangerous. Would they? “Pay particularly close attention to servants, sword runners, or anyone else seemingly innocuous who approaches Highprince Dalinar’s sons. A knife to the side from someone like that would be one of the best ways to pull off an assassination.” “Fine. But tell me something, Kal. Who is this Amaram fellow?” Kaladin turned sharply toward Moash. “I see how you look at him,” Moash said. “I see how your face gets when the other bridgemen mention him. What did he do to you?” “I was in his army,” Kaladin said. “The last place I fought, before . . .” Moash gestured to Kaladin’s forehead. “That’s his work, then?” “Yeah.” “So he’s not the hero people say he is,” Moash said. He seemed pleased by that fact. “His soul is as dark as any I’ve ever known.” Moash took Kaladin by the arm. “We are going to get back at them somehow. Sadeas, Amaram. The ones who have done these things to us?” Angerspren boiled up around him, like pools of blood in the sand. Kaladin met Moash’s eyes, then nodded. “Good enough for me,” Moash said, shouldering his spear and jogging off toward the position Kaladin had indicated, the spren vanishing. “He’s another who needs to learn to smile more,” Syl whispered. Kaladin hadn’t noticed her flitting nearby, and now she settled down on his shoulder. Kaladin turned
|
to walk around the perimeter of the practice grounds, noting each entrance. Perhaps he was being overly cautious. He just liked doing jobs well, and it had been a lifetime since he’d had a job other than saving Bridge Four. Sometimes, though, it seemed like his job was impossible to do well. During the highstorm last week, someone had again sneaked into Dalinar’s rooms, scrawling a second number on the wall. Counting it down, it pointed at the same date a little over a month away. The highprince didn’t seem worried, and wanted the event kept quiet. Storms . . . was he writing the glyphs himself while he had fits? Or was it some kind of spren? Kaladin was sure nobody could have gotten past him this time to get in. “Do you want to talk about the thing that is bothering you?” Syl asked from her perch. “I’m worried about what’s happening during the highstorms with Dalinar,” Kaladin said. “Those numbers . . . something is wrong. You still seeing those spren about?” “Red lightning?” she asked. “I think so. They’re hard to spot. You haven’t seen them?” Kaladin shook his head, hefting his spear and walking over onto the walkway around the sands. Here, he peeked into a storage room. Wooden practice swords, some the size of Shardblades, and sparring leathers lined the wall. “Is that all that’s bothering you?” Syl asked. “What else would be?” “Amaram and Dalinar.” “It’s not a big deal. Dalinar Kholin is friends with one of the worst murderers I’ve ever met. So? Dalinar is lighteyed. He’s probably friends with a lot of murderers.” “Kaladin . . .” Syl said. “Amaram’s worse than Sadeas, you know,” Kaladin said, walking around the storage room, checking for doorways. “Everyone knows that Sadeas is a rat. He’s straight with you. ‘You’re a bridgeman,’ he told me, ‘and I’m going to use you up until you die.’ Amaram, though . . . He promised to be more, a brightlord like those in the stories. He told me he’d protect Tien. He feigned honor. That’s worse than any depth Sadeas could ever reach.” “Dalinar’s not like Amaram,” Syl said. “You know he’s not.” “People say the same things about him that they did of Amaram. That they still do of Amaram.” Kaladin stepped back out into the sunlight and continued his circuit of the grounds, passing dueling lighteyes who kicked up sand as they grunted, sweated, and clacked wooden swords against one another. Each pair was attended by a half-dozen darkeyed servants carrying towels and canteens—and many had a parshman or two bring them chairs to sit on when they rested. Stormfather. Even in something routine like this, the lighteyes had to be pampered. Syl zipped out into the air in front of Kaladin, coming down like a storm. Literally like a storm. She stopped in the air right in front of him, a cloud boiling from beneath her feet, flashing with lightning. “You can honestly say,” she demanded, “that you think Dalinar Kholin is only pretending to be
|
honorable?” “I—” “Don’t you lie to me, Kaladin,” she said, stepping forward, pointing. Diminutive though she was, in that moment, she seemed as vast as a highstorm. “No lies. Ever.” He took a deep breath. “No,” he finally said. “No, Dalinar gave up his Blade for us. He’s a good man. I accept that. Amaram has him fooled. He had me fooled too, so I suppose I can’t blame Kholin too much.” Syl nodded curtly, the cloud dissipating. “You should talk to him about Amaram,” she said, walking in the air beside Kaladin’s head as he continued scouting the structure. Her steps were small, and she should have fallen behind, but she didn’t. “And what should I say?” Kaladin asked. “Should I go to him and accuse a lighteyes of the third dahn of murdering his own troops? Of stealing my Shardblade? I’ll sound like either a fool or a madman.” “But—” “He won’t listen, Syl,” Kaladin said. “Dalinar Kholin might be a good man, but he won’t let me speak ill of a powerful lighteyes. It’s the way of the world. And that is truth.” He continued his inspection, wanting to know what was in the rooms where people could watch people spar. Some were for storage, others for bathing and resting. Several of those were locked, with lighteyes inside recovering from their daily sparring. Lighteyes liked baths. The back side of the structure, opposite the entrance gate, held the living quarters for the ardents. Kaladin had never seen so many shaved heads and robed bodies scurrying about. Back in Hearthstone, the citylord had kept only a few wizened old ardents for tutoring his son. Those had also come down to the town periodically to burn prayers and elevate darkeyes’ Callings. These ardents didn’t seem to be the same type. They had the physiques of warriors, and would often step in to practice with lighteyes who needed a sparring partner. Some of the ardents had dark eyes, but still used the sword—they weren’t considered lighteyed or darkeyed. They were just ardents. And what do I do if one of them decides to try killing the princelings? Storms, but he hated some aspects of bodyguard duty. If nothing happened, then you were never sure if it was because nothing was wrong, or because you had deterred potential assassins. Adolin and his brother finally arrived, both fully armored in their Shardplate, helms under their arms. They were accompanied by Skar and a handful of former members of the Cobalt Guard. Those saluted Kaladin as he walked up and gestured that they were dismissed, the shift officially changed. Skar would be off to join Teft and the group protecting Dalinar and Navani. “The area is as secure as I can make it without disrupting training, Brightlord,” Kaladin said, walking up to Adolin. “My men and I will keep an eye out while you spar, but don’t hesitate to give a holler if something seems amiss.” Adolin grunted, surveying the place, barely paying Kaladin any heed. He was a tall man, his few black Alethi
|
hairs overwhelmed by quite a bit of golden blond. His father didn’t have that. Adolin’s mother had been from Rira, perhaps? Kaladin turned to walk toward the northern side of the courtyard, where he’d have a different view from Moash. “Bridgeman,” Adolin called. “You’ve decided to start using proper titles for people? Didn’t you call my father ‘sir’?” “He’s in my chain of command,” Kaladin said, turning back. The simple answer seemed the best. “And I’m not?” Adolin asked, frowning. “No.” “And if I give you an order?” “I’ll comply with any reasonable requests, Brightlord. But if you wish for someone to fetch you tea between bouts, you’ll have to send someone else. There should be plenty here willing to lick your heels.” Adolin stepped up to him. Though the deep blue Shardplate added only a few inches to his height, he seemed to tower because of it. Perhaps that line about licking heels had been brash. Adolin represented something, though. The privilege of the lighteyes. He wasn’t like Amaram or Sadeas, who brought out Kaladin’s hatred. Men like Adolin just annoyed him, reminding him that in this world, some sipped wine and wore fancy clothing while others were made slaves almost on a whim. “I owe you my life,” Adolin growled, as if it hurt to say the words. “That’s the only reason I haven’t yet thrown you through a window.” He reached up with a gauntleted finger and tapped at Kaladin’s chest. “But my patience with you won’t extend as far as my father’s, little bridgeman. There’s something off about you, something I can’t put my finger on. I’m watching you. Remember your place.” Great. “I’ll keep you alive, Brightlord,” Kaladin said, pushing aside the finger. “That’s my place.” “I can keep myself alive,” Adolin said, turning away and tromping across the sand with a clink of Plate. “Your job is to watch over my brother.” Kaladin was more than happy to let him leave. “Spoiled child,” he muttered. Kaladin supposed that Adolin was a few years older than him. Just recently, Kaladin had realized that he’d passed his twentieth birthday while a bridgeman, and never known it. Adolin was in his early twenties. But being a child had little to do with age. Renarin still stood awkwardly near the front gate, wearing Dalinar’s former Shardplate, carrying his newly won Shardblade. Adolin’s quick duel from yesterday was the talk of the warcamps, and it would take Renarin five days to fully bond his Blade before he could dismiss it. The young man’s Shardplate was the color of dark steel, unpainted. That was how Dalinar had preferred it. By giving his Plate away, Dalinar suggested that he felt he needed to win his next victories as a politician. It was a laudable move; you couldn’t always have men following you because they feared you could beat them up—or even because you were the best soldier among them. You needed more, far more, to be a true leader. Yet Kaladin did wish Dalinar had kept the Plate. Anything that helped the man
|
stay alive would have been a boon for Bridge Four. Kaladin leaned back against a column, folding his arms, spear in the crook of his arm, watching the area for trouble and inspecting everyone that got too close to the princelings. Adolin walked over and grabbed his brother by the shoulder, towing him across the courtyard. Various people sparring in the square stopped and bowed—if not in uniform—or saluted the princelings as they passed. A group of grey-clothed ardents had gathered at the back of the courtyard, and the woman from earlier stepped forward to chat with the brothers. Adolin and Renarin both bowed formally to her. It had been three weeks now since Renarin had been given his Plate. Why had Adolin waited so long to bring him here for training? Had he been waiting until the duel, so he could win the lad a Blade too? Syl landed on Kaladin’s shoulder. “Adolin and Renarin are both bowing to her.” “Yeah,” Kaladin said. “But isn’t the ardent a slave? One their father owns?” Kaladin nodded. “Humans don’t make sense.” “If you’re only now learning that,” Kaladin said, “then you haven’t been paying attention.” Syl tossed her hair, which moved realistically. The gesture itself was very human. Perhaps she’d been paying attention after all. “I don’t like them,” she said airily. “Either one. Adolin or Renarin.” “You don’t like anyone who carries Shards.” “Exactly.” “You called the Blades abominations before,” Kaladin said. “But the Radiants carried them. So were the Radiants wrong to do so?” “Of course not,” she said, sounding like he was saying something completely stupid. “The Shards weren’t abominations back then.” “What changed?” “The knights,” Syl said, growing quiet. “The knights changed.” “So it’s not that the weapons are abominations specifically,” Kaladin said. “It’s that the wrong people are carrying them.” “There are no right people anymore,” Syl whispered. “Maybe there never were. . . .” “And where did they come from in the first place?” Kaladin asked. “Shardblades. Shardplate. Even modern fabrials are nowhere near as good. So where did the ancients get weapons so amazing?” Syl fell silent. She had a frustrating habit of doing that when his questions got too specific. “Well?” he prompted. “I wish I could tell you.” “Then do.” “I wish it worked that way. It doesn’t.” Kaladin sighed, turning his attention back to Adolin and Renarin, where it was supposed to be. The senior ardent had led them to the very back of the courtyard, where another group of people sat on the ground. They were ardents too, but something was different about them. Teachers of some sort? As Adolin spoke to them, Kaladin did another quick scan around the courtyard, then frowned. “Kaladin?” Syl asked. “Man in the shadows over there,” Kaladin said, gesturing with his spear toward a place under the eaves. A man stood there, leaning cross-armed against a waist-high wooden railing. “He’s watching the princelings.” “Um, so is everyone else.” “He’s different,” Kaladin said. “Come on.” Kaladin wandered over casually, unthreatening. The man was probably just a servant.
|
Long-haired, with a short but scruffy black beard, he wore loose tan clothing tied with ropes. He looked out of place in the sparring yard, and that itself was probably enough to indicate he wasn’t an assassin. The best assassins never stood out. Still, the man had a robust build and a scar on his cheek. So he’d seen fighting. Best to check on him. The man watched Renarin and Adolin intently and, from this angle, Kaladin couldn’t see if his eyes were light or dark. As Kaladin got close, his foot audibly scraped the sand. The man spun immediately, and Kaladin leveled his spear by instinct. He could see the man’s eyes now—they were brown—but Kaladin had trouble placing his age. Those eyes seemed old somehow, but the man’s skin didn’t seem wrinkled enough to match them. He could have been thirty-five. Or he could have been seventy. Too young, Kaladin thought, though he couldn’t say why. Kaladin lowered his spear. “Sorry, I’m a little jumpy. First few weeks on the job.” He tried to say it disarmingly. It didn’t work. The man looked him up and down, still showing the chained menace of a warrior deciding whether or not to strike. Finally, he turned away from Kaladin and relaxed, watching Adolin and Renarin. “Who are you?” Kaladin asked, stepping up beside the man. “I’m new, as I said. I’m trying to learn everyone’s names.” “You’re the bridgeman. The one who saved the highprince.” “I am,” Kaladin said. “You don’t need to keep prying,” the man said. “I’m not going to hurt your Damnation prince.” He had a low, grinding voice. Scratchy. Strange accent too. “He’s not my prince,” Kaladin said. “Just my responsibility.” He looked the man over again, noticing something. The light clothing, tied with ropes, was very similar to what some of the ardents were wearing. The full head of hair had thrown Kaladin off. “You’re a soldier,” Kaladin guessed. “Ex-soldier, I mean.” “Yeah,” the man said. “They call me Zahel.” Kaladin nodded, the irregularities clicking into place. Occasionally, a soldier retired to the ardentia, if he had no other life to return to. Kaladin would have expected them to require the man to at least shave his head. I wonder if Hav is in one of these monasteries somewhere, Kaladin thought idly. What would he think of me now? He’d probably be proud. He always had seen guard duty as the most respectable of a soldier’s assignments. “What are they doing?” Kaladin asked Zahel, nodding toward Renarin and Adolin—who, despite the encumbrance of their Shardplate, had seated themselves on the ground before the elder ardents. Zahel grunted. “The younger Kholin has to be chosen by a master. For training.” “Can’t they just pick whichever one they want?” “Doesn’t work that way. It’s kind of an awkward situation, though. Prince Renarin, he’s never practiced much with a sword.” Zahel paused. “Being chosen by a master is a step that most lighteyed boys of suitable rank take by the time they’re ten.” Kaladin frowned. “Why didn’t he ever train?”
|
“Health problems of some sort.” “And they’d really turn him down?” Kaladin asked. “The highprince’s own son?” “They could, but they probably won’t. Not brave enough.” The man narrowed his eyes as Adolin stood up and gestured. “Damnation. I knew it was suspicious that he waited for this until I got back.” “Swordmaster Zahel!” Adolin called. “You aren’t sitting with the others!” Zahel sighed, then gave Kaladin a resigned glance. “I’m probably not brave enough either. I’ll try not to hurt him too much.” He walked around the railing and jogged over. Adolin clasped Zahel’s hand eagerly, then pointed to Renarin. Zahel looked distinctly out of place among the other ardents with their bald heads, neatly trimmed beards, and cleaner clothing. “Huh,” Kaladin said. “Did he seem odd to you?” “You all seem odd to me,” Syl said lightly. “Everyone but Rock, who is a complete gentleman.” “He thinks you’re a god. You shouldn’t encourage him.” “Why not? I am a god.” He turned his head, looking at her flatly as she sat on his shoulder. “Syl . . .” “What? I am!” She grinned and held up her fingers, as if pinching something very small. “A little piece of one. Very, very little. You have permission to bow to me now.” “Kind of hard to do when you’re sitting on my shoulder,” he mumbled. He noticed Lopen and Shen arriving at the gate, likely bearing the daily reports from Teft. “Come on. Let’s see if Teft has anything he needs from me, then we’ll do a circuit and check on Drehy and Moash.” Riding on her wagon, Shallan covered her anxiety with scholarship. There was no way to tell if the deserters had spotted the trails of crushed rockbuds made by the caravan. They might be following. They might not be. No use dwelling on it, she told herself. And so she found a distraction. “The leaves can start their own shoots,” she said, holding up one of the small, round leaves on the tip of her finger. She turned it toward the sunlight. Bluth sat beside her, hulking like a boulder. Today, he wore a hat that was entirely too stylish for him—dusty white, with a brim that folded upward at the sides. He would occasionally flick his guiding reed—it was at least as long as Shallan was tall—on the shell of the chull ahead. Shallan had made a small list of the beats he used in the back of her book. Bluth hit twice, paused, and hit again. That made the animal slow as the wagon in front of them—driven by Tvlakv—began moving up a hillside covered in tiny rockbuds. “You see?” Shallan said, showing him the leaf. “That’s why the plant’s limbs are so fragile. When the storm comes, it will shatter these branches and break off the leaves. They will blow away and start new shoots, building their own shell. They grow so quickly. Faster than I’d have expected out here, in these infertile lands.” Bluth grunted. Shallan sighed, lowering her finger and putting the tiny plant
|
back in the cup she’d been using to nurture it. She glanced over her shoulder. No sign of pursuit. She really should just stop worrying. She turned back to her new sketchbook—one of Jasnah’s notebooks that didn’t have many pages filled—then began a quick sketch of the small leaf. She didn’t have very good materials, only a single charcoal pencil, some pens, and a little ink, but Pattern had been right. She could not stop. She had begun with a replacement sketch of the santhid as she remembered it from her dip in the sea. The picture wasn’t equal to the one she’d crafted right after the event, but having it again—in any form—had started healing the wounds inside. She finished the leaf, then turned the page and began a sketch of Bluth. She didn’t particularly want to restart her collection of people with him, but her options were limited. Unfortunately, that hat really did look silly—it was far too small for his head. The image of him huddled forward like a crab, back to the sky and hat on his head . . . well, at least it would be an interesting composition. “Where did you get the hat?” she asked as she sketched. “Traded for it,” Bluth mumbled, not looking at her. “Did it cost much?” He shrugged. Shallan had lost her own hats in the sinking, but had persuaded Tvlakv to give her one of the ones woven by the parshmen. It wasn’t particularly attractive, but it kept the sun off her face. Despite the bumping wagon, Shallan eventually managed to finish her sketch of Bluth. She inspected it, dissatisfied. It was a poor way to start her collection, particularly as she felt she’d caricatured him somewhat. She pursed her lips. What would Bluth look like if he weren’t always scowling at her? If his clothing were neater, if he carried a proper weapon instead of that old cudgel? She flipped the page and started again. A different composition—idealized, perhaps, but somehow also right. He could actually look dashing, once you dressed him up properly. A uniform. A spear, planted to his side. Eyes toward the horizon. By the time she’d finished, she was feeling much better about the day. She smiled at the product, then held it up to Bluth as Tvlakv called the midday halt. Bluth glanced at the picture, but said nothing. He gave the chull a few whacks to stop it alongside the one pulling Tvlakv’s wagon. Tag rolled up his wagon—he carried the slaves, this time. “Knobweed!” Shallan said, lowering her sketch and pointing at a patch of thin reeds growing behind a nearby rock. Bluth groaned. “More of that plant?” “Yes. Would you kindly fetch them for me?” “Can’t the parshmen do it? I’m supposed to feed the chulls. . . .” “Which would you rather make wait, guardsman Bluth? The chulls, or the lighteyed woman?” Bluth scratched his head underneath the hat, then sullenly climbed down from the wagon and walked toward the reeds. Nearby, Tvlakv stood on his wagon, watching the
|
horizon to the south. A thin trail of smoke rose in that direction. Shallan felt an immediate chill. She scrambled from the wagon and hurried to Tvlakv. “Storms!” Shallan said. “Is it the deserters? They are following us?” “Yes. They have stopped to cook for midday, it seems,” Tvlakv said from his perch atop his wagon. “They do not care about us seeing their fire.” He forced out a laugh. “That is a good sign. They probably know we are only three wagons, and are barely worth chasing. So long as we keep moving and don’t stop often, they will give up the chase. Yes. I’m certain.” He hopped down from his wagon, then hurriedly began to water the slaves. He didn’t bother to make the parshmen do it—he did the work himself. That, more than anything, testified to his nervousness. He wanted to be moving again quickly. That left the parshmen to continue weaving in their cage behind Tvlakv’s wagon. Anxious, Shallan stood there watching. The deserters had spotted the wagons’ trail of broken rockbuds. She found herself sweating, but what could she do? She couldn’t hurry the caravan. She had to simply hope, as Tvlakv said, that they could stay ahead of pursuit. That didn’t seem likely. The chull wagons couldn’t be faster than marching men. Distract yourself, Shallan thought as she started to panic. Find something to take your mind off the pursuit. What about Tvlakv’s parshmen? Shallan eyed them. Perhaps a drawing of the two of them in their cage? No. She was too nervous for drawing, but perhaps she could find something out. She walked to the parshmen. Her feet complained, but the pain was manageable. In fact, in contrast to how she’d covered it up on previous days, now she exaggerated her winces. Better to make Tvlakv think she was less well than she was. She stopped at the cage’s bars. The back was unlocked—parshmen never ran. Buying these two must have been quite an investment for Tvlakv. Parshmen weren’t cheap, and many monarchs and powerful lighteyes hoarded them. One of the two glanced at Shallan, then turned back to his work. Her work? It was difficult to tell the males from the females without undressing them. Both of these two had red on white marbled skin. They had squat bodies, perhaps five feet tall, and were bald. It was so difficult to see these two humble workers as a threat. “What are your names?” Shallan asked. One looked up. The other kept working. “Your name,” Shallan prodded. “One,” the parshman said. He pointed at his companion. “Two.” He put his head down and kept working. “Are you happy with your life?” Shallan asked. “Would you rather be free, given the chance?” The parshman looked up at her and frowned. He scrunched up his brow, mouthing a few of the words, then shook his head. He didn’t understand. “Freedom?” Shallan prodded. He hunched down to work. He actually looks uncomfortable, Shallan thought. Embarrassed for not understanding. His posture seemed to say, “Please stop asking me questions.”
|
Shallan tucked her sketchbook under her arm and took a Memory of the two of them working there. These are evil monsters, she told herself forcefully, creatures of legend who will soon be bent on destroying everyone and everything around them. Standing here, looking in at them, she found it difficult to believe, even though she had accepted the evidence. Storms. Jasnah was right. Persuading the lighteyes to rid themselves of their parshmen was going to be nearly impossible. She would need very, very solid proof. Troubled, she walked back to her seat and climbed up, making sure to wince. Bluth had left her a bundle of knobweed, and was now caring for the chulls. Tvlakv was digging out some food for a quick lunch, which they’d probably eat while moving. She quieted her nerves and forced herself to do some sketches of nearby plants. She soon moved on to a sketch of the horizon and the rock formations nearby. The air didn’t feel as cold as it had during her first days with the slavers, though her breath still steamed before her in the mornings. As Tvlakv passed by, he gave her an uncomfortable glance. He had treated her differently since their confrontation at the fire last night. Shallan continued sketching. It was certainly a lot flatter out here than back home. And there were far fewer plants, though they were more robust. And . . . . . . And was that another column of smoke up ahead? She stood up and raised a hand to shade her eyes. Yes. More smoke. She looked southward, toward the pursuing mercenaries. Nearby, Tag stopped, noticing what she had. He hustled over to Tvlakv, and the two started arguing softly. “Tradesman Tvlakv”—Shallan refused to call him “Trademaster,” as would be his proper title as a full merchant—“I would hear your discussion.” “Of course, Brightness, of course.” He waddled over, wringing his hands. “You have seen the smoke ahead. We have entered a corridor running between the Shattered Plains and the Shallow Crypts and its sister villages. There is more traffic here than in other parts of the Frostlands, you see. So it is not unexpected that we should encounter others . . .” “Those ahead?” “Another caravan, if we are lucky.” And if we’re unlucky . . . She didn’t need to ask. It would mean more deserters or bandits. “We can avoid them,” Tvlakv said. “Only a large group would dare make smoke for midday meals, as it is an invitation—or a warning. The small caravans, like ourselves, do not risk it.” “If it’s a large caravan,” Tag said, rubbing his brow with a thick finger, “they’ll have guards. Good protection.” He looked southward. “Yes,” Tvlakv said. “But we could also be placing ourselves between two enemies. Danger on all sides . . .” “Those behind will catch us, Tvlakv,” Shallan said. “I—” “A man hunting game will return with a mink if there are no telm to be found,” she said. “Those deserters have to kill to survive out here. Didn’t
|
you say there was probably going to be a highstorm tonight?” “Yes,” Tvlakv said, reluctant. “Two hours after sunset, if the list I bought is correct.” “I don’t know how bandits normally weather the storms,” Shallan said, “but they’ve obviously committed to chasing us down. I’d bet they plan to use the wagons as shelter after killing us. They’re not going to let us go.” “Perhaps,” Tvlakv said. “Yes, perhaps. But Brightness, if we see that second column of smoke ahead, so might the deserters. . . .” “Yeah,” Tag said, nodding, as if he’d only just realized it. “We cut east. The killers might go after the group ahead.” “We let them attack someone else instead of us?” Shallan said, folding her arms. “What else would you expect us to do, Brightness?” Tvlakv said, exasperated. “We are small cremlings, you see. Our only choice is to keep away from larger creatures and hope for them to hunt one another.” Shallan narrowed her eyes, inspecting that small column of smoke ahead. Was it her eyes, or was it growing thicker? She looked backward. Actually, the columns looked to be about the same size. They won’t hunt prey their own size, Shallan thought. They left the army, ran away. They’re cowards. Nearby, she could see Bluth looking backward as well, watching that smoke with an expression she couldn’t read. Disgust? Longing? Fear? No spren to give her a clue. Cowards, she thought again, or just men disillusioned? Rocks who started rolling down a hillside, only to start going so quickly they don’t know how to stop? It didn’t matter. Those rocks would crush Shallan and the others, if given the chance. Cutting eastward wouldn’t work. The deserters would take the easy kill—slow-moving wagons—instead of the potentially harder kill straight ahead. “We make for the second column of smoke,” Shallan said, sitting down. Tvlakv looked at her. “You don’t get to—” He broke off as she met his eyes. “You . . .” Tvlakv said, licking his lips. “You won’t get . . . to the Shattered Plains as quickly, Brightness, if we get tied up with a larger caravan, you see. It could be bad.” “I will deal with that if the problem arises, tradesman Tvlakv.” “Those ahead will keep moving,” Tvlakv warned. “We may arrive at that camp and find them gone.” “In which case,” Shallan said, “they will either be moving toward the Shattered Plains or coming this way, along the corridor toward the port cities. We will intersect them eventually one way or another.” Tvlakv sighed, then nodded, calling to Tag to hurry. Shallan sat down, feeling a thrill. Bluth returned and took his seat, then shoved a few wizened roots in her direction. Lunch, apparently. Shortly, the wagons began rolling northward, Shallan’s wagon falling into place third in line this time. Shallan settled into her seat for the trip—they were hours away from that second group, even if they did manage to catch up to it. To keep from worrying, she finished her sketches of the landscape. She then
|
turned to idle sketches, simply letting her pencil go where it willed. She drew skyeels dancing in the air. She drew the docks of Kharbranth. She did a sketch of Yalb, though the face felt off to her, and she didn’t quite capture the mischievous spark in his eyes. Perhaps the errors related to how sad she became, thinking of what had probably happened to him. She flipped the page and started a random sketch, whatever came into her mind. Her pencil moved into a depiction of an elegant woman in a stately gown. Loose but sleek below the waist, tight across the chest and stomach. Long, open sleeves, one hiding the safehand, the other cut at the elbow exposing the forearm and draping down below. A bold, poised woman. In control. Still drawing unconsciously, Shallan added her own face to the elegant woman’s head. She hesitated, pencil hovering above the image. That wasn’t her. Was it? Could it be? She stared at that image as the wagon bumped over rocks and plants. She flipped to the next page and started another drawing. A ball gown, a woman at court, surrounded by the elite of Alethkar as she imagined them. Tall, strong. The woman belonged among them. Shallan added her face to the figure. She flipped the page and did another one. And then another. The last one was a sketch of her standing at the edge of the Shattered Plains as she imagined them. Looking eastward, toward the secrets that Jasnah had sought. Shallan flipped the page and drew again. A picture of Jasnah on the ship, seated at her desk, papers and books sprawled around her. It wasn’t the setting that mattered, but the face. That worried, terrified face. Exhausted, pushed to her limits. Shallan got this one right. The first drawing since the disaster that captured perfectly what she’d seen. Jasnah’s burden. “Stop the wagon,” Shallan said, not looking up. Bluth glanced at her. She resisted the urge to say it again. He didn’t, unfortunately, obey immediately. “Why?” he demanded. Shallan looked up. The smoke column was still distant, but she’d been right, it was growing thicker. The group ahead had stopped and built a sizable fire for the midday meal. Judging by that smoke, they were a much larger group than the one behind. “I’m going to get into the back,” Shallan said. “I need to look something up. You can continue when I’m settled, but please stop and call to me once we’re near to the group ahead.” He sighed, but stopped the chull with a few whacks on the shell. Shallan climbed down, then took the knobweed and notebook, moved to the back of the wagon. Once she was in, Bluth started up again immediately, shouting back to Tvlakv, who had demanded to know the meaning of the delay. With the walls up her wagon was shaded and private, particularly with it being last in line so nobody could look in the back door at her. Unfortunately, riding in the back wasn’t as comfortable as riding
|
in the front. Those tiny rockbuds caused a surprising amount of jarring and jolting. Jasnah’s trunk was tied in place near the front wall. She opened the lid—letting the spheres inside provide dusky illumination—then settled back on her improvised cushion, a pile of the cloths Jasnah had used to wrap her books. The blanket she used at night—as Tvlakv had been unable to produce one for her—was the velvet lining she had ripped out of the trunk. Settling back, she unwrapped her feet to apply the new knobweed. They were scabbed over and much improved from their condition just a day before. “Pattern?” He vibrated from somewhere nearby. She’d asked him to remain in the back so as to not alarm Tvlakv and the guards. “My feet are healing,” she said. “Did you do this?” “Mmmm . . . I know almost nothing of why people break. I know less of why they . . . unbreak.” “Your kind don’t get wounded?” she asked, snapping off a knobweed stem and squeezing the drops onto her left foot. “We break. We just do it . . . differently than men do. And we do not unbreak without aid. I do not know why you unbreak. Why?” “It is a natural function of our bodies,” she said. “Living things repair themselves automatically.” She held one of her spheres close, searching for signs of little red rotspren. Where she found a few of them along one cut, she was quick to apply sap and chase them off. “I would like to know why things work,” Pattern said. “So would many of us,” Shallan said, bent over. She grimaced as the wagon hit a particularly large rock. “I made myself glow last night, by the fire with Tvlakv.” “Yes.” “Do you know why?” “Lies.” “My dress changed,” Shallan said. “I swear the scuffs and rips were gone last night. They’ve returned now, though.” “Mmm. Yes.” “I have to be able to control this thing we can do. Jasnah called it Lightweaving. She implied it was far safer to practice than Soulcasting.” “The book?” Shallan frowned, sitting back against the bars on the side of the wagon. Beside her, a long line of scratches on the floor looked like they’d been made by fingernails. As if one of the slaves had tried, in a fit of madness, to claw his way to freedom. The book Jasnah had given her, Words of Radiance, had been swallowed by the ocean. It seemed a greater loss than the other one Jasnah had given her, the Book of Endless Pages, which had strangely been blank. She didn’t understand the full significance of that yet. “I never got a chance to actually read that book,” Shallan said. “We’ll need to see if we can find another copy once we reach the Shattered Plains.” Their destination being a warcamp, though, she doubted that many books would be for sale. Shallan held one of her spheres up before herself. It was growing dim, and needed to be reinfused. What would happen if the highstorm
|
came, and they hadn’t caught up to the group ahead? Would the deserters push through the storm itself to reach them? And, potentially, the safety of their wagons? Storms, what a mess. She needed an edge. “The Knights Radiant formed a bond with spren,” Shallan said, more to herself than to Pattern. “It was a symbiotic relationship, like a little cremling who lives in the shalebark. The cremling cleans off the lichen, getting food, but also keeping the shalebark clean.” Pattern buzzed in confusion. “Am I . . . the shalebark or the cremling?” “Either,” Shallan said, turning the diamond sphere in her fingers—the tiny gemstone trapped inside glowed with a vigilant light, suspended in glass. “The Surges—the forces that run the world—are more pliable to spren. Or . . . well . . . since spren are pieces of those Surges, maybe it’s that the spren are better at influencing one another. Our bond gives me the ability to manipulate one of the Surges. In this case, light, the power of Illumination.” “Lies,” Pattern whispered. “And truths.” Shallan gripped the sphere in her fist, the light shining through her skin making her hand glow red. She willed the Light to enter her, but nothing happened. “So, how do I make it work?” “Perhaps eat it?” Pattern said, moving over onto the wall beside her head. “Eat it?” Shallan asked, skeptical. “I didn’t need to eat it before to get the Stormlight.” “Might work, though. Try?” “I doubt I could swallow an entire sphere,” Shallan said. “Even if I wanted to, which I distinctly do not.” “Mmmm,” Pattern said, his vibrations making the wood shake. “This . . . is not one of the things humans like to eat, then?” “Storms, no. Haven’t you been paying attention?” “I have,” he said with an annoyed zip of a vibration. “But it is difficult to tell! You consume some things, and turn them into other things . . . Very curious things that you hide. They have value? But you leave them. Why?” “We are done with that conversation,” Shallan said, opening her fist and holding up the sphere again. Though, admittedly, something about what he said felt right. She hadn’t eaten any spheres before, but she had somehow . . . consumed the Light. Like drinking it. She’d breathed it in, right? She stared at the sphere for a moment, then sucked in a sharp breath. It worked. The Light left the sphere, quick as a heartbeat, a bright line streaming into her chest. From there it spread, filling her. The unusual sensation made her feel anxious, alert, ready. Eager to be about . . . something. Her muscles tensed. “It worked,” she said, though when she spoke, Stormlight—glowing faintly—puffed out in front of her. It rose from her skin, too. She had to practice before it all left. Lightweaving . . . She needed to create something. She decided to go with what she’d done before, improving the look of her dress. Again, nothing happened. She didn’t know what to do, what
|
muscles to use, or even if muscles mattered. Frustrated, she sat there trying to find a way to make the Stormlight work, feeling inept as it escaped through her skin. It took several minutes for it to dissipate completely. “Well, that was distinctly unimpressive,” she said, moving to get more stalks of knobweed. “Maybe I should practice Soulcasting instead.” Pattern buzzed. “Dangerous.” “So Jasnah told me,” Shallan said. “But I don’t have her to teach me anymore, and so far as I know, she’s the only one who could have done so. It’s either practice on my own or never learn to use the ability.” She squeezed out another few drops of knobweed sap, moved to massage it into a cut on her foot, then stopped. The wound was noticeably smaller than it had been just moments ago. “The Stormlight is healing me,” Shallan said. “It makes you unbreak?” “Yes. Stormfather! I’m doing things almost by accident.” “Can something be ‘almost’ an accident?” Pattern asked, genuinely curious. “This phrase, I do not know what it means.” “I . . . Well, it’s mostly a figure of speech.” Then, before he could ask further, she continued, “And by that I mean something we say to convey an idea or a feeling, but not a literal fact.” Pattern buzzed. “What does that mean?” Shallan asked, massaging the knobweed in anyway. “When you buzz like that. What are you feeling?” “Hmmm . . . Excited. Yes. It has been so long since anyone has learned of you and your kind.” Shallan squeezed some more sap onto her toes. “You came to learn? Wait . . . you’re a scholar?” “Of course. Hmmm. Why else would I come? I will learn so much before—” He stopped abruptly. “Pattern?” she asked. “Before what?” “A figure of speech.” He said it perfectly flatly, absent of tone. He was growing better and better at speaking like a person, and at times he sounded just like one. But now all of the color had gone from his voice. “You’re lying,” she accused him, glancing at his pattern on the wall. He had shrunk, growing as small as a fist, half his usual size. “Yes,” he said reluctantly. “You’re a terrible liar,” Shallan said, surprised at the realization. “Yes.” “But you love lies!” “So fascinating,” he said. “You are all so fascinating.” “Tell me what you were going to say,” Shallan ordered. “Before you stopped yourself. I’ll know if you lie.” “Hmmmm. You sound like her. More and more like her.” “Tell me.” He buzzed with an annoyed sound, quick and high pitched. “I will learn what I can of you before you kill me.” “You think . . . You think I’m going to kill you?” “It happened to the others,” Pattern said, his voice softer now. “It will happen to me. It is . . . a pattern.” “This has to do with the Knights Radiant,” Shallan said, raising her hands to start braiding her hair. That would be better than leaving it wild—though without a comb and brush,
|
even braiding it was hard. Storms, she thought, I need a bath. And soap. And a dozen other things. “Yes,” Pattern said. “The knights killed their spren.” “How? Why?” “Their oaths,” Pattern said. “It is all I know. My kind, those who were unbonded, we retreated, and many kept our minds. Even still, it is hard to think apart from my kind, unless . . .” “Unless?” “Unless we have a person.” “So that’s what you get out of it,” Shallan said, untangling her hair with her fingers. “Symbiosis. I get access to Surgebinding, you get thought.” “Sapience,” Pattern said. “Thought. Life. These are of humans. We are ideas. Ideas that wish to live.” Shallan continued working on her hair. “I’m not going to kill you,” she said firmly. “I won’t do it.” “I don’t suppose the others intended to either,” he said. “But it is no matter.” “It is an important matter,” Shallan said. “I won’t do it. I’m not one of the Knights Radiant. Jasnah made that clear. A man who can use a sword isn’t necessarily a soldier. Just because I can do what I do doesn’t make me one of them.” “You spoke oaths.” Shallan froze. Life before death . . . The words drifted toward her from the shadows of her past. A past she would not think of. “You live lies,” Pattern said. “It gives you strength. But the truth . . . Without speaking truths you will not be able to grow, Shallan. I know this somehow.” She finished with her hair and moved to rewrap her feet. Pattern had moved to the other side of the rattling wagon chamber, settling onto the wall, only faintly visible in the dim light. She had a handful of infused spheres left. Not much Stormlight, considering how quickly that other had left her. Should she use what she had to further heal her feet? Could she even do that intentionally, or would the ability elude her, as Lightweaving had? She tucked the spheres into her safepouch. She would save them, just in case. For now, these spheres and their Light might be the only weapon available to her. Bandages redone, she stood up in the rattling wagon and found that her foot pain was nearly gone. She could walk almost normally, though she still wouldn’t want to go far without shoes. Pleased, she knocked on the wood nearest to Bluth. “Stop the wagon!” This time, she didn’t have to repeat herself. She rounded the wagon and, taking her seat beside Bluth, immediately noticed the smoke column ahead. It had grown darker, larger, roiling violently. “That’s no cook fire,” Shallan said. “Aye,” Bluth said, expression dark. “Something big is burning. Probably wagons.” He glanced at her. “Whoever is up there, it doesn’t look like things went well for them.” “New guys are coming along, gancho,” Lopen said, taking a bite of the paper-wrapped something he was eating. “Wearing their uniforms, talking like real men. Funny. It only took them a few days. Took us weeks.” “It took the rest
|
of the men weeks, but not you,” Kaladin said, shading his eyes from the sun and leaning on his spear. He was still on the lighteyes’ practice grounds, watching over Adolin and Renarin—the latter of whom was receiving his first instructions from Zahel the swordmaster. “You had a good attitude from the first day we found you, Lopen.” “Well, life was pretty good, you know?” “Pretty good? You’d just been assigned to carry siege bridges until you died on the plateaus.” “Eh,” Lopen said, taking a bite of his food. It looked like a thick piece of flatbread wrapped around something goopy. He licked his lips, then handed it to Kaladin to free his single hand so he could dig in his pocket for a moment. “You have bad days. You have good days. Evens out eventually.” “You’re a strange man, Lopen,” Kaladin said, inspecting the “food” Lopen had been eating. “What is this?” “Chouta.” “Chowder?” “Cha-ou-ta. Herdazian food, gon. Good stuff. You can have a bite, if you want.” It seemed to be chunks of undefinable meat slathered in some dark liquid, all wrapped in overly thick bread. “Disgusting,” Kaladin said, handing it back as Lopen gave him the thing he’d dug out of his pocket, a shell with glyphs written on both sides. “Your loss,” Lopen said, taking another bite. “You shouldn’t be walking around eating like that,” Kaladin noted. “It’s rude.” “Nah, it’s convenient. See, it’s wrapped up good. You can walk about, get stuff done, eat at the same time . . .” “Slovenly,” Kaladin said, inspecting the shell. It listed Sigzil’s tallies of how many troops they had, how much food Rock thought they’d need, and Teft’s assessments of how many of the former bridgemen were fit for training. That last number was pretty high. If bridgemen lived, they got strong carrying bridges. As Kaladin had proven firsthand, that translated to their making fine soldiers, assuming they could be motivated. On the reverse side of the shell, Sigzil had outlined a path for Kaladin to take on patrol outside the warcamps. He’d soon have enough of the greenvines ready to begin patrolling the region outside of the warcamps, as he’d told Dalinar he would do. Teft thought it would be good for Kaladin to go himself, as it would let the new men spend time with Kaladin. “Highstorm tonight,” Lopen noted. “Sig says it will come two hours after sunset. He thought you’d want to make preparations.” Kaladin nodded. Another chance for those mysterious numbers to appear—both times before, they’d come during storms. He’d make extra certain Dalinar and his family were being watched. “Thanks for the report,” Kaladin said, tucking the shell into his pocket. “Send back and tell Sigzil his proposed route takes me too far from the warcamps. Have him draw up another one. Also, tell Teft I need a few more men to come here today and relieve Moash and Drehy. They’ve both been pulling too many hours lately. I’ll guard Dalinar tonight myself—suggest to the highprince it would be convenient if his
|
entire family would be together for the highstorm.” “If the winds will, gon,” Lopen said, finishing his last bite of chouta. He whistled then, looking in at the practice grounds. “That is something, isn’t it?” Kaladin followed Lopen’s gaze. Adolin, having left his brother with Zahel, was now executing a training sequence with his Shardblade. Gracefully, he spun and twisted on the sands, sweeping his sword in broad, flowing patterns. On a practiced Shardbearer, Plate never looked clumsy. Imposing, resplendent, it fit to the form of the wearer. Adolin’s reflected sunlight like a mirror as he made sweeps of the sword, moving from one posture to the next. Kaladin knew it was just a warm-up sequence, more impressive than functional. You’d never do something like this on the battlefield, though many of the individual postures and cuts represented practical movements. Even knowing that, Kaladin had to shake off a feeling of awe. Shardbearers in Plate looked inhuman when they fought, more like Heralds than men. He caught Syl sitting on the edge of the roof overhang near Adolin, watching the young man. She was too distant for Kaladin to make out her expression. Adolin finished his warm-up in a move where he fell to one knee and slammed his Shardblade into the ground. It sank up to mid-blade, then vanished when he released it. “I’ve seen him summon that weapon before,” Kaladin said. “Yeah, gancho, on the battlefield, when we saved his sorry ass from Sadeas.” “No, before that,” Kaladin said, remembering an incident with a whore in Sadeas’s camp. “He saved someone who was being bullied.” “Huh,” Lopen said. “He can’t be too bad then, you know?” “I suppose. Anyway, off with you. Make sure to send that replacement team.” Lopen saluted, collecting Shen, who had been poking at practice swords along the side of the courtyard. Together, they jogged off on the errand. Kaladin did his rounds, checking on Moash and the others before walking over to where Renarin sat—still armored—on the ground before his new master. Zahel, the ardent with the ancient eyes, sat in a solemn posture that belied his ragged beard. “You will need to relearn how to fight, wearing that Plate. It changes the way a man steps, grips, moves.” “I . . .” Renarin looked down. It was very odd to see a man wearing spectacles in the magnificent armor. “I will not need to relearn how to fight, master. I never learned in the first place.” Zahel grunted. “That’s good. It means I don’t have to break down any old, bad habits.” “Yes, master.” “We’ll start you off easily, then,” Zahel said. “There are some steps at the corner over there. Climb up onto the roof of the dueling grounds. Then jump off.” Renarin looked up sharply. “. . . Jump?” “I’m old, son,” Zahel said. “Repeating myself makes me eat the wrong flower.” Kaladin frowned, and Renarin cocked his head, then looked at Kaladin questioningly. Kaladin shrugged. “Eat . . . what . . . ?” Renarin asked. “It means I get angry,”
|
Zahel snapped. “You people don’t have proper idioms for anything. Go!” Renarin sprang to his feet, kicking up sand, and hustled away. “Your helmet, son!” Zahel called. Renarin stopped, then scrambled back and snatched his helmet off the ground, nearly slipping onto his face as he did so. He spun, off balance, and ran awkwardly toward the stairs. He nearly plowed into a pillar on the way. Kaladin snorted softly. “Oh,” Zahel said, “and you assume you’d do better your first time wearing Shardplate, bodyguard?” “I doubt I’d forget my helmet,” Kaladin said, shouldering his spear and stretching. “If Dalinar Kholin intends to force the other highprinces into line, I think he’s going to need better Shardbearers than this. He should have picked someone else for that Plate.” “Like you?” “Storms no,” Kaladin said, perhaps too vehemently. “I’m a soldier, Zahel. I want nothing to do with Shards. The boy is likable enough, but I wouldn’t trust men to his command—let alone armor that could keep a much better soldier alive on the field—and that’s it.” “He’ll surprise you,” Zahel replied. “I gave him the whole ‘I’m your master and you do what I say’ talk, and he actually listened.” “Every soldier hears that on their first day,” Kaladin said. “Sometimes they listen. That the boy did is hardly noteworthy.” “If you knew how many spoiled ten-year-old lighteyed brats came through here,” Zahel said, “you’d think it worth noting. I thought a nineteen-year-old like him would be insufferable. And don’t call him a boy, boy. He’s probably close to your own age, and is the son of the most powerful human on this—” He cut off as scraping from atop the building announced Renarin Kholin charging and throwing himself off into the air, boots grinding against the stone coping of the roof. He sailed a good ten or twelve feet out over the courtyard—practiced Shardbearers could do far better—before floundering like a dying skyeel and crashing down into the sand. Zahel looked toward Kaladin, raising an eyebrow. “What?” Kaladin asked. “Enthusiasm, obedience, no fear of looking foolish,” Zahel said. “I can teach him how to fight, but those qualities are innate. This lad is going to do just fine.” “Assuming he doesn’t fall on anyone,” Kaladin said. Renarin climbed to his feet. He looked down, as if surprised that he hadn’t broken anything. “Go up and do it again!” Zahel called to Renarin. “This time, fall headfirst!” Renarin nodded, then turned and trotted off toward the stairwell. “You want him to be confident in how the Plate protects him,” Kaladin said. “Part of using Plate is knowing its limits,” Zahel said, turning back to Kaladin. “Plus, I just want him moving in it. Either way he’s listening, and that’s good. Teaching him is going to be a real pleasure. You, on the other hand, are another story.” Kaladin raised his hand. “Thanks, but no.” “You’d turn down an offer to train with a full weapons master?” Zahel asked. “I can count on one hand the number of darkeyes I’ve seen given that
|
chance.” “Yes, well, I’ve already done the ‘new recruit’ thing. Yelled at by sergeants, worked to the bone, marched for hours on end. Really, I’m fine.” “This isn’t the same at all,” Zahel said, waving down one of the ardents walking past. The man was carrying a Shardblade with metal guards over the sharp edges, one of the ones the king provided for training use. Zahel took the Shardblade from the ardent, holding it up. Kaladin nodded his chin at it. “What’s that on the Blade?” “Nobody’s sure,” Zahel said, swiping with the Blade. “Fit it to the edges of a Blade, and it will adapt to the shape of the weapon and make it safely blunt. Off the weapons, they break surprisingly easily. Useless in a fight on their own. Perfect for training, though.” Kaladin grunted. Something created long ago, for use in training? Zahel inspected the Shardblade for a moment, then pointed it directly toward Kaladin. Even with it blunted—even knowing the man wasn’t going to really attack him—Kaladin felt an immediate moment of panic. A Shardblade. This one had a slender, sleek form with a large crossguard. The flat sides of the blade were etched with the ten fundamental glyphs. It was a handspan wide and easily six feet long, yet Zahel held it with one hand and didn’t seem off balance. “Niter,” Zahel said. “What?” Kaladin asked, frowning. “He was head of the Cobalt Guard before you,” Zahel said. “He was a good man, and a friend. He died keeping the men of the Kholin house alive. Now you’ve got the same Damnation job, and you’re going to have a tough time doing it half as well as he did.” “I don’t see what that has to do with you waving a Shardblade at me.” “Anyone who sends assassins after Dalinar or his sons is going to be powerful,” Zahel said. “They’ll have access to Shardbearers. That’s what you’re up against, son. You’re going to need far more training than a battlefield gives a spearman. Have you ever fought a man holding one of these?” “Once or twice,” Kaladin said, relaxing against the nearby pillar. “Don’t lie to me.” “I’m not lying,” Kaladin said, meeting Zahel’s eyes. “Ask Adolin what I pulled his father out of a few weeks back.” Zahel lowered the sword. Behind him, Renarin dove face-first off the roof and crashed into the ground. He groaned inside his helm, rolling over. His helm leaked Light but he seemed otherwise unharmed. “Well done, Prince Renarin,” Zahel called without looking. “Now do a few more jumps and see if you can land on your feet.” Renarin rose and clinked off. “All right then,” Zahel said, sweeping the Shardblade in the air. “Let’s see what you can do, kid. Convince me to leave you alone.” Kaladin didn’t respond other than to heft his spear and settle into a defensive posture, one foot behind, one out front. He held his weapon with the butt forward instead of the point. Nearby, Adolin sparred with another one of the masters, who
|
had the second King’s Blade and a suit of Plate. How would this work? If Zahel scored a hit on Kaladin’s spear, would they pretend it had cut through? The ardent approached in a rush, raising the Blade in a two-handed grip. The familiar calmness and focus of battle enveloped Kaladin. He did not draw in Stormlight. He needed to be certain not to come to rely on it too much. Watch that Shardblade, Kaladin thought, stepping forward, trying to get inside the weapon’s reach. In fighting a Shardbearer, everything became about that Blade. The Blade that nothing could stop, the Blade that didn’t just kill the body—but severed the soul itself. The Blade— Zahel dropped the Blade. It hit the ground as Zahel got inside Kaladin’s reach. Kaladin had been too focused on the weapon, and though he tried to get his spear in position to strike, Zahel twisted and buried his fist into Kaladin’s stomach. The next punch—to the face—slammed Kaladin to the floor of the practice grounds. Kaladin immediately rolled, ignoring the painspren wiggling in the sand. He found his feet as his vision swam. He grinned. “Nice move, that.” Zahel was already turning back to Kaladin, Blade recovered. Kaladin scuttled backward on the sand, spear still forward, staying away. Zahel knew his way around a Blade. He didn’t fight like Adolin; fewer sweeping blows, more overhand chops. Quick and furious. He backed Kaladin around the side of the practice ground. He’ll get tired keeping this up, Kaladin’s instincts said. Keep him moving. After an almost complete circuit of the grounds, Zahel slowed his offense and instead rounded on Kaladin, watching for an opening. “You’d be in trouble if I had Plate,” Zahel said. “I’d be faster, wouldn’t tire.” “You don’t have Plate.” “And if someone comes for the king wearing it?” “I’ll use a different tactic.” Zahel grunted as Renarin crashed to the ground nearby. The prince almost kept his footing, but stumbled and fell to the side, skidding in the sand. “Well, if this were a real assassination attempt,” Zahel said, “I’d be using different tactics too.” He dashed toward Renarin. Kaladin cursed, taking off after Zahel. Immediately, the man reversed, skidding to a stop in the sand and spinning to swing at Kaladin with a powerful two-handed blow. The strike connected with Kaladin’s spear, sending a sharp crack echoing across the practice grounds. If the Blade hadn’t been guarded, it would have split the spear in two and perhaps grazed Kaladin’s chest. A watching ardent tossed Kaladin half a spear. They’d been waiting for his spear to be “cut,” and wanted to replicate a real fight as much as possible. Nearby, Moash had arrived, looking concerned, but several ardents intercepted him and explained. Kaladin looked back to Zahel. “In a real fight,” the man said, “I might have chased down the prince by now.” “In a real fight,” Kaladin said, “I might have stabbed you with half a spear when you thought me disarmed.” “I wouldn’t have made that mistake.” “Then we’ll have to assume I
|
wouldn’t have made the mistake of letting you get to Renarin.” Zahel grinned. It looked a dangerous expression on him. He stepped forward, and Kaladin understood. There would be no backing away and leading him off this time. Kaladin wouldn’t have that option if he were protecting a member of Dalinar’s family. Instead, he had to try his best to pretend to kill this man. That meant an attack. A prolonged, close-quarters fight would favor Zahel, as Kaladin couldn’t parry a Shardblade. Kaladin’s best bet was to strike fast and hope to score an early hit. Kaladin barreled forward, then threw himself to his knees, skidding on the sands underneath Zahel’s strike. That would get him close, and— Zahel kicked Kaladin in the face. Vision swimming, Kaladin rammed his fake spear into Zahel’s leg. The man’s Shardblade came down a second later, stopping where Kaladin’s shoulder met his neck. “You’re dead, son,” Zahel said. “You’ve got a spear through the leg,” Kaladin said, puffing. “You aren’t chasing down Renarin like that. I win.” “You’re still dead,” Zahel said with a grunt. “My job is to stop you from killing Renarin. With what I just did, he escapes. Doesn’t matter if the bodyguard is dead.” “And what if the assassin had a friend?” another voice asked from behind. Kaladin twisted to see Adolin, in full Plate and standing with his Shardblade point stuck into the ground before him. He’d removed his helm, and held it in one hand, the other hand resting on the Blade’s crossguard. “If there were two of them, bridgeboy?” Adolin asked with a smirk. “Could you fight two Shardbearers at once? If I wanted to kill Father or the king, I’d never send just one.” Kaladin stood, rolling his shoulder in its socket. He met Adolin’s gaze. So condescending. So sure of himself. Arrogant bastard. “All right,” Zahel said. “I’m sure he sees the point, Adolin. No need—” Kaladin charged the princeling, and he thought he heard Adolin chuckling as he put on his helm. Something boiled inside of Kaladin. The nameless Shardbearer who had killed so many of his friends. Sadeas, sitting regally in red armor. Amaram, hands on a sword stained with blood. Kaladin screamed as Adolin’s unguarded Shardblade came for him in one of the careful, sweeping strokes from Adolin’s practice session. Kaladin pulled himself up short, raising his half-spear and letting the Blade pass right before him. Then he slapped the back edge of the Shardblade with his spear, knocking Adolin’s grip to the side and fouling up the follow-through. Kaladin barreled forward and threw his shoulder against the prince. It was like slamming into a wall. Kaladin’s shoulder flared with pain, but the momentum—along with the surprise of his cudgel blow—knocked Adolin off balance. Kaladin forced both of them backward, the Shardbearer toppling to the ground with a crash and a surprised grunt. Renarin made a twin crash, falling to the ground nearby. Kaladin raised his half-spear like a dagger to plunge it toward Adolin’s faceplate. Unfortunately, Adolin had dismissed his Blade as they
|
fell. The princeling got a gauntleted hand up underneath Kaladin. Kaladin slammed his weapon downward. Adolin heaved upward with one hand. Kaladin’s blow didn’t connect; instead he found himself airborne, thrown with all the Plate-augmented strength of a Shardbearer. He floundered in the air before slamming down eight feet away, the sand grinding into his side, the shoulder he’d hit against Adolin flaring in pain again. Kaladin gasped. “Idiot!” Zahel yelled. Kaladin groaned, rolling over. His vision swam. “You could have killed the boy!” He was talking to Adolin somewhere far away. “He attacked me!” Adolin’s voice was muffled by the helm. “You challenged him, fool child.” Zahel’s voice was closer. “Then he asked for it,” Adolin said. Pain. Someone at Kaladin’s side. Zahel? “You’re wearing Plate, Adolin.” Yes, that was Zahel kneeling above Kaladin, whose vision refused to focus. “You don’t throw an unarmored sparring partner like he’s a bundle of sticks. Your father taught you better than that!” Kaladin sucked in sharply and forced his eyes open. Stormlight from the pouch at his belt filled him. Not too much. Don’t let them see. Don’t let them take it away from you! Pain vanished. His shoulder reknit—he didn’t know if he’d broken it or just dislocated it. Zahel cried out in surprise as Kaladin pitched himself up to his feet and dashed back toward Adolin. The prince stumbled away, hand out to his side, obviously summoning his Blade. Kaladin kicked his fallen half-spear up in a spray of sand, then grabbed it in midair as he got near. In that moment, the strength drained from him. The tempest inside of him fled without warning, and he stumbled, gasping at the returning pain of his shoulder. Adolin caught him by the arm with a gauntleted fist. The prince’s Shardblade formed in his other hand, but in that moment, a second Blade stopped at Kaladin’s neck. “You’re dead,” Zahel said from behind, holding the Blade against Kaladin’s skin. “Again.” Kaladin sank down in the middle of the practice grounds, dropping his half-spear. He felt completely drained. What had happened? “Go give your brother some help with his jumping,” Zahel ordered Adolin. Why did he get to order around princes? Adolin left and Zahel knelt beside Kaladin. “You don’t flinch when someone swings a Blade at you. You actually have fought Shardbearers before, haven’t you?” “Yeah.” “You’re lucky to be alive, then,” Zahel said, probing at Kaladin’s shoulder. “You’ve got tenacity. A stupid amount of it. You have good form, and you think well in a fight. But you hardly know what you’re doing against Shardbearers.” “I . . .” What should he say? Zahel was right. It was arrogant to say otherwise. Two fights—three, if he counted today—did not make one an expert. He winced as Zahel prodded a sore tendon. More painspren on the ground. He was giving them a workout today. “Nothing broken here,” Zahel said with a grunt. “How are your ribs?” “They’re fine,” Kaladin said, lying back in the sand, staring up at the sky. “Well, I won’t force
|
you to learn,” Zahel said, standing up. “I don’t think I could force you, actually.” Kaladin squeezed his eyes shut. He felt humiliated, but why should he? He’d lost sparring matches before. It happened all the time. “You remind me a lot of him,” Zahel said. “Adolin wouldn’t let me teach him either. Not at first.” Kaladin opened his eyes. “I’m nothing like him.” Zahel barked a laugh at that, then stood and walked away, chuckling, as if he’d heard the finest joke in all the world. Kaladin continued to lie on the sand, staring upward at the deep blue sky, listening to the sounds of men sparring. Eventually, Syl flitted over and landed on his chest. “What happened?” Kaladin asked. “The Stormlight drained from me. I felt it go.” “Who were you protecting?” Syl asked. “I . . . I was practicing how to fight, like when I practiced with Skar and Rock down in the chasms.” “Is that really what you were doing?” Syl asked. He didn’t know. He lay there, staring at the sky, until he finally caught his breath and forced himself to his feet with a groan. He dusted himself off, then went to check on Moash and the other guards. As he went, he drew in a little Stormlight, and it worked, slowly healing his shoulder and soothing away his bruises. The physical ones, at least. FIVE AND A HALF YEARS AGO The silk of Shallan’s new dress was softer than any she had owned before. It touched her skin like a comforting breeze. The left cuff clipped closed over the hand; she was old enough now to cover her safehand. She had once dreamed of wearing a woman’s dress. Her mother and she . . . Her mother . . . Shallan’s mind went still. Like a candle suddenly snuffed, she stopped thinking. She leaned back in her chair, legs tucked up underneath her, hands in her lap. The dreary stone dining chamber bustled with activity as Davar Manor prepared for guests. Shallan did not know which guests, only that her father wanted the place immaculate. Not that she could do anything to help. Two maids bustled past. “She saw,” one whispered softly to the other, a new woman. “Poor thing was in the room when it happened. Hasn’t spoken a word in five months. The master killed his own wife and her lover, but don’t let it . . .” They continued talking, but Shallan didn’t hear. She kept her hands in her lap. Her dress’s vibrant blue was the only real color in the room. She sat on the dais, beside the high table. A half-dozen maids in brown, wearing gloves on their safehands, scrubbed the floor and polished the furniture. Parshmen carted in a few more tables. A maid threw open the windows, letting in damp fresh air from the recent highstorm. Shallan caught mention of her name again. The maids apparently thought that because she didn’t speak, she didn’t hear either. At times, she wondered if she was invisible. Perhaps she
|
wasn’t real. That would be nice. . . . The door to the hall slammed open, and Nan Helaran entered. Tall, muscular, square-chinned. Her oldest brother was a man. The rest of them . . . they were children. Even Tet Balat, who had reached the age of adulthood. Helaran scanned the chamber, perhaps looking for their father. Then he approached Shallan, a small bundle under his arm. The maids made way with alacrity. “Hello, Shallan,” Helaran said, squatting down beside her chair. “Here to supervise?” It was a place to be. Father did not like her being where she could not be watched. He worried. “I brought you something,” Helaran said, unwrapping his bundle. “I ordered it for you in Northgrip, and the merchant only just passed by.” He took out a leather satchel. Shallan took it hesitantly. Helaran’s grin was so wide, it practically glowed. It was hard to frown in a room where he was smiling. When he was around, she could almost pretend . . . Almost pretend . . . Her mind went blank. “Shallan?” he asked, nudging her. She undid the satchel. Inside was a sheaf of drawing paper, the thick kind—the expensive kind—and a set of charcoal pencils. She raised her covered safehand to her lips. “I’ve missed your drawings,” Helaran said. “I think you could be very good, Shallan. You should practice more.” She ran the fingers of her right hand across the paper, then picked up a pencil. She started to sketch. It had been too long. “I need you to come back, Shallan,” Helaran said softly. She hunched over, pencil scratching on paper. “Shallan?” No words. Just drawing. “I’m going to be away a lot in the next few years,” Helaran said. “I need you to watch the others for me. I’m worried about Balat. I gave him a new axehound pup, and he . . . wasn’t kind to it. You need to be strong, Shallan. For them.” The maids had grown quiet since Helaran’s arrival. Lethargic vines curled down outside the window nearby. Shallan’s pencil continued to move. As if she weren’t doing the drawing; as if it were coming up out of the page, the charcoal seeping out of the texture. Like blood. Helaran sighed, standing. Then he saw what she was drawing. Bodies, facedown, on the floor with— He grabbed the paper and crumpled it. Shallan started, pulling back, fingers shaking as she clutched the pencil. “Draw plants,” Helaran said, “and animals. Safe things, Shallan. Don’t dwell on what happened.” Tears trickled down her cheeks. “We can’t have vengeance yet,” Helaran said softly. “Balat can’t lead the house, and I must be away. Soon, though.” The door slammed open. Father was a big man, bearded in careless defiance of fashion. His Veden clothing eschewed the modern designs. Instead, Father wore a skirtlike garment of silk called an ulatu and a tight shirt with a robe over the top. No mink pelts, as his grandfathers might have worn, but otherwise very, very traditional. He towered taller than Helaran, taller
|
than anyone else on the estate. More parshmen entered after him, carrying bundles of food for the kitchens. All three had marbled skin, two red on black and one red on white. Father liked parshmen. They did not talk back. “I got word that you told the stable to prepare one of my carriages, Helaran!” Father bellowed. “I’ll not have you gallivanting off again!” “There are more important things in this world,” Helaran said. “More important even than you and your crimes.” “Do not speak that way to me,” Father said, stalking forward, finger pointed at Helaran. “I am your father.” Maids scurried to the side of the room, trying to stay out of the way. Shallan pulled the satchel up against her chest, trying to hide in her chair. “You are a murderer,” Helaran said calmly. Father stopped in place, face gone red beneath his beard. He then continued forward. “How dare you! You think I can’t have you imprisoned? Because you’re my heir, you think I—” Something formed in Helaran’s hand, a line of mist that coalesced into silvery steel. A Blade some six feet long, curved and thick, with the side that wasn’t sharp rising into a shape like burning flames or perhaps ripples of water. It had a gemstone set at the pommel, and as light reflected off the metal, the ridges seemed to move. Helaran was a Shardbearer. Stormfather! How? When? Father cut off, pulling up short. Helaran hopped down from the low dais, then leveled the Shardblade at his father. The point touched Father’s chest. Father raised his hands to the sides, palms forward. “You are a vile corruption upon this house,” Helaran said. “I should shove this through your chest. To do so would be a mercy.” “Helaran . . .” The passion seemed to have bled from Father, like the color from his face, which had gone stark white. “You don’t know what you think you know. Your mother—” “I will not listen to your lies,” Helaran said, rotating his wrist, twisting the sword in his hand, point still against Father’s chest. “So easy.” “No,” Shallan whispered. Helaran cocked his head, then turned, not moving the sword. “No,” Shallan said, “please.” “You speak now?” Helaran said. “To defend him?” He laughed. A wild bark of a noise. He whipped the sword away from Father’s chest. Father sat down in a dining chair, face still pale. “How? A Shardblade. Where?” He glanced suddenly upward. “But no. It’s different. Your new friends? They trust you with this wealth?” “We have an important work to do,” Helaran said, turning and striding to Shallan. He laid a hand fondly on her shoulder. He continued more softly. “I will tell you of it someday, Sister. It is good to hear your voice again before I leave.” “Don’t go,” she whispered. The words felt like gauze in her mouth. It had been months since she’d last spoken. “I must. Please do some drawings for me while I’m gone. Of fanciful things. Of brighter days. Can you do that?” She nodded.
|
“Farewell, Father,” Helaran said, turning and striding from the room. “Try not to ruin too much while I’m gone. I will come back periodically to check.” His voice echoed in the hallway outside as he left. Brightlord Davar stood, roaring. The few maids left in the room fled out the side door into the gardens. Shallan shrank back, horrified, as her father picked up his chair and slammed it into the wall. He kicked over a small dining table, then took the chairs one at a time and smashed them into the floor with repeated, brutal blows. Breathing deeply, he turned his eyes on her. Shallan whimpered at the rage, the lack of humanity, in his eyes. As they focused on her, the life returned to them. Father dropped a broken chair and turned his back toward her, as if ashamed, before fleeing the room. The sun was a smoldering ember on the horizon, sinking toward oblivion, as Shallan and her little caravan neared the source of the smoke in front of them. Though the column had dwindled, she could now make out that it had three different sources, rising into the air and twisting into one. She climbed to her feet on the rocking wagon as they rolled up one last hill, then stopped on the side, mere feet away from letting her see what was out there. Of course; cresting the hill would be a very bad idea if bandits waited below. Bluth climbed down from his wagon and jogged forward. He wasn’t terribly nimble, but he was the best scout they had. He crouched and removed his too-fine hat, then made his way up the hillside to peek over. A moment later, he stood up straight, no longer attempting stealth. Shallan hopped down from her seat and hurried over, skirts catching on the twisted branches of crustspines here and there. She reached the top of the hill just before Tvlakv did. Three caravan wagons smoldered quietly below, and the signs of a battle littered the ground. Fallen arrows, a group of corpses in a pile. Shallan’s heart leaped as she saw the living among the dead. A scattering of tired figures combed through the rubble or moved bodies. They weren’t dressed like bandits, but like honest caravan workers. Five more wagons were clustered on the far side of the camp. Some were scorched, but they all looked functional and still laden with goods. Armed men and women tended their wounds. Guards. A group of frightened parshmen cared for the chulls. These people had been attacked, but they had survived. “Kelek’s breath . . .” Tvlakv said. He turned and shooed Bluth and Shallan backward. “Back, before they see.” “What?” Bluth said, though he obeyed. “But it’s another caravan, as we’d hoped.” “Yes, and they needn’t know we are here. They might want to speak to us, and that could slow us. Look!” He pointed backward. In the waning light, Shallan could make out a shadow cresting a hill not far behind them. The deserters. She waved for Tvlakv to
|
surrender his spyglass, and he did so reluctantly. The lens was cracked, but Shallan still got a good look at the force. The thirty or so men were soldiers, as Bluth had reported. They flew no banner, and did not march in formation or wear one uniform, but they looked well equipped. “We need to go down and ask the other caravan for help,” Shallan said. “No!” Tvlakv said, snatching the spyglass back. “We need to flee! The bandits will see this richer but weakened group and will fall upon them instead of us!” “And you think they won’t chase us after that?” Shallan said. “With our tracks so easily visible? You think they won’t run us down in the following days?” “There should be a highstorm tonight,” Tvlakv said. “It might cover our tracks, blowing away the shells of the plants we crush.” “Unlikely,” Shallan said. “If we stand with this new caravan, we can add our little strength to theirs. We can hold. It—” Bluth held up a hand suddenly, turning. “A noise.” He spun around, reaching for his cudgel. A figure stood up nearby, hidden by shadows. Apparently, the caravan below had a scout of its own. “You led them right toward us, did you?” asked a woman’s voice. “What are they? More bandits?” Tvlakv held up his sphere, which revealed the scout to be a lighteyed woman of medium height and wiry build. She wore trousers and a long coat that almost looked like a dress, buckled at the waist. She wore a tan glove over her safehand, and spoke Alethi without an accent. “I . . .” Tvlakv said. “I am just a humble merchant, and—” “The ones chasing us are certainly bandits,” Shallan cut in. “They have chased us all day.” The woman cursed, raising a spyglass of her own. “Good equipment,” she mumbled. “Deserters, I’d guess. As if this weren’t bad enough. Yix!” A second figure stood up nearby, wearing tan clothing the color of stone. Shallan jumped. How had she missed spotting him? He was so close! He had a sword at his waist. A lighteyes? No, a foreigner, judging by that golden hair. She never was sure what eye color meant for their social standing. There weren’t people with light eyes in the Makabaki region, though they had kings, and practically everyone in Iri had light yellow eyes. He jogged over, hand on his weapon, watching Bluth and Tag with overt hostility. The woman said something to him in a tongue Shallan didn’t know, and he nodded, then jogged off toward the caravan below. The woman followed. “Wait,” Shallan called to her. “I don’t have time to talk,” the woman snapped. “We’ve got two bandit groups to fight.” “Two?” Shallan said. “You didn’t defeat the one that attacked you earlier?” “We fought them off, but they’ll be back soon.” The woman hesitated on the side of the hill. “The fire was an accident, I think. They were using flaming brands to scare us. They pulled back to let us fight the fires, as
|
they didn’t want to lose any more goods.” Two forces, then. Bandits ahead and behind. Shallan found herself sweating in the cold air as the sun finally vanished beneath the western horizon. The woman was looking northward, toward where her group of bandits must have retreated. “Yeah, they’ll be back,” the woman said. “They’ll want to be done with us before the storm comes tonight.” “I offer you my protection,” Shallan found herself saying. “Your protection?” the woman said, turning back to Shallan, sounding baffled. “You may accept me and mine into your camp,” Shallan said. “I will see to your safety tonight. I will need your service after that to convey me to the Shattered Plains.” The woman laughed. “You are gutsy, whoever you are. You can join our camp, but you’ll die there with the rest of us!” Cries rose from the caravan. A second later, a flight of arrows fell through the night from that direction, pelting wagons and caravan workers. Screams. Bandits followed, emerging from the blackness. They weren’t nearly as well equipped as the deserters, but they didn’t need to be. The caravan had fewer than a dozen guards left. The woman cursed and started running down the hillside. Shallan shivered, eyes wide at the sudden slaughter below. Then she turned and walked to Tvlakv’s wagons. This sudden chill was familiar to her. The coldness of clarity. She knew what she had to do. She didn’t know if it would work, but she saw the solution—like lines in a drawing, coming together to transform random scribbles into a full picture. “Tvlakv,” she said, “take Tag below and try to help those people fight.” “What!” he said. “No. No, I will not throw my life away for your foolishness.” She met his eyes in the near darkness, and he stopped. She knew that she was glowing softly; she could feel the storm within. “Do it.” She left him and walked to her wagon. “Bluth, turn this wagon around.” He stood with a sphere beside the wagon, looking down at something in his hand. A sheet of paper? Surely Bluth of all people didn’t know glyphs. “Bluth!” Shallan snapped, climbing into the wagon. “We need to be moving. Now!” He shook himself, then tucked the paper away and scrambled into the seat beside her. He whipped at the chull, turning it. “What are we doing?” he asked. “Heading south.” “Into the bandits?” “Yes.” For once, he did as she told him without complaint, whipping the chull faster—as if he were eager to just get this all over with. The wagon rattled and shook as they went down one hillside, then climbed another. They reached the top and looked down at the force climbing toward them. The men carried torches and sphere lanterns, so she could see their faces. Dark expressions on grim men with weapons drawn. Their breastplates or leather jerkins might once have held symbols of allegiance, but she could see where those had been cut or scratched away. The deserters looked at her with obvious shock. They
|
had not expected their prey to come to them. Her arrival stunned them for a moment. An important moment. There will be an officer, Shallan thought, standing up on her seat. They are soldiers, or once were. They’ll have a command structure. She took a deep breath. Bluth raised his sphere, looking at her, and grunted as if surprised. “Bless the Stormfather that you’re here!” Shallan cried to the men. “I need your help desperately.” The group of deserters just stared at her. “Bandits,” Shallan said. “They’re attacking our friends in the caravan just two hills over. It’s a slaughter! I said I’d seen soldiers back here, moving toward the Shattered Plains. Nobody believed me. Please. You must help.” Again, they just stared at her. A little like the mink wandering into the whitespine’s den and asking when dinner is . . . she thought. Finally, the men shuffled uneasily and turned toward a man near the center. Tall, bearded, he had arms that looked too long for his body. “Bandits, you say,” the man replied, voice empty of emotion. Shallan leaped down from the wagon and walked toward the man, leaving Bluth sitting as a silent lump. Deserters stepped away from her, wearing ripped and dirty clothing, with grizzled, unkempt hair and faces that hadn’t seen a razor—or a washcloth—in ages. And yet, by torchlight, their weapons gleamed without a spot of rust and their breastplates were polished to the point where they reflected her features. The woman she glimpsed in one breastplate looked too tall, too stately, to be Shallan herself. Instead of tangled hair, she had flowing red locks. Instead of refugee rags, she wore a gown woven with golden embroidery. She had not been wearing a necklace before, and when she raised her hand toward the leader of the band, her chipped fingernails appeared perfectly manicured. “Brightness,” the man said as she stepped up to him, “we aren’t what you think we are.” “No,” Shallan replied. “You aren’t what you think yourselves to be.” Those around her in the firelight regarded her with eager stares, and she felt the hair rising in a shiver across her body. Into the predator’s den indeed. Yet the tempest within her spurred her to action, and urged her to greater confidence. The leader opened his mouth as if to give some order. Shallan cut him off. “What is your name?” “I’m called Vathah,” the man said, turning toward his allies. It was a Vorin name, like Shallan’s own. “And I’ll decide what to do with you later. Gaz, take this one and—” “What would you do, Vathah,” Shallan said in a loud voice, “to erase the past?” He looked back toward her, face lit on one side by primal torchlight. “Would you protect instead of kill, if you had the choice?” Shallan asked. “Would you rescue instead of rob if you could do it over again? Good people are dying as we speak here. You can stop it.” Those dark eyes of his seemed dead. “We can’t change the past.” “I can
|
change your future.” “We are wanted men.” “Yes, I came here wanting men. Hoping to find men. You are offered the chance to be soldiers again. Come with me. I will see to it you have new lives. Those lives start by saving instead of killing.” Vathah snorted in derision. His face looked unfinished in the night, rough, like a sketch. “Brightlords have failed us in the past.” “Listen,” Shallan said. “Listen to the screams.” The piteous sounds reached them from behind her. Shouts for help. Workers, both men and women, from the caravan. Dying. Haunting sounds. Shallan was surprised, despite having pointed them out, how well the sounds carried. How much they sounded like pleas for help. “Give yourself another chance,” Shallan said softly. “If you return with me, I will see that your crimes are erased. I promise it to you, by all that I have, by the Almighty himself. You can start over. Start over as heroes.” Vathah held her eyes. This man was stone. She could see, with a sinking feeling, that he wasn’t swayed. The tempest inside of her began to fade away, and her fears boiled higher. What was she doing? This was crazy! Vathah looked away from her again, and she knew she’d lost him. He barked the order to take her captive. Nobody moved. Shallan had focused only on him, not the other two dozen or so men, who had drawn in close, torches raised high. They looked at her with open faces, and she saw very little of the lust she’d noticed before. Instead, they bore wide eyes, longing, reacting to the distant yells. Men fingered their uniforms, where the insignias had been. Others looked down at spears and axes, weapons of their service perhaps not so long ago. “You fools are considering this?” Vathah said. One man, a short fellow with a scarred face and an eye patch, nodded his head. “I wouldn’t mind starting over,” he muttered. “Storms, but it would be nice.” “I saved a woman’s life once,” another said, a tall, balding man who was easily into his forties. “I felt a hero for weeks. Toasts in the tavern. Warmth. Damnation! We’re dying out here.” “We left to get away from their oppression!” Vathah bellowed. “And what have we done with our freedom, Vathah?” a man asked from the back of the group. In the silence that followed, Shallan could hear only the screams for help. “Storm it, I’m going,” said the short man with the eye patch, jogging up the hill. Others broke off and followed him. Shallan turned—hands clasped in front of her—as nearly the entire group took off in a charge. Bluth stood up on his wagon, his shocked face showing in the torchlight that passed. Then he actually whooped, jumping down from the wagon and raising his cudgel high as he joined the deserters charging toward the battle. Shallan was left with Vathah and two other men. Those seemed dumbfounded by what had just happened. Vathah folded his arms, letting out an audible sigh. “Idiots,
|
every one.” “They are not idiots for wanting to be better than they are,” Shallan said. He snorted, looking her over. She had an immediate flash of fear. Moments ago, this man was ready to rob her and probably worse. He didn’t make any moves toward her, though his face looked even more threatening now that most of the torches had gone. “Who are you?” he asked. “Shallan Davar.” “Well, Brightness Shallan,” he said, “I hope for your sake you can keep your word. Come on, boys. Let’s see if we can keep those fools alive.” He left with the others who had remained behind, marching up over the hill toward the fighting. Shallan stood alone in the night, exhaling softly. No Light came out; she’d used it all. Her feet were no longer so much as sore, but she felt exhausted, drained like a punctured wineskin. She walked to the wagon and slumped against it, then finally settled down on the ground. Head back, she looked up at the sky. A few exhaustionspren rose around her, little swirls of dust spinning into the air. Salas, the first moon, made a violet disc in the center of a cluster of bright white stars. The screams and yells of fighting continued. Would the deserters be enough? She didn’t know how many bandits there were. She’d be useless there, only getting in the way. She squeezed her eyes shut, then climbed up into the seat and took out her sketchbook. To the sounds of the fighting and dying, she sketched the glyphs for a prayer of hope. “They listened,” Pattern said, buzzing from beside her. “You changed them.” “I can’t believe it worked,” Shallan said. “Ah . . . You are good with lies.” “No, I mean, that was a figure of speech. It seems impossible that they’d actually listen to me. Hardened criminals.” “You are lies and truth,” Pattern said softly. “They transform.” “What does that mean?” It was hard to sketch with only the light of Salas to see by, but she did her best. “You spoke of one Surge, earlier,” Pattern said. “Lightweaving, the power of light. But you have something else. The power of transformation.” “Soulcasting?” Shallan said. “I didn’t Soulcast anyone.” “Mmmm. And yet, you transformed them. And yet. Mmmm.” Shallan finished her prayer, then held it up, noticing that a previous page had been ripped out of the notebook. Who had done that? She couldn’t burn the prayer, but she didn’t think the Almighty would mind. She pressed it close to her breast and closed her eyes, waiting until the shouts from below quieted. Shallan closed Bluth’s eyes, not looking at the ripped-out hole in his torso, the bloody entrails. Around her, workers salvaged what they could from the camp. People groaned, though some of those groans cut off as Vathah executed the bandits one by one. Shallan didn’t stop him. He did the duty grimly, and as he walked past he didn’t look at her. He’s thinking these bandits could have easily been him and his men,
|
Shallan thought, looking back down at Bluth, his dead face lit by fires. What separates the heroes from the villains? One speech in the night? Bluth wasn’t the only casualty of the assault; Vathah had lost seven soldiers. They had killed over twice that many bandits. Exhausted, Shallan rose, but hesitated as she saw something poking out of Bluth’s jacket. She leaned down and pushed the jacket open. There, stuffed in his pocket, was her picture of him. The one that depicted him not as he was, but as she imagined he might once have been. A soldier in an army, in a crisp uniform. Eyes forward, rather than looking down all the time. A hero. When had he taken it from her sketchbook? She slipped it free and folded it, flattening the wrinkles. “I was wrong,” she whispered. “You were a fine way to restart my collection, Bluth. Fight well for the Almighty in your sleep, bold one.” She rose and looked over the camp. Several of the caravan’s parshmen pulled corpses to the fires for burning. Shallan’s intervention had rescued the merchants, but not without heavy losses. She hadn’t counted, but the toll looked high. Dozens dead, including most of the caravan’s guards—among them the Iriali man from earlier in the night. In her fatigue, Shallan wanted to crawl into her wagon and curl up for sleep. Instead, she went looking for the caravan leaders. The haggard, bloodstained scout from before stood beside a travel table, where she was talking to an older, bearded man in a felt cap. His eyes were blue, and he moved his fingers through his beard as he looked over a list the woman had brought him. Both looked up as Shallan approached. The woman rested a hand on her sword; the man continued to stroke his beard. Nearby, caravan workers sorted through the contents of a wagon that had toppled over, spilling bales of cloth. “And here is our savior,” the older man said. “Brightness, the winds themselves cannot speak of your majesty or the wonder of your timely arrival.” Shallan didn’t feel majestic. She felt tired, sore, and grungy. Her bare feet—hidden by the bottom of her skirts—had started to ache again, and her ability to Lightweave was expended. Her dress looked almost as bad as a pauper’s, and her hair—though braided—was an absolute mess. “You are the caravan owner?” Shallan asked. “Macob is my name,” he said. She couldn’t place his accent. Not Thaylen or Alethi. “You have met my associate Tyn.” He nodded toward the woman. “She is head of our guards. Both her soldiers and my goods have . . . dwindled from tonight’s encounters.” Tyn folded her arms. She still wore her tan coat, and in the light of Macob’s spheres, Shallan could see that it was of fine leather. What to make of a woman who dressed like a soldier and wore a sword at her waist? “I’ve been telling Macob of your offer,” Tyn said. “Earlier, on the hill.” Macob chuckled, an incongruous sound considering their surroundings.
|
“Offer, she calls it. My associate is under the impression that it was really a threat! These mercenaries obviously work for you. We are wondering what your intention is for this caravan.” “The mercenaries didn’t work for me before,” Shallan said, “but they do now. It took a little persuasion.” Tyn raised an eyebrow. “That must have been some mighty fine persuasion, Brightness . . .” “Shallan Davar. All I ask of you is what I said to Tyn before. Accompany me to the Shattered Plains.” “Surely your soldiers can do that,” Macob said. “You don’t need our assistance.” I want you here to remind the “soldiers” what they’ve done, Shallan thought. Her instincts said that the more reminders of civilization the deserters had, the better off she would be. “They are soldiers,” Shallan said. “They have no idea how to properly convey a lighteyed woman in comfort. You, however, have nice wagons and goods aplenty. If you can’t tell from my humble aspect, I am in dreadful need of a little luxury. I’d rather not arrive at the Shattered Plains looking like a vagabond.” “We could use her soldiers,” Tyn said. “My own force is reduced to a handful.” She inspected Shallan again, this time with curiosity. It wasn’t an unfriendly look. “Then we shall make an accord,” Macob said, smiling broadly and reaching across the table toward Shallan. “In my gratitude for my life, I shall see you cared for with new apparel and fine foodstuffs for the duration of our travels together. You and your men will ensure our safety the rest of the way, and then we will part, nothing more owed to one another.” “Agreed,” Shallan said, taking his hand. “I shall allow you to join me, your caravan unto mine.” He hesitated. “Your caravan.” “Yes.” “And your authority, then, I assume?” “You expected otherwise?” He sighed, but shook on the deal. “No, I suppose not. I suppose not.” He released her hand, then waved toward a pair of people off at the side of the wagons. Tvlakv and Tag. “And what of those?” “They are mine,” Shallan said. “I will deal with them.” “Just keep them at the back of the caravan, if you will,” Macob said, wrinkling his nose. “Grimy business. I’d rather not our caravan stink of those wares. Either way, you’d best be about gathering your people. There will be a highstorm soon. With our lost wagons, we have no extra shelter.” Shallan left them and made her way across the valley, trying to ignore the mingled stench of blood and char. A shape split from the darkness, moving in beside her. Vathah didn’t look any less intimidating in the better light here. “Well?” Shallan asked him. “Some of my men are dead,” he said, his voice a monotone. “They died doing a very good work,” Shallan said, “and the families of these who lived will bless them for their sacrifice.” Vathah took her arm, pulling her to a stop. His grip was firm, even painful. “You don’t look like you did before,”
|
he said. She hadn’t realized how much he towered over her. “Did my eyes mistake me? I saw a queen in the darkness. Now I see a child.” “Perhaps you saw what your conscience needed you to see,” Shallan said, tugging—unsuccessfully—on her arm. She blushed. Vathah leaned in. His breath wasn’t particularly sweet. “My men have done worse things than this,” he whispered, waving his other hand at the burning dead. “Out in the wilderness, we took. We killed. You think one night absolves us? You think one night will stop the nightmares?” Shallan felt a hollowness in her stomach. “If we go with you to the Shattered Plains, we’re dead men,” Vathah said. “We’ll be hanged the moment we return.” “My word—” “Your word means nothing, woman!” he shouted, grip tensing. “You should let her go,” Pattern said calmly from behind him. Vathah spun, looking about, but they weren’t near anyone in particular. Shallan spotted Pattern on the back of Vathah’s uniform as he turned. “Who said that?” Vathah demanded. “I heard nothing,” Shallan said, somehow managing to sound calm. “You should let her go,” Pattern repeated. Vathah looked around again, then back at Shallan, who met his gaze with a level stare. She even forced out a smile. He let go of her and wiped his hand on his trousers, then retreated. Pattern slipped down his back and leg onto the ground, then skimmed toward Shallan. “That one will be trouble,” Shallan said, rubbing the place where he’d gripped her. “Is this a figure of speech?” Pattern asked. “No. I mean what I said.” “Curious,” Pattern said, watching Vathah retreat, “because I think he already is trouble.” “True.” She continued her way toward Tvlakv, who sat on the seat of his wagon with hands clasped before him. He smiled toward Shallan as she arrived, though the expression seemed particularly thin on him today. “So,” he asked conversationally, “were you in on it from the start?” “In on what?” Shallan asked wearily, shooing Tag away so she could talk to Tvlakv in private. “Bluth’s plan.” “Please, do tell.” “Obviously,” Tvlakv said, “he was in league with the deserters. That first night, when he came running back to the camp, he’d met with them and promised to let them take us if he could share in the wealth. That was why they did not immediately kill you two when you went to speak with them.” “Oh?” Shallan asked. “And if that were the case, why did Bluth come back and warn us that night? Why did he flee with us, instead of just letting his ‘friends’ kill us right then?” “Perhaps he only met with a few of them,” Tvlakv said. “Yes, they lit fires on that hillside in the night to make us think there were more, and then his friends went to gather a larger crowd . . . And . . .” He deflated. “Storms. That doesn’t make any sense. But how, why? We should be dead.” “The Almighty preserved us,” Shallan said. “Your Almighty is a farce.” “You
|
should hope he is,” Shallan said, walking to the back of Tag’s wagon nearby. “For if he is not, then Damnation itself awaits men like you.” She inspected the cage. Five slaves in grimy clothing huddled inside, each one looking alone, though they were crammed in close. “These are mine now,” Shallan told Tvlakv. “What!” he stood up on his seat. “You—” “I saved your life, you oily little man,” Shallan said. “You will give me these slaves in payment. Dues in recompense for my soldiers protecting you and your worthless life.” “This is robbery.” “This is justice. If it bothers you, submit a grievance with the king in the Shattered Plains, once we arrive.” “I’m not going to the Shattered Plains,” Tvlakv spat. “You have someone else to convey you now, Brightness. I’m heading south, as I originally intended.” “Then you’ll do so without these,” Shallan said, using her key—the one he had given her to get into her wagon—to open the cage. “You will give me their writs of slavery. And the Stormfather help you if not everything is in order, Tvlakv. I’m very good at spotting a forgery.” She hadn’t ever even seen a writ of slavery, and wouldn’t know how to tell if one was faked. She didn’t care. She was tired, frustrated, and eager to be done with this night. One by one, five hesitant slaves stepped from the wagon, shaggy bearded and shirtless. Her trip with Tvlakv had not been pleasant, but it had been luxurious compared to what these men had been through. Several glanced at the darkness nearby, as if eager. “You may run if you wish,” Shallan said, softening her tone. “I will not hunt you. I need servants, however, and I will pay you well. Six firemarks a week if you agree to put five of them toward paying down your slave debt. One if you don’t.” One of the men cocked his head. “So . . . we take away the same amount either way? What kind of sense does that make?” “The best kind,” Shallan said, turning to Tvlakv, who sat stewing on the side of his seat. “You have three wagons but only two drivers. Will you sell me the third wagon?” She wouldn’t need the chull—Macob would have an extra she could use, since several of his wagons had burned. “Sell the wagon? Bah! Why not just steal it from me?” “Stop being a child, Tvlakv. Do you want my money or not?” “Five sapphire broams,” he snapped. “And it’s a steal at that price; don’t you argue otherwise.” She didn’t know if it was or not, but she could afford it, with the spheres she had, even if most of them were dun. “You can’t have my parshmen,” Tvlakv snapped. “You can keep them,” Shallan said. She would need to talk to the caravan master about shoes and clothing for her servants. As she walked off to see if she could use an extra chull of Macob’s, she passed a group of the caravan workers waiting to
|
the side of one of the bonfires. The deserters threw the last body—one of their own—into the flames, then stepped back, wiping brows. One of the darkeyed caravan women stepped up, holding out a sheet of paper to a former deserter. He took it, scratching at his beard. He was the shorter, one-eyed man who’d spoken during her speech. He held up the sheet to the others. It was a prayer made from familiar runes, but not one of mourning, as Shallan would have expected to see. It was a prayer of thanks. The former deserters gathered in front of the flames and looked at the prayer. Then they turned and looked outward, seeing—as if for the first time—the two dozen people standing there and watching. Silent in the night. Some had tears on their cheeks; some held the hands of children. Shallan had not noticed the children before, but was not surprised to see them. Caravan workers would spend their lives traveling, and their families would travel with them. Shallan stopped just beyond the caravaneers, mostly hidden in the darkness. The deserters didn’t seem to know how to react, surrounded by that constellation of thankful eyes and tearful appreciation. Finally, they burned the prayer. Shallan bowed her head as they did, as did most of those watching. She left them standing taller, watching the ashes of that prayer rise toward the Almighty. Kaladin watched the window shutters. Motion came in bursts. First stillness. Yes, he could hear a distant howling, the wind passing through some hollow, but nothing nearby. A tremble. Then wood rattling wickedly in its frame. Violent shaking, with water seeping in at the joints. Something was out there, in the dark chaos of the highstorm. It thrashed and pounded at the window, wanting in. Light flashed out there, glistening through the drops of water. Another flash. Then the light stayed. Steady, like glowing spheres, just outside. Faintly red. For some reason he couldn’t explain, Kaladin had the impression of eyes. Transfixed, he raised his hand toward the latch, to open it and see. “Someone really needs to fix that loose shutter,” King Elhokar said, annoyed. The light faded. The rattling stopped. Kaladin blinked, lowering his hand. “Someone remind me to ask Nakal to see to it,” Elhokar said, pacing behind his couch. “The shutter shouldn’t leak. This is my palace, not a village tavern!” “We’ll make sure it’s seen to,” Adolin said. He sat in a chair beside the hearth, flipping through a book filled with sketches. His brother sat in a chair next to him, hands clasped in his lap. He was probably sore from his training, but he didn’t show it. Instead, he had gotten a small box out of his pocket and was repeatedly opening it, turning it in his hand, rubbing one side, then shutting it with a click. He did it over and over and over. He stared at nothing as he did it. He seemed to do that a lot. Elhokar continued pacing. Idrin—head of the King’s Guard—stood near the king, straight-backed,
|
green eyes forward. He was dark-skinned for an Alethi, perhaps with some Azish blood in him, and wore a full beard. Men from Bridge Four had been taking shifts with his men, as Dalinar suggested, and so far Kaladin had been impressed by the man and the team he had run. However, when the horns for a plateau run sounded, Idrin would turn toward them and his expression would grow longing. He wanted to be out there fighting. Sadeas’s betrayal had made a lot of the soldiers in camp similarly eager—as if they wanted the chance to prove how strong Dalinar’s army was. More rumbling came from the storm outside. It was odd not to be cold during a highstorm—the barrack always felt chilly. This room was well heated, though not by a fire. Instead, the hearth held a ruby the size of Kaladin’s fist, one that could have paid to feed everyone in his hometown for weeks. Kaladin left the window and sauntered toward the fireplace under the pretext of inspecting the gemstone. He really wanted a glimpse of whatever it was Adolin was looking through. Many men refused to even look at books, considering it unmasculine. Adolin didn’t seem to be bothered by that. Curious. As he approached the hearth, Kaladin passed the door to a side room where Dalinar and Navani had retired at the advent of the storm. Kaladin had wanted to post a guard inside. They’d refused. Well, this is the only way into that room, he thought. There’s not even a window. This time, if words appeared on the wall, he would know for certain nobody was sneaking in. Kaladin stooped down, inspecting the ruby in the hearth, which was held in place by a wire enclosure. Its strong heat made his face prickle with sweat; storms, that ruby was so large that the Light infusing it should have blinded him. Instead, he could stare into its depths and see the Light moving inside. People thought that the illumination from gemstones was steady and calm, but that was just in contrast to flickering candlelight. If you looked deeply into a stone, you could see the Light shifting with the chaotic pattern of a blowing storm. It was not calm inside. Not by a wind or a whisper. “Never seen a heating fabrial before, I assume?” Renarin asked. Kaladin glanced at the bespectacled prince. He wore an Alethi highlord’s uniform, like that of Adolin. In fact, Kaladin had never seen them wearing anything else—other than Shardplate, of course. “No, I haven’t,” Kaladin said. “New technology,” Renarin said, still playing with his little metal box. “My aunt built that one herself. Every time I turn around, it seems the world has changed somehow.” Kaladin grunted. I know how that feels. Part of him yearned to suck in the Light of that gemstone. A foolish move. There’d be enough in there to make him glow like a bonfire. He lowered his hands and strolled past Adolin’s chair. The sketches in Adolin’s book were of men in fine clothing. The
|
drawings were quite good, their faces done in as much detail as their garments. “Fashion?” Kaladin asked. He hadn’t intended to speak, but it came out anyway. “You’re spending the highstorm looking for new clothing?” Adolin snapped the book closed. “But you only wear uniforms,” Kaladin said, confused. “Do you need to be here, bridgeboy?” Adolin demanded. “Surely nobody is going to come for us during a highstorm, of all things.” “The fact that you assume that,” Kaladin said, “is why I need to be here. What better time would there be for an assassination attempt? The winds would cover shouts, and help would be slow in coming when everyone has taken cover to wait out the storm. Seems to me this is one of the times when His Majesty most needs guards.” The king stopped pacing and pointed. “That makes sense. Why hasn’t anyone else ever explained that to me?” He looked at Idrin, who remained stoic. Adolin sighed. “You could at least leave Renarin and me out of it,” he said softly to Kaladin. “It’s easier to protect you when you’re all together, Brightlord,” Kaladin said, walking away. “Plus, you can defend each other.” Dalinar had been intending to stay with Navani during the storm anyway. Kaladin approached the window again, listening to the storm pass outside. Had he really seen the things he thought he had during his time out in the storm? A face as vast as the sky? The Stormfather himself? I am a god, Syl had said. A little piece of one. Eventually, the storm passed, and Kaladin opened the window to a black sky, a few phantom clouds shining with Nomon’s light. The storm had started a few hours into the night, but nobody could sleep during a storm. He hated when a highstorm came so late; he often felt exhausted the next day. The side room door opened and Dalinar stepped out, trailed by Navani. The statuesque woman carried a large notebook. Kaladin had heard, of course, about the highprince’s fits during storms. His men were divided on the topic. Some thought Dalinar was frightened of highstorms, and his terror sent him into convulsions. Others whispered that with age, the Blackthorn was losing his mind. Kaladin badly wanted to know which it was. His fate, and that of his men, was tied to this man’s health. “Numbers, sir?” Kaladin asked, peeking into the room, looking at the walls. “No,” Dalinar said. “Sometimes they come just after the storm,” Kaladin said. “I have men in the hall outside. I would prefer if everyone remained here for a short time.” Dalinar nodded. “As you wish, soldier.” Kaladin walked to the exit. Beyond, some men of Bridge Four and of the King’s Guard stood on watch. Kaladin nodded to Leyten, then pointed for them to watch out on the balcony. Kaladin would catch the phantom scratching those numbers. If, indeed, such a person existed. Behind, Renarin and Adolin approached their father. “Anything new?” Renarin asked softly. “No,” Dalinar said. “The vision was a repeat. But they’re not
|
coming in the same order as last time, and some are new, so perhaps there is something to learn we have not yet discovered . . .” Noticing Kaladin, he trailed off, then changed the topic. “Well, as long as we’re waiting here, perhaps I can get an update. Adolin, when can we expect more duels?” “I’m trying,” Adolin said with a grimace. “I thought beating Salinor would drive others to want to try me, but they’re stalling instead.” “Problematic,” Navani said. “Weren’t you always saying that everyone wanted to duel you?” “They did!” Adolin said. “When I couldn’t duel, at least. Now, every time I make an offer, people start shuffling their feet and looking away.” “Have you tried anyone in Sadeas’s camp?” the king asked eagerly. “No,” Adolin said. “But he’s only got one Shardbearer other than himself. Amaram.” Kaladin felt a shiver. “Well, you won’t be dueling him,” Dalinar said, chuckling. He sat down on the couch, Brightness Navani settling in beside him, hand fondly on his knee. “We might have him on our side. I’ve been speaking to Highlord Amaram . . .” “You think you can get him to secede?” the king asked. “Is that possible?” Kaladin asked, surprised. The lighteyes turned to him. Navani blinked, as if noticing him for the first time. “Yes, it is possible,” Dalinar said. “Most of the territory that Amaram oversees would remain with Sadeas, but he could bring his personal land to my princedom—along with his Shards. Usually it requires a land trade with a princedom bordering the one a highlord wishes to join.” “It hasn’t happened in over a decade,” Adolin said, shaking his head. “I’m working on him,” Dalinar said. “But Amaram . . . he wants to bring Sadeas and me together instead. He thinks we can get along again.” Adolin snorted. “That possibility blew away the day Sadeas betrayed us.” “Probably long before that day,” Dalinar said, “even if I didn’t see it. Is there anyone else you could challenge, Adolin?” “I’m going to try Talanor,” Adolin said, “and then Kalishor.” “Neither full Shardbearers,” Navani said with a frown. “The first has only the Blade, the second only the Plate.” “All of the full Shardbearers have refused me,” Adolin said with a shrug. “Those two are eager, thirsty for notoriety. One of them might agree where others haven’t.” Kaladin folded his arms, leaning back against the wall. “And if you defeat them, won’t it scare off others from fighting you?” “When I beat them,” Adolin said, glancing at Kaladin’s relaxed posture and frowning, “Father will maneuver others into agreeing to duels.” “But it will have to stop sometime, right?” Kaladin asked. “Eventually the other highprinces will realize what’s happening. They’ll refuse to be goaded into further duels. It might be happening already. That’s why they don’t accept.” “Someone will,” Adolin said, standing. “And once I start winning, others will begin to see me as a real challenge. They’ll want to test themselves.” That seemed optimistic to Kaladin. “Captain Kaladin is right,” Dalinar said. Adolin turned toward
|
his father. “There’s no need to fight every Shardbearer in camp,” Dalinar said softly. “We need to narrow our attack, choose duels for you that point us toward the ultimate goal.” “Which is?” Adolin asked. “Undermining Sadeas.” Dalinar almost sounded regretful. “Killing him in a duel, if we have to. Everyone in camp knows the sides in this power struggle. This won’t work if we punish everyone equally. We need to show those in the middle, those deciding whom to follow, the advantages of trust. Cooperation on plateau runs. Help from one another’s Shardbearers. We show them what it’s like to be part of a real kingdom.” The others grew quiet. The king turned away with a shake of his head. He didn’t believe, at least not fully, in what Dalinar wished to achieve. Kaladin found himself annoyed. Why should he be? Dalinar had agreed with him. He stewed for a moment, and realized that he was probably still upset because someone had mentioned Amaram. Even hearing the man’s name put Kaladin out of sorts. He kept thinking something should happen, something should change, now that such a murderer was in camp. Yet everything just kept on going. It was frustrating. Made him want to lash out. He needed to do something about it. “I assume we’ve waited long enough?” Adolin said to his father. “I can go?” Dalinar sighed, nodding. Adolin pulled open the door and strode away; Renarin followed at a slower pace, hauling that Shardblade he was still bonding, sheathed in its protective strips. As they passed the group of guards Kaladin had put outside, Skar and three others broke off to follow them. Kaladin walked to the door, doing a quick count of who was left. Four men total. “Moash,” Kaladin said, noticing the man yawning. “How long have you been on duty today?” Moash shrugged. “One shift guarding Brightness Navani. One shift with the King’s Guard.” I’m working them too hard, Kaladin thought. Stormfather. I don’t have enough men. Even with the leftover Cobalt Guard that Dalinar is sending to me. “Head back and get some sleep,” Kaladin said. “You too, Bisig. I saw you on shift this morning.” “And you?” Moash asked Kaladin. “I’m fine.” He had Stormlight to keep him alert. True, using Stormlight that way could be dangerous—it provoked him to act, to be more impulsive. He wasn’t sure he liked what it did to him when he used it outside of battle. Moash raised an eyebrow. “You’ve got to be at least as tired as I am, Kal.” “I’ll go back in a bit,” Kaladin said. “You need some time off, Moash. You’ll get sloppy if you don’t take it.” “I have to pull two shifts,” Moash said, shrugging. “At least, if you want me to train with the King’s Guard as well as doing my regular guard duty.” Kaladin drew his lips to a line. That was important. Moash needed to think like a bodyguard, and there was no better way than serving on an already-established crew. “My shift here with the
|
King’s Guard is almost over,” Moash noted. “I’ll head back after.” “Fine,” Kaladin said. “Keep Leyten with you. Natam, you and Mart guard Brightness Navani. I’ll see Dalinar back to camp and post guards at his door.” “Then you’ll get some sleep?” Moash asked. The others glanced at Kaladin. They were worried as well. “Yes, fine.” Kaladin turned back to the room, where Dalinar was helping Navani to her feet. He’d walk her to her door, as he did most evenings. Kaladin debated for a moment, then stepped up to the highprince. “Sir, there’s something I need to talk to you about.” “Can it wait until I’m done here?” Dalinar said. “Yes, sir,” Kaladin said. “I’ll wait at the palace’s front doors, then will be your guard on the way back to camp.” Dalinar led Navani away, joined by two bridgeman guards. Kaladin made his own way down the corridor, thinking. Servants had already come by to open the corridor windows, and Syl floated in through one as a spinning swirl of mist. Giggling, she spun around him a few times before going out another window. She always got more sprenlike during a highstorm. The air smelled wet and fresh. The whole world felt clean after a highstorm, scrubbed by nature’s abrasive. He reached the front of the palace, where a pair of the King’s Guard stood on watch. Kaladin nodded to them and got crisp salutes in return, then he fetched a sphere lantern from the guard post and filled it with his own spheres. From the front of the palace, Kaladin could look out over all ten warcamps. As always after a storm, the Light of refreshed spheres sparkled everywhere, their gemstones ablaze with captured fragments of the tempest that had passed. Standing there, Kaladin confronted what he needed to say to Dalinar. He rehearsed it silently more than once, but still wasn’t ready when the highprince emerged at last from the palace doors. Natam saluted from behind them, handing Dalinar off to Kaladin, then jogged back to join Mart outside Brightness Navani’s door. The highprince started down the switchbacks of the side route down from the Pinnacle to the stables below. Kaladin fell in beside him. Dalinar appeared deeply distracted by something. He hasn’t ever announced anything about his fits during highstorms, Kaladin thought. Shouldn’t he say something? They’d talked about visions, earlier. What was it Dalinar saw, or thought he saw? “So, soldier,” Dalinar said as they walked. “What is it you wanted to discuss?” Kaladin took a deep breath. “A year ago, I was a soldier in Amaram’s army.” “So that’s where you learned,” Dalinar said. “I should have guessed. Amaram is the only general in Sadeas’s princedom with any real leadership ability.” “Sir,” Kaladin said, stopping on the steps. “He betrayed me and my men.” Dalinar stopped and turned to look at him. “A poor battle decision, then? Nobody is perfect, soldier. If he sent your men into a bad situation, I doubt he intended to do so.” Just push through it, Kaladin told himself, noticing
|
Syl sitting on a shalebark ridge just to the right. She nodded at him. He has to know. It was just . . . He’d never spoken of this, not in full. Not even to Rock, Teft, and the others. “It wasn’t that, sir,” Kaladin said, meeting Dalinar’s eyes by spherelight. “I know where Amaram got his Shardblade. I was there. I killed the Shardbearer carrying it.” “That can’t be the case,” Dalinar said slowly. “If you had, you’d hold the Plate and Blade.” “Amaram took it for himself, then slaughtered everyone who knew the truth,” Kaladin said. “Everyone but a lone soldier who, in his guilt, Amaram branded a slave and sold rather than murdering.” Dalinar stood in silence. From this angle, the hillside behind him was completely dark, lit only by stars. A few spheres glowed in Dalinar’s pocket, shining through the fabric of his uniform. “Amaram is one of the best men I know,” Dalinar said. “His honor is spotless. I’ve never even known him to take undue advantage of an opponent in a duel, despite cases when it would have been acceptable.” Kaladin didn’t respond. He’d believed that too, at one point. “Do you have any proof?” Dalinar asked. “You understand that I can’t take one man’s word on something of this nature.” “One darkeyed man’s word, you mean,” Kaladin said, gritting his teeth. “It’s not the color of your eyes that is the problem,” Dalinar said, “but the severity of your accusation. The words you speak are dangerous. Do you have any proof, soldier?” “There were others there when he took the Shards. Men of his personal guard did the actual killing at his command. And there was a stormwarden there. Middle-aged, with a peaked face. He wore a beard like an ardent.” He paused. “They were all complicit in the act, but maybe . . .” Dalinar sighed softly in the night. “Have you spoken this accusation to anyone else?” “No,” Kaladin said. “Continue to hold your tongue. I’ll talk to Amaram. Thank you for telling me of this.” “Sir,” Kaladin said, taking a step closer to Dalinar. “If you really believe in justice, you—” “That’s enough for the moment, son,” Dalinar cut in, voice calm but cool. “You’ve had your say, unless you can offer me anything else by way of evidence.” Kaladin forced down his immediate burst of anger. It was difficult. “I appreciated your input when we were talking about my son’s duels earlier,” Dalinar said. “This is the second time you’ve added something important to one of our conferences, I believe.” “Thank you, sir.” “But soldier,” Dalinar said, “you’re walking quite a line between helpfulness and insubordination in the way you treat me and mine. You have a chip on your shoulder the size of a boulder. I ignore it, because I know what was done to you, and I can see the soldier beneath. That’s the man I hired for this job.” Kaladin ground his teeth, and nodded. “Yes, sir.” “Good. Now run along.” “Sir, but I must escort—” “I think
|
I’ll return to the palace,” Dalinar said. “I don’t think I’ll get much sleep tonight, so I might want to pester the dowager with my thoughts. Her guards can watch over me. I’ll take one with me when I return to my camp.” Kaladin let out a long breath. Then saluted. Fine, he thought, continuing down the dark, damp path. When he reached the bottom, Dalinar was still standing up above, now just a shadow. He seemed lost in thought. Kaladin turned and walked back toward Dalinar’s warcamp. Syl flitted up and landed on his shoulder. “See,” she said. “He listened.” “No he didn’t, Syl.” “What? He replied and said—” “I told him something he didn’t want to hear,” Kaladin said. “Even if he does look into it, he’ll find plenty of reasons to dismiss what I said. In the end, it will be my word against Amaram’s. Stormfather! I shouldn’t have said anything.” “You’d let it go, then?” “Storms, no,” Kaladin said. “I’d find my own justice.” “Oh . . .” Syl settled on his shoulder. They walked for a long while, eventually approaching the warcamp. “You’re not a Skybreaker, Kaladin,” Syl finally said. “You’re not supposed to be like this.” “A what?” he asked, stepping over scuttling cremlings in the dark. They came out in force after a storm, when plants unfolded to lap up the water. “That was one of the orders, wasn’t it?” He did know some little of them. Everyone did, from the legends. “Yes,” Syl said, voice soft. “I’m worried about you, Kaladin. I thought things would be better, once you were free from the bridges.” “Things are better,” he said. “None of my men have been killed since we were freed.” “But you . . .” She didn’t seem to know what else to say. “I thought you might be like the person you were before. I can remember a man on a field of battle . . . A man who fought . . .” “That man is dead, Syl,” Kaladin said, waving to the guards as he entered the warcamp. Once again, light and motion surrounded him, people running quick errands, parshmen repairing buildings damaged by the storm. “During my time as a bridgeman, all I had to worry about was my men. Now things are different. I have to become someone. I just don’t know who yet.” When he reached Bridge Four’s barrack, Rock was dishing out the evening stew. Far later than usual, but some of the men were on odd shifts. The men weren’t limited to stew any longer, but they still insisted on it for the evening meal. Kaladin took a bowl gratefully, nodding to Bisig, who was relaxing with several of the others and chatting about how they actually missed carrying their bridge. Kaladin had instilled in them a respect for it, much as a soldier respected his spear. Stew. Bridges. They spoke so fondly of things that had once been emblems of their captivity. Kaladin took a bite, then stopped, noticing a new man leaning against a
|
rock beside the fire. “Do I know you?” he asked, pointing at the bald, muscular man. He had tan skin, like an Alethi, but he didn’t seem to have the right face shape. Herdazian? “Oh, don’t mind Punio,” Lopen called from nearby. “He’s my cousin.” “You had a cousin on the bridge crews?” Kaladin asked. “Nah,” Lopen said. “He just heard my mother say we needed more guards, so he came to help. I got him a uniform and things.” The newcomer, Punio, smiled and raised his spoon. “Bridge Four,” he said with a thick Herdazian accent. “Are you a soldier?” Kaladin asked him. “Yes,” the man said. “Brightlord Roion army. Not worry. I swore to Kholin instead, now. For my cousin.” He smiled affably. “You can’t just leave your army, Punio,” Kaladin said, rubbing his forehead. “It’s called desertion.” “Not for us,” Lopen called. “We’re Herdazian—nobody can tell us apart anyway.” “Yes,” Punio said. “I leave for the homeland once a year. When I come back, nobody remembers me.” He shrugged. “This time, I come here.” Kaladin sighed, but the man looked like he knew his way around a spear, and Kaladin did need more men. “Fine. Just pretend you were one of the bridgemen from the start, all right?” “Bridge Four!” the man said enthusiastically. Kaladin passed him and found his customary place by the fire to relax and think. He didn’t get that chance, however, as someone stepped up and squatted down before him. A man with marbled skin and a Bridge Four uniform. “Shen?” Kaladin asked. “Sir.” Shen continued to stare at him. “Is there something you wanted?” Kaladin asked. “Am I really Bridge Four?” Shen asked. “Of course you are.” “Where is my spear?” Kaladin looked Shen in the eyes. “What do you think?” “I think that I am not Bridge Four,” Shen said, taking time to think with each word. “I am Bridge Four’s slave.” It was like a punch to Kaladin’s gut. He’d hardly heard a dozen words out of the man during their time together, and now this? The words smarted either way. Here was a man who, unlike the others, wasn’t welcome to leave and make his way in the world. Dalinar had freed the rest of Bridge Four—but a parshman . . . he’d be a slave no matter where he went or what he did. What could Kaladin say? Storms. “I appreciate your help when we were scavenging. I know it was difficult for you to see what we did down there sometimes.” Shen waited, still squatting, listening. He regarded Kaladin with those impenetrable, solid black parshman eyes of his. “I can’t start arming parshmen, Shen,” Kaladin said. “The lighteyes barely accept us as it is. If I gave you a spear, think of the storm it would cause.” Shen nodded, face displaying no hint of his emotions. He stood up straight. “A slave I am, then.” He withdrew. Kaladin knocked his head back against the stone behind him, staring up at the sky. Storming man. He had a good life,
|
for a parshman. Certainly more freedom than any other of his kind. And were you satisfied with that? a voice inside him asked. Were you happy to be a well-treated slave? Or did you try to run, fight your way to freedom? What a mess. He mulled over those thoughts, digging into his stew. He got two bites down before Natam—one of the men who’d been guarding at the palace—came stumbling into their camp, sweating, frantic, and red-cheeked from running. “The king!” Natam said, puffing. “An assassin.” The king was fine. One hand on the doorframe, Kaladin stood gasping from his run back to the palace. Inside, Elhokar, Dalinar, Navani, and both of Dalinar’s sons spoke together. Nobody was dead. Nobody was dead. Stormfather, he thought, stepping into the room. For a moment, I felt like I did on the plateaus, watching my men charge the Parshendi. He hardly knew these people, but they were his duty. He hadn’t thought that his protectiveness could apply to lighteyes. “Well, at least he ran here,” the king said, waving off the attentions of a woman who was trying to bandage a gash on his forehead. “You see, Idrin. This is what a good bodyguard looks like. I bet he wouldn’t have let this happen.” The captain of the King’s Guard stood near the door, red-faced. He looked away, then stalked out into the hallway. Kaladin raised a hand to his head, bewildered. Comments like that one from the king were not going to help his men get along with Dalinar’s soldiers. Inside the room, a mess of guards, servants, and members of Bridge Four stood around, looking confused or embarrassed. Natam was there—he’d been on duty with the King’s Guard—as was Moash. “Moash,” Kaladin called. “You’re supposed to be back in the camp asleep.” “So are you,” Moash said. Kaladin grunted, trotting over, speaking more softly. “Were you here when it happened?” “I’d just left,” Moash said. “Finishing my shift with the King’s Guard. I heard yelling, and came back as quickly as I could.” He nodded toward the open balcony door. “Come have a look.” They walked out onto the balcony, which was a circular stone pathway that ran around the peak rooms of the palace—a terrace cut into the stone itself. From such a height, the balcony offered an unparalleled view overlooking the warcamps and the Plains beyond. Some members of the King’s Guard stood here, inspecting the balcony railing with sphere lamps. A section of the ironwork structure had twisted outward and hung precariously over the drop. “From what we’ve figured,” Moash said, pointing, “the king came out here to think, as he likes to do.” Kaladin nodded, walking with Moash. The stone floor beneath was still wet from highstorm rain. They reached the place where the railing was ripped, several guards making way for them. Kaladin looked down over the side. The drop was a good hundred feet onto the rocks below. Syl drifted through the air down there, making lazy glowing circles. “Damnation, Kaladin!” Moash said, taking his arm.
|
“Are you trying to make me panic?” I wonder if I could survive that fall. . . . He’d dropped half that once before, filled with Stormlight, and had landed without trouble. He stepped back for Moash’s sake, though even before gaining his special abilities, heights had fascinated him. It felt liberating to be up so high. Just you and the air itself. He knelt down, looking at the places where the footings of the iron railing had been mortared into holes in the stone. “The railing pulled free of its mountings?” he asked, poking his finger into a hole, then pulling it out with mortar dust on his fingers. “Yeah,” Moash said, several of the men of the king’s guard nodding. “Could just be a flaw in the design,” Kaladin said. “Captain,” said one of the guardsmen. “I was here when it happened, watching him on the balcony. It fell right out. Barely a sound. I was standing here, looking out at the Plains and thinking to myself, and next I knew His Majesty was hanging right there, holding on for his life and cursing like a caravan worker.” The guard blushed. “Sir.” Kaladin stood, inspecting the metalwork. So the king had leaned against this section of the railing, and it had bent forward—the mountings at the bottom giving way. It had almost come free completely, but fortunately one bar had held tight. The king had grabbed hold and clung to it long enough to be rescued. This should never have been possible. The thing looked as if it had been constructed of wood and rope first, then Soulcast into iron. Shaking another section, he found it incredibly secure. Even a few footings giving out shouldn’t have let the whole thing fall off—the metal pieces would have had to come apart. He moved to the right, inspecting some of those that had ripped free of one another. The two pieces of metal had been sheared at a joint. Smoothly, cleanly. The doorway into the king’s chamber darkened as Dalinar Kholin stepped out onto the balcony. “In,” he said to Moash and the other guards. “Close the door. I’d like to speak to Captain Kaladin.” They obeyed, though Moash went reluctantly. Dalinar walked up to Kaladin as the windows closed, giving them privacy. Despite his age, the highprince’s figure was an intimidating one, wide shouldered, built like a brick wall. “Sir,” Kaladin said. “I should have—” “This wasn’t your fault,” Dalinar said. “The king wasn’t under your care. Even if he was, I wouldn’t reprimand you—just as I won’t reprimand Idrin. I wouldn’t expect bodyguards to inspect architecture.” “Yes, sir,” Kaladin said. Dalinar knelt down to inspect the mountings. “You like to take responsibility for things, don’t you? A commendable attribute in an officer.” Dalinar rose and looked at the place where the rail had been cut. “What is your assessment?” “Someone definitely chipped at the mortar,” Kaladin said, “and sabotaged the railing.” Dalinar nodded. “I agree. This was a deliberate attempt on the king’s life.” “However . . . sir .
|
. .” “Yes?” “Whoever tried this is an idiot.” Dalinar looked to him, raising an eyebrow in the lantern light. “How could they know where the king would lean?” Kaladin said. “Or even that he would? This trap could easily have caught someone else, and then the would-be assassins would have exposed themselves for nothing. In fact, that is what happened. The king survived, and now we’re aware of them.” “We’ve been expecting assassins,” Dalinar said. “And not just because of the incident with the king’s armor. Half the powerful men in this camp are probably contemplating some kind of assassination attempt, so an attempt on Elhokar’s life doesn’t tell us as much as you’d think. As to how they knew to catch him here, he has a favorite spot for standing, leaning against the rail and looking out over the Shattered Plains. Anyone who watches his patterns would have known where to apply their sabotage.” “But sir,” Kaladin said, “it’s just so convoluted. If they have access to the king’s private chambers, then why not hide an assassin inside? Or use poison?” “Poison is as unlikely to work as this was,” Dalinar said, waving toward the railing. “The king’s food and drink is tasted. As for a hidden assassin, one might run into guards.” He stood up. “But I agree that such methods would probably have had a greater chance at success. The fact that they didn’t try it that way tells us something. Assuming these are the same people who planted those flawed gemstones in the king’s armor, they prefer nonconfrontational methods. It’s not that they’re idiots, they’re . . .” “They’re cowards,” Kaladin realized. “They want to make the assassination look like an accident. They’re timid. They may have waited this long so that suspicion would die down.” “Yes,” Dalinar said, rising, looking troubled. “This time, though, they made a big mistake.” “How?” Kaladin walked to the cut section he had inspected earlier and knelt down to rub the smooth section. “What cuts iron so cleanly?” Dalinar leaned down, inspecting the cut, then took out a sphere for more light. He grunted. “It’s supposed to look like the joint came apart, I’d guess.” “And does it?” Kaladin asked. “No. That was a Shardblade.” “Narrows down our suspects a tad, I’d think.” Dalinar nodded. “Don’t tell anyone else. We’ll hide that we noticed the Shardblade cut, maybe gain an edge. It’s too late to pretend that we think this was an accident, but we don’t have to reveal everything.” “Yes, sir.” “The king is insisting that I put you in charge of guarding him,” Dalinar said. “We might have to move up our timetable for that.” “I’m not ready,” Kaladin said. “My men are stretched thin with the duties they already have.” “I know,” Dalinar said softly. He seemed hesitant. “This was done by someone on the inside, you realize.” Kaladin felt cold. “The king’s own chambers? That means a servant. Or one of his guards. Men in the King’s Guard might have had access to his armor, too.” Dalinar
|
looked at Kaladin, face lit by the sphere in his hand. A strong face, with a nose that had once been broken. Blunt. Real. “I don’t know whom I can trust these days. Can I trust you, Kaladin Stormblessed?” “Yes. I swear it.” Dalinar nodded. “I’m going to relieve Idrin of this post and assign him to a command in my army. It will sate the king, but I’ll make certain Idrin knows he isn’t being punished. I suspect he’ll enjoy the new command more anyway.” “Yes, sir.” “I’ll ask him for his best men,” Dalinar said, “and those will be under your command for now. Use them as little as possible. I eventually want the king being guarded only by men from the bridge crews—men you trust, men who have no part in warcamp politics. Choose carefully. I don’t want to replace potential traitors with former thieves who can be easily bought.” “Yes, sir,” Kaladin said, feeling a large weight settle on his shoulders. Dalinar stood up. “I don’t know what else to do. A man needs to be able to trust his own guards.” He walked back toward the door into the room. The tone of his voice sounded deeply troubled. “Sir?” Kaladin asked. “This wasn’t the assassination attempt you were expecting, was it?” “No,” Dalinar said, hand on the doorknob. “I agree with your assessment. This wasn’t the work of someone who knows what they’re doing. Considering how contrived it was, I’m actually surprised at how close it came to working.” He leveled his gaze at Kaladin. “If Sadeas decides to strike—or, worse, the assassin who claimed my brother’s life—it will not go so well for us. The storm is yet to come.” He pulled open the door, letting out the complaints of the king, which had been muffled behind it. Elhokar was ranting that nobody took his safety seriously, that nobody listened, that they should be looking for the things he saw over his shoulder in the mirror, whatever that meant. The tirade sounded like the whining of a spoiled child. Kaladin looked at the twisted rail, imagining the king dangling from it. He had good reason to be out of sorts. But then, wasn’t a king supposed to be better than that? Didn’t his Calling demand that he be able to keep his composure under pressure? Kaladin found it difficult to imagine Dalinar reacting with such ranting, regardless of the situation. Your job isn’t to judge, he told himself, waving to Syl and walking away from the balcony. Your job is to protect these people. Somehow. “Well, you see,” Gaz said as he sanded the wood on Shallan’s wagon. She sat nearby, listening as she worked. “Most of us, we joined the fight at the Shattered Plains for revenge, you know? Those marbles killed the king. It was gonna be this grand thing and such. A fight for vengeance, a way to show the world that the Alethi don’t stand for betrayal.” “Yeah,” Red agreed. The lanky, bearded soldier pulled free a bar from her wagon. With
|
this one removed, it left only three at each corner to hold up the roof. He dropped the bar with satisfaction, then dusted off his work gloves. This would help transform the vehicle from a rolling cage into a conveyance more suitable for a lighteyed lady. “I remember it,” Red continued, sitting down on the wagon’s bed, legs dangling. “The call to arms came to us from Highprince Vamah himself, and it moved through Farcoast like a bad stench. Every second man of age joined the cause. People wondered if you were a coward if you went to the pub for a drink but didn’t wear a recruit’s patch. I joined up with five of my buddies. They’re all dead now, rotting in those storm-cursed chasms.” “So you just . . . got tired of fighting?” Shallan asked. She had a desk now. Well, a table—a small piece of travel furniture that could be taken apart easily. They’d moved it out of the wagon, and she was using it to review some of Jasnah’s notes. The caravan was making camp as the day waned; they’d traveled well today, but Shallan wasn’t pushing them hard, after what they’d all been through. After four days of travel, they were approaching the section of the corridor where bandit strikes were much less likely. They were getting close to the Shattered Plains, and the safety they offered. “Tired of fighting?” Gaz said, chuckling as he took a hinge and began nailing it in place. Occasionally, he would glance to the side, a kind of nervous tic. “Damnation, no. It wasn’t us, it was the storming lighteyes! No offense intended, Brightness. But storm them, and storm them good!” “They stopped fighting to win,” Red softly added. “And they started fighting for spheres.” “Every day,” Gaz said. “Every storming day, we’d get up and fight on those plateaus. And we wouldn’t make any progress. Who cared if we made progress? It was the gemhearts the highprinces were after. And there we were, locked into virtual slavery by our military oaths. No right of travel as good citizens should have, since we’d enlisted. We were dying, bleeding, and suffering so they could get rich! That was all. So we left. A bunch of us who drank together, though we served different highprinces. We left them and their war behind.” “Now, Gaz,” Red said. “That isn’t everything. Be honest with the lady. Didn’t you owe some spheres to the debtmongers too? What was that you told us about being one step from being turned into a bridgeman—” “Here now,” Gaz said. “That’s my old life. Ain’t nothing in that old life that matters anymore.” He finished with the hammer. “Besides. Brightness Shallan said our debts would be taken care of.” “Everything will be forgiven,” Shallan said. “See?” “Except your breath,” she added. Gaz looked up, a blush rising on his scarred face, but Red just laughed. After a moment, Gaz gave in to chuckling. There was something desperately affable about these soldiers. They had seized the chance to live a
|
normal life again and were determined to hold to it. There hadn’t been a single problem with discipline in the days they’d been together, and they were quick, even eager, to be of service to her. Evidence of that came as Gaz folded the side of her wagon back up—then opened a latch and lowered a small window to let the light in. He gestured with a smile at his new window. “Maybe not nice enough to befit a lighteyed lady, but at least you’ll be able to see out now.” “Not bad,” Red said, clapping slowly. “Why didn’t you tell us you’d trained as a carpenter?” “I haven’t trained as one,” Gaz said, expression turning oddly solemn. “I spent some time around a lumberyard, that’s all. You pick up a few things.” “It’s very nice, Gaz,” Shallan said. “I appreciate it deeply.” “It’s nothing. You should probably have one on the other side too. I’ll see if I can scrounge another hinge off the merchants.” “Already kissing the feet of our new master, Gaz?” Vathah stepped up to the group. Shallan hadn’t noticed him approaching. The leader of the former deserters held a small bowl of steaming curry from the dinner cauldron. Shallan could smell the pungent peppers. While it would have made a nice change from the stew she’d eaten with the slavers, the caravan had proper women’s food, which she was obliged to eat. Maybe she could sneak a bite of the curry when nobody was looking. “You didn’t ever offer to make things like this for me, Gaz,” Vathah said, dipping his bread and tearing off a chunk with his teeth. He spoke while chewing. “You seem happy to have been made a servant to the lighteyes again. It’s a wonder your shirt isn’t torn up from all the crawling and scraping you’ve been doing.” Gaz blushed again. “So far as I know, Vathah,” Shallan said, “you didn’t have a wagon. So what is it you’d have wanted Gaz to make a window in? Your head, perhaps? I’m certain we can arrange that.” Vathah smiled as he ate, though it wasn’t a particularly pleasant smile. “Did he tell you about the money he owes?” “We will handle that problem when the time comes.” “This lot is going to be more trouble than you think, little lighteyes,” Vathah said, shaking his head as he dipped his bread again. “Going right back to where they were before.” “This time they’ll be heroes for rescuing me.” He snorted. “This lot will never be heroes. They’re crem, Brightness. Pure and simple.” Nearby Gaz looked down and Red turned away, but neither disagreed with the assessment. “You’re trying very hard to beat them down, Vathah,” Shallan said, standing. “Are you that afraid of being wrong? One would assume you’d be accustomed to it by now.” He grunted. “Be careful, girl. You wouldn’t want to accidentally insult a man.” “The last thing I’d want to do is accidentally insult you, Vathah,” Shallan said. “To think that I couldn’t manage it on purpose if I
|
wanted!” He looked at her, then flushed and took a moment, trying to come up with a response. Shallan cut in before he could do so. “I’m not surprised you’re at a loss for words, as it’s also an experience I’m sure you’re accustomed to. You must feel it every time someone asks you a challenging question—such as the color of your shirt.” “Cute,” he said. “But words aren’t going to change these men or the troubles they are in.” “On the contrary,” Shallan said, meeting his eyes, “in my experience, words are where most change begins. I have promised them a second chance. I will keep my promise.” Vathah grunted, but wandered away without further comment. Shallan sighed, sitting down and returning to her work. “That one always walks around acting like a chasmfiend ate his mother,” she said with a grimace. “Or perhaps the chasmfiend was his mother.” Red laughed. “If you don’t mind me saying, Brightness. You have quite the clever tongue on you!” “I’ve never actually had someone’s tongue on me,” Shallan said, turning a page and not looking up, “clever or not. I’d hazard to consider it an unpleasant experience.” “It ain’t so bad,” Gaz said. They both looked at him. He shrugged. “Just saying. It ain’t . . .” Red laughed, slapping Gaz on the shoulder. “I’m going to get some food. I’ll help you hunt down that hinge afterward.” Gaz nodded, though he glanced to the side again—that same nervous tic—and didn’t join Red as the taller man walked toward the dinner cauldron. Instead, he settled down to begin sanding the floor of her wagon where the wood had begun to splinter. She set aside the notebook in front of her, in which she had been attempting to devise ways to help her brothers. Those included everything from trying to buy one of the Soulcasters owned by the Alethi king to trying to track down the Ghostbloods and somehow deflect their attention. She couldn’t do anything, however, until she reached the Shattered Plains—and then, most of her plans would require her to have powerful allies. Shallan needed to make the betrothal to Adolin Kholin go forward. Not just for her family, but for the good of the world. Shallan would need the allies and resources that would give her. But what if she couldn’t maintain the betrothal? What if she couldn’t bring Brightness Navani to her side? She might need to proceed in finding Urithiru and preparing for the Voidbringers on her own. That terrified her, but she wanted to be ready. She dug out a different book—one of the few from Jasnah’s stash that didn’t describe the Voidbringers or legendary Urithiru. Instead, it listed the current Alethi highprinces and discussed their political maneuvers and goals. Shallan had to be ready. She had to know the political landscape of the Alethi court. She couldn’t afford ignorance. She had to know who among these people might be potential allies, if all else failed her. What of this Sadeas? she thought, flipping to a page in the
|
notebook. It listed him as conniving and dangerous, but noted that both he and his wife were sharp of wit. A man of intelligence might listen to Shallan’s arguments and understand them. Aladar was listed as another highprince that Jasnah respected. Powerful, known for his brilliant political maneuvers. He was also fond of games of chance. Perhaps he would risk an expedition to find Urithiru, if Shallan highlighted the potential riches to be found. Hatham was listed as a man of delicate politics and careful planning. Another potential ally. Jasnah didn’t think much of Thanadal, Bethab, or Sebarial. The first she called oily, the second a dullard, and the third outrageously rude. She studied them and their motivations for some time. Eventually, Gaz stood up and dusted sawdust from his trousers. He nodded in respect to her and moved to get himself some food. “A moment, Master Gaz,” she said. “I’m no master,” he said, walking up to her. “Sixth nahn only, Brightness. Never could buy myself anything better.” “How bad, exactly, are these debts of yours?” she asked, digging some spheres out of her safepouch to put in the goblet on her desk. “Well, one of the fellows I owed was executed,” Gaz said, rubbing his chin. “But there is more.” He hesitated. “Eighty ruby broams, Brightness. Though they might not take them anymore. It’s my head they may want, these days.” “Quite a debt for a man such as yourself. Are you a gambler, then?” “Ain’t no difference,” he said. “Sure.” “And that’s a lie,” Shallan said, cocking her head. “I would know the truth from you, Gaz.” “Just turn me over to them,” he said, turning and walking toward the soup. “Ain’t no matter. I’d rather that than be out here, wondering when they’ll find me, anyways.” Shallan watched him go, then shook her head, turning back to her studies. She says that Urithiru is not on the Shattered Plains, Shallan thought, turning a few pages. But how is she certain? The Plains were never fully explored, because of the chasms. Who knows what is out there? Fortunately, Jasnah was very complete in her notes. It appeared that most of the old records spoke of Urithiru as being in the mountains. The Shattered Plains filled a basin. Nohadon could walk there, Shallan thought, flipping to a quote from The Way of Kings. Jasnah questioned the validity of that statement, though Jasnah questioned pretty much everything. After an hour of study as the sun sank down through the sky, Shallan found herself rubbing her temples. “Are you well?” Pattern’s voice asked softly. He liked to come out when it was darker, and she did not forbid him. She searched and found him on the table, a complex formation of ridges in the wood. “Historians,” Shallan said, “are a bunch of liars.” “Mmmmm,” Pattern said, sounding satisfied. “That wasn’t a compliment.” “Oh.” Shallan slammed her current book closed. “These women were supposed to be scholars! Instead of recording facts, they wrote opinions and presented them as truth. They seem to take
|
great pains to contradict one another, and they dance around topics of import like spren around a fire—never providing heat themselves, just making a show of it.” Pattern hummed. “Truth is individual.” “What? No it’s not. Truth is . . . it’s Truth. Reality.” “Your truth is what you see,” Pattern said, sounding confused. “What else could it be? That is the truth that you spoke to me, the truth that brings power.” She looked at him, his ridges casting shadows in the light of her spheres. She’d renewed those in the highstorm last night, while she was cooped up in her box of a wagon. Pattern had started buzzing in the middle of the storm—a strange, angry sound. After that, he’d ranted in a language she didn’t understand, panicking Gaz and the other soldiers she’d invited into the shelter. Luckily, they took it for granted that terrible things happened during highstorms, and none had spoken of it since. Fool, she told herself, flipping to an empty page in the notes. Start acting like a scholar. Jasnah would be disappointed. She wrote down what Pattern had said just now. “Pattern,” she said, tapping her pencil—one she’d gotten from the merchants, along with paper. “This table has four legs. Would you not say that is a truth, independent of my perspective?” Pattern buzzed uncertainly. “What is a leg? Only as it is defined by you. Without a perspective, there is no such thing as a leg, or a table. There is only wood.” “You’ve told me the table perceives itself this way.” “Because people have considered it, long enough, as being a table,” Pattern said. “It becomes truth to the table because of the truth the people create for it.” Interesting, Shallan thought, scribbling away at her notebook. She wasn’t so interested in the nature of truth at the moment, but in how Pattern perceived it. Is this because he’s from the Cognitive Realm? The books say that the Spiritual Realm is a place of pure truth, while the Cognitive is more fluid. “Spren,” Shallan said. “If people weren’t here, would spren have thought?” “Not here, in this realm,” Pattern said. “I do not know about the other realm.” “You don’t sound concerned,” Shallan said. “Your entire existence might be dependent on people.” “It is,” Pattern said, again unconcerned. “But children are dependent upon parents.” He hesitated. “Besides, there are others who think.” “Voidbringers,” Shallan said, cold. “Yes. I do not think that my kind would live in a world with only them. They have their own spren.” Shallan sat up sharply. “Their own spren?” Pattern shrank on her table, scrunching up, his ridges growing less distinct as they mashed together. “Well?” Shallan asked. “We do not speak of this.” “You might want to start,” Shallan said. “It’s important.” Pattern buzzed. She thought he was going to insist on the point, but after a moment, he continued in a very small voice. “Spren are . . . power . . . shattered power. Power given thought by the perceptions of men. Honor, Cultivation,
|
and . . . and another. Fragments broken off.” “Another?” Shallan prodded. Pattern’s buzz became a whine, going so high pitched she almost couldn’t hear it. “Odium.” He spoke the word as if needing to force it out. Shallan wrote furiously. Odium. Hatred. A type of spren? Perhaps a large unique one, like Cusicesh from Iri or the Nightwatcher. Hatredspren. She’d never heard of such a thing. As she wrote, one of her slaves approached in the darkening night. The timid man wore a simple tunic and trousers, one of the sets given to Shallan by the merchants. The gift was welcome, as the last of Shallan’s spheres were in the goblet before her, and wouldn’t be enough to buy a meal at some of the finer restaurants in Kharbranth. “Brightness?” the man asked. “Yes, Suna?” “I . . . um . . .” He pointed. “The other lady, she asked me to tell you . . .” He was pointing toward the tent used by Tyn, the tall woman who was leader of the few remaining caravan guards. “She wants me to visit her?” Shallan asked. “Yes,” Suna said, looking down. “For food, I guess?” “Thank you, Suna,” Shallan said, freeing him to go back toward the fire where he and the other slaves were helping with the cooking while parshmen gathered wood. Shallan’s slaves were a quiet group. They had tattoos on their foreheads, rather than brands. It was the kinder way to do it, and usually marked a person who had entered servitude willingly, as opposed to being forced into it as a punishment for a violent or terrible crime. They were men with debts or the children of slaves who still bore the debt of their parents. These were accustomed to labor, and seemed frightened by the idea of what she was paying them. Pittance though it was, it would see most of them freed in under two years. They were obviously uncomfortable with that idea. Shallan shook her head, packing away her things. As she walked toward Tyn’s tent, Shallan paused at the fire and asked Red to lift her table back into the wagon and secure it there. She did worry about her things, but she no longer kept any spheres in there, and had left it open so Red and Gaz could glimpse inside and see only books. Hopefully there would be no incentive for people to go rooting through them. You dance around the truth too, she thought to herself as she walked away from the fire. Just like those historians you were ranting about. She pretended these men were heroes, but had no illusions about how quickly they could change coats in the wrong circumstances. Tyn’s tent was large and well lit. The woman didn’t travel like a simple guard. In many ways, she was the most intriguing person here. One of the few lighteyes aside from the merchants themselves. A woman who wore a sword. Shallan peeked in through the open flaps and found several parshmen setting up a meal on a
|
low travel table, meant for people to eat at while sitting on the floor. The parshmen hurried out, and Shallan watched them suspiciously. Tyn herself stood by a window cut into the cloth. She wore her long, tan coat, buckled at the waist and almost closed. It had a dresslike feel to it, though it was far stiffer than any dress Shallan had worn, matched by the stiff trousers the woman wore underneath. “I asked your men,” Tyn said without turning, “and they said you hadn’t dined yet. I had the parshmen bring enough for two.” “Thank you,” Shallan said, entering and trying to keep the hesitation from her voice. Among these people, she wasn’t a timid girl but a powerful woman. Theoretically. “I’ve ordered my people to keep the perimeter clear,” Tyn said. “We can speak freely.” “That is well,” Shallan said. “It means,” Tyn said, turning around, “that you can tell me who you really are.” Stormfather! What did that mean? “I’m Shallan Davar, as I have said.” “Yes,” Tyn said, walking over and sitting down at the table. “Please,” she said, gesturing. Shallan seated herself carefully, using a ladylike posture, with legs bent to the side. Tyn sat cross-legged after flipping her coat out behind her. She dug into her meal, dipping flatbread in a curry that seemed too dark—and smelled too peppery—to be feminine. “Men’s food?” Shallan asked. “I’ve always hated those definitions,” Tyn said. “I was raised in Tu Bayla by parents who worked as interpreters. I didn’t realize certain foods were supposed to be for women or men until I visited my parents’ homeland for the first time. Still seems stupid to me. I’ll eat what I want, thank you very much.” Shallan’s own meal was more proper, smelling sweet rather than savory. She ate, only now realizing how hungry she was. “I have a spanreed,” Tyn said. Shallan looked up, tip of her bread in her dipping bowl. “It’s connected to one over in Tashikk,” Tyn continued, “at one of their new information houses. You hire an intermediary there, and they can perform services for you. Research, make inquiries—even relay messages for you via spanreed to any major city in the world. Quite spectacular.” “That sounds useful,” Shallan said carefully. “Indeed. You can find out all kinds of things. For example, I had my contact find what they could on House Davar. It’s apparently a small, out-of-the-way house with large debts and an erratic house leader who may or may not still be alive. He has a daughter, Shallan, whom nobody seems to have met.” “I am that daughter,” Shallan said. “So I’d say that ‘nobody’ is a stretch.” “And why,” Tyn said, “would an unknown scion of a minor Veden family be traveling the Frostlands with a group of slavers? All the while claiming she’s expected at the Shattered Plains, and that her rescue will be celebrated? That she has powerful connections, enough to pay the salaries of a full mercenary troop?” “Truth is sometimes more surprising than a lie.” Tyn smiled, then leaned
|
forward. “It’s all right; you don’t need to keep up the front with me. You’re actually doing a good job here. I’ve discarded my annoyance with you and have decided to be impressed instead. You’re new to this, but talented.” “This?” Shallan asked. “The art of the con, of course,” Tyn said. “The grand act of pretending to be someone you aren’t, then running off with the goods. I like what you pulled with those deserters. It was a big gamble, and it paid off. “But now you’re in a predicament. You’re pretending to be someone several steps above your station, and are promising a grand payoff. I’ve run that scam before, and the trickiest part is the end. If you don’t handle this well, these ‘heroes’ you’ve recruited will have no qualms stringing you up by the neck. I’ve noticed that you’re dragging your feet moving us toward the Plains. You’re uncertain, aren’t you? In over your head?” “Most definitely,” Shallan said softly. “Well,” Tyn said, digging into her food, “I’m here to help.” “At what cost?” This woman certainly did like to talk. Shallan was inclined to let her continue. “I want in on whatever you’re planning,” Tyn said, stabbing her bread down into the bowl like a sword into a greatshell. “You came all the way here to the Frostlands for something. Your plot is likely no small con, but I can’t help but assume you don’t have the experience to pull it off.” Shallan tapped her finger against the table. Who would she be for this woman? Who did she need to be? She seems like a master con artist, Shallan thought, sweating. I can’t fool someone like this. Except that she already had. Accidentally. “How did you end up here?” Shallan asked. “Leading guards on a caravan? Is that part of a con?” Tyn laughed. “This? No, it wouldn’t be worth the trouble. I may have exaggerated my experience in talking to the caravan leaders, but I needed to get to the Shattered Plains and didn’t have the resources to do it on my own. Not safely.” “How does a woman like you end up without resources, though?” Shallan asked, frowning. “I’d think you would never be without.” “I’m not,” Tyn said, gesturing. “As you can plainly see. You’re going to have to get used to rebuilding, if you want to join the profession. It comes, it goes. I got stuck down south without any spheres, and am finding my way to more civilized countries.” “To the Shattered Plains,” Shallan said. “You have a job there of some sort as well? A . . . con you’re intending to pull?” Tyn smiled. “This isn’t about me, kid. It’s about you, and what I can do for you. I know people in the warcamps. It’s practically the new capital of Alethkar; everything interesting in the country is happening there. Money is flowing like rivers after a storm, but everyone considers it a frontier, and so laws are lax. A woman can get ahead if she knows the right
|
people.” Tyn leaned forward, and her expression darkened. “But if she doesn’t, she can make enemies really quickly. Trust me, you want to know who I know, and you want to work with them. Without their approval, nothing big happens at the Shattered Plains. So I ask you again. What are you hoping to accomplish there?” “I . . . know something about Dalinar Kholin.” “Old Blackthorn himself?” Tyn said, surprised. “He’s been living a boring life lately, all superior, like he’s some hero from the legends.” “Yes, well, what I know is going to be very important to him. Very.” “Well, what is this secret?” Shallan didn’t answer. “Not willing to divulge the goods yet,” Tyn said. “Well, that’s understandable. Blackmail is a tricky one. You’ll be glad you brought me on. You are bringing me on, aren’t you?” “Yes,” Shallan said. “I do believe I could learn some things from you.” Kaladin figured that it took a lot to put him in a situation he’d never before seen. He’d been a slave and a surgeon, served on a battlefield and in a lighteyes’ dining room. He’d seen a lot for his twenty years. Too much, it felt at times. He had many memories he’d rather be without. Regardless, he had not expected this day to present him with something so utterly and disconcertingly unfamiliar. “Sir?” he asked, taking a step backward. “You want me to do what?” “Get on that horse,” Dalinar Kholin said, pointing toward an animal grazing nearby. The beast would stand perfectly still, waiting for grass to creep up out of its holes. Then it would pounce, taking a quick bite, which would cause the grass to shoot back down into its burrows. It got a mouthful each time, often pulling the grass out by its roots. It was one of many such animals dawdling and prancing through the area. It never ceased to stun Kaladin just how rich people like Dalinar were; each horse was worth spheres in profusion. And Dalinar wanted him to climb on one of them. “Soldier,” Dalinar said, “you need to know how to ride. The time might come when you need to guard my sons on the battlefield. Besides, how long did it take you to reach the palace the other night, when coming to hear about the king’s accident?” “Almost three-quarters of an hour,” Kaladin admitted. It had been four days since that night, and Kaladin had frequently found himself on edge since then. “I have stables near the barracks,” Dalinar said. “You could have made that trip in a fraction of the time if you could ride. Perhaps you won’t spend much of your time in the saddle, but this is going to be an important skill for you and your men to know.” Kaladin looked back at the other members of Bridge Four. Shrugs all around—a few timid ones—except for Moash, who nodded eagerly. “I suppose,” Kaladin said, looking back at Dalinar. “If you think it’s important, sir, we’ll give it a try.” “Good man,” Dalinar said. “I’ll
|
send over Jenet, the stablemaster.” “We’ll await him with eagerness, sir,” Kaladin said, trying to sound like he meant it. Two of Kaladin’s men escorted Dalinar as he walked toward the stables, a set of large, sturdy stone buildings. From what Kaladin saw, when the horses weren’t inside, they were allowed to roam freely inside this open area west of the warcamp. A low stone wall enclosed it, but surely the horses could jump that at will. They didn’t. The brutes wandered about, stalking grass or lying down, snorting and whinnying. The entire place smelled strange to Kaladin. Not of dung, just . . . of horse. Kaladin eyed one eating nearby, just inside the wall. He didn’t trust it; there was something too smart about horses. Proper beasts of burden like chulls were slow and docile. He’d ride a chull. A creature like this, though . . . who knew what it was thinking? Moash stepped up beside him, watching Dalinar go. “You like him, don’t you?” he asked softly. “He’s a good commander,” Kaladin said, as he instinctively sought out Adolin and Renarin, who were riding their horses nearby. Apparently, the things needed to be exercised periodically to keep them functioning properly. Devilish creatures. “Don’t get too close to him, Kal,” Moash said, still watching Dalinar. “And don’t trust him too far. He’s lighteyed, remember.” “I’m not likely to forget,” Kaladin said dryly. “Besides, you’re the one who looked like you’d faint from joy the moment he offered to let us ride these monsters.” “Have you ever faced a lighteyes riding one of these things?” Moash asked. “On the battlefield, I mean?” Kaladin remembered thundering hooves, a man in silvery armor. Dead friends. “Yes.” “Then you know the advantage it offers,” Moash said. “I’ll take Dalinar’s offer gladly.” The stablemaster turned out to be a she. Kaladin raised an eyebrow as the pretty, young lighteyed woman walked up to them, a pair of grooms in tow. She wore a traditional Vorin gown, though it wasn’t silk but something coarser, and was slit up the front and back, ankle to thigh. Underneath, she wore a feminine pair of trousers. The woman wore her dark hair in a tail, no ornaments, and had a tautness to her face that he didn’t expect in a lighteyed woman. “The highprince says I’m to let you ruffians touch my horses,” Jenet said, folding her arms. “I’m not pleased about it.” “Fortunately,” Kaladin said, “neither are we.” She looked him up and down. “You’re that one, aren’t you? The one everyone is talking about?” “Maybe.” She sniffed. “You need a haircut. All right, listen up, soldier boys! We’re going to do this properly. I won’t have you hurting my horses, all right? You listen, and you listen well.” What proceeded was one of the dullest, most protracted lectures of Kaladin’s life. The woman went on and on about posture—straight-backed, but not too tense. About getting the horses to move—nudges with the heels, nothing too sharp. About how to ride, how to respect the animal, how to
|
hold the reins properly and how to balance. All before being allowed to even touch one of the creatures. Eventually, the boredom was interrupted by the arrival of a man on horseback. Unfortunately, it was Adolin Kholin, riding that white monster of a horse of his. It was several hands taller than the one Jenet was showing them. Adolin’s almost looked a completely different species, with those massive hooves, glistening white coat, and unfathomable eyes. Adolin looked the bridgemen over with a smirk, then caught the stablemaster’s eye and smiled in a less condescending way. “Jenet,” he said. “Looking fetching today, as always. Is that a new riding dress?” The woman bent down without looking—she was now talking about how to guide the horses—and selected a stone from the ground. Then she turned and threw it at Adolin. The princeling flinched, raising an arm protectively over his face, though Jenet’s aim was off. “Oh, come on now,” Adolin said. “You’re not still sore that—” Another rock. This one clipped him on the arm. “Right, then,” Adolin said, jogging his horse away, hunched down to present a smaller target for rocks. Eventually, after demonstrating saddling and bridling on her horse, Jenet finished the lecture and deemed them worthy of touching some horses. A flock of her grooms, both male and female, scurried out onto the field to select proper mounts for the six bridgemen. “Lots of women on your staff,” Kaladin noted to Jenet as the grooms worked. “Horseback riding isn’t mentioned in Arts and Majesty,” she replied. “Horses weren’t terribly well known back then. Radiants had Ryshadium, but even kings had little access to ordinary horses.” She wore her safehand in a sleeve, unlike most of the darkeyed groom women, who wore gloves. “Which matters because . . . ?” Kaladin said. Frowning, she looked at him, baffled. “Arts and Majesty . . .” she prompted. “Foundation of masculine and feminine arts . . . Of course. I keep looking at those captain’s knots on your shoulder, but—” “But I’m just an ignorant darkeyes?” “Sure, if that’s how you want to put it. Whatever. Look, I’m not going to give you a lecture on the arts—I’m tired of talking to you people already. Let’s just say that anyone who wants can be a groom, all right?” She lacked a polished refinement that Kaladin had come to expect in lighteyed women, and he found it refreshing. Better a woman who was overtly condescending than the alternative. The grooms walked the horses out of their enclosure and to a riding ground, shaped like a ring. A group of parshmen with eyes downcast brought the saddles, saddle pads, and bridles—equipment that, following Jenet’s lecture, Kaladin could name. Kaladin selected a beast that didn’t look too evil, a shorter horse with a shaggy mane and a brown coat. He saddled it with help from a groom. Nearby, Moash finished and threw himself up into his saddle. Once the groom let go, Moash’s horse wandered off without him asking it to do so. “Hey!” Moash said. “Stop.
|
Whoa. How do I get it to stop walking?” “You dropped the reins,” Jenet called after him. “Storming fool! Were you even listening?” “Reins,” Moash said, scrambling for them. “Can’t I just slap it over the head with a reed, like you do a chull?” Jenet rubbed her forehead. Kaladin looked into the eye of his own chosen beast. “Look,” he said softly, “you don’t want to do this. I don’t want to do this. Let’s just be pleasant to one another and get it over with as quickly as possible.” The horse snorted softly. Kaladin took a deep breath, then grabbed the saddle as instructed, lifting one foot into the stirrup. He rocked a few times, then threw himself up into the saddle. He grabbed the saddle horn in a death grip and held on tight, ready to be thrown about as the beast went charging away. His horse bent her head and began licking some rocks. “Hey, now,” Kaladin said, raising the reins. “Come on. Let’s move.” The horse ignored him. Kaladin tried cuing it in the flanks as he’d been told. The horse didn’t budge. “You’re supposed to be some kind of wagon with legs,” Kaladin said to the thing. “You’re worth more than a village. Prove it to me. Get going! Forward! Onward!” The horse licked the rocks. What is the thing doing? Kaladin thought, leaning to the side. With surprise, he noticed grass poking out of its holes. Licking fools the grass into thinking rain has come. Often after a storm, plants would unfold to glut themselves on the water even if insects decided to chew them. Clever beast. Lazy. But clever. “You need to show her you’re in charge,” Jenet said, wandering past. “Tighten the reins, sit up straight, pull her head up, and don’t let her eat. She’ll walk all over you if you aren’t firm.” Kaladin tried to obey, and did manage—finally—to pull the horse away from her meal. The horse did smell odd, but it wasn’t a bad smell really. He got her walking, and once that happened, steering wasn’t that difficult. It felt strange to have some other thing in control of where he was going, however. Yes, he had the reins, but at any time this horse could just up and take off running and he’d be unable to do anything about it. Half of Jenet’s training had been about not spooking the horses—about remaining still if one started to gallop, and about never surprising one from behind. It looked higher from atop the horse than he’d assumed it would. That was a long fall to the ground. He guided the horse about, and after a short time, he managed to pull up beside Natam on purpose. The long-faced bridgeman held his reins as if they were precious gemstones, afraid to yank them or direct his horse. “Can’t believe people ride these things on storming purpose,” Natam said. He had a rural Alethi accent, his words bluntly clipped, like he was biting them off before he’d quite finished them. “I mean,
|
we ain’t moving any faster than walking, right?” Again, Kaladin remembered the image of that charging mounted Shardbearer from long ago. Yes, Kaladin could see the reason for horses. Sitting up higher made it easier to strike with power, and the size of the horse—its bulk and momentum—frightened soldiers on foot and sent them scattering. “I think most go faster than these,” Kaladin said. “I’d bet they gave us the old horses to practice on.” “Yeah, I suppose,” Natam said. “It’s warm. Didn’t expect that. I’ve ridden chulls before. This thing shouldn’t be so . . . warm. Hard to feel like this thing is worth as much as it is. It’s like I’m riding about on a pile of emerald broams.” He hesitated, glancing backward. “Only, emeralds’ backsides ain’t nearly so busy . . .” “Natam,” Kaladin asked. “Do you remember much about the day when someone tried to kill the king?” “Oh, sure,” Natam said. “I was with the guys who ran out there and found him flapping in the wind, like the Stormfather’s own ears.” Kaladin smiled. Once, this man would barely say two sentences together, instead always staring at the ground, somber. Used up by his time as a bridgeman. These last few weeks had been good for Natam. Good for them all. “Before the storm that night,” Kaladin said. “Was anyone out on the balcony? Any servants you didn’t recognize? Any soldiers who weren’t from the King’s Guard?” “No servants that I recall,” Natam said, squinting. The once-farmer got a pensive look on his face. “I guarded the king all day, sir, with the King’s Guard. Ain’t nothing standing out to me. I— Whoa!” His horse had suddenly picked up speed, outpacing Kaladin’s. “Think about it!” Kaladin called to him. “See what you can remember!” Natam nodded, still holding his reins like they were glass, refusing to pull them tight or steer the horse. Kaladin shook his head. A small horse galloped past him. In the air. Made of light. Syl giggled, changing shape and spinning around as a ribbon of light before settling on the neck of Kaladin’s horse, just in front of him. She lounged back, grinning, then frowned at his expression. “You’re not enjoying yourself,” Syl said. “You’re starting to sound a lot like my mother.” “Captivating?” Syl said. “Amazing, witty, meaningful?” “Repetitive.” “Captivating?” Syl said. “Amazing, witty, meaningful?” “Very funny.” “Says the man not laughing,” she replied, folding her arms. “All right, so what is drearifying you today?” “Drearifying?” Kaladin frowned. “Is that a word?” “You don’t know?” He shook his head. “Yes,” Syl said solemnly. “Yes, it absolutely is.” “Something’s off,” he said. “About the conversation I just had with Natam.” He tugged on the reins, stopping the horse from trying to bend down and nibble at grass again. The thing was very focused. “What did you talk about?” “The assassination attempt,” Kaladin said, narrowing his eyes. “And if he’d seen anyone before the . . .” He paused. “Before the storm.” He looked down and met Syl’s eyes. “The storm itself
|
would have blown down the railing,” Kaladin said. “Bending it!” Syl said, standing up and grinning. “Ooohhh . . .” “It was cut clean through, the mortar on the bottom chipped away,” Kaladin continued. “I’ll bet the force of the winds was easily equal to the weight the king put on it.” “So the sabotage must have happened after the storm,” Syl said. A much narrower time frame. Kaladin turned his horse toward where Natam was riding. Unfortunately, catching up wasn’t easy. Natam was moving at a trot, much to his obvious dismay, and Kaladin couldn’t get his mount to go faster. “Having trouble, bridgeboy?” Adolin asked, trotting up. Kaladin glanced at the princeling. Stormfather, but it was difficult not to feel tiny when riding beside that monster of Adolin’s. Kaladin tried to kick his horse faster. She kept clopping along at her one speed, walking around the circle here that was a kind of running track for horses. “Spray might have been fast during her youth,” Adolin said, nodding at Kaladin’s mount, “but that was fifteen years ago. I’m surprised she’s still around, honestly, but she seems perfectly suited for training children. And bridgemen.” Kaladin ignored him, eyes forward, still trying to get the horse to pick up her pace and catch Natam. “Now, if you want something with more spunk,” Adolin said, pointing toward the side, “Dreamstorm over there might be more to your liking.” He indicated a larger, leaner animal in its own enclosure, saddled and roped to a pole firmly mortared into a hole in the ground. The long rope let it run in short bursts, though only around in a circle. It tossed its head, snorting. Adolin heeled his own animal forward and past Natam. Dreamstorm, eh? Kaladin thought, inspecting the creature. It certainly did seem to have more spunk than Spray. It also looked like it wanted to take a bite out of anyone who drew too close. Kaladin turned Spray in that direction. Once near, he slowed—Spray was all too happy to do that—and climbed off. Doing so proved more difficult than he’d expected, but he managed to avoid tripping onto his face. Once down, he put his hands on his hips and inspected the running horse inside its fence. “Weren’t you just complaining,” Syl said, walking up onto Spray’s head, “that you’d rather walk than let a horse carry you about?” “Yeah,” Kaladin said. He hadn’t realized it, but he had been holding some Stormlight. Just a tad. It escaped when he spoke, invisible unless he looked closely and detected a slight warping of the air. “So what are you doing thinking about riding that?” “This horse,” he said, nodding to Spray, “is only for walking. I can walk just fine on my own. That other one, that’s an animal for war.” Moash was right. Horses were an advantage on the battlefield, so Kaladin should be at least familiar with them. The same argument Zahel made to me about learning to fight against a Shardblade, Kaladin thought with discomfort. And I turned him down.
|
“What do you think you’re doing?” Jenet asked, riding up to him. “I’m going to get on that,” Kaladin said, pointing at Dreamstorm. Jenet snorted. “She’ll throw you in a heartbeat and you’ll break your crown, bridgeman. She’s not good with riders.” “She has a saddle on.” “So she can get used to wearing one.” The horse finished a round of cantering and slowed. “I don’t like that look in your eyes,” Jenet told him, turning her own animal to the side. It stomped impatiently, as if eager to be running. “I’m going to give it a try,” Kaladin said, walking forward. “You won’t even be able to get on,” Jenet said. She watched him carefully, as if curious what he’d do—though it seemed to him she might be more worried for the horse’s safety than his. Syl alighted on Kaladin’s shoulder as he walked. “This is going to be like back at the lighteyed practice grounds, isn’t it?” Kaladin asked. “I’m going to end up on my back, staring at the sky, feeling like a fool.” “Probably,” Syl said lightly. “So why are you doing this? Because of Adolin?” “Nah,” Kaladin said. “The princeling can storm away.” “Then why?” “Because I’m scared of these things.” Syl looked at him, seeming baffled, but it made perfect sense to Kaladin. Ahead, Dreamstorm—huffing out huge breaths from her run—looked at him. She met his eyes. “Storms!” Adolin’s voice called from behind. “Bridgeboy, don’t actually do it! Are you mad?” Kaladin stepped up to the horse. She danced a few steps back, but let him touch the saddle. So he breathed in a little more Stormlight and threw himself at the saddle. “Damnation! What—” Adolin shouted. That was all Kaladin heard. His Stormlight-aided leap let him get higher than an ordinary man could probably have managed, but his aim was off. He got hold of the pommel and threw one leg over, but the horse started thrashing. The beast was incredibly strong, a distinct and powerful contrast to Spray. Kaladin was quite nearly hurled from the seat on the first buck. With a wild swipe of the hand, Kaladin poured Stormlight onto the saddle and stuck himself in place. That only meant that instead of being tossed from horseback like a limp cloth, he got whipped back and forth like a limp cloth. He somehow managed to get hold of the horse’s mane and, with teeth gritted, did his best to keep from being bounced senseless. The stable grounds were a blur. The only sounds he could hear were his beating heart and the smashing hooves. The Voidbringer beast moved like a storm itself, but Kaladin was stuck to the saddle as surely as if he’d been nailed there. After what seemed an eternity, the horse—blowing out big, frothy breaths—stilled. Kaladin’s swimming vision cleared to show a group of bridgemen—keeping their distance—cheering him on. Adolin and Jenet, both mounted, stared at him with what seemed to be a mixture of horror and awe. Kaladin grinned. Then, in one last, powerful motion, Dreamstorm bucked him free.
|
He hadn’t realized that the Stormlight in the saddle was exhausted. In a fitting fulfillment of his earlier prediction, Kaladin found himself dazed, lying on his back staring at the sky, having trouble remembering the last few seconds of his life. A number of painspren wiggled out of the ground beside him, little orange hands that grabbed this way and that. An equine head with unfathomably dark eyes leaned down over Kaladin. The horse snorted at him. The smell was moist and grassy. “You monster,” Kaladin said. “You waited until I was relaxed, then threw me.” The horse snorted again, and Kaladin found himself laughing. Storms, but that had felt good! He couldn’t explain why, but the act of clinging for dear life to the thrashing animal had been truly exhilarating. As Kaladin stood and dusted himself off, Dalinar himself broke through the crowd, brow furrowed. Kaladin hadn’t realized the highprince had still been nearby. He looked from Dreamstorm to Kaladin, then raised an eyebrow. “You don’t chase down assassins on a placid mount, sir,” Kaladin said, saluting. “Yes,” Dalinar said, “but it is customary to start training men by using weapons without edges, soldier. Are you all right?” “Fine, sir,” Kaladin said. “Well, it seems your men are taking to the training,” Dalinar said. “I’m going to put in a requisition release. You and five others you select are to come here and practice every day for the next few weeks.” “Yes, sir.” He’d find the time. Somehow. “Good,” Dalinar said. “I received your proposal for initial patrols outside of the warcamps, and thought it looked good. Why don’t you start in two weeks, and bring some horses with you to practice out in the field.” Jenet made a strangled sound. “Outside the city, Brightlord? But . . . bandits . . .” “The horses are here to be used, Jenet,” Dalinar said. “Captain, you’ll be sure to bring enough troops to protect the horses, won’t you?” “Yes, sir,” Kaladin said. “Good. But do leave that one behind,” Dalinar said, waving toward Dreamstorm. “Er, yes, sir.” Dalinar nodded, moving off and raising his hand toward someone Kaladin couldn’t see. Kaladin rubbed his elbow, which he’d smacked. The remaining Stormlight in his body had healed his head first, then run out before getting to his arm. Bridge Four moved to their horses as Jenet called out for them to remount and start a second phase of training. Kaladin found himself standing near Adolin, who remained mounted. “Thanks,” Adolin said, grudgingly. “For?” Kaladin asked, walking past him toward Spray, who continued to chew at grass, uncaring of the fuss. “Not telling Father I put you up to that.” “I’m not an idiot, Adolin,” Kaladin said, swinging into his saddle. “I could see what I was getting myself into.” He turned his horse away from her meal with some difficulty, and got some more pointers from a groom. Eventually, Kaladin trotted over toward Natam again. The gait was bouncy, but he mostly got the hang of moving with the horse—they called it posting—to keep
|
from slapping around too much. Natam watched him as he moved up. “That’s unfair, sir.” “What I did with Dreamstorm?” “No. The way you just ride like that. Seems so natural for you.” Didn’t feel that way. “I want to talk some more about that night.” “Sir?” the long-faced man asked. “I haven’t thought of anything yet. Been a little distracted.” “I have another question,” Kaladin said, bringing their horses up beside one another. “I asked you about your shift during the day, but what about right after I left? Did anyone other than the king go out onto the balcony?” “Just guards, sir,” Natam said. “Tell me which ones,” Kaladin said. “Maybe they saw something.” Natam shrugged. “I mainly watched the door. The king remained in the sitting room for a time. I guess Moash went out.” “Moash,” Kaladin said, frowning. “Wasn’t his shift supposed to be done soon?” “Yeah,” Natam said. “He stayed around a little extra time; said he wanted to see the king settled. While waiting, Moash went out to watch the balcony. You usually want one of us out there.” “Thanks,” Kaladin said. “I’ll ask him.” Kaladin found Moash diligently listening to Jenet explain something. Moash seemed to have picked up riding quickly—he seemed to pick up everything quickly. Certainly, he’d been the best student among the bridgemen when it came to fighting. Kaladin watched him for a few moments, frowning. Then it struck him. What are you thinking? That Moash might have had something to do with the assassination attempt? Don’t be stupid. That was ridiculous. Besides, the man didn’t have a Shardblade. Kaladin turned his horse away. As he did, however, he saw the person Dalinar had gone to meet. Brightlord Amaram. The two were too far away for Kaladin to hear them, but he could see the amusement on Dalinar’s face. Adolin and Renarin rode up to them, smiling broadly as Amaram waved to them. The anger that surged within Kaladin—sudden, passionate, almost chokingly strong—made him clench his fists. His breath hissed out. That surprised him. He’d thought the hatred buried deeper than that. He turned his horse pointedly the other direction, suddenly looking forward to the chance to go on patrol with the new recruits. Getting away from the warcamps sounded very good to him. Adolin crashed into the Parshendi line, ignoring weapons, throwing his shoulder against the enemy at the front. The Parshendi man grunted, his song faltering, as Adolin spun about himself and swept with his Shardblade. Tugs on the weapon marked when it passed through flesh. Adolin came out of his spin, ignoring the glow of Stormlight coming from a crack at his shoulder. Around him, bodies dropped, eyes burning in their skulls. Adolin’s breath, hot and humid, filled his helm as he puffed in and out. There, he thought, raising his Blade and charging, his men filling in around him. Not those bridgemen, for once, but real soldiers. He’d left the bridgemen back on the assault plateau. He didn’t want men around him who didn’t want to fight Parshendi.
|
Adolin and his soldiers pushed through the Parshendi, joining up with a frantic set of soldiers in green uniforms with gold accents, led by a Shardbearer in matching colors. The man fought with a large Shardbearer’s hammer—he had no Blade of his own. Adolin pushed through to him. “Jakamav?” he asked. “You all right?” “All right?” Jakamav asked, voice muffled by his helm. He slammed the faceplate up, revealing a grin. “I’m wonderful.” He laughed, pale green eyes alight with the Thrill of the fight. Adolin recognized that feeling well. “You were almost surrounded!” Adolin said, turning to face a group of Parshendi running up in pairs. Adolin respected them for coming at Shardbearers, rather than fleeing. It meant almost certain death, but if you won, you could turn the tide of a battle. Jakamav laughed, sounding as pleased now as when enjoying a winehouse singer, and that laughter was infectious. Adolin found himself grinning as he engaged the Parshendi, sweeping them down with blow after blow. He never enjoyed simple warfare as much as a good duel, but for the moment, despite its crassness, he found challenge and joy in the fight. Moments later, the dead lying at his feet, he spun about and searched for another challenge. This plateau was shaped very strangely; it had been a tall hill before the Plains were shattered, but half of it had ended up on the adjacent plateau. He couldn’t imagine what kind of force would have split the hill down the center, as opposed to cracking it at the base. Well, it wasn’t an ordinary-shaped hill, so maybe that had something to do with the split. It was shaped more like a wide, flat pyramid with only three steps. A large base, a second plateau atop it that was perhaps a hundred feet across, then a third, smaller peak atop the other two, placed right in the center. Almost like a cake with three tiers that had been cut with a large knife right down the center. Adolin and Jakamav fought on the second tier of the battlefield. Technically, Adolin wasn’t required to be on this run. It wasn’t his army’s turn in the rotation. However, the time had come to implement another part of Dalinar’s plan. Adolin had arrived with only a small strike force, but it was a good thing he had. Jakamav had been surrounded up here, on the second tier, and the regular army hadn’t been able to break through. Now, the Parshendi had been pushed back to the sides of this tier. They still held the top tier completely; it was where the chrysalis had appeared. That put them in a bad position. Yes, they had the high ground, but they also had to hold the slopes between tiers to secure their withdrawal. They’d obviously hoped to get the harvesting done before the humans arrived. Adolin kicked a Parshendi soldier over the edge, toppling him down thirty feet or so onto those fighting on the bottom tier, then looked to his right. The slope upward was there,
|
but the Parshendi had the approach clogged. He’d really like to reach the top. . . . He looked at the sheer cliff face between his tier and the one above. “Jakamav,” he called, pointing. Jakamav followed Adolin’s gesture, looking upward. Then stepped back from the fighting. “That’s crazy!” Jakamav said as Adolin jogged up. “Sure is.” “Let’s be at it, then!” He handed his hammer to Adolin, who slipped it into the sheath on his friend’s back. Then the two of them ran to the rock wall and started to climb. Adolin’s Plated fingers ground against rock as he pulled himself straight up. Soldiers below cheered them on. There were handholds aplenty, though he would never have wanted to do this without Plate to propel his climb and protect him if he fell. It was still crazy; they’d end up surrounded. However, two Shardbearers could do amazing things when supporting one another. Besides, if they got overwhelmed, they could always jump off the cliff, assuming their Plate was healthy enough to survive the fall. It was the sort of risky move that Adolin would never dare when his father was on the battlefield. He paused halfway up the cliff. Parshendi gathered on the edge of the tier above, preparing for them. “You have a plan for getting a foothold up there?” Jakamav asked, clinging to the rocks beside Adolin. Adolin nodded. “Just be ready to support me.” “Sure.” Jakamav scanned the heights, face hidden behind his helm. “What are you doing here, by the way?” “I figured no army would turn away some Shardbearers who wanted to help.” “Shardbearers? Plural?” “Renarin is down below.” “Hopefully not fighting.” “He’s surrounded by a large squad of soldiers with careful instructions not to let him get into the fighting. Father wanted him to see a few of these, though.” “I know what Dalinar is doing,” Jakamav said. “He’s trying to show a spirit of cooperation, trying to get the highprinces to stop being rivals. So he sends his Shardbearers to help, even when the run isn’t his.” “Are you complaining?” “Nope. Let’s see you make an opening up there. I’ll need a moment to get the hammer out.” Adolin grinned inside his helmet, then continued climbing. Jakamav was a landlord and Shardbearer under Highprince Roion, and a fairly good friend. It was important that lighteyes like Jakamav saw Dalinar and Adolin actively working toward a better Alethkar. Perhaps a few episodes like this would show the value of a trustworthy alliance, instead of the backstabbing, temporary coalition Sadeas represented. Adolin climbed farther, Jakamav close behind, until he was a dozen feet from the top. The Parshendi clustered there, hammers and maces at the ready—weapons for fighting a man in Shardplate. A few farther down launched arrows, which bounced ineffectively off the Plate. All right, Adolin thought, holding his hand to the side—clinging to the rocks with the other—and summoned his Blade. He slammed it directly into the rock wall with the flat of the blade facing upward. He climbed up beside the sword. Then
|
he stepped onto the flat of the blade. Shardblades couldn’t break—they could barely bend—so it held him. He suddenly had leverage and good footing, and so when he crouched down and leaped, the Plate hurled him upward. As he passed the edge of the top tier, he grabbed the rock there—just beneath the feet of the Parshendi—and pulled on it to throw himself into the waiting foe. They broke off their singing as he smashed into them with the force of a boulder. He got his feet underneath him, mentally sending a summons to his Blade, then slammed his shoulder into one group. He began to lay about himself with punches, smashing the chest of one Parshendi, then the head of another. The soldiers’ carapace armor cracked with sickening sounds, and the punches flung them backward, knocking some off the cliff. Adolin took a few hits on his forearms before his Blade finally re-formed in his hands. He swung about, so focused on holding his ground that he didn’t notice Jakamav until the Shardbearer in green fell in beside him, crushing Parshendi with his hammer. “Thanks for tossing a platoon’s worth of Parshendi down on my head,” Jakamav called as he swung. “That was a wonderful surprise.” Adolin grinned, pointing. “Chrysalis.” The top tier wasn’t well populated—though more Parshendi were flooding up the incline. He and Jakamav had a direct path to the chrysalis, a hulking, oblong boulder of brown and faint green. It was matted to the rocks with the same stuff that made up its shell. Adolin leaped over the twitching form of a Parshendi with dead legs and charged the chrysalis, Jakamav following at a clanking jog. Getting to a gemheart was tough—the chrysalises had skin like rock—but with a Shardblade, it could be easy. They just had to kill the thing, then cut a hole so they could rip out the heart and— The chrysalis was already open. “No!” Adolin said, scrambling up to it, grabbing the sides of the hole and peering into the slushy violet interior. Chunks of carapace floated within the goop, and a conspicuous gap lay where the gemheart normally connected to veins and sinew. Adolin spun, searching across the top of the plateau. Jakamav clanked up and cursed. “How did they get it out so quickly?” There. Nearby, Parshendi soldiers scattered, yelling in their impenetrable, rhythmic language. Standing behind them was a tall figure in silvery Shardplate, a red cloak billowing out behind. The armor had peaked joints, ridges rising like the points on a crab’s shell. The figure was easily seven feet tall, the armor making him look massive, perhaps because it covered a Parshendi who had that carapace armor growing from his skin. “It’s him!” Adolin said, running forward. This was the one his father had fought on the Tower, the only Shardbearer they’d seen among the Parshendi for weeks, maybe months. Perhaps the last one they had. The Shardbearer turned toward Adolin, gripping a large uncut gemstone in his hand. It dripped ichor and plasma. “Fight me!” Adolin said. A
|
group of Parshendi soldiers charged past the Shardbearer, running toward the long drop-off at the back of the formation, where the hill had been split down the center. The Shardbearer handed his gemheart to one of these charging men, then turned and watched them jump. They soared across the gap to land on the top of the other half of the hill, the one on the adjacent plateau. It still amazed Adolin that these Parshendi soldiers could leap chasms. He felt a fool as he realized that these heights were not a trap for them as they would be for humans. To them, a mountain split in half was just another chasm to leap. More and more of the Parshendi made the leap, flowing away from the humans below and jumping to safety. Adolin did spot one who stumbled as he leapt. The poor fellow screamed as he plummeted into the chasm. This was dangerous for them, but it was obviously less so than trying to fight off the humans. The Shardbearer remained. Adolin ignored the fleeing Parshendi—ignored Jakamav, who called for him to fall back—and ran up to that Shardbearer, swinging his Blade full force. The Parshendi raised his own Blade, slapping aside Adolin’s blow. “You are the son, Adolin Kholin,” the Parshendi said. “Your father? Where is?” Adolin froze in place. The words were in Alethi—heavily accented, yes, but understandable. The Shardbearer slammed up his faceplate. And, to Adolin’s shock, there was no beard on that face. Didn’t that make this a woman? Telling the difference with Parshendi was difficult for him. The vocal timbre was rough and low-pitched, though he supposed it could be feminine. “I must need speak to Dalinar,” the woman said, stepping forward. “I met him one time, much long ago.” “You refused our every messenger,” Adolin said, backing away, sword out. “Now you wish to speak with us?” “That was long ago. Time does change.” Stormfather. Something inside of Adolin urged him to go in swinging, to batter this Shardbearer down and get some answers, win some Shards. Fight! He was here to fight! His father’s voice, in the back of his mind, held him at bay. Dalinar would want this chance. It could change the course of the entire war. “He will want to contact you,” Adolin said, taking a deep breath, shoving down the Thrill of battle. “How?” “Will send messenger,” the Shardbearer said. “Do not kill one who comes.” She raised her Shardblade toward him in salute, then let it drop and dematerialize. She turned to charge toward the chasm and hurled herself across in a prodigious leap. * * * Adolin pulled off his helm as he strode across the plateau. Surgeons saw to the wounded while the hale sat around in groups, drinking water and grousing about their failure. A rare mood hovered over the armies of Roion and Ruthar this day. Usually when the Alethi lost a plateau run it was because the Parshendi pushed them back in a wild scrambling retreat across bridges. It wasn’t often that a
|
run ended with the Alethi controlling the plateau, but with no gemheart to show for it. He released one gauntlet, the straps undoing themselves automatically at his will, then hooked it at his waist. He used a sweaty hand to push back sweatier hair. Now where had Renarin gotten to? There, on the staging plateau, sitting on a rock surrounded by guards. Adolin tromped across one of the bridges, raising a hand to Jakamav, who was removing his Plate nearby. He’d want to ride back in comfort. Adolin jogged up to his brother, who sat on a boulder with his helm off, staring at the ground in front of him. “Hey,” Adolin said. “Ready to head back?” Renarin nodded. “What happened?” Adolin asked. Renarin continued staring at the ground. Finally, one of the bridgeman guards—a compact man with silvering hair—nodded his head to the side. Adolin walked with him a short distance away. “A group of shellheads tried to seize one of the bridges, Brightlord,” the bridgeman said softly. “Brightlord Renarin insisted on going to help. Sir, we tried hard to dissuade him. Then, when he got near and summoned his Blade, he just kind of . . . stood there. We got him away, sir, but he’s been sitting on that rock ever since.” One of Renarin’s fits. “Thank you, soldier,” Adolin said. He walked back over and laid his ungauntleted hand on Renarin’s shoulder. “It’s all right, Renarin. It happens.” Renarin shrugged again. Well, if he was in one of his moods, there was nothing to do but let him stew. The younger man would talk about it when he was ready. Adolin organized his two hundred troops, then paid his respects to the highprinces. Neither seemed very grateful. In fact, Ruthar seemed convinced that Adolin and Jakamav’s stunt had driven the Parshendi off with the gemheart. As if they wouldn’t have withdrawn the moment they had it anyway. Idiot. Adolin smiled affably, regardless. Hopefully Father was right, and the extended hand of fellowship would help. Personally, Adolin just wanted a chance at each of them in the dueling ring, where he could teach them a little respect. On his way back to his army, he searched out Jakamav, who sat under a small pavilion, having a cup of wine as he watched the rest of his army trudge back across the bridges. There were a lot of slumped shoulders and long faces. Jakamav gestured for his steward to get Adolin a cup of sparkling yellow wine. Adolin took it in his unarmored hand, though he didn’t drink. “That was quite nearly awesome,” Jakamav said, staring out at the battle plateau. From this lower vantage, it looked truly imposing, with those three tiers. Almost looks man-made, Adolin thought idly, considering the shape. “Nearly,” Adolin agreed. “Can you imagine what an assault would look like if we had twenty or thirty Shardbearers on the battlefield at once? What chance would the Parshendi have?” Jakamav grunted. “Your father and the king are seriously committed to this course, aren’t they?” “As am I.”
|
“I can see what you and your father are doing here, Adolin. But if you keep dueling, you’re going to lose your Shards. Even you can’t always win. Eventually you’ll hit an off day. Then it will all be gone.” “I might lose at some point,” Adolin agreed. “Of course by then I’ll have won half the Shards in the kingdom, so I should be able to arrange a replacement.” Jakamav sipped his wine, smiling. “You are a cocky bastard, I’ll give you that.” Adolin smiled, then settled down in a squat beside Jakamav’s chair—he couldn’t sit in one himself, not in Shardplate—so he could meet his friend’s eyes. “The truth is, Jakamav, I’m not really worried about losing my Shards—I’m more worried about finding duels in the first place. I can’t seem to get any Shardbearers to agree to a bout, at least not for Shards.” “There have been certain . . . inducements going around,” Jakamav admitted. “Promises made to Shardbearers if they refused you.” “Sadeas.” Jakamav inspected his wine. “Try Eranniv. He’s been boasting that he’s better than the standings give him credit for. Knowing him, he’ll see everyone else refusing, and see it as an opportunity for him to do something spectacular. He’s pretty good, though.” “So am I,” Adolin said. “Thanks, Jak. I owe you.” “What’s this I hear about you being betrothed?” Storms. How had that gotten out? “It’s just a causal,” Adolin said. “And it might not even get that far. The woman’s ship seems to have been severely delayed.” Two weeks now, with no word. Even Aunt Navani was getting worried. Jasnah should have sent word. “I never thought you were the type to let yourself be nailed into an arranged marriage, Adolin,” Jakamav said. “There are lots of winds to ride out there, you know?” “Like I said,” Adolin replied, “it’s far from official.” He still didn’t know how he felt about all this. Part of him had wanted to push back simply because he resisted being subject to Jasnah’s manipulation. But then, his recent track record wasn’t anything to boast of. After what had happened with Danlan . . . It wasn’t his fault, was it, that he was a friendly man? Why did every woman have to be so jealous? The idea of letting someone else just take care of it all for him was more tempting than he’d ever publicly admit. “I can tell you the details,” Adolin said. “Maybe at the winehouse later tonight? Bring Inkima? You can tell me how stupid I’m being, give me some perspective.” Jakamav stared at his wine. “What?” Adolin asked. “Being seen with you isn’t good for one’s reputation these days, Adolin,” Jakamav said. “Your father and the king aren’t particularly popular.” “It will all blow over.” “I’m sure it will,” Jakamav said. “So let’s . . . wait until then, shall we?” Adolin blinked, the words hitting him harder than any blow on the battlefield. “Sure,” Adolin forced himself to say. “Good man.” Jakamav actually had the audacity to smile at him
|
and lift his cup of wine. Adolin set aside his own cup untouched and stalked off. Sureblood was ready and waiting for him when he reached his men. Adolin moved to swing into the saddle, stewing, but the white Ryshadium nudged him with a butt of the head. Adolin sighed, scratching at the horse’s ears. “Sorry,” he said. “Haven’t been paying much attention to you lately, have I?” He gave the horse a good scratch, and felt somewhat better after climbing into the saddle. Adolin patted Sureblood’s neck, and the horse pranced a bit as they started moving. He often did that when Adolin was feeling annoyed, as if trying to improve his master’s mood. His four guards for the day followed behind him. They’d obligingly brought their old bridge from Sadeas’s army to get Adolin’s team where they needed to go. They seemed to find it very amusing that Adolin had his soldiers take shifts carrying the thing. Storming Jakamav. This has been coming, Adolin admitted to himself. The more you defend Father, the more they’ll pull away. They were like children. Father really was right. Did Adolin have any true friends? Anyone who would actually stand by him when things were difficult? He knew practically everyone of note in the warcamps. Everyone knew him. How many of them actually cared? “I didn’t have a fit,” Renarin said softly. Adolin shook out of his brooding. They rode side by side, though Adolin’s mount was several hands taller. With Adolin astride a Ryshadium, Renarin looked like a child on a pony by comparison, even in his Plate. Clouds had rolled across the sun, giving some relief from the glare, though the air had turned cold lately and it looked like winter was here for a season. The empty plateaus stretched ahead, barren and broken. “I just stood there,” Renarin said. “I wasn’t frozen because of my . . . ailment. I’m just a coward.” “You’re no coward,” Adolin said. “I’ve seen you act as brave as any man. Remember the chasmfiend hunt?” Renarin shrugged. “You don’t know how to fight, Renarin,” Adolin said. “It’s a good thing you froze. You’re too new at this to go into battle right now.” “I shouldn’t be. You started training when you were six.” “That’s different.” “You’re different, you mean,” Renarin said, eyes forward. He wasn’t wearing his spectacles. Why was that? Didn’t he need them? Trying to act like he doesn’t, Adolin thought. Renarin so desperately wanted to be useful on a battlefield. He’d resisted all suggestions that he should become an ardent and pursue scholarship, as might have better suited him. “You just need more training,” Adolin said. “Zahel will whip you into shape. Just give it time. You’ll see.” “I need to be ready,” Renarin said. “Something is coming.” The way he said it gave Adolin a shiver. “You’re talking about the numbers on the walls.” Renarin nodded. They’d found another scratched set of them, after the recent highstorm, outside Father’s room. Forty-nine days. A new storm comes. According to the guards, nobody
|
had gone in or out—different men from last time, which made it unlikely it had been one of them. Storms. That had been scratched on the wall while Adolin had been sleeping just one room away. Who, or what, had done it? “Need to be ready,” Renarin said. “For the coming storm. So little time . . .” FIVE YEARS AGO Shallan longed to stay outside. Here in the gardens, people didn’t scream at each other. Here there was peace. Unfortunately, it was a fake peace—a peace of carefully planted shalebark and cultivated vines. A fabrication, designed to amuse and distract. More and more she longed to escape and visit places where the plants weren’t carefully trimmed into shapes, where people didn’t step lightly, as if afraid of causing a rockslide. A place away from the shouting. A cool mountain breeze came down from the heights and swept through the gardens, making vines shy backward. She sat away from the flowerbeds, and the sneezing they would bring her, instead studying a section of sturdy shalebark. The cremling she sketched turned at the wind, its enormous feelers twitching, before leaning back down to chew on the shalebark. There were so many kinds of cremlings. Had anyone tried to count them all? By luck, her father had owned a drawing book—one of the works of Dandos the Oilsworn—and she used that for instruction, letting it rest open beside her. A yell sounded from inside the nearby manor house. Shallan’s hand stiffened, making an errant streak across her sketch. She took a deep breath and tried to return to her drawing, but another series of shouts put her on edge. She set her pencil down. She was nearly out of sheets from the latest stack her brother had brought her. He returned unpredictably but never for long, and when he came, he and Father avoided one another. Nobody in the manor knew where Helaran went when he left. She lost track of time, staring at a blank sheet of paper. That happened to her sometimes. When she raised her eyes, the sky was darkening. Almost time for Father’s feast. He had those regularly now. Shallan packed up her things in the satchel, then took off her sun hat and walked toward the manor house. Tall and imposing, the building was an exemplar of the Veden ideal. Solitary, strong, towering. A work of square blocks and small windows, dappled by dark lichen. Some books called manors like this the soul of Jah Keved—isolated estates, each brightlord ruling independently. It seemed to her that those writers romanticized rural life. Had they ever actually visited one of the manors, experienced the true dullness of country life in person, or did they merely fantasize about it from the comfort of their cosmopolitan cities? Inside the house, Shallan turned up the stairs toward her quarters. Father would want her looking nice for the feast. There would be a new dress for her to wear as she sat quietly, not interrupting the discussion. Father had never said so, but she suspected
|
he thought it a pity she had begun speaking again. Perhaps he did not wish her to be able to speak of things she’d seen. She stopped in the hallway, her mind going blank. “Shallan?” She shook herself to find Van Jushu, her fourth brother, on the steps behind her. How long had she been standing and staring at the wall? The feast would start soon! Jushu’s jacket was undone and hung askew, his hair mussed, his cheeks flushed with wine. No cufflinks or belt; they had been fine pieces, each with a glowing gemstone. He’d have gambled those away. “What was Father yelling about earlier?” she asked. “Were you here?” “No,” Jushu said, running his hand through his hair. “But I heard. Balat has been starting fires again. Nearly burned down the storming servants’ building.” Jushu pushed past her, then stumbled, grabbing the bannister to keep from falling. Father was not going to like Jushu coming to the feast like this. More yelling. “Storms-cursed idiot,” Jushu said as Shallan helped him right himself. “Balat is going straight crazy. I’m the only one left in this family with any sense. You were staring at the wall again, weren’t you?” She didn’t reply. “He’ll have a new dress for you,” Jushu said as she helped him toward his room. “And nothing for me but curses. Bastard. He loved Helaran, and none of us are him, so we don’t matter. Helaran is never here! He betrayed Father, almost killed him. And still, he’s the only one who matters. . . .” They passed Father’s chambers. The heavy stumpweight door was open a crack as a maid tidied the room, allowing Shallan to see the far wall. And the glowing strongbox. It was hidden behind a painting of a storm at sea that did nothing to dim the powerful white glow. Right through the canvas, she saw the outline of the strongbox blazing like a fire. She stumbled, pulling to a stop. “What are you staring at?” Jushu demanded, holding to the bannister. “The light.” “What light?” “Behind the painting.” He squinted, lurching forward. “What in the Halls are you talking about, girl? It really did ruin your mind, didn’t it? Watching him kill Mother?” Jushu pulled away from her, cursing softly to himself. “I’m the only one in this family who hasn’t gone crazy. The only storming one . . .” Shallan stared into that light. There hid a monster. There hid Mother’s soul. “Th’information’ll cost ya twelve broams,” Shallan said. “Ruby, you see. I’ll check each one.” Tyn laughed, tossing her head back, jet-black hair falling free around her shoulders. She sat in the driver’s seat of the wagon. Where Bluth used to sit. “You call that a Bav accent?” Tyn demanded. “I’ve only heard them three or four times.” “You sounded like you have rocks in your mouth!” “That’s how they sound!” “Nah, it’s more like they have pebbles in their mouths. But they talk really slow, with overemphasized sounds. Like this. ‘Oi looked over the paintings that ya gave me, and
|
they’re roit nice. Roit nice indeed. Ain’t never had a cloth for my backside that was so pleasant.’” “You’re exaggerating that!” Shallan said, though she couldn’t help laughing. “A tad,” Tyn said, leaning back and sweeping her long, chull-guiding reed in front of her like a Shardblade. “I don’t see why knowing a Bav accent would be useful,” Shallan said. “They’re not a very important people.” “Kid, that’s why they’re important.” “They’re important because they’re unimportant,” Shallan said. “All right, I know I’m bad at logic sometimes, but something about that statement seems off.” Tyn smiled. She was so relaxed, so . . . free. Not at all what Shallan had expected after their first encounter. But then the woman had been playing a part. Leader of the guard. This woman Shallan was talking to now, this seemed real. “Look,” Tyn said, “if you’re going to fool people, you’ll need to learn how to act beneath them as well as above them. You’re getting the whole ‘important lighteyes’ thing down. I assume you’ve had good examples.” “You could say that,” Shallan replied, thinking of Jasnah. “Thing is, in a lot of situations, being an important lighteyes is useless.” “Being unimportant is important. Being important is useless. Got it.” Tyn eyed her, chewing on some jerky. Her sword belt hung from a peg on the side of the seat, swaying to the rhythm of the chull’s gait. “You know, kid, you get kind of mouthy when you let your mask down.” Shallan blushed. “I like it. I prefer people who can laugh at life.” “I can guess what you’re trying to teach me,” Shallan said. “You’re saying that a person with a Bav accent, someone who looks lowly and simple, can go places a lighteyes never could.” “And can hear or do things a lighteyes never could. Accent is important. Elocute with distinction, and it often won’t matter how little money you have. Wipe your nose on your arm and speak like a Bav, and sometimes people won’t even glance to see if you’re wearing a sword.” “But my eyes are light blue,” Shallan said. “I’ll never pass for lowly, no matter what my voice sounds like!” Tyn fished in her trouser pocket. She had slung her coat over another peg, and so wore only the pale tan trousers—tight, with high boots—and a buttoned shirt. Almost a worker’s shirt, though of nicer material. “Here,” Tyn said, tossing something to her. Shallan barely caught it. She blushed at her clumsiness, then held it up toward the sun: a small vial with some dark liquid inside. “Eyedrops,” Tyn said. “They’ll darken your eyes for a few hours.” “Really?” “Not hard to find, if you have the right connections. Useful stuff.” Shallan lowered the vial, suddenly feeling a chill. “Is there—” “The reverse?” Tyn cut in. “Something to turn a darkeyes into a lighteyes? Not that I know of. Unless you believe the stories about Shardblades.” “Makes sense,” Shallan said, relaxing. “You can darken glass by painting it, but I don’t think you can lighten it
|
without melting down the whole thing.” “Anyway,” Tyn said, “you’ll need a good backwater accent or two. Herdazian, Bavlander, something like that.” “I probably have a rural Veden accent,” Shallan admitted. “That won’t work out here. Jah Keved is a cultured country, and your internal accents are too similar to one another for outsiders to recognize. Alethi won’t hear rural from you, like a fellow Veden would. They’ll just hear exotic.” “You’ve been to a lot of places, haven’t you?” Shallan asked. “I go wherever the winds take me. It’s a good life, so long as you’re not attached to stuff.” “Stuff?” Shallan asked. “But you’re—pardon—you’re a thief. That’s all about getting more stuff!” “I take what I can get, but that just proves how transient stuff is. You’ll take some things, but then you’ll lose them. Just like the job I pulled down south. My team never returned from their mission; I’m half convinced they ran off without seeing me paid.” She shrugged. “It happens. No need to get worked up.” “What kind of job was it?” Shallan asked, blinking pointedly to take a Memory of Tyn lounging there, sweeping her reed as if conducting musicians, not a care in the world. They’d nearly died a couple of weeks back, but Tyn took it in stride. “It was a big job,” Tyn said. “Important, for the kinds of people who make things change in the world. I still haven’t heard back from the ones who hired us. Maybe my men didn’t run off; maybe they just failed. I don’t know for certain.” Here, Shallan caught tension in Tyn’s face. A tightening of the skin around the eyes, a distance to her gaze. She was worried about what her employers might do to her. Then it was gone, smoothed away. “Have a look,” Tyn said, nodding up ahead. Shallan followed the gesture and noticed moving figures a few hills over. The landscape had slowly changed as they approached the Plains. The hills grew steeper, but the air a little warmer, and plant life was more prevalent. Stands of trees clustered in some of the valleys, where waters would flow after highstorms. The trees were squat, different from the flowing majesty of the ones she’d known in Jah Keved, but it was still nice to see something other than scrub. The grass here was fuller. It pulled smartly away from the wagons, sinking into its burrows. The rockbuds here grew large, and shalebark cropped up in patches, often with lifespren bouncing about like tiny green motes. During their days traveling they’d passed other caravans, more plentiful now that they were closer to the Shattered Plains. So Shallan wasn’t surprised to see someone up ahead. The figures, however, rode horses. Who could afford animals like that? And why didn’t they have an escort? There seemed to be only four of them. The caravan rolled to a stop as Macob yelled an order from the first wagon. Shallan had learned, through awful experience, just how dangerous any encounter out here could be. None were taken
|
lightly by caravan masters. She was the authority here, but she allowed those with more experience to call stops and choose their path. “Come on,” Tyn said, stopping the chull with a whack of the stick, then hopping down from the wagon and grabbing her coat and sword off their pegs. Shallan scrambled down, putting on her Jasnah face. She let herself be herself with Tyn. With the others, she needed to be a leader. Stiff, stern, but hopefully inspiring. To that end, she was pleased with the blue dress that Macob had given her. Embroidered with silver, made of the finest silk, it was a wonderful upgrade from her tattered one. They walked past where Vathah and his men marched just behind the lead wagon. The leader of the deserters shot Tyn a glare. His dislike of the woman was only more reason to respect her, despite her criminal proclivities. “Brightness Davar and I will handle this,” Tyn said to Macob as they passed. “Brightness?” Macob said, standing and looking toward Shallan. “What if they are bandits?” “There are only four of them, Master Macob,” Shallan said lightly. “The day I can’t handle four bandits on my own is a day I deserve to be robbed.” They passed the wagon, Tyn tying on her belt. “What if they are bandits?” Shallan hissed once they were out of earshot. “I thought you said you could handle four.” “I was just going along with your attitude!” “That’s dangerous, kid,” Tyn said with a grin. “Look, bandits wouldn’t let us see them, and they certainly wouldn’t just sit there.” The group of four men waited on the top of the hill. As Shallan drew closer, she could see that they were wearing crisp blue uniforms that looked quite genuine. At the bottom of the ravine between hills, Shallan stubbed her toe on a rockbud. She grimaced—Macob had given her lighteyed shoes to match her dress. They were luxurious, and probably worth a fortune, but they were little more than slippers. “We’ll wait here,” Shallan said. “They can come to us.” “Sounds good to me,” Tyn said. Indeed, up above, the men started moving down the hillside when they noticed Shallan and Tyn were waiting for them. Two more came and followed after them on foot, men not in uniforms, but workers’ clothing. Grooms? “Who are you going to be?” Tyn asked softly. “. . . Myself?” Shallan replied. “What’s the fun in that?” Tyn said. “How’s your Horneater?” “Horneater! I—” “Too late,” Tyn said as the men rode up. Shallan found horses intimidating. The large brutish things weren’t docile like chulls. Horses were always stomping about, snorting. The lead rider reined in his horse with some obvious annoyance. He didn’t seem in complete control of the beast. “Brightness,” he said, nodding to her as he saw her eyes. Shockingly, he was darkeyed, a tall man with black Alethi hair he wore down to his shoulders. He looked over Tyn, noting the sword and the soldier’s uniform, but let slip no reaction. A hard man,
|
this one. “Her Highness,” Tyn announced in a loud voice, gesturing toward Shallan, “Princess Unulukuak’kina’autu’atai! You are in the presence of royalty, darkeyes!” “A Horneater?” the man said, leaning down, inspecting Shallan’s red hair. “Wearing a Vorin dress. Rock would have a fit.” Tyn looked to Shallan and raised an eyebrow. I’m going to strangle you, woman, Shallan thought, then took a deep breath. “This thing,” Shallan said, gesturing at her dress. “He is not what you have a princess wear? He is good for me. You will be respect!” Fortunately, her red face would fit for a Horneater. They were a passionate people. Tyn nodded to her, looking appreciative. “I’m sorry,” the man said, though he didn’t seem very apologetic. What was a darkeyes doing riding an animal of such value? One of the man’s companions was inspecting the caravan through a spyglass. He was darkeyed too, but looked more comfortable on his mount. “Seven wagons, Kal,” the man said. “Well guarded.” The man, Kal, nodded. “I’ve been sent out to look for signs of bandits,” he said to Tyn. “Has all been well with your caravan?” “We ran into some bandits three weeks ago,” Tyn said, thumbing over her shoulder. “Why do you care?” “We represent the king,” the man said. “And are from the personal guard of Dalinar Kholin.” Oh, storms. Well, that was going to be inconvenient. “Brightlord Kholin,” Kal continued, “is investigating the possibility of a wider range of control around the Shattered Plains. If you really were attacked, I would like to know the details.” “If we were attacked?” Shallan asked. “You doubt our word?” “No—” “I am offend!” Shallan declared, folding her arms. “You’d better watch yourself,” Tyn told the men. “Her Highness does not like to be offended.” “How surprising,” Kal said. “Where did the attack take place? You fought it off? How many bandits were there?” Tyn filled him in on the details, which gave Shallan a chance to think. Dalinar Kholin was her future father-in-law, if the causal matured into a marriage. Hopefully, she wouldn’t run into these particular soldiers again. I really am going to strangle you, Tyn. . . . Their leader listened to the details of the attack with a stoic air. He didn’t seem like a very pleasant man. “I am sorry to hear of your losses,” Kal said. “But you’re only a day and a half by caravan from the Shattered Plains now. You should be safe the rest of the way.” “I am curiosity,” Shallan said. “These animals, they are horses? Yet you are darkeyed. This . . . Kholin trusts you well.” “I do my duty,” Kal said, studying her. “Where are the rest of your people? That caravan looks as if it’s all Vorin. Also, you look a little spindly for a Horneater.” “Did you just insult the princess’s weight?” Tyn asked, aghast. Storms! She was good. She actually managed to produce angerspren with the remark. Well, nothing to do but soldier on. “I am offend!” Shallan yelled. “You have offended Her Highness again!”
|
“Very offend!” “You’d better apologize.” “No apologize!” Shallan declared. “Boots!” Kal leaned back, looking between the two of them, trying to parse what had just been said. “Boots?” he asked. “Yes,” Shallan said. “I am liking your boots. You will apology with boots.” “You . . . want my boots?” “Did you not hear Her Highness?” Tyn asked, arms folded. “Are soldiers of this Dalinar Kholin’s army so disrespectful?” “I’m not disrespectful,” Kal said. “But I’m not giving her my boots.” “You insult!” Shallan declared, stepping forward, pointing at him. Stormfather, those horses were enormous! “I will tell all who are to listen! When arriving, I will say, ‘Kholin is stealer of boots and taker of women’s virtue!’” Kal sputtered. “Virtue!” “Yes,” Shallan said; then she glanced over to Tyn. “Virtue? No, wrong word. Virture . . . No . . . Vesture. Vesture! Taker of woman’s vesture! That is word I wanted.” The soldier glanced to his companions, looking confused. Drat, Shallan thought. Good puns are lost on men with poor vocabulary. “Is no matter,” Shallan said, throwing up her hand. “All will know what you have done in wronging me. You have laid me bare, here in this wilderness. Stripping me! Is an insult to my house and my clan. All will know that Kholin—” “Oh, stop, stop,” Kal said, reaching down and awkwardly pulling his boot from his foot while on horseback. His sock had a hole in the heel. “Storming woman,” he muttered. He tossed the first boot down to her, then removed the other. “Your apology is accepted,” Tyn said, fetching the boots. “By Damnation, it had better be,” Kal said. “I’ll pass along your story. Maybe we can get this storming place patrolled. Come on, men.” He turned and left them without another word, perhaps fearing another Horneater diatribe. Once they were out of earshot, Shallan looked at the boots, then started laughing uncontrollably. Joyspren rose around her, like blue leaves that started at her feet then moved up in a swirl before flaring out above her as if in a blast of wind. Shallan watched them with a big smile. Those were very rare. “Ah,” Tyn said with a smile. “No use denying. That was fun.” “I’m still going to strangle you,” Shallan said. “He knew we were playing with him. That has to be the worst Horneater impression a woman has ever done.” “It was actually pretty good,” Tyn said. “You overdid the words, but the accent itself was spot on. That wasn’t the point, though.” She handed back the boots. “What was the point?” Shallan asked as they hiked back toward the caravan. “Making a fool out of me?” “Partially,” Tyn said. “That was sarcasm.” “If you’re going to learn to do this,” Tyn said, “you have to be comfortable in situations like that. You can’t be embarrassed when you pose as someone else. The more outrageous the attempt, the straighter you have to play it. The only way to get better is to practice—and in front of people who very well might
|
catch you.” “I suppose,” Shallan said. “Those boots are too big for you,” Tyn noted. “Though I did love the look on his face when you asked for them. ‘No apologize. Boots!’” “I really need some boots,” Shallan said. “I’m tired of walking around on rock barefoot or in slippers. A little padding, and these will fit.” She held them up. They were rather large. “Er, maybe.” She looked backward. “I hope he’ll be all right without them. What if he has to fight bandits on his way back?” Tyn rolled her eyes. “We’re going to have to talk about that kindheartedness of yours sometime, kid.” “It’s not a bad thing to be nice.” “You’re training to be a con artist,” Tyn said. “For now, let’s get back to the caravan. I want to talk you through the finer points of a Horneater accent. With that red hair of yours, you’ll probably find more chances to use it than you would others.” Torol Sadeas closed his eyes and rested Oathbringer on his shoulder, breathing in the sweet, moldy scent of Parshendi blood. The Thrill of battle surged within him, a blessed and beautiful strength. His own blood pumped so loudly in his ears he almost couldn’t hear the battlefield shouts and groans of pain. For a moment, he reveled only in the delicious glow of the Thrill, the heady euphoria at having spent an hour engaged in the only thing that brought true joy anymore: contending for his life, and taking those of enemies lesser than himself. It faded. As always, the Thrill was fleeting once battle itself ended. It had grown less and less sweet during these raids on the Parshendi, likely because he knew deep inside that this contest was pointless. It did not stretch him, did not carry him further toward his ultimate goals of conquest. Slaughtering crem-covered savages in a Heralds-forsaken land had truly lost its savor. He sighed, lowering his Blade, opening his eyes. Amaram approached across the battlefield, stepping over corpses of men and Parshendi. His Shardplate was bloodied purple up to the elbows, and he carried a glimmering gemheart in one gauntleted hand. He kicked aside a Parshendi corpse and joined Sadeas, his own honor guard fanning out to join those of his highprince. Sadeas spared a moment of annoyance for how efficiently they moved, particularly when compared to his own men. Amaram pulled off his helm and hefted the gemheart, tossing it up and catching it. “Your maneuver here today failed, you realize?” “Failed?” Sadeas said, lifting his faceplate. Nearby, his soldiers slaughtered a pocket of fifty Parshendi who hadn’t managed to get off the plateau when the rest retreated. “I think this went quite nicely.” Amaram pointed. A stain had appeared on the plateaus to the west, toward the warcamps. The banners indicated that Hatham and Roion, the two highprinces who were supposed to have gone on this plateau run, had arrived together—they used bridges like Dalinar’s, slow plodding things it had been easy to outrun. One of the advantages of the bridge
|
crews Sadeas preferred was that they needed very little training to function. If Dalinar had thought to slow him down with his stunt of trading Oathbringer for Sadeas’s bridgemen, he had been proven a fool. “We needed to get out here,” Amaram said, “seize the gemheart, and return before the others arrived. Then you could have claimed that you didn’t realize you weren’t in the rotation today. The arrival of both other armies removes that shred of deniability.” “You mistake me,” Sadeas said. “You assume I still care about deniability.” The last Parshendi died with enraged screams; Sadeas felt proud of that. Others said Parshendi warriors on the field never surrendered, but he’d seen them try it once, long ago, in the first year of the war. They’d laid down their weapons. He’d slaughtered them all personally, with Shardhammer and Plate, beneath the eyes of their retreating companions watching from a nearby plateau. Never again had any Parshendi denied him or his men their right to finish a battle the proper way. Sadeas waved for the vanguard to gather and escort him back to the warcamps while the rest of the army licked its wounds. Amaram joined him, crossing a bridge and passing idling bridgemen who lay on the ground and slept while better men died. “I am duty-bound to join you on the battlefield, Your Highness,” Amaram said as they walked, “but I want you to know that I do not approve of our actions here. We should be seeking to bridge our differences with the king and Dalinar, not trying to agitate them further.” Sadeas snorted. “Don’t give me that noble talk. It works fine for others, but I know you for the ruthless bastard you really are.” Amaram set his jaw, eyes forward. When they reached their horses, he reached out, hand on Sadeas’s arm. “Torol,” he said softly, “there is so much more to the world than your squabbles. You’re right about me, of course. Take that admission with the understanding that to you, above all others, I can speak the truth. Alethkar needs to be strong for what is coming.” Sadeas climbed the mounting block the groom had set out. Getting onto a horse in Shardplate could be dangerous to the animal if not done correctly. Besides, he’d once had a stirrup snap on him when he stepped into it to haul himself into the saddle. He’d ended up on his backside. “Alethkar does need to be strong,” Sadeas said, holding out a gauntleted hand. “So I’ll make it so by force of fist and the rule of blood.” Amaram reluctantly placed the gemheart there, and Sadeas gripped it, holding his reins in the other hand. “Do you ever worry?” Amaram asked. “About what you do? About what we must do?” He nodded toward a group of surgeons, carrying wounded men across the bridges. “Worry?” Sadeas said. “Why should I? It gives the wretches a chance to die in battle for something worthwhile.” “You say things like that a lot these days, I’ve noticed,” Amaram said. “You
|
weren’t like that before.” “I’ve learned to accept the world as it is, Amaram,” Sadeas said, turning his horse. “That’s something very few people are willing to do. They stumble along, hoping, dreaming, pretending. That doesn’t change a single storming thing in life. You have to stare the world in the eyes, in all its grimy brutality. You have to acknowledge its depravities. Live with them. It’s the only way to accomplish anything meaningful.” With a squeeze of the knees, Sadeas started his horse forward, leaving Amaram behind for the moment. The man would remain loyal. Sadeas and Amaram had an understanding. Even Amaram now being a Shardbearer would not change that. As Sadeas and his vanguard approached Hatham’s army, he noticed a group of Parshendi on a nearby plateau, watching. Those scouts of theirs were getting bold. He sent a team of archers to go chase them off, then rode toward a figure in resplendent Shardplate at the front of Hatham’s army: the highprince himself, seated upon a Ryshadium. Damnation. Those animals were far superior to any other horseflesh. How to get one? “Sadeas?” Hatham called out to him. “What have you done here?” After a quick moment of decision, Sadeas lifted his arm back and hurled the gemheart across the plateau separating them. It hit the rock near Hatham and bounced along in a roll, glowing faintly. “I was bored,” Sadeas shouted back. “I thought I’d save you some trouble.” Then, ignoring further questions, Sadeas continued on his way. Adolin Kholin had a duel today, and he’d decided not to miss it, just in case the youth embarrassed himself again. * * * A few hours later, Sadeas settled down into his place in the dueling arena, tugging at the stock on his neck. Insufferable things—fashionable, but insufferable. He would never tell a soul, not even Ialai, that he secretly wished he could just go about in a simple uniform like Dalinar. He couldn’t ever do that, of course. Not just because he wouldn’t be seen bowing to the Codes and the king’s authority, but because a military uniform was actually the wrong uniform for these days. The battles they fought for Alethkar at the moment weren’t battles with sword and shield. It was important to dress the part when you had a role to play. Dalinar’s military outfits proved he was lost, that he didn’t understand the game he was playing. Sadeas leaned back to wait as whispers filled the arena like water in a bowl. A large attendance today. Adolin’s stunt in his previous duel had drawn attention, and anything novel was of interest to the court. Sadeas’s seat had a space cleared around it to give him extra room and privacy, though it was really just a simple chair built onto the stone bleachers of this pit of an arena. He hated how his body felt outside of Shardplate, and he hated more how he looked. Once, he’d turned heads as he walked. His power had filled a room; everyone had looked to him, and many had
|
lusted when seeing him. Lusted for his power, for who he was. He was losing that. Oh, he was still powerful—perhaps more so. But the look in their eyes was different. And every way of responding to his loss of youthfulness made him look petulant. He was dying, step by step. Like every man, true, but he felt that death looming. Decades away, hopefully, but it cast a long, long shadow. The only path to immortality was through conquest. Rustling cloth announced Ialai slipping into the seat beside his. Sadeas reached out absently, resting his hand on the small of her back and scratching at that place she liked. Her name was symmetrical. A tiny bit of blasphemy from her parents—some people dared imply such holiness of their children. Sadeas liked those types. Indeed, the name was what had first intrigued him about her. “Mmmm,” his wife said with a sigh. “Very nice. The duel hasn’t started yet, I see.” “Mere moments away, I believe.” “Good. I can’t stand waiting. I hear you gave away the gemheart you captured today.” “Threw it at Hatham’s feet and rode away, as if I didn’t have a care.” “Clever. I should have seen that as an option. You’ll undermine Dalinar’s claim that we only resist him because of our greed.” Below, Adolin finally stepped out onto the field, wearing his blue Shardplate. Some of the lighteyes clapped politely. Across the way, Eranniv left his own preparatory room, his polished Plate its natural color except across the breastplate, which he’d painted a deep black. Sadeas narrowed his eyes, still scratching Ialai’s back. “This duel should not even be happening,” he said. “Everyone was supposed to be too afraid, or too dismissive, to accept his challenges.” “Idiots,” Ialai said softly. “They know, Torol, what they’re supposed to do—I’ve dropped the right hints and promises. And yet every one of them secretly wants to be the man who brings down Adolin. Duelists are not a particularly dependable lot. They are brash, hotheaded, and care too much about showing off and gaining renown.” “His father’s plan cannot be allowed to work,” Sadeas said. “It won’t.” Sadeas glanced at where Dalinar had set up. Sadeas’s own position was not too far away—within shouting distance. Dalinar didn’t look at him. “I built this kingdom,” Sadeas said softly. “I know how fragile it is, Ialai. It should not be so difficult to knock the thing down.” That would be the only way to properly build it anew. Like reforging a weapon. You melted down the remnants of the old before you created the replacement. The duel began down below, Adolin striding across the sands toward Eranniv, who wielded old Gavilar’s Blade, with its wicked design. Adolin engaged too quickly. Was the boy that eager? In the crowd, lighteyes grew quiet and darkeyes shouted, eager for another display like last time. However, this didn’t devolve into a wrestling match. The two exchanged testing blows and Adolin backed away, having taken a hit on his shoulder. Sloppy, Sadeas thought. “I finally discovered the nature
|
of that disturbance at the king’s chambers two weeks ago,” Ialai noted. Sadeas smiled, eyes still on the bout. “Of course you did.” “Assassination attempt,” she said. “Someone sabotaged the king’s balcony in a crude attempt at dropping him a hundred feet to the rocks. From what I hear, it nearly worked.” “Not so crude then, if it almost killed him.” “Pardon, Torol, but almost is a big distinction in assassinations.” True. Sadeas searched within himself, seeking some sign of emotion at hearing that Elhokar had almost died. He found none beside a faint sense of pity. He was fond of the boy, but to rebuild Alethkar, all vestiges of former rule would need to be removed. Elhokar would need to die. Preferably in a quiet manner, after Dalinar had been dealt with. Sadeas expected he’d have to cut the boy’s throat himself, out of respect for old Gavilar. “Who commissioned the assassins, do you suppose?” Sadeas asked, speaking softly enough that—with the buffer his guards kept around their seats—he didn’t have to worry about being overheard. “Hard to tell,” Ialai replied, scooting to the side and twisting to get him to scratch a different part of her back. “It wouldn’t be Ruthar or Aladar.” Both were solidly in Sadeas’s palm. Aladar with some resignation, Ruthar eagerly. Roion was too much a coward, others too careful. Who else could have done it? “Thanadal,” Sadeas guessed. “He’s the most likely. But I will see what I can discover.” “It might be the same ones as with the king’s armor,” Sadeas said. “Perhaps we could find out more if I exercise my authority.” Sadeas was Highprince of Information—one of the old designations, from previous centuries, which split duties in the kingdom among highprinces. It technically gave Sadeas authority over investigations and policing. “Perhaps,” Ialai said hesitantly. “But?” She shook her head, watching another exchange of the duelists down below. This bout of fighting left Adolin with Stormlight streaming from one gauntlet, to the booing of some of the darkeyes. Why were those people even allowed in? There were lighteyes who were unable to attend because Elhokar reserved seating for their inferiors. “Dalinar,” Ialai said, “has responded to our ploy of making you Highprince of Information. He used it as precedent for making himself Highprince of War. And so now, every step you take invoking your rights as Highprince of Information cements his authority over this conflict.” Sadeas nodded. “You have a plan, then?” “Not quite yet,” Ialai said. “But I’m forming one. You’ve noticed how he started up patrols outside of the camps? And in the Outer Market. Should that be your duty?” “No, that’s the job of a Highprince of Commerce, which the king hasn’t appointed. However, I should have authority over policing all ten camps, and appointing judges and magistrates. He should have involved me the moment an attempt was made on the king’s life. But he didn’t.” Sadeas chewed on the thought for a moment, removing his hand from Ialai’s back, letting her sit up straight. “There is a weakness here
|
we can exploit,” Sadeas said. “Dalinar has always had a problem giving up authority. He never really trusts anyone to do their job. He didn’t come to me when he should have. This weakens his claims that all parts of the kingdom should work together. It’s a chink in his armor. Can you ram a dagger in it?” Ialai nodded. She’d use her informants to start questions in court: Why, if Dalinar was trying to forge a better Alethkar, was he unwilling to give up any power? Why hadn’t he involved Sadeas in the king’s protection? Why wouldn’t he open his doors to Sadeas’s judges? What authority did the Throne have, really, if it made assignments like the one to Sadeas, only to pretend they hadn’t been given? “You should renounce your appointment as Highprince of Information in protest,” Ialai said. “No. Not yet. We wait until the rumors have nipped at old Dalinar, made him decide he needs to let me do my job. Then, the moment before he tries to involve me, I renounce.” It would widen the cracks that way, both in Dalinar, and in the kingdom itself. Adolin’s bout continued below. He certainly didn’t look like his heart was in it. He kept leaving himself open, taking hits. This was the youth who had bragged about his skill so often? He was good, of course, but not nearly that good. Not as good as Sadeas had himself seen when the boy had been on the battlefield fighting the . . . He was faking. Sadeas found himself grinning. “Now that’s almost clever,” he said softly. “What?” Ialai asked. “Adolin is fighting beneath his capacity,” Sadeas explained as the youth got a hit—barely—on Eranniv’s helm. “He’s reluctant to display his real skill, as he fears it will scare others away from dueling him. If he looks barely capable enough to win this fight, others might decide to pounce.” Ialai narrowed her eyes, watching the fight. “Are you sure? Couldn’t he just be having an off day?” “I’m sure,” Sadeas said. Now that he knew what to watch for, he could easily read it in Adolin’s specific moves, the way he teased Eranniv to attack him, then barely fended off the blows. Adolin Kholin was cleverer than Sadeas had given him credit for. Better at dueling as well. It took skill to win a bout—but it took true mastery to win while making it look the whole time that you were behind. As the fight progressed, the crowd got into it, and Adolin made it a close contest. Sadeas doubted many others would see what he did. When Adolin, moving lethargically and leaking Light from a dozen hits—all carefully allowed on different sections of Plate, so none shattered and exposed him to real danger—managed to bring down Eranniv with a “lucky” blow at the end, the crowd roared in appreciation. Even the lighteyes seemed drawn in. Eranniv stormed off, shouting about Adolin’s luck, but Sadeas found himself quite impressed. There might be a future for this boy, he thought. More
|
so than his father, at least. “Another Shard won,” Ialai said with dissatisfaction as Adolin raised a hand and walked off the field. “I’ll redouble my efforts to make certain this doesn’t happen again.” Sadeas tapped his finger against the side of his seat. “What was it you said about duelists? That they’re brash? Hotheaded?” “Yes. And?” “Adolin is both of those things and more,” Sadeas said softly, considering. “He can be goaded, pushed around, brought to anger. He has passion like his father, but he controls it less securely.” Can I get him right up to the cliff’s edge, Sadeas thought, then shove him off? “Stop discouraging people from fighting him,” Sadeas said. “Don’t encourage them to fight him, either. Step back. I want to see how this develops.” “That sounds dangerous,” Ialai said. “That boy is a weapon, Torol.” “True,” Sadeas said, standing, “but you are rarely cut by a weapon if you are the one holding its hilt.” He helped his wife to her feet. “I also want you to tell Ruthar’s wife that he can ride with me next time I decide to strike out on my own for a gemheart. Ruthar is eager. He can be of use to us.” She nodded, walking toward the exit. Sadeas followed, but hesitated, casting a glance toward Dalinar. How would this be if the man weren’t trapped in the past? If he’d been willing to see the real world, rather than imagining it? You’d probably have ended up killing him then too, Sadeas admitted to himself. Don’t try to pretend otherwise. Best to be honest, at the very least, with oneself. Shallan gasped at the sudden flare of color. It disrupted the landscape like breaking lightning in an otherwise clear sky. Shallan set down her spheres—Tyn was having her practice palming them—and stood up in the wagon, steadying herself with her freehand on the back of her seat. Yes, it was unmistakable. Brilliant red and yellow on an otherwise dull canvas of brown and green. “Tyn,” Shallan said. “What’s that?” The other woman lounged with feet out, a wide-brimmed white hat tipped over her eyes despite the fact that she was supposed to be driving. Shallan wore Bluth’s hat, which she’d recovered from his things, to keep the sun off. Tyn turned to the side, lifting her hat. “Huh?” “Right there!” Shallan said. “The color.” Tyn squinted. “I don’t see anything.” How could she miss that color, so vibrant when compared to the rolling hills full of rockbuds, reeds, and patches of grass? Shallan took the woman’s spyglass and raised it to look more closely. “Plants,” Shallan said. “There’s a rock overhang there, sheltering them from the east.” “Oh, is that all?” Tyn settled back, closing her eyes. “Thought it might be a caravan tent or something.” “Tyn, it’s plants.” “So?” “Divergent flora in an otherwise uniform ecosystem!” Shallan exclaimed. “We’re going! I’ll go tell Macob to steer the caravan that way.” “Kid, you’re kind of strange,” Tyn said as Shallan yelled at the other wagons to stop. Macob was
|
reluctant to agree to the detour, but fortunately he accepted her authority. The caravan was about a day out from the Shattered Plains. They’d been taking it easy. Shallan struggled to contain her excitement. So much out here in the Frostlands was uniformly dull; something new to draw was exciting beyond normal reason. They approached the ridge, which had caused a high shelf of rock at exactly the right angle to form a windbreak. Larger versions of these formations were called laits. Sheltered valleys where a town could flourish. Well, this wasn’t nearly so large, but life had still found it. A grove of short, bone-white trees grew here. They had vivid red leaves. Vines of numerous varieties draped the rock wall itself, and the ground teemed with rockbuds, a variety that remained open even when there wasn’t rain, blossoms drooping with heavy petals from the inside, along with tonguelike tendrils that moved like worms, seeking water. A small pond reflected the blue sky, feeding the rockbuds and trees. The leafy shade in turn gave shelter to a bright green moss. The beauty was like veins of ruby and emerald in a drab stone. Shallan hopped down the moment the wagons pulled up. She frightened something in the underbrush, and a few very small, feral axehounds burst away. She wasn’t sure of the breed—she honestly wasn’t even sure they were axehounds, they moved so quickly. Well, she thought, walking into the tiny lait, that probably means I don’t have to worry about anything larger. A predator like a whitespine would have frightened away smaller life. Shallan walked forward with a smile. It was almost like a garden, though the plants were obviously wild rather than cultivated. They moved quickly to retract blooms, feelers, and leaves, opening a patch around her. She stifled a sneeze and pushed through to find a dark green pond. Here, she set down a blanket on a boulder, then settled herself to sketch. Others from the caravan went scouting through the lait or around the top of the rock wall. Shallan breathed in the wonderful humidity as the plants relaxed. Rockbud petals stretching out, timid leaves unfolding. Color swelled around her like nature blushing. Stormfather! She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed the variety of beautiful plants. She opened her sketchbook and drew out a quick prayer in the name of Shalash, Herald of Beauty, Shallan’s namesake. The plants retracted again as someone moved through them. Gaz stumbled past a group of rockbuds, cursing as he tried not to step on their vines. He came up to her, then hesitated, looking down at the pool. “Storms!” he said. “Are those fish?” “Eels,” Shallan guessed as something rippled the green surface of the pool. “Bright orange ones, it appears. We had some like them back in my father’s ornamental garden.” Gaz leaned down, trying to get a good look, until one of the eels broke the surface with a flipping tail, spraying him with water. Shallan laughed, taking a Memory of the one-eyed man peering into those verdant depths,
|
lips pursed, wiping his forehead. “What do you want, Gaz?” “Well,” he said, shuffling. “I was wondering . . .” He glanced at the sketchpad. Shallan flipped to a new page in the pad. “Of course. Like the one I did for Glurv, I assume?” Gaz coughed into his hand. “Yeah. That one looked right nice.” Shallan smiled, then started sketching. “Do you need me to pose or something?” Gaz asked. “Sure,” she said, mostly to keep him busy while she drew. She tidied up his uniform, smoothing out his paunch, taking liberties with his chin. Most of the difference, however, had to do with the expression. Looking up, into the distance. With the right expression, that eye patch became noble, that scarred face became wise, that uniform became a mark of pride. She filled it in with some light background details reminiscent of that night beside the fires, when the people of the caravan had thanked Gaz and the others for their rescue. She removed the sheet from the pad, then turned it toward him. Gaz took it reverently, running his hand through his hair. “Storms,” he whispered. “Is that really what I looked like?” “Yes,” Shallan said. She could faintly feel Pattern as he vibrated softly nearby. A lie . . . but also a truth. That was certainly how the people Gaz saved had viewed him. “Thank you, Brightness,” Gaz said. “I . . . Thank you.” Ash’s eyes! He actually seemed to be tearing up. “Keep it safe,” Shallan said, “and don’t fold it until tonight. I’ll lacquer it so it won’t smudge.” He nodded and walked, frightening the plants again as he retreated. He was the sixth of the men to ask her for a likeness. She encouraged the requests. Anything to remind them of what they could, and should, be. And you, Shallan? she thought. Everyone seems to want you to be something. Jasnah, Tyn, your father . . . What do you want to be? She flipped back through her sketchbook, finding the pages where she’d drawn herself in a half-dozen different situations. A scholar, a woman of the court, an artist. Which did she want to be? Could she be them all? Pattern hummed. Shallan glanced to the side, noticing Vathah lurking in the trees nearby. The tall mercenary leader hadn’t said anything of the sketches, but she saw his sneers. “Stop frightening my plants, Vathah,” Shallan said. “Macob says we’ll stop for the night,” Vathah replied, then moved away. “Trouble . . .” Pattern buzzed. “Yes, trouble.” “I know,” Shallan said, waiting as the foliage returned, then sketching it. Unfortunately, though she’d been able to get charcoal and lacquer from the merchants, she didn’t have any colored chalks, or she might have tried something more ambitious. Still, this would be a nice series of studies. Quite a change from the rest in this sketchbook. She pointedly did not think about what she had lost. She drew and drew, enjoying the simple peace of the small thicket. Lifespren joined her, the little green motes
|
bobbing between leaves and blossoms. Pattern moved out onto the water and, amusingly, began quietly counting the leaves on a nearby tree. Shallan got a good half-dozen drawings of the pond and trees, hoping she’d be able to identify those from a book later on. She made sure to do some close-up views showing the leaves in detail, then moved on to drawing whatever struck her. It was so nice to not be moving on a wagon while sketching. The environment here was just perfect—sufficient light for drawing, still and serene, surrounded by life . . . She paused, noticing what she’d drawn: a rocky shore near the ocean, with distinctive cliffs rising behind. The perspective was distant; on the rocky shore, several shadowy figures helped one another out of the water. She swore one of them was Yalb. A hopeful fancy. She wished so much for them to be alive. She would probably never know. She turned the page and drew what came to her. A sketch of a woman kneeling over a body, raising a hammer and chisel, as if to slam it down into the person’s face. The one beneath her was stiff, wooden . . . maybe even stone? Shallan shook her head as she lowered her pencil and studied this drawing. Why had she drawn it? The first one made sense—she was worried about Yalb and the other sailors. But what did it say about her subconscious that she’d drawn this strange depiction? She looked up, realizing that shadows had grown long, the sun easing down to rest on the horizon. Shallan smiled at it, then jumped as she saw someone standing not ten paces away. “Tyn!” Shallan said, raising her safehand to her breast. “Stormfather! You gave me a fright.” The woman picked her way through the foliage, which shied away from her. “Those drawings are nice, but I think you should spend more time practicing to forge signatures. You’re a natural at that, and it’s a kind of work you could do without having to worry about getting into trouble.” “I do practice it,” Shallan said. “But I need to practice my art too.” “You get really into those drawings, don’t you?” “I don’t get into them,” Shallan said, “I put others into them.” Tyn grinned, reaching Shallan’s stone. “Always fast with a quip. I like that. I need to introduce you to some friends of mine once we reach the Shattered Plains. They’ll spoil you right quick.” “That doesn’t sound very pleasant.” “Nonsense,” Tyn said, hopping up onto a dry part of the next rock over. “You’d still be yourself. Your jokes would merely be dirtier.” “Lovely,” Shallan said, blushing. She thought the blush might make Tyn laugh, but instead the woman became thoughtful. “We are going to have to figure out a way to give you a taste of realism, Shallan.” “Oh? Does it come in the form of a tonic these days?” “No,” Tyn said, “it comes in the form of a punch to the face. It leaves nice girls crying, assuming
|
they’re lucky enough to survive.” “I think you’ll find,” Shallan said, “that my life hasn’t been one of nonstop blossoms and cake.” “I’m sure you think that,” Tyn said. “Everyone does. Shallan, I like you, I really do. I think you’ve got heaps of potential. But what you’re training for . . . it will require you to do very difficult things. Things that wrench the soul, rip it apart. You’re going to be in situations that you’ve never been in before.” “You barely know me,” Shallan said. “How can you be so certain I’ve never done things like this?” “Because you aren’t broken,” Tyn said, expression distant. “Perhaps I’m faking.” “Kid,” Tyn said, “you draw pictures of criminals to turn them into heroes. You dance around in flower patches with a sketchpad, and you blush at the mere hint of something racy. However bad you think you’ve had it, brace yourself. It’s going to get worse. And I honestly don’t know that you’ll be able to handle it.” “Why are you telling me this?” Shallan asked. “Because in a little over a day’s time, we’re going to reach the Shattered Plains. This is the last chance for you to back out.” “I . . .” What was she going to do about Tyn when she arrived? Admit that she had only gone along with Tyn’s assumptions in order to learn from her? She knows people, Shallan thought. People in the warcamps who might be very useful to know. Should Shallan continue with the subterfuge? She wanted to, though part of her knew it was because she liked Tyn, and didn’t want to give the woman a reason to stop teaching her. “I am committed,” Shallan found herself saying. “I want to go through with my plan.” A lie. Tyn sighed, then nodded. “All right. Are you ready to tell me what this grand scam is?” “Dalinar Kholin,” Shallan said. “His son is betrothed to a woman from Jah Keved.” Tyn raised an eyebrow. “Now that’s curious. And the woman isn’t going to arrive?” “Not when he expects,” Shallan said. “And you look like her?” “You could say that.” Tyn smiled. “Nice. You had me thinking it would be blackmail, which is very tough. This, though, this is a scam you might actually be able to do. I’m impressed. It’s bold, but attainable.” “Thank you.” “So what’s your plan?” Tyn said. “Well, I’ll go introduce myself to Kholin, indicate I’m the woman his son is to marry, and let him set me up in his household.” “No good.” “No?” Tyn shook her head sharply. “It puts you too much in Kholin’s debt. It will make you seem needy, and that will undermine your ability to be respected. What you’re doing here is called a pretty face con, an attempt to relieve a rich man of his spheres. That kind of job is all about presentation and image. You want to set up in an inn somewhere in a different warcamp and act like you’re completely self-sufficient. Maintain an air of mystery. Don’t
|
be too easy for the son to capture. Which one is it, by the way? The older one or the younger one?” “Adolin,” Shallan said. “Hmmm . . . Not sure if that’s better or worse than Renarin. Adolin Kholin is a flirt by reputation, so I can see why his father wants him married off. It will be tough to keep his attention, though.” “Really?” Shallan asked, feeling a spike of real concern. “Yeah. He’s been almost engaged a dozen times. I think he has been engaged before, actually. It’s good you met me. I’ll have to work on this one awhile to determine the right approach, but you are certainly not going to accept Kholin hospitality. Adolin will never express interest if you’re not in some way unobtainable.” “Hard to be unobtainable when we’re already in a causal.” “Still important,” Tyn said, raising a finger. “You’re the one who wants to do a love scam. They’re tricky, but relatively safe. We’ll figure this out.” Shallan nodded, though inside, her worries had spiked. What would happen with the betrothal? Jasnah wasn’t around to push for it any longer. The woman had wanted Shallan tied to her family, presumably because of the Surgebinding potential. Shallan doubted the rest of the Kholin house would be so determined to have a nobody Veden girl marry into the family. As Tyn rose, Shallan stuffed away her anxiety. If the betrothal ended, so be it. She had far more important concerns in Urithiru and the Voidbringers. She would have to figure out a way to deal with Tyn, though—a way that didn’t involve actually scamming the Kholin family. Just one more thing to juggle. Oddly, she found herself excited by the prospect as she decided to do one more drawing before finding some food. Kaladin led his troop of sore, tired men up to Bridge Four’s barrack, and—as he’d secretly requested—the men got a round of cheers and welcoming calls. It was early evening, and the familiar scent of stew was one of the most inviting things Kaladin could imagine. He stepped aside and let the forty men tromp past him. They weren’t members of Bridge Four, but for tonight, they’d be considered such. They held their heads higher, smiles breaking out as men passed them bowls of stew. Rock asked one how the patrolling had gone, and though Kaladin couldn’t hear the soldier’s reply, he could definitely hear the bellowing laughter it prompted from Rock. Kaladin smiled, leaning back against the barrack wall, folding his arms. Then he found himself checking the sky. The sun hadn’t quite set, but in the darkening sky, stars had begun to appear around Taln’s Scar. The Tear hung just above the horizon, a star much brighter than the others, named for the single tear that Reya was said to have shed. Some of the stars moved—starspren, nothing to be surprised by—but something felt odd about the evening. He breathed in deeply. Was the air stale? “Sir?” Kaladin turned. One of the bridgemen, an earnest man with short dark hair
|
and strong features, had not joined the others at the stew cauldron. Kaladin searched for his name . . . “Pitt, isn’t it?” Kaladin said. “Yes, sir,” the man replied. “Bridge Seventeen.” “What did you need?” “I just . . .” The man glanced at the inviting fire, with members of Bridge Four laughing and chatting with the patrol group. Nearby, someone had hung a few distinctive suits of armor on the barrack walls. They were carapace helms and breastplates, attached to the leathers of common bridgemen. Those had now been replaced with fine steel caps and breastplates. Kaladin wondered who had hung the old suits up. He hadn’t even known that some of the men had fetched them; they were the extra suits that Leyten had crafted for the men and stashed down in the chasms before being freed. “Sir,” Pitt said, “I just want to say that I’m sorry.” “For?” “Back when we were bridgemen.” Pitt raised a hand to his head. “Storms, that seems like a different life. I couldn’t think rightly during those times. It’s all hazy. But I remember being glad when your crew was sent out instead of mine. I remember hoping you’d fail, since you dared to walk with your chin up . . . I—” “It’s all right, Pitt,” Kaladin said. “It wasn’t your fault. You can blame Sadeas.” “I suppose.” Pitt got a distant look on his face. “He broke us right good, didn’t he, sir?” “Yes.” “Turns out, though, men can be reforged. I wouldn’t have thought that.” Pitt looked over his shoulder. “I’m going to have to go do this for the other lads of Bridge Seventeen, aren’t I?” “With Teft’s help, yes, but that’s the hope,” Kaladin said. “Do you think you can do it?” “I’ll just have to pretend to be you, sir,” Pitt said. He smiled, then moved on, taking a bowl of stew and joining the others. These forty would be ready soon, ready to become sergeants to their own teams of bridgemen. The transformation had happened more quickly than Kaladin had hoped. Teft, you marvelous man, he thought. You did it. Where was Teft, anyway? He’d gone on the patrol with them, and now he’d vanished. Kaladin glanced over his shoulder but didn’t see him; perhaps he’d gone to check on some of the other bridge crews. He did catch Rock shooing away a lanky man in an ardent’s robe. “What was that?” Kaladin asked, catching the Horneater as he passed. “That one,” Rock said. “Keeps loitering here with sketchbook. Wants to draw bridgemen. Ha! Because we are famous, you see.” Kaladin frowned. Strange actions for an ardent—but, then, all ardents were strange, to an extent. He let Rock return to his stew and stepped away from the fire, enjoying the peace. Everything was so quiet out there, in the camp. Like it was holding its breath. “The patrol seems to have worked out,” Sigzil said, strolling up to Kaladin. “Those men are changed.” “Funny what a couple of days spent marching as a unit can
|
do to soldiers,” Kaladin said. “Have you seen Teft?” “No, sir,” Sigzil said. He nodded toward the fire. “You’ll want to get some stew. We won’t have much time for chatting tonight.” “Highstorm,” Kaladin realized. It seemed like too soon since the last one, but they weren’t always regular—not in the way he thought of it. The stormwardens had to do complex mathematics to predict them; Kaladin’s father had made a hobby of it. Perhaps that was what he was noticing. Was he suddenly predicting highstorms because the night seemed too . . . something? You’re imagining things, Kaladin thought. Shrugging off his fatigue from the extended ride and march, he went over to get some stew. He’d have to eat quickly—he’d want to go join the men guarding Dalinar and the king during the storm. The men from the patrol cheered him as he filled his bowl. * * * Shallan sat on the rattling wagon and moved her hand over the sphere on the seat beside her, palming it and dropping another. Tyn raised an eyebrow. “I heard the replacement hit.” “Drynets!” Shallan said. “I thought I had it.” “Drynets?” “It’s a curse,” Shallan said, blushing. “I heard it from the sailors.” “Shallan, do you have any idea at all what that means?” “Like . . . for fishing?” Shallan said. “The nets are dry, maybe? They haven’t been catching any fish, so it’s bad?” Tyn grinned. “Dear, I’m going to do my very best to corrupt you. Until then, I think you should avoid using sailor curses. Please.” “All right.” Shallan passed her hand over the sphere again, swapping the spheres. “No clink! Did you hear that? Or, um, did you not hear that? It didn’t make a noise!” “Nice,” Tyn said, getting out a pinch of some kind of mossy substance. She began rubbing it between her fingers, and Shallan thought she saw smoke rising from the moss. “You are getting better. I also feel like we should figure out some way to use that drawing talent of yours.” Shallan already had an inkling of how it would come in handy. More of the former deserters had asked her for pictures. “You’ve been working on your accents?” Tyn asked, eyes glazing as she rubbed the moss. “I have indeed, my good woman,” Shallan said with a Thaylen accent. “Good. We’ll get around to costuming once we have more resources. I, for one, am going to be very amused to watch your face when you have to go out in public with that hand of yours uncovered.” Shallan immediately pulled her safehand up to her breast. “What!” “I warned you about difficult things,” Tyn said, smiling in a devious way. “West of Marat, almost all women go out with both hands uncovered. If you’re going to go to those places and not stand out, you’ll have to be able to do as they do.” “It’s immodest!” Shallan said, blushing furiously. “It’s just a hand, Shallan,” Tyn said. “Storms, you Vorins are so prim. That hand looks exactly like your
|
other hand.” “A lot of women have breasts that aren’t much more pronounced than male ones,” Shallan snapped. “That doesn’t make it right for them to go out wearing no shirt, like a man would!” “Actually, in parts of the Reshi Isles and Iri, it’s not uncommon for women to walk about topless. It gets hot up there. Nobody minds. I rather like it, myself.” Shallan raised both hands to her face—one clothed, one not—hiding her blush. “You’re doing this just to provoke me.” “Yeah,” Tyn said, chuckling. “I am. This is the girl that scammed an entire troop of deserters and took over our caravan?” “I didn’t have to go naked to do that.” “Good thing you didn’t,” Tyn said. “You still think you’re experienced and worldly? You blush at the mere mention of exposing your safehand. Can’t you see how it’s going to be hard for you to run any kind of productive scam?” Shallan took a deep breath. “I guess.” “Showing your hand off isn’t going to be the toughest thing you need to do,” Tyn said, looking distant. “Not the toughest by a breeze or a stormwind. I . . .” “What?” Shallan asked. Tyn shook her head. “We’ll talk about it later. Can you see those warcamps yet?” Shallan stood up on her seat, shading her eyes against the setting sun in the west. To the north, she saw a haze. Hundreds of fires—no, thousands—seeping darkness into the sky. Her breath caught in her throat. “We’re there.” “Call camp for the night,” Tyn said, not moving from her relaxed position. “It looks like it’s only a few hours away,” Shallan said. “We could push on—” “And arrive after nightfall, then be forced to camp anyway,” Tyn said. “Better to arrive fresh in the morning. Trust me.” Shallan settled down, calling for one of the caravan workers, a youth who walked barefoot—his calluses must be frightening—alongside the caravan. Only those senior among them rode. “Ask Trademaster Macob what he thinks of stopping here for the night,” Shallan said to the young man. He nodded, then jogged up the line, passing lumbering chulls. “You don’t trust my assessment?” Tyn asked, sounding amused. “Trademaster Macob doesn’t like being told what to do,” Shallan said. “If stopping is a good move, perhaps he’ll suggest it. It seems like a better way to lead.” Tyn closed her eyes, face toward the sky. She still held one hand up, absently rubbing moss between her fingers. “I might have some information for you tonight.” “About?” “Your homeland.” Tyn cracked an eye. Though her posture was lazy, that eye was curious. “That’s nice,” Shallan said, noncommittal. She tried not to say much about her home or her life there—she also hadn’t told Tyn about her trip, or about the sinking of the ship. The less Shallan said about her background, the less likely that Tyn would realize the truth about her new student. It’s her own fault for jumping to conclusions about me, Shallan thought. Besides, she’s the one teaching me about pretending. I shouldn’t
|
feel bad about lying to her. She lies to everyone. Thinking that made her wince. Tyn was right; Shallan was naive. She couldn’t help feeling guilty about lying, even to a professed con woman! “I’d have expected more from you,” Tyn said, closing her eye. “Considering.” That provoked Shallan, and she found herself wiggling on her seat. “Considering what?” she finally asked. “So you don’t know,” Tyn said. “I thought as much.” “There are many things I don’t know, Tyn,” Shallan said, exasperated. “I don’t know how to build a wagon, I don’t know how to speak Iriali, and I certainly don’t know how to prevent you from being annoying. Not that I haven’t tried to figure out all three.” Tyn smiled, eyes closed. “Your Veden king is dead.” “Hanavanar? Dead?” She’d never met the highprince, let alone the king. The monarchy was a far-off thing. She found that it didn’t particularly matter to her. “His son will inherit, then?” “He would. If he weren’t dead too. Along with six of Jah Keved’s highprinces.” Shallan gasped. “They say it was the Assassin in White,” Tyn said softly, eyes still closed. “The Shin man who killed the Alethi king six years back.” Shallan pushed through her confusion. Her brothers. Were they all right? “Six highprinces. Which ones?” If she knew that, it might tell her how her own princedom was fairing. “I don’t know for certain,” Tyn said. “Jal Mala and Evinor for sure, and probably Abrial. Some died in the attack, others before that, though the information is vague. Getting any kind of reliable information out of Vedenar these days is tough.” “Valam. He still lives?” Her own highprince. “He was fighting for the succession, reports say. I have my informants sending me word tonight via spanreed. Might have something for you then.” Shallan settled back. The king, dead? A succession war? Stormfather! How could she find out about her family and their estate? They were nowhere near the capital, but if the entire country was consumed by war, it could reach even to the backwater areas. There was no easy way to reach her brothers. She’d lost her own spanreed in the sinking of the Wind’s Pleasure. “Any information would be appreciated,” Shallan said. “Any at all.” “We’ll see. I’ll let you come by for the report.” Shallan settled back to digest this information. She suspected I didn’t know, but didn’t tell me until now. Shallan liked Tyn, but had to remember that the woman made a profession of hiding information. What else did Tyn know that she wasn’t sharing? Ahead, the caravan youth walked back down the line of moving wagons. As he reached Shallan, he turned and walked beside her vehicle. “Macob says you are wise to ask, and says we should probably camp here. The warcamps each have secure borders, and aren’t likely to let us in during the night. Beyond that, he is uncertain if we could reach the camps before tonight’s storm.” To the side, eyes still closed, Tyn grinned. “We camp, then,” Shallan said. In
|
his dream, Kaladin was the storm. He claimed the land, surging across it, a cleansing fury. All washed before him, broke before him. In his darkness, the land was reborn. He soared, alive with lightning, his flashes of inspiration. The wind’s howling was his voice, the thunder his heartbeat. He overwhelmed, overcame, overshadowed, and— And he had done this before. An awareness came to Kaladin, like water seeping under a door. Yes. He’d dreamed this dream before. With effort, he turned around. A face as large as eternity stretched behind him, the force behind the tempest, the Stormfather himself. SON OF HONOR, said a voice like roaring wind. “This is real!” Kaladin yelled into the storm. He was wind itself. Spren. He found voice somehow. “You are real!” SHE TRUSTS YOU. “Syl?” Kaladin called. “Yes, she does.” SHE SHOULD NOT. “Are you the one who forbade her to come to me? Are you the one who keeps the spren back?” YOU WILL KILL HER. The voice, so deep, so powerful, sounded regretful. Mournful. YOU WILL MURDER MY CHILD AND LEAVE HER CORPSE TO WICKED MEN. “I will not!” Kaladin shouted. YOU BEGIN IT ALREADY. The storm continued. Kaladin saw the world from above. Ships in sheltered harbors rocking on violent swells. Armies huddled in valleys, preparing for war in a place of many hills and mountains. A vast lake going dry ahead of his arrival, the water retreating into holes in the rock beneath. “How can I prevent it?” Kaladin demanded. “How can I protect her?” YOU ARE HUMAN. YOU WILL BE A TRAITOR. “No I won’t!” YOU WILL CHANGE. MEN CHANGE. ALL MEN. The continent was so vast. So many people speaking languages he could not comprehend, everyone hiding in their rooms, their caverns, their valleys. AH, the Stormfather said. SO IT WILL END. “What?” Kaladin shouted into the winds. “What changed? I feel—” HE COMES FOR YOU, LITTLE TRAITOR. I AM SORRY. Something rose before Kaladin. A second storm, one of red lightning, so enormous as to make the continent—the world itself—into nothing by comparison. Everything fell into its shadow. I AM SORRY, the Stormfather said. HE COMES. Kaladin awoke, heart thundering in his chest. He almost fell from his chair. Where was he? The Pinnacle, the king’s conference chamber. Kaladin had sat down for a moment and . . . He blushed. He’d dozed off. Adolin stood nearby, talking to Renarin. “I’m not sure if anything will come from the meeting, but I’m glad Father agreed to it. I’d almost given up hope of it happening, with how long the Parshendi messenger took to arrive.” “You’re sure the one you met out there was a woman?” Renarin asked. He seemed more at ease since he had finished bonding his Blade a couple weeks back, and no longer needed to carry it around. “A woman Shardbearer?” “The Parshendi are pretty odd,” Adolin said with a shrug. He glanced toward Kaladin, and his lips rose in a smirk. “Sleeping on the job, bridgeboy?” The leaking shutter shook nearby, water dribbling in
|
under the wood. Navani and Dalinar would be in the room next door. The king wasn’t there. “His Majesty!” Kaladin cried, scrambling to his feet. “In the privy, bridgeboy,” Adolin said, nodding to another door. “You can sleep during a highstorm. That’s impressive. Almost as impressive as how much you drool when you’re dozing.” No time for gibes. That dream . . . Kaladin turned toward the balcony door, breathing quickly. He comes. . . . Kaladin pulled open the balcony door. Adolin shouted and Renarin called out, but Kaladin ignored them, facing the tempest. The wind still howled and rain pelted the stone balcony with a sound like sticks breaking. There was no lightning, however, and the wind—while violent—was not nearly strong enough to fling boulders or topple walls. The bulk of the highstorm had passed. Darkness. Wind from the depths of nothingness, battering him. He felt as if he were standing above the void itself, Damnation, known as Braize in the old songs. Home to demons and monsters. He stepped out hesitantly, light from the still-open door spilling onto the wet balcony. He found the railing—a part that was still secure—and clenched it in cold fingers. Rain bit him on the cheek, seeping through his uniform, burrowing through the cloth and seeking warm skin. “Are you mad?” Adolin demanded from the doorway. Kaladin could barely hear his voice over the wind and distant rumbles of thunder. * * * Pattern hummed softly as rain fell on the wagon. Shallan’s slaves huddled together and whimpered. She wished she could quiet the blasted spren, but Pattern wasn’t responding to her promptings. At least the highstorm was nearly over. She wanted to get away and read what Tyn’s correspondents had to say about Shallan’s homeland. Pattern’s hums sounded almost like a whimper. Shallan frowned and leaned down close to him. Were those words? “Bad . . . bad . . . so bad . . .” * * * Syl shot out of the highstorm’s dense darkness, a sudden flash of light in the black. She spun about Kaladin before coming to rest on the iron railing before him. Her dress seemed longer and more flowing than usual. The rain passed through her without disturbing her shape. Syl looked into the sky, then turned her head sharply over her shoulder. “Kaladin. Something is wrong.” “I know.” Syl spun about, twisting this way, then that. Her small eyes opened wide. “He’s coming.” “Who? The storm?” “The one who hates,” she whispered. “The darkness inside. Kaladin, he’s watching. Something’s going to happen. Something bad.” Kaladin hesitated only a moment, then scrambled back into the room, pushing past Adolin and entering the light. “Get the king. We’re leaving. Now.” “What?” Adolin demanded. Kaladin threw open the door into the small room where Dalinar and Navani waited. The highprince sat on a sofa, expression distant, Navani holding his hand. That wasn’t what Kaladin had expected. The highprince didn’t seem frightened or mad, just thoughtful. He was speaking softly. Kaladin froze. He sees things during the storms. “What
|
are you doing?” Navani demanded. “How dare you?” “Can you wake him?” Kaladin asked, stepping into the room. “We need to leave this room, leave this palace.” “Nonsense.” It was the king’s voice. Elhokar stepped into the room behind him. “What are you babbling about?” “You’re not safe here, Your Majesty,” Kaladin said. “We need to get you out of the palace and take you to the warcamp.” Storms. Would that be safe? Should he go somewhere nobody would expect? Thunder rumbled outside, but the sound of rainfall slackened. The storm was dying. “This is ridiculous,” Adolin said from behind the king, throwing his hands into the air. “This is the safest place in the warcamps. You want us to leave? Drag the king out into the storm?” “We need to wake the highprince,” Kaladin said, reaching for Dalinar. Dalinar caught his arm as he did so. “The highprince is awake,” Dalinar said, his gaze clearing, returning from the distant place where it had been. “What is going on here?” “The bridgeboy wants us to evacuate the palace,” Adolin said. “Soldier?” Dalinar asked. “It’s not safe here, sir.” “What makes you say that?” “Instinct, sir.” The room grew still. Outside, the rainfall slackened to a gentle patter. The riddens had arrived. “We go, then,” Dalinar said, rising. “What?” the king demanded. “You put this man in charge of your guard, Elhokar,” Dalinar said. “If he thinks our position is not safe, we should do as he says.” There was an implied for now after that sentence, but Kaladin didn’t care. He shoved past the king and Adolin, rushing back through the main chamber to the doorway out. His heart hammered inside of him, his muscles tense. Syl, visible only to his eyes, flitted through the room, frantic. Kaladin threw open the doors. Six men stood on watch in the hallway beyond, mostly bridgemen with one member of the King’s Guard, a man named Ralinor. “We’re leaving,” Kaladin said, pointing. “Beld and Hobber, you’re an advance squad. Scout the way out of the building—the back way, down through the kitchens—and give a shout if you see anything unusual. Moash, you and Ralinor are the rear guard—watch this room until I’ve got the king and the highprince out of sight, then follow. Mart and Eth, you stay at the king’s side, no matter what.” The guards scrambled into action without question. As the scouts ran ahead, Kaladin moved back to the king and grabbed him by the arm, then hauled him toward the door. Elhokar allowed it, a stunned expression on his face. The other lighteyes followed. The bridgeman brothers Mart and Eth fell in, flanking the king, Moash holding the doorway. He gripped his spear nervously, pointing it in one direction, then another. Kaladin rushed the king and his family down the corridor along the chosen path. Instead of heading left and down the incline toward the palace’s formal entrance, they would head right, farther into its bowels. Down to the right, through the kitchens, then out into the night. The hallways were
|
silent. Everyone was sheltering in their rooms during the highstorm. Dalinar joined Kaladin at the front of the group. “I will be curious to hear exactly what prompted this, soldier,” he said. “Once we are safely evacuated.” My spren is having a fit, Kaladin thought, watching her zip back and forth in the corridor. That’s what prompted it. How was he going to explain that? That he’d listened to a windspren? Deeper they went. Storms, these empty corridors were disturbing. Much of the palace was really just a burrow cut through the rock of the peak, with windows carved out of the sides. Kaladin froze in place. The lights ahead were out, the corridor dimming into the distance until it was dark as a mine. “Wait,” Adolin said, stopping in place. “Why is it dark? What happened to the spheres?” They’ve been drained of Light. Damnation. And what was that on the wall of the hallway up ahead? A large patch of blackness. Kaladin frantically fished a sphere from his pocket and raised it. It was a hole! A doorway had been cut into this corridor from the outside, sliced directly through the rock. A cold breeze blew inward. Kaladin’s light also illuminated something on the floor just ahead. A body lying where corridors crossed. It wore a blue uniform. Beld, one of the men Kaladin had sent on ahead. The huddle of people stared at the body in horror. The corridor’s eerie silence, the lack of lights, had stilled even the king’s protests. “He’s here,” Syl whispered. A solemn figure stepped out of the side corridor, holding a long, silvery Blade that cut a trail in the stone floor. The figure had flowing white clothing: filmy trousers and an overshirt that rippled with each step. Bald head, pale skin. Shin. Kaladin recognized the figure. Every person in Alethkar had heard of this man. The Assassin in White. Kaladin had seen him once in a dream, like the one earlier, though he hadn’t recognized him at that point. Stormlight streamed from the assassin’s body. He was a Surgebinder. “Adolin, with me!” Dalinar shouted. “Renarin, protect the king! Take him back the way we came!” With that, Dalinar—the Blackthorn—seized a spear from one of Kaladin’s men and charged the assassin. He’s going to get himself killed, Kaladin thought, running after him. “Go with Prince Renarin!” he yelled at his men. “Do as he tells you! Protect the king!” The men—including Moash and Ralinor, who had caught up to them—began a frantic retreat, towing away Navani and the king. “Father!” Renarin cried. Moash grabbed him by the shoulder and hauled him back. “I can fight!” “Go!” Dalinar bellowed. “Protect the king!” As Kaladin charged with Dalinar and Adolin, the last thing he heard of the group was King Elhokar’s whimpering voice. “He’s come for me. I always knew he would. Like he came for Father . . .” Kaladin drew in as much Stormlight as he dared. The Assassin in White stood calmly in the corridor, streaming with his own Light. How could he
|
Subsets and Splits
No community queries yet
The top public SQL queries from the community will appear here once available.