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protect, Kaladin. Not kill.” “You have to kill to protect,” he snapped. “Storms. You’re starting to sound as bad as my father.” He tried a few more stances, until finally Ivis came over and gave him some corrections. She laughed at his frustration as he held the sword wrong again. “You expected to pick this up in one day?” He kind of had. He knew the spear; he’d trained long and hard. He thought that maybe, this would all just click. It didn’t. He kept on anyway, going through the motions, kicking up cold sand, mixing among the lighteyes sparring and practicing their own forms. Eventually, Zahel wandered by. “Keep at it,” the man said without even inspecting Kaladin’s forms. “I was under the impression you’d be training me personally,” Kaladin called after him. “Too much work,” Zahel called back, digging a canteen of something from a bundle of cloth beside one of the pillars. Another ardent had piled his colored rocks there, which made Zahel scowl. Kaladin jogged up to him. “I saw Dalinar Kholin, while unarmed and unarmored, catch a Shardblade in midair with the flats of his palms.” Zahel grunted. “Old Dalinar pulled off a lastclap, eh? Good for him.” “Can you teach me?” “It’s a stupid maneuver,” Zahel said. “When it works, it’s only because most Shardbearers learn to swing their weapons without as much force as they would a regular blade. And it doesn’t usually work; it usually fails, and you’re dead when it does. Better to focus your time practicing things that will actively help you.” Kaladin nodded. “Not going to push me on it?” Zahel asked. “Your argument is good,” Kaladin said. “Solid soldier’s logic. Makes sense.” “Huh. Might be hope for you after all.” Zahel took a swig from his canteen. “Now go get back to practicing.” THREE AND A HALF YEARS AGO Shallan poked at the cage, and the colorful creature inside shifted on its perch, cocking its head at her. It was the most bizarre thing she’d ever seen. It stood on two feet like a person, though its feet were clawed. It was only about as tall as two fists atop one another, but the way it turned its head as it looked at her showed unmistakable personality. The thing only had a little bit of shell—on the nose and mouth—but the strangest part was its hair. It had bright green hair that covered its entire body. The hair lay flat, as if manicured. As she watched, the creature turned and began to pick at the hair—a large flap of it lifted up, and she could see it grew out of a central spine. “What does the young lady think of my chicken?” the merchant said proudly, standing with hands clasped behind his back, ample stomach thrust forward like the prow of a ship. Behind, people moved through the fair in a throng. There were so many. Five hundred, perhaps even more, people in the same place. “Chicken,” Shallan said, poking at the cage with a timid finger. “I’ve eaten chicken
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before.” “Not this breed!” the Thaylen man said with a laugh. “Chickens for eating are stupid—this one is smart, almost as smart as a man! It can speak. Listen. Jeksonofnone! Say your name!” “Jeksonofnone,” the creature said. Shallan jumped back. The word was mangled by the creature’s inhuman voice, but it was recognizable. “A Voidbringer!” she hissed, safehand to her chest. “An animal that speaks! You’ll bring the eyes of the Unmade upon us.” The merchant laughed. “These things live all over Shinovar, young lady. If their speech drew the Unmade, the entire country would be cursed!” “Shallan!” Father stood with his bodyguards where he had been speaking to another merchant across the way. She hurried toward him, looking over her shoulder at the strange animal. Deviant though the thing was, if it could talk, she felt sorry for its being trapped in that cage. The Middlefest Fair was a highlight of the year. Set during the midpeace—a period opposite the Weeping when there were no storms—it drew people from hamlets and villages all around. Many of the people here were from lands her father oversaw, including lesser lighteyes from families who had ruled the same villages for centuries. The darkeyes came too, of course, including merchants—citizens of the first and second nahns. Her father didn’t speak of it often, but she knew he found their wealth and station inappropriate. The Almighty had chosen the lighteyes to rule, not these merchants. “Come along,” Father said to her. Shallan followed him and his bodyguards through the busy fair, which was laid out on her father’s estates about a half day’s travel from the mansion. The basin was fairly well sheltered, the slopes nearby covered in jella trees. Their strong branches grew spindly leaves—long spikes of pink, yellow, and orange, and so the trees looked like explosions of color. Shallan had read in one of her father’s books that the trees drew in crem, then used it to make their wood hard, like rock. In the basin itself, most of the trees had been broken down, though some were instead used to hold up canopies dozens of yards wide, tied in place high above. They passed a merchant cursing as a windspren darted through his enclosure, making objects stick together. Shallan smiled, pulling her satchel out from under her arm. There wasn’t time to sketch, however, as her father barreled on toward the dueling grounds where—if this was like previous years—she would spend most of the fair. “Shallan,” he said, causing her to scurry to catch up. At fourteen, she felt horribly gangly and far too boyish in figure. As womanhood had begun to come upon her, she had learned that she should be embarrassed by her red hair and freckled skin, as they were a mark of an impure heritage. They were traditional Veden colorings, but that was because—in their past—their lines had mixed with the Horneaters up in the peaks. Some people were proud of the coloring. Not her father, so neither was Shallan. “You are coming to an age where you
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must act more like a lady,” Father said. The darkeyes gave them plenty of room, bowing as her father passed. Two of Father’s ardents trailed after them, hands behind their backs, contemplative. “You will need to stop gawking so often. It will not be long before we will want to find a husband for you.” “Yes, Father,” she said. “I may need to stop bringing you to events like these,” he said. “All you do is run around and act like a child. You need a new tutor, at the very least.” He’d scared off the last tutor. The woman had been an expert in languages, and Shallan had been picking up Azish quite well—but she’d left soon after one of Father’s . . . episodes. Shallan’s stepmother had appeared the next day with bruises on her face. Brightness Hasheh, the tutor, had packed her things and fled without giving notice. Shallan nodded to her father’s words, but secretly hoped that she’d be able to sneak away and find her brothers. Today she had work to do. She and her father approached the “dueling arena,” which was a grandiose term for a section of roped-off ground where parshmen had dumped half a beach’s worth of sand. Canopied tables had been erected for the lighteyes to sit at, dine, and converse. Shallan’s stepmother, Malise, was a young woman less than ten years older than Shallan herself. Short of stature with buttonlike features, she sat straight-backed, her black hair brightened by a few streaks of blond. Father settled in beside her in their box; he was one of four men of his rank, fourth dahn, who would be attending the fair. The duelists would be the lesser lighteyes from the surrounding region. Many of them would be landless, and duels would be one of their only ways to gain notoriety. Shallan sat in the seat reserved for her, and a servant handed her chilled water in a glass. She had barely taken a single sip before someone approached the box. Brightlord Revilar might have been handsome, if his nose hadn’t been removed in a youthful duel. He wore a wooden replacement, painted black—a strange mixture of covering up the blemish and drawing attention to it at the same time. Silver-haired, well-dressed in a suit of a modern design, he had the distracted look of someone who had left his hearth burning untended back at home. His lands bordered Father’s; they were two of the ten men of similar rank who served under the highprince. Revilar approached with not one, but two master-servants at his side. Their black-and-white uniforms were a distinction that ordinary servants were denied, and Father eyed them hungrily. He’d tried to hire master-servants. Each had cited his “reputation” and had refused. “Brightlord Davar,” Revilar said. He did not wait for permission before climbing up the steps into the box. Father and he were the same rank, but everyone knew the allegations against Father—and that the highprince saw them as credible. “Revilar,” Father said, eyes forward. “May I sit?” He took a
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seat beside Father—the one that Helaran, as heir, would have used if he’d been there. Revilar’s two servants took up places behind him. They somehow managed to convey a sense of disapproval of Father without saying anything. “Is your son going to duel today?” Father asked. “Actually, yes.” “Hopefully he can keep all of his parts. We wouldn’t want your experience to become a tradition.” “Now, now, Lin,” Revilar said. “That is no way to speak to a business associate.” “Business associate? We have dealings of which I am not aware?” One of Revilar’s servants, the woman, set a small sheaf of pages on the table before Father. Shallan’s stepmother took them hesitantly, then began to read them out loud. The terms were for an exchange of goods, Father trading some of his breechtree cotton and raw shum to Revilar in exchange for a small payment. Revilar would then take the goods to market for sale. Father stopped the reading three-quarters of the way through. “Are you delusional? One clearmark a bag? A tenth of what that shum is worth! Considering patrols of roadways and maintenance fees paid back to the villages where the materials are harvested, I would lose spheres on this deal.” “Oh, it is not so bad,” Revilar said. “I think you will find the arrangement quite agreeable.” “You’re insane.” “I’m popular.” Father frowned, growing red-faced. Shallan could remember a time when she’d rarely, if ever, seen him angry. Those days were long, long dead. “Popular?” Father demanded. “What does—” “You may or may not know,” Revilar said, “that the highprince himself recently visited my estates. It seems he likes what I have been doing for this princedom’s textiles. That, added to my son’s dueling prowess, has drawn attention to my house. I have been invited to visit the highprince in Vedenar one week out of ten, starting next month.” At times, Father was not the cleverest of men, but he did have a mind for politics. So Shallan thought, at least, though she did so want to believe the best about him. Either way, he saw this implication immediately. “You rat,” Father whispered. “You have very few options open to you, Lin,” Revilar said, leaning toward him. “Your house is on the decline, your reputation in shambles. You need allies. I need to look the part of a financial genius to the highprince. We can assist one another.” Father bowed his head. Outside the box, the first duelists were announced, an inconsequential bout. “Everywhere I step, I find only corners,” Father whispered. “Slowly, they trap me.” Revilar pushed the papers toward Shallan’s stepmother once more. “Would you start again? I suspect your husband was not listening carefully the last time.” He glanced at Shallan. “And does the child need to be here?” Shallan left without a word. It was what she’d wanted anyway, though she did feel bad leaving Father. He didn’t often speak with her, let alone ask for her opinion, but he did seem to be stronger when she was near. He was so disconcerted that
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he didn’t even send one of the guards with her. She slipped out of the box, satchel under her arm, and passed through the Davar servants who were preparing her father’s meal. Freedom. Freedom was as valuable as an emerald broam to Shallan, and as rare as a larkin. She hurried away, lest her father realize he had given no orders for her to be accompanied. One of the guards at the perimeter—Jix—stepped toward her anyway, but then looked back at the box. He went that way instead, perhaps intending to ask if he should follow. Best to not be easily found when he returned. Shallan took a step toward the fair, with its exotic merchants and wonderful sights. There would be guessing games and perhaps a Worldsinger telling tales of distant kingdoms. Over the polite clapping of the lighteyes watching the duel behind her, she could hear drums from the common darkeyes along with singing and merriment. Work first. Darkness lay over her house like a storm’s shadow. She would find the sun. She would. That meant turning back to the dueling grounds, for now. She rounded the back of the boxes, weaving between parshmen who bowed and darkeyes who gave her nods or bows, depending on their rank. She eventually found a box where several lesser lighteyed families shared space in the shade. Eylita, daughter of Brightlord Tavinar, sat on the end, just within the sunlight shining through the side of the box. She stared at the duelists with a vapid expression, head slightly cocked, a whimsical smile on her face. Her long hair was a pure black. Shallan stepped up beside the box and hissed at her. The older girl turned, frowning, then raised hands to her lips. She glanced at her parents, then leaned down. “Shallan!” “I told you to expect me,” Shallan whispered back. “Did you think about what I wrote you?” Eylita reached into the pocket of her dress, then slipped out a small note. She grinned mischievously and nodded. Shallan took the note. “You’ll be able to get away?” “I’ll need to take my handmaid, but otherwise I can go where I want.” What would that be like? Shallan ducked away quickly. Technically, she outranked Eylita’s parents, but age was a funny thing among the lighteyes. Sometimes, the higher-ranked child didn’t seem nearly as important when speaking to adults of a lower dahn. Besides, Brightlord and Brightness Tavinar had been there on that day, when the bastard had come. They were not fond of Father, or his children. Shallan backed away from the boxes, then turned toward the fair itself. Here, she paused nervously. The Middlefest Fair was an intimidating collage of people and places. Nearby, a group of tenners drank at long tables and placed bets on the matches. The lowest rank of lighteyes, they were barely above darkeyes. They not only had to work for their living, they weren’t even merchants or master craftsmen. They were just . . . people. Helaran had said there were many of them in the cities. As
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many as there were darkeyes. That seemed very odd to her. Odd and fascinating at the same time. She itched to find a corner to watch where she would not be noticed, her sketchpad out and her imagination boiling. Instead, she forced herself to move around the edge of the fair. The tent that her brothers had spoken of would be on the outer perimeter, wouldn’t it? Darkeyed fairgoers gave her a wide berth, and she found herself afraid. Her father spoke of how a young lighteyed girl could be a target for the brutish people of the lower classes. Surely nobody would harm her here in the open, with so many people about. Still, she clutched her satchel to her chest and found herself trembling as she walked. What would it be like, to be brave like Helaran? As her mother had been. Her mother . . . “Brightness?” Shallan shook herself. How long had she been standing there, on the path? The sun had moved. She turned sheepishly to find Jix the guard standing behind her. Though he had a gut and rarely kept his hair combed, Jix was strong—she had once seen him pull a cart out of the way when the chull’s hitch broke. He’d been one of her father’s guards for as long as she could remember. “Ah,” she said, trying to cover her nervousness, “you’re here to accompany me?” “Well, I was gonna bring you back. . . .” “Did my father order you to?” Jix chewed on the yamma root, called cussweed by some, in his cheek. “He was busy.” “Then you will accompany me?” She shook from the nervousness of saying it. “I suppose.” She breathed out a sigh of relief and turned around on the pathway, stone where rockbuds and shalebark had been scraped away. She turned one way, then the other. “Um . . . We need to find the gambling pavilion.” “That’s not a place for a lady.” Jix eyed her. “Particularly not one of your age, Brightness.” “Well, I suppose you can go tell my father what I’m doing.” She shuffled from one foot to the other. “And in the meantime,” Jix said, “you’ll try to find it on your own, won’t you? Go in by yourself if you find it?” She shrugged, blushing. That was exactly what she’d do. “Which means I’d have left you wandering around in a place like that without protection.” He groaned softly. “Why do you defy him like this, Brightness? You’re just going to make him angry.” “I think . . . I think he will anger no matter what I or anyone does,” she said. “The sun will shine. The highstorms will blow. And Father will yell. That’s just how life is.” She bit her lip. “The gambling pavilion? I promise that I will be brief.” “This way,” Jix said. He didn’t walk particularly quickly as he led her, and he frequently glared at darkeyed fairgoers who passed. Jix was lighteyed, but only of the eighth dahn. “Pavilion” turned out to be too
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grand a term for the patched and ripped tarp strung up at the edge of the fairgrounds. She’d have found it on her own soon enough. The thick canvas, with sides that hung down a few feet, made it surprisingly dark inside. Men crowded together in there. The few women that Shallan saw had the fingers cut out of the gloves on their safehands. Scandalous. She found herself blushing as she stopped at the perimeter, looking in at the dark, shifting forms. Men shouted inside with raw voices, any sense of Vorin decorum left out in the sunlight. This was, indeed, not a place for someone like her. She had trouble believing it was a place for anyone. “How about I go in for you,” Jix said. “Is it a bet you’re wanting to—” Shallan pushed forward. Ignoring her own panic, her discomfort, she moved into the darkness. Because if she did not, then it meant that none of them were resisting, that nothing would change. Jix stayed at her side, shoving her some space. She had trouble breathing inside; the air was dank with sweat and curses. Men turned and glanced at her. Bows—even nods—were slow in coming, if they were offered at all. The implication was clear. If she wouldn’t obey social conventions by staying out, they didn’t have to obey them by showing her deference. “Is there something specific you’re searching for?” Jix asked. “Cards? Guessing games?” “Axehound fights.” Jix groaned. “You’re gonna end up stabbed, and I’m gonna end up on a roasting spit. This is crazy. . . .” She turned, noting a group of men cheering. That sounded promising. She ignored the increasing trembling in her hands, and also tried to ignore a group of drunk men sitting in a ring on the ground, staring at what appeared to be vomit. The cheering men sat on crude benches with others crowded around. A glimpse between bodies showed two small axehounds. There were no spren. When people crowded about like this, spren were rare, even though the emotions seemed to be very high. One set of benches was not crowded. Balat sat here, coat unbuttoned, leaning on a post in front of him with arms crossed. His disheveled hair and stooped posture gave him an uncaring look, but his eyes . . . his eyes lusted. He watched the poor animals killing one another, fixated on them with the intensity of a woman reading a powerful novel. Shallan stepped up to him, Jix remaining a little ways behind. Now that he’d seen Balat, the guard relaxed. “Balat?” Shallan asked timidly. “Balat!” He glanced at her, then nearly toppled off his bench. He scrambled up to his feet. “What in the . . . Shallan! Get out of here. What are you doing?” He reached for her. She cringed down despite herself. He sounded like Father. As he took her by the shoulder, she held up the note from Eylita. The lavender paper, dusted with perfume, seemed to glow. Balat hesitated. To the side, one axehound bit deeply
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into the leg of the other. Blood sprayed the ground, deep violet. “What is it?” Balat asked. “That is the glyphpair of House Tavinar.” “It’s from Eylita.” “Eylita? The daughter? Why . . . what . . .” Shallan broke the seal, opening the letter to read for him. “She wishes to walk with you along the fairgrounds stream. She says she’ll be waiting there, with her handmaid, if you want to come.” Balat ran a hand through his curling hair. “Eylita? She’s here. Of course she’s here. Everyone is here. You talked to her? Why— But—” “I know how you’ve looked at her,” Shallan said. “The few times you’ve been near.” “So you talked to her?” Balat demanded. “Without my permission? You said I’d be interested in something like”—he took the letter—“like this?” Shallan nodded, wrapping her arms around herself. Balat looked back toward the fighting axehounds. He bet because it was expected of him, but he didn’t come here for the money—unlike Jushu would. Balat ran his hand through his hair again, then looked back at the letter. He wasn’t a cruel man. She knew it was a strange thing to think, considering what he sometimes did. Shallan knew the kindness he showed, the strength that hid within him. He hadn’t acquired this fascination with death until Mother had left them. He could come back, stop being like that. He could. “I need . . .” Balat looked out of the tent. “I need to go! She’ll be waiting for me. I shouldn’t make her wait.” He buttoned up his coat. Shallan nodded eagerly, following him from the pavilion. Jix trailed along behind, though a couple of men called out to him. He must be known in the pavilion. Balat stepped out into the sunlight. He seemed a changed man, just like that. “Balat?” Shallan asked. “I didn’t see Jushu in there with you.” “He didn’t come to the pavilion.” “What? I thought—” “I don’t know where he went,” Balat said. “He met some people right after we arrived.” He looked toward the distant stream that ran down from the heights and through a channel around the fairgrounds. “What do I say to her?” “How should I know?” “You’re a woman too.” “I’m fourteen!” She wouldn’t spend time courting, anyway. Father would choose her a husband. His only daughter was too precious to be wasted on something fickle, like her own powers of decision. “I guess . . . I guess I’ll just talk to her,” Balat said. He jogged off without another word. Shallan watched him go, then sat down on a rock and trembled, arms around herself. That place . . . the tent . . . it had been horrible. She sat there for an extended time, feeling ashamed of her weakness, but also proud. She’d done it. It was small, but she’d done something. Eventually, she rose and nodded to Jix, letting him lead the way back toward their box. Father should be finished with his meeting by now. It turned out that he had finished
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that meeting only to start another. A man she did not know sat next to Father with a cup of chilled water in one hand. Tall, slender, and blue-eyed, he had deep black hair without a hint of impurity and wore clothing the same shade. He glanced at Shallan as she stepped up into the box. The man started, dropping his cup to the table. He caught it with a swift lunge, keeping it from tipping over, then turned to stare at her with a slack jaw. It was gone in a second, replaced with an expression of practiced indifference. “Clumsy fool!” Father said. The newcomer turned away from Shallan, speaking softly to Father. Shallan’s stepmother stood to the side, with the cooks. Shallan slipped over to her. “Who is that?” “Nobody of consequence,” Malise said. “He claims to have brought word from your brother, but is of low enough dahn that he can’t even produce a writ of lineage.” “My brother? Helaran?” Malise nodded. Shallan turned back to the newcomer. She caught, with a subtle movement, the man slipping something from his coat pocket and moving it up toward the drinks. A shock coursed through Shallan. She raised a hand. Poison— The newcomer covertly dumped the pouch’s contents into his own drink, then raised it to his lips, gulping down the powder. What had it been? Shallan lowered her hand. The newcomer stood up a moment later. He didn’t bow to Father as he left. He gave Shallan a smile, then was down the steps and out of the box. Word from Helaran. What had it been? Shallan timidly moved to the table. “Father?” Father’s eyes were on the duel in the center of the ring. Two men with swords, no shields, harking back to classical ideals. Their sweeping methods of fighting were said to be an imitation of fighting with a Shardblade. “Word from Nan Helaran?” Shallan prodded. “You will not speak his name,” Father said. “I—” “You will not speak of that one,” Father said, looking to her, thunder in his expression. “Today I declare him disinherited. Tet Balat is officially now Nan Balat, Wikim becomes Tet, Jushu becomes Asha. I have only three sons.” She knew better than to push him when he was like this. But how would she discover what the messenger had said? She sank into her chair, shaken again. “Your brothers avoid me,” Father said, watching the duel. “Not one chooses to dine with their father as would be proper.” Shallan folded her hands in her lap. “Jushu is probably drinking somewhere,” Father said. “The Stormfather only knows where Balat has run off to. Wikim refuses to leave the carriage.” He downed the wine in his cup. “Will you speak with him? This has not been a good day. If I went to him, I . . . worry what I would do.” Shallan rose, then rested a hand on her father’s shoulder. He slumped, leaning forward, one hand around the empty wine flagon. He raised his other hand and patted hers on his
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shoulder, his eyes distant. He did try. They all did. Shallan sought out their carriage, which stood parked with a number of others near the western slope of the fairgrounds. Jella trees here rose high, their hardened trunks colored the light brown of crem. The needles sprouted like a thousand tongues of fire from each limb, though the nearest ones pulled in as she approached. She was surprised to see a mink slinking in the shadows; she’d expected all those in the area to have been trapped by now. The coachmen played cards in a ring nearby; some of them had to stay and watch the carriages, though Shallan had heard Ren speaking of some kind of rotation so that they all got a chance at the fair. In fact, Ren wasn’t there at the moment, though the other coachmen bowed as she passed. Wikim sat in their carriage. The slender, pale youth was only fifteen months older than Shallan. He shared some resemblance to his twin, but few people mistook them for one another. Jushu looked older, and Wikim was so thin he looked sickly. Shallan climbed in to sit across from Wikim, setting her satchel on the seat beside her. “Did Father send you,” Wikim asked, “or did you come on one of your new little missions of mercy?” “Both?” Wikim turned away from her, looking out the window toward the trees, away from the fair. “You can’t fix us, Shallan. Jushu will destroy himself. It’s only a matter of time. Balat is becoming Father, step by step. Malise spends one night in two weeping. Father will kill her one of these days, like he did Mother.” “And you?” Shallan asked. It was the wrong thing to say, and she knew it the moment it came out of her mouth. “Me? I won’t be around to see any of it. I’ll be dead by then.” Shallan wrapped her arms around herself, pulling her legs up beneath her on the seat. Brightness Hasheh would have chided her for the unladylike posture. What did she do? What did she say? He’s right, she thought. I can’t fix this. Helaran could have. I can’t. They were all slowly unraveling. “So what was it?” Wikim said. “Out of curiosity, what did you come up with to ‘save’ me? I’m guessing you used the girl on Balat.” She nodded. “You were obvious about that,” Wikim said. “With the letters you sent her. Jushu? What of him?” “I have a list of the day’s duels,” Shallan whispered. “He so wishes he could duel. If I show him the fights, maybe he’ll want to come watch them.” “You’ll have to find him first,” Wikim said with a snort. “And what about me? You have to know that neither swords nor pretty faces will work for me.” Feeling a fool, Shallan dug in her satchel and came out with several sheets of paper. “Drawings?” “Math problems.” Wikim frowned and took them from her, absently scratching the side of his face as he looked them over. “I’m no ardent.
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I’ll not be boxed up and forced to spend my days convincing people to listen to the Almighty—who suspiciously has nothing to say for himself.” “That doesn’t mean you can’t study,” Shallan said. “I gathered those from Father’s books, equations for determining highstorm timing. I translated and simplified the writing to glyphs, so you could read them. I figured you could try to guess when the next ones would come. . . .” He shuffled through the papers. “You copied and translated it all, even the drawings. Storms, Shallan. How long did this take you?” She shrugged. It had taken weeks, but she had nothing but time. Days sitting in the gardens, evenings sitting in her room, the occasional visit to the ardents for some peaceful tutoring about the Almighty. It was good to have things to do. “This is stupid,” Wikim said, lowering the papers. “What do you think you’ll accomplish? I can’t believe you wasted so much time on this.” Shallan bowed her head and then, blinking tears, scrambled out of the carriage. It felt horrible—not just Wikim’s words, but the way her emotions betrayed her. She couldn’t hold them in. She hastened away from the carriages, hoping the coachmen wouldn’t see her wiping her eyes with her safehand. She sat down on a stone and tried to compose herself, but failed, tears flowing freely. She turned her head aside as a few parshmen trotted past, running their master’s axehounds. There would be several hunts as part of the festivities. “Axehound,” a voice said from behind her. Shallan jumped, safehand to breast, and spun. He rested up on a tree limb, wearing his black outfit. He moved as she saw him, and the spiky leaves around him retreated in a wave of vanishing red and orange. It was the messenger who had spoken to Father earlier. “I have wondered,” the messenger said, “if any of you find the term odd. You know what an axe is. But what is a hound?” “Why does that matter?” Shallan asked. “Because it is a word,” the messenger replied. “A simple word with a world embedded inside, like a bud waiting to open.” He studied her. “I did not expect to find you here.” “I . . .” Her instincts told her to back away from this strange man. And yet, he had news of Helaran—news her father would never share. “Where did you expect to find me? At the dueling grounds?” The man swung around the branch and dropped to the ground. Shallan stepped backward. “No need for that,” the man said, settling onto a rock. “You needn’t fear me. I’m terribly ineffective at hurting people. I blame my upbringing.” “You have news of my brother Helaran.” The messenger nodded. “He is a very determined young man.” “Where is he?” “Doing things he finds very important. I would fault him for it, as I find nothing more frightening than a man trying to do what he has decided is important. Very little in the world has ever gone astray—at least on a grand
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scale—because a person decided to be frivolous.” “He is well, though?” she asked. “Well enough. The message for your father was that he has eyes nearby, and is watching.” No wonder it had put Father in a bad mood. “Where is he?” Shallan said, timidly stepping forward. “Did he tell you to speak to me?” “I’m sorry, young one,” the man said, expression softening. “He gave me only that brief message for your father, and that only because I mentioned I would be traveling this direction.” “Oh! I assumed he’d sent you here. I mean, that coming to us was your primary purpose.” “Turns out that it was. Tell me, young one. Do spren speak to you?” The lights going out, life drained from them. Twisted symbols the eye should not see. Her mother’s soul in a box. “I . . .” she said. “No. Why would a spren speak to me?” “No voices?” the man said, leaning forward. “Do spheres go dark when you are near?” “I’m sorry,” Shallan said, “but I should be getting back to my father. He will be missing me.” “Your father is slowly destroying your family,” the messenger said. “Your brother was right on that count. He was wrong about everything else.” “Such as?” “Look.” The man nodded back toward the carriages. She was at the right angle to see into the window of her father’s carriage. She squinted. Inside, Wikim leaned forward, using a pencil taken from her satchel—which she’d left behind. He scribbled at the mathematical problems she’d left. He was smiling. Warmth. That warmth she felt, a deep glow, was like the joy she had known before. Long ago. Before everything had gone wrong. Before Mother. The messenger whispered. “Two blind men waited at the end of an era, contemplating beauty. They sat atop the world’s highest cliff, overlooking the land and seeing nothing.” “Huh?” She looked to him. “‘Can beauty be taken from a man?’ the first asked the second. “‘It was taken from me,’ the second replied. ‘For I cannot remember it.’ This man was blinded in a childhood accident. ‘I pray to the God Beyond each night to restore my sight, so that I may find beauty again.’ “‘Is beauty something one must see, then?’ the first asked. “‘Of course. That is its nature. How can you appreciate a work of art without seeing it?’ “‘I can hear a work of music,’ the first said. “‘Very well, you can hear some kinds of beauty—but you cannot know full beauty without sight. You can know only a small portion of beauty.’ “‘A sculpture,’ the first said. ‘Can I not feel its curves and slopes, the touch of the chisel that transformed common rock into uncommon wonder?’ “‘I suppose,’ said the second, ‘that you can know the beauty of a sculpture.’ “‘And what of the beauty of food? Is it not a work of art when a chef crafts a masterpiece to delight the tastes?’ “‘I suppose,’ said the second, ‘that you can know the beauty of a chef’s art.’ “‘And what
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of the beauty of a woman,’ the first said. ‘Can I not know her beauty in the softness of her caress, the kindness of her voice, the keenness of her mind as she reads philosophy to me? Can I not know this beauty? Can I not know most kinds of beauty, even without my eyes?’ “‘Very well,’ said the second. ‘But what if your ears were removed, your hearing taken away? Your tongue taken out, your mouth forced shut, your sense of smell destroyed? What if your skin were burned so that you could no longer feel? What if all that remained to you was pain? You could not know beauty then. It can be taken from a man.’” The messenger stopped, cocking his head at Shallan. “What?” she asked. “What think you? Can beauty be taken from a man? If he could not touch, taste, smell, hear, see . . . what if all he knew was pain? Has that man had beauty taken from him?” “I . . .” What did this have to do with anything? “Does the pain change day by day?” “Let us say it does,” the messenger said. “Then beauty, to that person, would be the times when the pain lessens. Why are you telling me this story?” The messenger smiled. “To be human is to seek beauty, Shallan. Do not despair, do not end the hunt because thorns grow in your way. Tell me, what is the most beautiful thing you can imagine?” “Father is probably wondering where I am. . . .” “Indulge me,” the messenger said. “I will tell you where your brother is.” “A wonderful painting, then. That is the most beautiful thing.” “Lies,” the messenger said. “Tell me the truth. What is it, child? Beauty, to you.” “I . . .” What was it? “Mother still lives,” she found herself whispering, meeting his eyes. “And?” “And we are in the gardens,” Shallan continued. “She is speaking to my father, and he is laughing. Laughing and holding her. We are all there, including Helaran. He never left. The people my mother knew . . . Dreder . . . never came to our home. Mother loves me. She teaches me philosophy, and she shows me how to draw.” “Good,” the messenger said. “But you can do better than that. What is that place? What does it feel like?” “It’s spring,” Shallan shot back, growing annoyed. “And the mossvines bloom a vigorous red. They smell sweet, and the air is moist from the morning’s highstorm. Mother whispers, but there is music to her tone, and Father’s laugh doesn’t echo—it rises high into the air, bathing us all. “Helaran is teaching Jushu swords, and they spar nearby. Wikim laughs as Helaran is struck on the side of the leg. He is studying to be an ardent, as Mother wanted. I am sketching them all, charcoal scratching paper. I feel warm, despite the slight chill to the air. I have a steaming cup of cider beside me, and I taste the sweetness in my mouth
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from the sip I just took. It is beautiful because it could have been. It should have been. I . . .” She blinked tears. She saw it. Stormfather, but she saw it. She heard her mother’s voice, saw Jushu giving up spheres to Balat as he lost the duel, but laughing as he paid, uncaring of the loss. She could feel the air, smell the scents, hear the sounds of songlings in the brush. Almost, it became real. Wisps of Light rose before her. The messenger had gotten out a handful of spheres and held them toward her while staring into her eyes. The steamy Stormlight rose between them. Shallan lifted her fingers, the image of her ideal life wrapped around her like a comforter. No. She drew back. The misty light faded. “I see,” the messenger said softly. “You do not yet understand the nature of lies. I had that trouble myself, long ago. The Shards here are very strict. You will have to see the truth, child, before you can expand upon it. Just as a man should know the law before he breaks it.” Shadows from her past shifted in the depths, surfacing just briefly toward the light. “Could you help?” “No. Not now. You aren’t ready, for one, and I have work to be about. Another day. Keep cutting at those thorns, strong one, and make a path for the light. The things you fight aren’t completely natural.” He stood up, then bowed to her. “My brother,” she said. “He is in Alethkar.” Alethkar? “Why?” “Because that is where he feels he is needed, of course. If I see him again, I will give him word of you.” The messenger walked away on light feet, his steps smooth, almost like moves in a dance. Shallan watched him go, the deep things within her settling again, returning to the forgotten parts of her mind. She realized she had not even asked the man his name. Kaladin reached the end of the line of bridgemen. They stood at attention, spears to shoulders, eyes forward. The transformation was marvelous. He nodded under the darkening sky. “Impressive,” he said to Pitt, the sergeant of Bridge Seventeen. “I’ve rarely seen such a fine platoon of spearmen.” It was the kind of lie that commanders learned to give. Kaladin didn’t mention how some of the bridgemen shuffled while they stood, or how their maneuvers in formation were sloppy. They were trying. He could sense it in their earnest expressions, and in the way they had begun taking pride in their uniforms, their identity. They were ready to patrol, at least close to the warcamps. He made a mental note to have Teft start taking them out in a rotation with the other two crews that were ready. Kaladin was proud of them, and he let them know it as the hour stretched long and night arrived. He then dismissed them to their evening meal, which smelled quite different from Rock’s Horneater stew. Bridge Seventeen considered their nightly bean curry to be part of
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their identity. Individuality through meal choice; Kaladin found that amusing as he moved off into the night, shouldering his spear. He had three more crews to look in on. The next, Bridge Eighteen, was one of those having problems. Their sergeant, though earnest, didn’t have the presence necessary for a good officer. Or, well, none of the bridgemen had that. He was just particularly weak. Prone to begging instead of ordering, awkward in social situations. It couldn’t all be blamed on Vet, however. He’d also been given a particularly discordant group of men. Kaladin found the soldiers of Eighteen sitting in isolated bunches, eating their evening meal. No laughter, no camaraderie. They weren’t as solitary as they’d been as bridgemen. Instead, they’d splintered into little cliques who didn’t mingle. Sergeant Vet called them to order and they rose sluggishly, not bothering to stand in a straight line or salute. Kaladin saw the truth in their eyes. What could he do to them? Surely nothing as bad as their lives had been as bridgemen. So why make an effort? Kaladin spoke to them of motivation and unity for a time. I’ll need to do another training session in the chasms with this lot, he thought. And if that didn’t work either . . . well, he’d probably have to break them up, stick them in other platoons that were working. He eventually left Eighteen, shaking his head. They didn’t seem to want to be soldiers. Why had they taken Dalinar’s offer then, instead of leaving? Because they don’t want to make choices anymore, he thought. Choices can be hard. He knew how that felt. Storms, but he did. He remembered sitting and staring at a blank wall, too morose to even get up and go kill himself. He shivered. Those were not days he wanted to remember. As he made his way toward Bridge Nineteen, Syl floated past on a current of wind in the form of a small patch of mist. She melded into a ribbon of light and zipped around him in circles before coming to rest on his shoulder. “Everyone else is eating their dinners,” Syl said. “Good,” Kaladin said. “That wasn’t a status report, Kaladin,” she said. “It was a point of contention.” “Contention?” He stopped in the darkness near the barrack of Bridge Nineteen, whose men were doing well, eating around their fire as a group. “You’re working,” Syl said. “Still.” “I need to get these men ready.” He turned his head to look at her. “You know something is coming. Those countdowns on the walls . . . Have you seen more of those red spren?” “Yes,” she admitted. “I think so, at least. In the corners of my eyes, watching me. Very infrequently, but there.” “Something is coming,” Kaladin said. “That countdown points right toward the Weeping. Whatever happens then, I’ll have the bridgemen ready to weather it.” “Well, you won’t if you drop dead from exhaustion first!” Syl hesitated. “People really can do that, right? I heard Teft saying he felt like he was going
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to do so.” “Teft likes to exaggerate,” Kaladin said. “It’s one mark of a good sergeant.” Syl frowned. “And that last part . . . was a joke?” “Yes.” “Ah.” She looked into his eyes. “Rest anyway, Kaladin. Please.” Kaladin looked toward Bridge Four’s barrack. It was a distance away, down the rows, but he thought he could hear Rock’s laughter echoing through the night. Finally, he sighed, acknowledging his exhaustion. He could check on the last two platoons tomorrow. Spear in hand, he turned and hiked back. The advent of darkness meant it would be about two hours before men started turning in for the night. Kaladin arrived to the familiar scent of Rock’s stew, though Hobber—sitting on a tall stump the men had fashioned for him, a blanket across his grey, useless legs—was doing the serving. Rock stood nearby, arms folded, looking proud. Renarin was there, taking and washing the dishes of those who’d finished. He did that every night, kneeling quietly beside the washbasin in his bridgeman uniform. The lad certainly was earnest. He didn’t display any of the spoiled temperament of his brother. Though he had insisted on joining them, he often sat at the edges of the group, near the back of the bridgemen at night. Such an odd young man. Kaladin passed Hobber and gripped the man’s shoulder. He nodded, meeting Hobber’s eyes, raising a fist. Fight on. Kaladin reached for some stew, then froze. Sitting nearby on a log were not one, but three beefy, thick-armed Herdazians. All wore Bridge Four uniforms, and Kaladin only recognized Punio out of the three. Kaladin found Lopen nearby, staring at his hand—which he held before himself in a fist for some reason. Kaladin had long since given up on understanding Lopen. “Three?” Kaladin demanded. “Cousins!” Lopen replied, looking up. “You have too many of those,” Kaladin said. “That’s impossible! Rod, Huio, say hello!” “Bridge Four,” the two men said, raising their bowls. Kaladin shook his head, accepting his own stew and then walking past the cauldron into the darker area beside the barrack. He peeked into the storage room, and found Shen stacking sacks of tallew grain there, lit only by a single diamond chip. “Shen?” Kaladin said. The parshman continued stacking bags. “Fall in and attention!” Kaladin barked. Shen froze, then stood up, back straight, at attention. “At ease, soldier,” Kaladin said softly, stepping up to him. “I spoke to Dalinar Kholin earlier today and asked if I could arm you. He asked if I trusted you. I told him the truth.” Kaladin held out his spear to the parshman. “I do.” Shen looked from the spear to Kaladin, dark eyes hesitant. “Bridge Four doesn’t have slaves,” Kaladin said. “I’m sorry for being frightened before.” He urged the man to take the spear, and Shen finally did so. “Leyten and Natam practice in the mornings with a few men. They’re willing to help you learn so that you don’t have to train with the greenvines.” Shen held the spear with what seemed to be reverence. Kaladin turned
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to leave the storage room. “Sir,” Shen said. Kaladin paused. “You are,” Shen said, speaking in his slow way, “a good man.” “I’ve spent my life being judged for my eyes, Shen. I won’t do something similar to you because of your skin.” “Sir, I—” The parshman seemed troubled by something. “Kaladin!” Moash’s voice came from outside. “Was there something you wanted to say?” Kaladin asked Shen. “Later,” the parshman said. “Later.” Kaladin nodded, then stepped out to see what the disturbance was. He found Moash looking for him near the cauldron. “Kaladin!” Moash said, spotting him. “Come on. We’re going out, and you’re coming with us. Even Rock is coming tonight.” “Ha! Stew is in good hands,” Rock said. “I will go do this thing. Will be good to get away from stink of little bridgemen.” “Hey!” Drehy said. “Ah. And stink of big bridgemen too.” “Come on,” Moash said, waving to Kaladin. “You promised.” He’d done no such thing. He just wanted to settle down by the fire, eat his stew, and watch the flamespren. Everyone was looking at him, though. Even the ones who weren’t going with Moash tonight. “I . . .” Kaladin said. “Fine. Let’s go.” They cheered and clapped. Storming fools. They cheered to see their commander go out drinking? Kaladin slurped down a few bites of stew, then handed the rest to Hobber. With reluctance, he then walked over to join Moash, as did Lopen, Peet, and Sigzil. “You know,” Kaladin growled under his breath to Syl, “if this had been one of my old spearman crews, I’d assume they wanted me out of the camp so they could get away with something while I’m gone.” “I doubt it’s that,” Syl said, frowning. “No,” Kaladin said. “These men just want to see me as human.” He did need to go, for that reason. He was already too separate from the men. He didn’t want them thinking of him as they would a lighteyes. “Ha!” Rock said, jogging up to join them. “These men, they claim they can drink more than Horneater. Airsick lowlanders. Is not possible.” “A drinking contest?” Kaladin said, groaning inwardly. What was he getting into? “None of us are on duty until the late morning,” Sigzil said with a shrug. Teft was watching the Kholins overnight, along with Leyten’s team. “Tonight,” Lopen said, finger to the air, “I will be victorious. It is said you should never bet against the one-armed Herdazian in a drinking contest!” “It is?” Moash asked. “It will be said,” Lopen continued, “you should never bet against the one-armed Herdazian in a drinking contest!” “You weigh about as much as a starved axehound, Lopen,” Moash said skeptically. “Ah, but I have focus.” They continued, turning down a pathway that led toward the market. The warcamp was laid out with blocks of barracks forming a large circle around the lighteyed buildings closer to the center. On the way out toward the market, which was in the outer ring of camp followers beyond the soldiers, they passed plenty of other
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barracks manned by ordinary soldiers—and the men there were busy in tasks that Kaladin had rarely seen in Sadeas’s army. Sharpening spears, oiling breastplates, before their dinner call came. Kaladin’s men weren’t the only ones going out for the night, though. Other groups of soldiers had already eaten, and these strolled toward the market, laughing. They were recovering, slowly, from the slaughter that had left Dalinar’s army crippled. The market was aglow with life, torches and oil lanterns shining from most buildings. Kaladin wasn’t surprised. An ordinary army would have had camp followers aplenty, and that was for a moving army. Here, merchants showed off wares. Criers sold news they claimed had come via spanreed, reporting events in the world. What was that about a war in Jah Keved? And a new emperor in Azir? Kaladin had only a vague idea of where that was. Sigzil jogged over to get an earful of news, paying the crier a sphere while Lopen and Rock argued which tavern was the best to visit for the night. Kaladin watched the flow of life. Soldiers passing on the night watch. A group of chatting darkeyed women moving from spice merchant to spice merchant. A lighteyed courier posting projected highstorm dates and times on a board, her husband yawning nearby and looking bored—as if he’d been forced to come along to keep her company. The Weeping was coming up soon, the time of constant rain with no highstorms—the only break was Lightday, right in the middle. It was an off year in the thousand-day cycle of two years, which meant the Weeping would be a calm one this time. “Enough arguing,” Moash said to Rock, Lopen, and Peet. “We’re going to the Ornery Chull.” “Aw!” Rock said. “But they do not have Horneater lagers!” “That’s because Horneater lagers melt your teeth,” Moash said. “Anyway, it’s my pick tonight.” Peet nodded eagerly. That tavern had been his choice as well. Sigzil got back from hearing the news, and he’d apparently stopped somewhere else as well, as he carried something steaming and wrapped in paper. “Not you too,” Kaladin said, groaning. “It’s good,” Sigzil said defensively, then took a bite of the chouta. “You don’t even know what it is.” “Of course I do.” Sigzil hesitated. “Hey, Lopen. What’s in this stuff?” “Flangria,” Lopen said happily as Rock ran off to the street vendor to get himself some chouta too. “Which is?” Kaladin asked. “Meat.” “What kind of meat?” “The meaty kind.” “Soulcast,” Kaladin said, looking at Sigzil. “You ate Soulcast food every night as a bridgeman,” Sigzil said, shrugging and taking a bite. “Because I had no choice. Look. He’s frying that bread.” “You fry the flangria too,” Lopen said. “Make little balls of it, mixed with ground lavis. Batter it up and fry it, then stuff it in fried bread and pour on gravy.” He made a satisfied sound, licking his lips. “It’s cheaper than water,” Peet noted as Rock jogged back. “That’s probably because even the grain is Soulcast,” Kaladin said. “It will all taste like
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mold. Rock, I’m disappointed in you.” The Horneater looked sheepish, but took a bite. His chouta crunched. “Shells?” Kaladin asked. “Cremling claws.” Rock grinned. “Deep-fried.” Kaladin sighed, but they finally struck out again through the crowd, eventually reaching a wooden building built on the leeward side of a larger stone structure. Everything here was, of course, arranged so that as many doorways as possible could point away from the Origin, streets designed so that they could run east to west and provide a way for winds to blow. Warm, orange light spilled from the tavern. Firelight. No tavern would use spheres for light. Even with locks on the lanterns, the rich glow of spheres might be just a little too tempting for the intoxicated patrons. Shouldering their way inside, the bridgemen were confronted by a low roar of chatter, yelling, and singing. “We’ll never find seats,” Kaladin said over the din. Even with the reduced population of Dalinar’s warcamp, this place was packed. “Of course we will find seat,” Rock said, grinning. “We have secret weapon.” He pointed to where Peet, oval-faced and quiet, was working his way through the room toward the front bar. A pretty darkeyed woman stood polishing a glass there, and she smiled brightly when she saw Peet. “So,” Sigzil said to Kaladin, “have you given thought to where you’re going to house the married men of Bridge Four?” Married men? Looking at Peet’s expression as he leaned across the bar, chatting with the woman, it seemed that might not be far off. Kaladin hadn’t given any thought to it. He should have. He knew that Rock was married—the Horneater had already sent letters to his family, though the Peaks were so far away, news had not yet returned. Teft had been married, but his wife was dead, as was much of his family. Some of the others might have families. When they’d been bridgemen, they hadn’t spoken much of their pasts, but Kaladin had teased out hints here and there. They would slowly reclaim normal lives, and families would be part of that, particularly here with the stable warcamp. “Storms!” Kaladin said, raising a hand to his head. “I’ll have to ask for more space.” “There are many barracks partitioned to allow families,” Sigzil noted. “And some of the married soldiers rent places in the market. Men could move to one of those choices.” “This thing would break up Bridge Four!” Rock said. “It cannot be allowed.” Well, married men tended to make better soldiers. He’d have to find a way to make it work. There were a lot of empty barracks around in Dalinar’s camp now. Maybe he should ask for a few more. Kaladin nodded toward the woman at the bar. “She doesn’t own the place, I assume.” “No, Ka is just barmaid,” Rock said. “Peet is quite taken with her.” “We’ll need to see if she can read,” Kaladin said, stepping aside as a semi-drunk patron pushed out into the night. “Storms, but it would be good to have someone around to do that.”
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In a normal army, Kaladin would be lighteyed, and his wife or sister would act as the battalion’s scribe and clerk. Peet waved them over, and Ka led them through to a table set off to the side. Kaladin settled himself with his back to the wall, near enough to a window that he could look out if he wanted, but where he wouldn’t be silhouetted. He spared some pity for Rock’s chair as the Horneater settled down. Rock was the only one in the crew who had a few inches’ height on Kaladin, and he was practically twice as broad. “Horneater lager?” Rock asked hopefully, looking at Ka. “It melts our cups,” she said. “Ale?” “Ale,” Rock said with a sigh. “This thing should be a drink for women, not for large Horneater men. At least he is not wine.” Kaladin told her to bring whatever, barely paying attention. This place was not inviting, really. It was loud, obnoxious, smoky, and smelly. It was also alive. Laughing. Boasts and calls, mugs clanking. This . . . this was what some people lived for. A day of honest labor, followed by an evening at the tavern with friends. That was not so bad a life. “It’s loud tonight,” Sigzil noticed. “Is always loud,” Rock replied. “But tonight, maybe more.” “The army won a plateau run along with Bethab’s army,” Peet said. Good for them. Dalinar hadn’t gone, but Adolin had, along with three men from Bridge Four. They hadn’t been required to go into battle, though—and any plateau run that didn’t endanger Kaladin’s men was a good one. “So many people is nice,” Rock said. “Makes tavern warmer. Is too cold outside.” “Too cold?” Moash said. “You’re from the storming Horneater Peaks!” “And?” Rock asked, frowning. “And those are mountains. It’s got to be colder up there than anything down here.” Rock actually sputtered, an amusing mixture of indignation and incredulity, bringing a red cast to his light Horneater skin. “Too much air! Hard for you to think. Cold? Horneater Peaks is warm! Wonderfully warm.” “Really?” Kaladin asked, skeptical. This could be one of Rock’s jokes. Sometimes, those didn’t make much sense to anyone but Rock himself. “It’s true,” Sigzil said. “The peaks have hot springs to warm them.” “Ah, but these are not springs,” Rock said, wagging a finger at Sigzil. “This is lowlander word. The Horneater oceans are waters of life.” “Oceans?” Peet asked, frowning. “Very small oceans,” Rock said. “One for every peak.” “The top of each mountain forms a kind of crater,” Sigzil explained, “which is filled with a large lake of warm water. The heat is enough to create a pocket of livable land, despite the altitude. Walk too far from one of the Horneater towns, though, and you’ll end up in freezing temperatures and ice fields left by the highstorms.” “You are telling story wrong,” Rock said. “These are facts, not a story.” “Everything is story,” Rock said. “Listen. Long ago, the Unkalaki—my people, ones you call Horneaters—did not live in peaks. They lived down where
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air was thick and thinking was difficult. But we were hated.” “Who would hate Horneaters?” Peet said. “Everyone,” Rock replied as Ka brought the drinks. More special attention. Most everyone else was having to go to the bar to pick up drinks. Rock smiled at her and grabbed his large mug. “Is first drink. Lopen, you are trying to beat me?” “I’m at it, mancha,” Lopen said, raising his own mug, which was not quite so large. The large Horneater took a pull on his drink, which left froth on his lip. “Everyone wanted to kill Horneaters,” he said, thumping his fist on the table. “They were frightened of us. Stories say we were too good at fighting. So we were hunted and nearly destroyed.” “If you were so good at fighting,” Moash said, pointing, “then how come you were nearly destroyed?” “There are few of us,” Rock said, hand proudly to his chest. “And very many of you. You are all over down here in lowlands. Man cannot step without finding toes of Alethi beneath his boot. So the Unkalaki, we were nearly destroyed. But our tana’kai—is like a king, but more—went to the gods to plead for help.” “Gods,” Kaladin said. “You mean spren.” He sought out Syl, who had chosen a perch on a rafter up above, watching a couple of little insects climb on a post. “These are gods,” Rock said, following Kaladin’s gaze. “Yes. Some gods, though, they are more powerful than others. The tana’kai, he sought the strongest among them. He went first to gods of the trees. ‘Can you hide us?’ he asked. But gods of the trees could not. ‘Men hunt us too,’ they said. ‘If you hide here, they will find you, and will use you for wood just like they use us.’” “Use Horneaters,” Sigzil said blandly, “as wood.” “Hush,” Rock replied. “Next, tana’kai, he visited gods of the waters. ‘Can we live in your depths?’ he pled. ‘Give to us power to breathe as fish, and we will serve you beneath oceans.’ Alas, waters could not help. ‘Men dig into our hearts with hooks, and bring forth those we protect. If you were to live here, you would become their meals.’ So we could not live there. “Last, tana’kai—desperate—visited most powerful of gods, gods of the mountains. ‘My people are dying,’ he pled. ‘Please. Let us live on your slopes and worship you, and let your snows and ice provide our protection.’ “Gods of the mountains thought long. ‘You cannot live upon our slopes,’ they said, ‘for is no life here. This is place of spirits, not of men. But if you can find way to make him a place of men and of spirits, we will protect you.’ And so, tana’kai returned to gods of the waters and said, ‘Give to us your water, that we may drink and live upon mountains.’ And he was promised. Tana’kai went to gods of the trees and said, ‘Give to us your fruit in bounty, that we may eat and live upon the
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mountains.’ And he was promised. Then, tana’kai returned to mountains, and said, ‘Give to us your heat, this thing that is in your heart, that we may live upon your peaks.’ “And this thing, he pleased gods of mountains, who saw that Unkalaki would work hard. They would not be burden upon the gods, but would solve problems on their own. And so, gods of mountains withdrew their peaks into themselves, and made open place for waters of life. The oceans were created of gods of the waters. Grass and fruit to give life were had of promise of gods of trees. And heat from heart of the mountains gave a place that we may live.” He sat back, taking a deep drink of his mug, then slammed it down on the table, grinning. “So the gods,” Moash said, nursing his own drink, “were pleased that you solved problems on your own . . . by going to other gods and begging them for help instead?” “Hush,” Rock said. “Is good story. And is truth.” “But you did call the lakes up there water,” Sigzil said. “So they’re hot springs. Just like I said.” “Is different,” Rock replied, raising his hand and waving toward Ka, then smiling very deeply and wagging his mug in a supplicating way. “How?” “Is not just water,” Rock said. “Is water of life. It is connection to gods. If Unkalaki swim in it, sometimes they see place of gods.” Kaladin leaned forward at that. His mind had been drifting toward how to help Bridge Eighteen with their discipline problems. This struck him. “Place of the gods?” “Yes,” Rock said. “Is where they live. The waters of life, they let you see place. In it, you commune with gods, if you are lucky.” “Is that why you can see spren?” Kaladin asked. “Because you swam in these waters, and they did something to you?” “Is not part of story,” Rock said as his second mug of ale arrived. He grinned at Ka. “You are very wonderful woman. If you come to the Peaks, I will make you family.” “Just pay your tab, Rock,” Ka said, rolling her eyes. As she moved off to collect some empty mugs, Peet jumped up to help her, surprising her by gathering some from another table. “You can see the spren,” Kaladin pressed, “because of what happened to you in these waters.” “Is not part of story,” Rock said, eyeing him. “It is . . . involved. I will say no more of this thing.” “I’d like to visit,” Lopen said. “Go for a dip myself.” “Ha! Is death to one not of our people,” Rock said. “I could not let you swim. Even if you beat me at drinking tonight.” He raised an eyebrow at Lopen’s drink. “Swimming in the emerald pools is death to outsiders,” Sigzil said, “because you execute outsiders who touch them.” “No, this is not true. Listen to story. Stop being boring.” “They’re just hot springs,” Sigzil grumbled, but returned to his drink. Rock rolled his eyes. “On
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top, is water. Beneath, is not. Is something else. Water of life. The place of the gods. This thing is true. I have met a god myself.” “A god like Syl?” Kaladin asked. “Or maybe a riverspren?” Those were somewhat rare, but supposedly able to speak at times in simple ways, like windspren. “No,” Rock said. He leaned in, as if saying something conspiratorial. “I saw Lunu’anaki.” “Uh, great,” Moash said. “Wonderful.” “Lunu’anaki,” Rock said, “is god of travel and mischief. Very powerful god. He came from depths of peak ocean, from realm of gods.” “What did he look like?” Lopen asked, eyes wide. “Like person,” Rock said. “Maybe Alethi, though skin was lighter. Very angular face. Handsome, perhaps. With white hair.” Sigzil looked up sharply. “White hair?” “Yes,” Rock said. “Not grey, like old man, but white—yet he is young man. He spoke with me on shore. Ha! Made mockery of my beard. Asked what year it was, by Horneater calendar. Thought my name was funny. Very powerful god.” “Were you scared?” Lopen asked. “No, of course not. Lunu’anaki cannot hurt man. Is forbidden by other gods. Everyone knows this.” Rock downed the rest of his second mug and raised it to the air, grinning and wagging it toward Ka again as she passed. Lopen hurriedly drank the rest of his first mug. Sigzil looked troubled, and had only touched half of his drink. He stared at it, though when Moash asked him what was wrong, Sigzil made an excuse about being tired. Kaladin finally took a sip of his own drink. Lavis ale, sudsy, faintly sweet. It reminded him of home, though he’d only started drinking it once in the army. The others moved on to a conversation about plateau runs. Sadeas had apparently been disobeying orders to go on plateau runs in teams. He’d gone on one a bit back on his own, seizing the gemheart before anyone got there, then tossing it away as if it was unimportant. Just a few days back, though, Sadeas and Highprince Ruthar had gone on another run together—one they weren’t supposed to go on. They claimed to have failed to get the gemheart, but it was open knowledge they’d won and hidden the winnings. These overt slaps in Dalinar’s face were the buzz of the warcamps. More so because Sadeas seemed outraged that he wasn’t being allowed to put investigators into Dalinar’s warcamp to search for “important facts” he said related to the safety of the king. It was all a game to him. Someone needs to put Sadeas down, Kaladin thought, sipping his drink, swishing the cool liquid in his mouth. He’s as bad as Amaram—tried to get me and mine killed repeatedly. Don’t I have reason, even right, to return the favor? Kaladin was learning how to do what the assassin did—how to run up walls, maybe reach windows that were thought inaccessible. He could visit Sadeas’s camp in the night. Glowing, violent . . . Kaladin could bring justice to this world. His gut told him that there was
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something wrong with that reasoning, but he had trouble producing it logically. He drank a little more, and looked around the room, noticing again how relaxed everyone seemed. This was their life. Work, then play. That was enough for them. Not for him. He needed something more. He got out a glowing sphere—just a diamond chip—and began to idly roll it on the table. After about an hour of conversation, Kaladin taking part only sporadically, Moash nudged him in the side. “You ready?” he whispered. “Ready?” Kaladin frowned. “Yeah. Meeting is in the back room. I saw them come in a bit ago. They’ll be waiting.” “Who . . .” He trailed off, realizing what Moash intended. Kaladin had said he’d meet with Moash’s friends, the men who had tried to kill the king. Kaladin’s skin went cold, the air suddenly seeming chill. “That’s why you wanted me to come tonight?” “Yeah,” Moash said. “I thought you’d figured it out. Come on.” Kaladin looked down into his mug of yellow-brown liquid. Finally, he downed the rest and stood up. He needed to know who these men were. His duty demanded it. Moash excused them, saying he’d noticed an old friend he wanted to introduce to Kaladin. Rock, looking not the least bit drunk, laughed and waved them on. He was on his . . . sixth drink? Seventh? Lopen was already tipsy after his third. Sigzil had only barely finished his second, and didn’t seem inclined to continue. So much for the contest, Kaladin thought, letting Moash lead him. The place was still busy, though not quite as packed as it had been earlier. Tucked away in the back of the tavern was a hallway with private dining rooms, the type used by wealthy merchants who didn’t want to be subjected to the crudeness of the common room. A swarthy man lounged outside of one. He might have been part Azish, or maybe just a very tan Alethi. He carried very long knives at his belt, but didn’t say anything as Moash pushed open the door. “Kaladin . . .” Syl’s voice. Where was she? Vanished, apparently, from even his eyes. Had she done that before? “Be careful.” He stepped into the room with Moash. Three men and a woman drank wine at a table inside. Another guard stood at the back, wrapped in a cloak, a sword at his waist and his head down, as if he were barely paying attention. Two of the seated people, including the woman, were lighteyes. Kaladin should have expected this, considering the fact that a Shardblade was involved, but it still gave him pause. The lighteyed man stood up immediately. He was perhaps a little older than Adolin, and he had jet-black Alethi hair, styled crisply. He wore an open jacket and an expensive-looking black shirt underneath, embroidered with white vines running between the buttons, and a stock at his throat. “So this is the famous Kaladin!” the man exclaimed, stepping forward and reaching out to clasp Kaladin’s hand. “Storms, but it is a pleasure
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to meet you. Embarrassing Sadeas while saving the Blackthorn himself? Good show, man. Good show.” “And you are?” Kaladin asked. “A patriot,” the man said. “Call me Graves.” “And are you the Shardbearer?” “Straight to the point, are you?” Graves said, gesturing for Kaladin to sit at the table. Moash took a seat immediately, nodding to the other man at the table—he was darkeyed, with short hair and sunken eyes. Mercenary, Kaladin guessed, noting the heavy leathers he was wearing and the axe beside his seat. Graves continued to gesture, but Kaladin delayed, inspecting the young woman at the table. She sat primly and sipped her cup of wine held in two hands, one covered in her buttoned sleeve. Pretty, with pursed red lips, she wore her hair up and stuck through with sundry metal decorations. “I recognize you,” Kaladin said. “One of Dalinar’s clerks.” She watched him, careful, though she tried to appear relaxed. “Danlan is a member of the highprince’s retinue,” Graves said. “Please, Kaladin. Sit. Have some wine.” Kaladin sat down, but did not pour a drink. “You are trying to kill the king.” “He is direct, isn’t he?” Graves asked Moash. “Effective, too,” Moash said. “It’s why we like him.” Graves turned to Kaladin. “We are patriots, as I said before. Patriots of Alethkar. The Alethkar that could be.” “Patriots who wish to murder the kingdom’s ruler?” Graves leaned forward, clasping his hands on the table. A bit of the humor left him, which was fine. He’d been trying too hard anyway. “Very well, we shall be on with it. Elhokar is a supremely bad king. Surely you’ve noticed this.” “It’s not my place to pass judgment on a king.” “Oh please,” Graves said. “You’re telling me you haven’t seen the way he acts? Spoiled, petulant, paranoid. He squabbles instead of consulting, he makes childish demands instead of leading. He is blowing this kingdom to the ground.” “Have you any idea the kinds of policies he put into place before Dalinar got him under control?” Danlan asked. “I spent the last three years in Kholinar helping the clerks there sort through the mess he made of the royal codes. There was a time when he’d sign practically anything into law if he was cajoled the right way.” “He is incompetent,” said the darkeyed mercenary, whose name Kaladin didn’t know. “He gets good men killed. Lets that bastard Sadeas get away with high treason.” “So you try to assassinate him?” Kaladin demanded. Graves met Kaladin’s eyes. “Yes.” “If a king is destroying his country,” the mercenary said, “is it not the right—the duty—of the people to see him removed?” “If he were removed,” Moash said, “what would happen? Ask yourself that, Kaladin.” “Dalinar would probably take the throne,” Kaladin said. Elhokar had a son back in Kholinar, a child, barely a few years old. Even if Dalinar only proclaimed himself regent in the name of the rightful heir, he would rule. “The kingdom would be far better off with him at the head,” Graves said. “He practically rules the
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place anyway,” Kaladin said. “No,” Danlan said. “Dalinar holds himself back. He knows he should take the throne, but hesitates out of love for his dead brother. The other highprinces interpret this as weakness.” “We need the Blackthorn,” Graves said, pounding the table. “This kingdom is going to fall otherwise. The death of Elhokar would spur Dalinar to action. We would get back the man we had twenty years ago, the man who unified the highprinces in the first place.” “Even if that man didn’t fully return,” the mercenary added, “we certainly couldn’t be worse off than we are now.” “So yes,” Graves said to Kaladin. “We’re assassins. Murderers, or would-be ones. We don’t want a coup, and we don’t want to kill innocent guards. We just want the king removed. Quietly. Preferably in an accident.” Danlan grimaced, then took a drink of wine. “Unfortunately, we have not been particularly effective so far.” “And that’s why I wanted to meet with you,” Graves said. “You expect me to help you?” Kaladin asked. Graves raised his hands. “Think about what we’ve said. That is all I ask. Think about the king’s actions, watch him. Ask yourself, ‘How much longer will the kingdom last with this man at its head?’” “The Blackthorn must take the throne,” Danlan said softly. “It will happen eventually. We want to help him along, for his own good. Spare him the difficult decision.” “I could turn you in,” Kaladin said, meeting Graves’s eyes. To the side, the cloaked man—who had been leaning against the wall and listening—shuffled, standing up straighter. “Inviting me here was a risk.” “Moash says you were trained as a surgeon,” Graves said, not looking at all concerned. “Yes.” “And what do you do if the hand is festering, threatening the entire body? Do you wait and hope it gets better, or do you act?” Kaladin didn’t reply. “You control the King’s Guard now, Kaladin,” Graves said. “We will need an opening, a time when no guards will be hurt, to strike. We didn’t want the actual blood of the king on our hands, wanted to make this seem an accident, but I have realized this is cowardly. I will do the deed myself. All I want is an opening, and Alethkar’s suffering will be over.” “It will be better for the king this way,” Danlan said. “He is dying a slow death on that throne, like a drowning man far from land. Best to be done with it quickly.” Kaladin stood up. Moash rose hesitantly. Graves looked at Kaladin. “I will consider,” Kaladin said. “Good, good,” Graves said. “You can get back to us through Moash. Be the surgeon this kingdom needs.” “Come on,” Kaladin said to Moash. “The others will be wondering where we got to.” He walked out, Moash following after making a few hasty farewells. Kaladin, honestly, expected one of them to try to stop him. Didn’t they worry that he’d turn them in, as he’d threatened? They let him go. Back out into the clattering, chattering common room. Storms, he thought.
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I wish their arguments hadn’t been so good. “How did you meet them?” Kaladin asked as Moash jogged up to join him. “Rill, that’s the fellow who was sitting at the table, he was a mercenary on some of the caravans I worked before ending up in the bridge crews. He came to me once we were free of slavery.” Moash took Kaladin by the arm, halting him before they got back to their table. “They’re right. You know they are, Kal. I can see it in you.” “They’re traitors,” Kaladin said. “I want nothing to do with them.” “You said you’d consider!” “I said that,” Kaladin said softly, “so that they’d let me leave. We have a duty, Moash.” “Is it greater than the duty to the country itself?” “You don’t care about the country,” Kaladin snapped. “You just want to pursue your grudge.” “All right, fine. But Kaladin, did you notice? Graves treats all men the same, regardless of eye color. He doesn’t care that we’re darkeyed. He married a darkeyed woman.” “Really?” Kaladin had heard of wealthy darkeyes marrying lowborn lighteyes, but never anyone as high-dahn as a Shardbearer. “Yeah,” Moash said. “One of his sons is even a one-eye. Graves doesn’t give a storm about what other people think of him. He does what is right. And in this case, it’s—” Moash glanced around. They were now surrounded by people. “It’s what he said. Someone has to do it.” “Don’t speak of this to me again,” Kaladin said, pulling his arm free and walking back toward the table. “And don’t meet with them anymore.” He sat back down, Moash slinking into his place, annoyed. Kaladin tried to get himself to rejoin the conversation with Rock and Lopen, but he just couldn’t. All around him, people laughed or shouted. Be the surgeon this kingdom needs. . . . Storms, what a mess. “It doesn’t make sense,” Shallan said. “Pattern, these maps are baffling.” The spren hovered nearby in his three-dimensional form full of twisting lines and angles. Sketching him had proven difficult, as whenever she looked closely at a section of his form, she found that it had so much detail as to defy proper depiction. “Mmm?” Pattern asked in his humming voice. Shallan climbed off her bed and tossed the book onto her white-painted writing desk. She knelt beside Jasnah’s trunk, digging through it before coming out with a map of Roshar. It was ancient, and not terribly accurate; Alethkar was depicted as far too large and the world as a whole was misshapen, with trade routes emphasized. It clearly predated modern methods of survey and cartography. Still, it was important, for it showed the Silver Kingdoms as they had supposedly existed during the time of the Knights Radiant. “Urithiru,” Shallan said, pointing toward a shining city depicted on the map as the center of everything. It wasn’t in Alethkar, or Alethela as it had been known at the time. The map put it in the middle of the mountains near what might have been modern Jah Keved.
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However, Jasnah’s annotations said other maps from the time placed it elsewhere. “How could they not know where their capital was, the center of the orders of knights? Why does every map argue with its fellows?” “Mmmmmm . . .” Pattern said, thoughtful. “Perhaps many had heard of it, but never visited.” “Cartographers as well?” Shallan asked. “And the kings who commissioned these maps? Surely some of them had been to the place. Why on Roshar would it be so difficult to pinpoint?” “They wished to keep its location secret, perhaps?” Shallan stuck the map to the wall using some weevilwax from Jasnah’s supplies. She backed away, folding her arms. She hadn’t dressed for the day yet, and wore her dressing gown, hands uncovered. “If that’s the case,” Shallan said, “they did too good a job of it.” She dug out a few other maps from the time, created by other kingdoms. In each, Shallan noted, the country of origin was presented far larger than it should have been. She stuck these to the wall too. “Each shows Urithiru in a different location,” Shallan said. “Notably close to their own lands, yet not in their lands.” “Different languages on each,” Pattern said. “Mmm . . . There are patterns here.” He started to try sounding them out. Shallan smiled. Jasnah had told her that several of them were thought to have been written in the Dawnchant, a dead language. Scholars had been trying for years to— “Behardan King . . . something I do not understand . . . order, perhaps . . .” Pattern said. “Map? Yes, that would likely be map. So the next is perhaps to draw . . . draw . . . something I do not understand . . .” “You’re reading it?” “It is a pattern.” “You’re reading the Dawnchant.” “Not well.” “You’re reading the Dawnchant!” Shallan exclaimed. She scrambled up to the map beside which Pattern hovered, then rested her fingers on the script at the bottom. “Behardan, you said? Maybe Bajerden . . . Nohadon himself.” “Bajerden? Nohadon? Must people have so many names?” “One is honorific,” Shallan said. “His original name wasn’t considered symmetrical enough. Well, I guess it wasn’t really symmetrical at all, so the ardents gave him a new one centuries ago.” “But . . . the new one isn’t symmetrical either.” “The h sound can be for any letter,” Shallan said absently. “We write it as the symmetrical letter, to make the word balance, but add a diacritical mark to indicate it sounds like an h so the word is easier to say.” “That— One can’t just pretend that a word is symmetrical when it isn’t!” Shallan ignored his sputtering, instead staring at the alien script of what was supposedly the Dawnchant. If we do find Jasnah’s city, Shallan thought, and if it does have records, they might be in this language. “We need to see how much of the Dawnchant you can translate.” “I did not read it,” Pattern said, annoyed. “I postulated a few words. The name I
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could translate because of the sounds of the cities above.” “But those aren’t written in the Dawnchant!” “The scripts are derived from one another,” Pattern said. “Obviously.” “So obvious that no human scholar has ever figured it out.” “You are not as good with patterns,” he said, sounding smug. “You are abstract. You think in lies and tell them to yourselves. That is fascinating, but it is not good for patterns.” You are abstract . . . Shallan rounded the bed and slipped a book from the pile there, one written by the scholar Ali-daughter-Hasweth of Shinovar. The Shin scholars were among the most interesting to read, as their perspectives on the rest of Roshar could be so frank, so different. She found the passage she wanted. Jasnah had highlighted it in her notes, so Shallan had sent out for the full book. Sebarial’s stipend to her—which he was paying—came in very handy. Vathah and Gaz, by her request, had spent the last few days visiting book merchants asking after Words of Radiance, the book Jasnah had given her just before dying. So far no luck, though one merchant had claimed he might be able to order it in from Kholinar. “Urithiru was the connection to all nations,” she read from the Shin writer’s work. “And, at times, our only path to the outside world, with its stones unhallowed.” She looked up at Pattern. “What does that mean to you?” “It means what it says,” Pattern replied, still hovering beside the maps. “That Urithiru was well connected. Roads, perhaps?” “I’ve always read the phrase metaphorically. Connected in purpose, in thought, and scholarship.” “Ah. Lies.” “What if it’s not a metaphor? What if it’s like what you say?” She rose and crossed the room toward the maps, resting her fingers on Urithiru at the center. “Connected . . . but not by roads. Some of these maps don’t have any roads leading to Urithiru at all. They all place it in the mountains, or at least the hills. . . .” “Mmm.” “How do you reach a city if not by roads?” Shallan asked. “Nohadon could walk there, or so he claimed. But others do not speak of riding, or walking, to Urithiru.” True, there were few accounts of people visiting the city. It was a legend. Most modern scholars considered it a myth. She needed more information. She scrambled over to Jasnah’s trunk, digging out one of her notebooks. “She said that Urithiru wasn’t on the Shattered Plains,” Shallan said, “but what if the pathway to it is here? Not an ordinary pathway, though. Urithiru was the city of Surgebinders. Of ancient wonders, like Shardblades.” “Mm . . .” Pattern said softly. “Shardblades are no wonder . . .” Shallan found the reference she was searching for. It wasn’t the quote she found curious, but Jasnah’s annotation of it. Another folktale, this one recorded in Among the Darkeyed, by Calinam. Page 102. Stories of instantaneous travel and the Oathgates pervade these tales. Instantaneous travel. Oathgates. “That’s what she was coming here for,”
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Shallan whispered. “She thought she could find a passageway here, on the Plains. But they’re barren stormlands, just stone, crem, and greatshells.” She looked up at Pattern. “We really need to get out there, onto the Shattered Plains.” Her announcement was accompanied by an ominous chime from the clock. Ominous in that it meant the hour was far later than she’d assumed. Storms! She needed to meet Adolin by noon. She had to leave in a half hour if she was going to meet him on time. Shallan yelped and ran for the washroom. She turned the spigot for water to fill the tub. After a moment of it spitting out dirty cremwater, clean, warm water began to flow, and she put in the stopper. She put her hand underneath it, marveling yet again. Flowing warm water. Sebarial said that artifabrians had visited recently, arranging to set up a fabrial that would keep the water in the cistern above perpetually warm, like the ones in Kharbranth. “I,” she said, shucking off her dressing gown, “am going to allow myself to grow very, very accustomed to this.” She climbed into the tub as Pattern moved along the wall above her. She had decided not to be bashful around him. True, he had a male voice, but he wasn’t really a man. Besides, there were spren everywhere. The tub probably had one in it, as did the walls. She’d seen for herself that everything had a soul, or a spren, or whatever. Did she care if the walls watched her? No. So why should she care about Pattern? She did have to repeat this line of reasoning every time he saw her undress. It would help if he weren’t so blasted curious about everything. “The anatomical differences between genders are so slight,” Pattern said, humming to himself. “Yet so profound. And you augment them. Long hair. Blush on the cheeks. I went and watched Sebarial bathe last night and—” “Please tell me you didn’t,” Shallan said, blushing as she grabbed some pasty soap from the jar beside the iron tub. “But . . . I just told you that I did. . . . Anyway, I wasn’t seen. I would not need to do this if you’d be more accommodating.” “I am not doing nude sketches for you.” She had made the mistake of mentioning that many of the great artists had trained themselves this way. After much pleading back home, she’d gotten several of the maids to pose for her, so long as she promised to destroy the sketches. Which she had. She’d never sketched men that way. Storms, that would be embarrassing! She didn’t let herself linger in the bath. A quarter hour later—by the clock—she stood dressed and combing her damp hair before the mirror. How would she ever go back to Jah Keved and a placid, rural life again? The answer was simple. She probably would never return. Once, that thought would have horrified her. Now it thrilled her—though she was determined to bring her brothers to the Shattered Plains.
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They would be far safer here than at her father’s estates, and what would they be leaving behind? Barely anything at all. She’d begun to think it was a far better solution than anything else, and let them dodge the issue of the missing Soulcaster, to an extent. She’d gone to one of the information stations connected to Tashikk—there was one in every warcamp—and paid to have a letter, along with a spanreed, sent by messenger from Valath to her brothers. It would take weeks to arrive, unfortunately. If it even did. The merchant she’d talked to at the information station had warned her that moving through Jah Keved was difficult these days, with the succession war. To be careful, she’d sent a second letter from Northgrip, which was as far from the battlefields as one could get. Hopefully at least one of the two would arrive safely. When she established contact again, she’d make a single argument to her brothers. Abandon the Davar estates. Take the money Jasnah had sent and flee to the Shattered Plains. For now, she’d done what she could. She rushed through the room, hopping on one foot as she pulled on a slipper, and passed the maps. I’ll deal with you later. It was time to go woo her betrothed. Somehow. The novels she’d read made it seem easy. A batting of eyelashes, blushes at appropriate times. Well, she had that last one down in good measure. Except maybe the appropriate part. She buttoned up the sleeve over her safehand, then paused at the door as she looked back and saw her sketchbook and pencil lying on the table. She didn’t want to leave without those ever again. She tucked both in her satchel and rushed out. On the way through the white-marbled house, she passed Palona and Sebarial in a room with enormous glass windows, facing leeward over the gardens. Palona lay facedown, getting a massage—completely bare-backed—while Sebarial reclined and ate sweets. A young woman stood at a lectern in the corner, reciting poetry to them. Shallan had a difficult time judging those two. Sebarial. Was he a clever civil planner or an indolent glutton? Both? Palona certainly did like the luxuries of wealth, but she didn’t seem the least bit arrogant. Shallan had spent the last three days poring over Sebarial’s house ledgers, and had found them an absolute mess. He seemed so smart in some areas. How could he have let his ledgers get so overgrown? Shallan wasn’t especially good with numbers, not compared to her art, but she did enjoy math on occasion and was determined to tackle those ledgers. Gaz and Vathah waited for her outside the doors. They followed her toward Sebarial’s coach, which waited for her to use, along with one of her slaves to act as footman. En said he’d done the job before, and he smiled at her as she stepped up. That was good to see. She couldn’t remember any of the five smiling on their trip out, even when she’d released them from the cage.
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“You are being treated well, En?” she asked as he opened the coach door for her. “Yes, mistress.” “You’d tell me if you weren’t?” “Er, yes, mistress.” “And you, Vathah?” she asked, turning to him. “How are you finding your accommodations?” He grunted. “I assume that means they’re accommodating?” she asked. Gaz chuckled. The short man had an ear for wordplay. “You’ve kept your bargain,” Vathah said. “I’ll give you that. The men are happy.” “And you?” “Bored. All we do every day is sit around, collect what you pay us, and go drinking.” “Most men would consider that an ideal profession.” She smiled at En, then climbed into the coach. Vathah shut the door for her, then looked in the window. “Most men are idiots.” “Nonsense,” Shallan said, smiling. “By the law of averages, only half of them are.” He grunted. She was learning to interpret those, which was essential to speaking Vathahese. This one roughly meant, “I’m not going to acknowledge that joke because it would spoil my reputation as a complete and utter dunnard.” “I suppose,” he said, “we have to ride up top.” “Thank you for offering,” Shallan said, then pulled down the window shade. Outside, Gaz chuckled again. The two climbed into the guard positions on the top back of the carriage, and En joined the coachman up front. It was a true proper coach, pulled by horses and everything. Shallan had originally felt bad about asking to use it, but Palona had laughed. “Take the thing whenever you want! I have my own, and if Turi’s coach is gone, he’ll have an excuse to not go when people ask him to visit. He loves that.” Shallan closed the other window shade as the coachman started the vehicle rolling, then got out her sketchbook. Pattern waited on the first blank white page. “We are going to find out,” Shallan whispered, “just what we can do.” “Exciting!” Pattern said. She got out her pouch of spheres and breathed in some of the Stormlight. Then, she puffed it out in front of her, trying to shape it, meld it. Nothing. Next, she tried holding a very specific image in her head—herself, with one small change: black hair instead of red. She puffed out the Stormlight, and this time it shifted around her and hung for a moment. Then it too vanished. “This is silly,” Shallan said softly, Stormlight trailing from her lips. She did a quick sketch of herself with dark hair. “What does it matter if I draw it first or not? The pencils don’t even show color.” “It shouldn’t matter,” Pattern said. “But it matters to you. I do not know why.” She finished the sketch. It was very simple—it didn’t show her features, only really her hair, everything else indistinct. Yet when she used Stormlight this time, the image took and her hair darkened to black. Shallan sighed, Stormlight leaking from her lips. “So, how do I make the illusion vanish?” “Stop feeding it.” “How?” “I am supposed to know this?” Pattern asked. “You are the
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expert on feeding.” Shallan gathered all of her spheres—several were now dun—and set them on the seat across from her, out of reach. That wasn’t far enough, for as her Stormlight ran out, she breathed in using instincts she hadn’t realized she had. Light streamed from across the carriage and into her. “I’m quite good at that,” Shallan said sourly, “considering how short a time I’ve been doing it.” “Short time?” Pattern said. “But we first . . .” She stopped listening until he was done. “I really need to find another copy of Words of Radiance,” Shallan said, starting another sketch. “Maybe it talks about how to dismiss the illusions.” She continued to work on her next sketch, a picture of Sebarial. She’d taken a Memory of him while dining the night before, just after returning from a session scouting Amaram’s compound. She wanted to get the details of this sketch right for her collection, so it took some time. Fortunately, the level roadway meant no big bumps. It wasn’t ideal, but she seemed to have less and less time these days, with her research, her work for Sebarial, infiltrating the Ghostbloods, and meetings with Adolin Kholin. She’d had so much more time when she was younger. She couldn’t help thinking she’d wasted much of it. She let the work consume her. The familiar sound of pencil on paper, the focus of creation. Beauty was out there, all around. To create art was not to capture it, but to participate in it. When she finished, a glance out the window showed them approaching the Pinnacle. She held up the sketch, studying it, then nodded to herself. Satisfactory. Next she tried using Stormlight to create an image. She breathed out a lot of it, and it formed immediately, snapping into an image of Sebarial sitting across from her in the carriage. He held the same position as he did in her sketch, hands out to slice food that was not included in her image. Shallan smiled. The detail was perfect. Folds in skin, individual hairs. She hadn’t drawn those—no sketch could capture all the hairs on a head, all the pores in skin. Her image had these things, so it didn’t create exactly what she drew, but the drawing was a focus. A model that the image built from. “Mmm,” Pattern said, sounding satisfied. “One of your most truthful lies. Wonderful.” “He doesn’t move,” Shallan said. “Nobody would mistake this for something living, never mind the unnatural pose. The eyes are lifeless; the chest doesn’t rise and fall with breath. The muscles don’t shift. It’s detailed—but like a statue can be detailed yet still dead.” “A statue of light.” “I didn’t say it isn’t impressive,” Shallan said. “But the images will be much harder to use unless I can give them life.” How strange that she should feel that her sketches were alive, but this thing—which was so much more realistic—was dead. She reached out to wave her hand through the image. If she touched it slowly, the disturbance was minor. Waving
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her hand disturbed it like smoke. She noticed something else. While her hand was in the image . . . Yes. She sucked in a breath and the image dissolved to glowing smoke, drawn into her skin. She could reclaim Stormlight from the illusion. One question answered, she thought, settling back and making notes about the experience in the back of the notebook. She began packing up her satchel as the carriage arrived at the Outer Market, where Adolin would be waiting for her. They’d gone on their promised walk the day before, and she felt things were going well. But she also knew she needed to impress him. Her efforts with Highlady Navani had not been fruitful so far, and she really did need an alliance with the Kholin house. That made her consider. Her hair had dried, but she tended to keep it long and straight down her back, with only its natural curl to give it body. The Alethi women favored intricate braids instead. Her skin was pale and dusted lightly with freckles, and her body was nowhere near curvaceous enough to inspire envy. She could change all of this with an illusion. An augmentation. Since Adolin had seen her without, she couldn’t change anything dramatic—but she could enhance herself. It would be like wearing makeup. She hesitated. If Adolin came to agree to the marriage, would it be because of her, or the lies? Foolish girl, Shallan thought. You were willing to change your appearance to get Vathah to follow you and to gain a place with Sebarial, but not now? But capturing Adolin’s attention with illusions would lead her down a difficult path. She couldn’t wear an illusion always, could she? In married life? Better to see what she could do without one, she thought as she climbed out of the carriage. She’d have to rely, instead, upon her feminine wiles. She wished she knew if she had any. THREE YEARS AGO “These are really good, Shallan,” Balat said, leafing through pages of her sketches. The two of them sat in the gardens, accompanied by Wikim, who sat on the ground tossing a cloth-wrapped ball for his axehound Sakisa to catch. “My anatomy is off,” Shallan said with a blush. “I can’t get the proportions right.” She needed models to pose for her so she could work on that. “You’re better than Mother ever was,” Balat said, flipping to another page, where she had sketched Balat on the sparring grounds with his swordsmanship tutor. He tipped it toward Wikim, who raised an eyebrow. Her middle brother was looking better and better these last four months. Less scrawny, more solid. He almost constantly had mathematical problems with him. Father had once railed at him for that, claiming it was feminine and unseemly—but, in a rare show of dissension, Father’s ardents had approached him and told him to calm himself, and that the Almighty approved of Wikim’s interest. They hoped Wikim might find his way into their ranks. “I heard that you got another letter from Eylita,” Shallan said,
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trying to distract Balat from the sketchbook. She couldn’t keep herself from blushing as he turned page after page. Those weren’t meant for others to look at. They weren’t any good. “Yeah,” he said, grinning. “You going to have Shallan read it to you?” Wikim asked, throwing the ball. Balat coughed. “I had Malise do it. Shallan was busy.” “You’re embarrassed!” Wikim said, pointing. “What is in those letters?” “Things my fourteen-year-old sister doesn’t need to know about!” Balat said. “That racy, eh?” Wikim asked. “I wouldn’t have figured that for the Tavinar girl. She seems too proper.” “No!” Balat blushed further. “They aren’t racy; they are merely private.” “Private like your—” “Wikim,” Shallan cut in. He looked up, and then noticed that angerspren were pooling underneath Balat’s feet. “Storms, Balat. You are getting so touchy about that girl.” “Love makes us all fools,” Shallan said, distracting the two. “Love?” Balat asked, glancing at her. “Shallan, you’re barely old enough to pin up your safehand. What do you know about love?” She blushed. “I . . . never mind.” “Oh, look at that,” Wikim said. “She’s thought up something clever. You’re going to have to say it now, Shallan.” “No use keeping something like that inside,” Balat agreed. “Ministara says I speak my mind too much. That it’s not a feminine attribute.” Wikim laughed. “That hasn’t seemed to stop any women I’ve known.” “Yeah, Shallan,” Balat said. “If you can’t say the things you think of to us, then who can you say them to?” “Trees,” she said, “rocks, shrubs. Basically anything that can’t get me in trouble with my tutors.” “You don’t have to worry about Balat, then,” Wikim said. “He couldn’t manage something clever even in repetition.” “Hey!” Balat said. Though, unfortunately, it wasn’t far from the truth. “Love,” Shallan said, though partially just to distract them, “is like a pile of chull dung.” “Smelly?” Balat asked. “No,” Shallan said, “for even as we try to avoid both, we end up stepping in them anyway.” “Deep words for a girl who hit her teens precisely fifteen months ago,” Wikim said with a chuckle. “Love is like the sun,” Balat said, sighing. “Blinding?” Shallan asked. “White, warm, powerful—but also capable of burning you?” “Perhaps,” Balat said, nodding. “Love is like a Herdazian surgeon,” Wikim said, looking at her. “And how is that?” Shallan asked. “You tell me,” Wikim said. “I’m seeing what you can make of it.” “Um . . . Both leave you uncomfortable?” Shallan said. “No. Ooh! The only reason you’d want one was if you’d taken a sharp blow to the head!” “Ha! Love is like spoiled food.” “Necessary for life on one hand,” Shallan said, “but also expressly nauseating.” “Father’s snoring.” She shuddered. “You have to experience it to believe just how distracting it can be.” Wikim chuckled. Storms, but it was good to see him doing that. “Stop it, you two,” Balat said. “That kind of talk is disrespectful. Love . . . love is like a classical melody.” Shallan grinned. “If you end your performance
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too quickly, your audience is disappointed?” “Shallan!” Balat said. Wikim, however, was rolling on the ground. After a moment, Balat shook his head, and gave an agreeable chuckle. For her own part, Shallan was blushing. Did I really just say that? That last one had actually been somewhat witty, far better than the others. It had also been improper. She got a guilty thrill from it. Balat looked embarrassed, and he blushed at the double meaning, collecting shamespren. Sturdy Balat. He wanted so much to lead them. So far as she knew, he’d given up his habit of killing cremlings for fun. Being in love strengthened him, changed him. The sound of wheels on stone announced a carriage arriving at the house. No hoofbeats—father owned horses, but few other people in the area did. Their carriages were pulled by chulls or parshmen. Balat rose to go see who had come, and Sakisa followed after, trumping in excitement. Shallan picked up her sketchpad. Father had recently forbidden her from drawing the manor’s parshmen or darkeyes—he found it unseemly. That made it hard for her to find practice figures. “Shallan?” She started, realizing that Wikim hadn’t followed Balat. “Yes.” “I was wrong,” Wikim said, handing her something. A small pouch. “About what you’re doing. I see through it. And . . . and still it’s working. Damnation, but it’s working. Thank you.” She moved to open the pouch he’d given her. “Don’t,” he said. “What is it?” “Blackbane,” Wikim said. “A plant, the leaves at least. If you eat them, they paralyze you. Your breathing stops too.” Disturbed, she pulled the top tight. She didn’t even want to know how Wikim could recognize a deadly plant like this. “I’ve carried those for the better part of a year,” Wikim said softly. “The longer you have them, the more potent the leaves are supposed to become. I don’t feel like I need them any longer. You can burn them, or whatever. I just thought you should have them.” She smiled, though she felt unsettled. Wikim had been carrying this poison around? He felt he needed to give it to her? He jogged after Balat, and Shallan stuffed the pouch in her satchel. She’d find a way to destroy it later. She picked up her pencils and went back to drawing. Shouting from inside the manor distracted her a short time later. She looked up, uncertain even how much time had passed. She rose, satchel clutched to her chest, and crossed the yard. Vines shook and withdrew before her, though as her pace sped up, she stepped on more and more of them, feeling them writhe beneath her feet and try to yank back. Cultivated vines had poor instincts. She reached the house to more shouting. “Father!” Asha Jushu’s voice. “Father, please!” Shallan pushed open the slatted wood doors, silk dress rustling against the floor as she stepped in and found three men in old-style clothing—skirtlike ulatu to their knees, bright loose shirts, flimsy coats that draped to the ground—standing before Father. Jushu knelt on the
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floor, hands bound behind his back. Over the years, Jushu had grown plump from his periods of excess. “Bah,” Father said. “I will not suffer this extortion.” “His credit is your credit, Brightlord,” one of the men said in a calm, smooth voice. He was darkeyed, though he didn’t sound it. “He promised us you would pay his debts.” “He lied,” Father said, Ekel and Jix—house guards—at his sides, hands on weapons. “Father,” Jushu whispered through his tears. “They’ll take me—” “You were supposed to be riding our outer holdings!” Father bellowed. “You were supposed to be checking on our lands, not dining with thieves and gambling away our wealth and our good name!” Jushu hung his head, sagging in his bonds. “He’s yours,” Father said, turning and storming from the chamber. Shallan gasped as one of the men sighed, then gestured toward Jushu. The other two grabbed him. They didn’t seem pleased to be leaving without payment. Jushu trembled as they towed him away, past Balat and Wikim, who watched nearby. Outside, Jushu cried for mercy and begged the men to let him speak to Father again. “Balat,” Shallan said, walking to him, taking his arm. “Do something!” “We all knew where the gambling would take him,” Balat said. “We told him, Shallan. He wouldn’t listen.” “He’s still our brother!” “What do you expect me to do? Where would I get spheres enough to pay his debt?” Jushu’s weeping grew softer as the men left the manor. Shallan turned and dashed after her father, passing Jix scratching his head. Father had gone into his study two rooms over; she hesitated in the doorway, looking in at her father slumped in his chair beside the hearth. She stepped in, passing the desk where his ardents—and sometimes his wife—tallied his ledgers and read him reports. Nobody stood there now, but the ledgers were open, displaying a brutal truth. She raised a hand to her mouth, noticing several letters of debt. She’d helped with minor accounts, but never seen so much of the full picture, and was stunned by what she saw. How could the family owe that much money? “I’m not going to change my mind, Shallan,” Father said. “Leave. Jushu prepared this pyre himself.” “But—” “Leave me!” Father roared, standing. Shallan cringed back, eyes widening, heart nearly stopping. Fearspren wriggled up around her. He never yelled at her. Never. Father took a deep breath, then turned to the room’s window. His back to her, he continued, “I can’t afford the spheres.” “Why?” Shallan asked. “Father, is this because of the deal with Brightlord Revilar?” She looked at the ledgers. “No, it’s bigger than that.” “I will finally make something of myself,” Father said, “and of this house. I will stop them from whispering about us; I will end the questioning. House Davar will become a force in this princedom.” “By bribing favor from supposed allies?” Shallan asked. “Using money we don’t have?” He looked at her, face shadowed but eyes reflecting light, like twin embers in the dark of his skull. In
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that moment, Shallan felt a terrifying hatred from her father. He strode over, grabbing her by the arms. Her satchel dropped to the floor. “I’ve done this for you,” he growled, holding her arms in a tight, painful grip. “And you will obey. I’ve gone wrong, somewhere, in letting you learn to question me.” She whimpered at the pain. “There will be changes in this house,” Father said. “No more weakness. I’ve found a way . . .” “Please, stop.” He looked down at her and seemed to see the tears in her eyes for the first time. “Father . . .” she whispered. He looked upward. Toward his rooms. She knew he was looking toward Mother’s soul. He dropped her then, causing her to tumble to the floor, red hair covering her face. “You are confined to your rooms,” he snapped. “Go, and do not leave until I give you permission.” Shallan scrambled to her feet, snatching her satchel, then left the room. In the hallway, she pressed her back against the wall, panting raggedly, tears dripping from her chin. Things had been going better . . . her father had been better . . . She squeezed her eyes shut. Emotion stormed inside of her, twisting about. She couldn’t control it. Jushu. Father actually looked like he wanted to hurt me, Shallan thought, shivering. He’s changed so much. She started to sink down toward the floor, arms wrapped around herself. Jushu. Keep cutting at those thorns, strong one . . . Make a path for the light . . . Shallan forced herself to her feet. She ran, still crying, back into the feast hall. Balat and Wikim had taken seats, Minara quietly serving them drinks. The guards had left, perhaps to their post at the manor grounds. When Balat saw Shallan, he stood, eyes widening. He rushed to her, knocking over his cup in his haste, spilling wine to the floor. “Did he hurt you?” Balat asked. “Damnation! I’ll kill him! I’ll go to the highprince and—” “He didn’t hurt me,” Shallan said. “Please. Balat, your knife. The one Father gave you.” He looked to his belt. “What of it?” “It’s worth good money. I’m going to try to trade it for Jushu.” Balat lowered his hand protectively to the knife. “Jushu built his pyre himself, Shallan.” “That’s exactly what Father said to me,” Shallan replied, wiping her eyes, then meeting those of her brother. “I . . .” Balat looked over his shoulder in the direction Jushu had been taken. He sighed, then unhooked the sheath from his belt and handed it to her. “It won’t be enough. They say he owes almost a hundred emerald broams.” “I have my necklace too,” Shallan said. Wikim, silently drinking his wine, reached to his belt and took off his knife. He set it at the edge of the table. Shallan scooped it up as she passed, then ran from the room. Could she catch the men in time? Outside, she spotted the carriage only a short way down the road.
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She hurried as best she could on slippered feet down the cobbled drive and out the gates onto the road. She wasn’t fast, but neither were chulls. As she drew closer, she saw that Jushu had been tied to walk behind the carriage. He didn’t look up as Shallan passed him. The carriage stopped, and Jushu dropped to the ground and curled up. The darkeyed man with the haughty air pushed open his door to look at Shallan. “He sent the child?” “I came on my own,” she said, holding up the daggers. “Please, they are very fine work.” The man raised an eyebrow, then gestured for one of his companions to step down and fetch them. Shallan unhooked her necklace and dropped it into the man’s hands with the two knives. The man took out one of the knives, inspecting it as Shallan waited, apprehensive, shifting from foot to foot. “You’ve been weeping,” said the man in the carriage. “You care for him that much?” “He is my brother.” “So?” the man asked. “I killed my brother when he tried to cheat me. You shouldn’t let relations cloud your eyes.” “I love him,” Shallan whispered. The man looking over the daggers slid them both back in their sheaths. “They are masterworks,” he admitted. “I’d value them at twenty emerald broams.” “The necklace?” Shallan asked. “Simple, but of aluminum, which can only be made by Soulcasting,” the man said to his boss. “Ten emerald.” “Together half what your brother owes,” said the man in the carriage. Shallan’s heart sank. “But . . . what would you do with him? Selling him as a slave cannot redeem so great a debt.” “I’m often in the mood to remind myself that lighteyes bleed the same as darkeyes,” the man said. “And sometimes it is useful to have a deterrent for others, a way to remind them not to take loans they cannot repay. He may save me more than he cost, if I display him prudently.” Shallan felt small. She clasped her hands, one covered, one not. Had she lost, then? The women from Father’s books, the women she was coming to admire, would not have made pleas to win this man’s heart. They would have tried logic. She wasn’t good at that. She didn’t have the training for it, and she certainly didn’t currently have the temperament. But as the tears began again, she forced out the first thing that came to mind. “He may save you money that way,” Shallan said. “But he may not. It is a gamble, and you do not strike me as the kind of man who gambles.” The man laughed. “What makes you say that? Gambling is what brought me here!” “No,” she said, blushing at her tears. “You are the type of man who profits from the gambling of others. You know that it usually leads to loss. I give you items of real value. Take them. Please?” The man considered. He held out his hands for the daggers, and his man passed them over. He
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unsheathed one of the daggers and inspected it. “Name for me one reason I should show this man pity. In my house, he was an arrogant glutton, acting without thought for the difficulty he would cause you, his family.” “Our mother was murdered,” Shallan said. “That night, as I cried, Jushu held me.” It was all she had. The man considered. Shallan felt her heart pounding. Finally, he tossed the necklace back to her. “Keep that.” He nodded to his man. “Cut the little cremling free. Child, if you are wise, you will teach your brother to be more . . . conservative.” He pulled the door closed. Shallan stepped back as the servant cut Jushu free. The man then climbed onto the back of the vehicle and knocked. It pulled away. Shallan knelt beside Jushu. He blinked one eye—the other was bruised and beginning to swell shut—as she untied his bloodied hands. It had not been a quarter hour since Father had declared that the men could have him, but they had obviously taken that time to show Jushu what they thought of not being paid. “Shallan?” he asked, lips bloodied. “What happened?” “You weren’t listening?” “My ears ring,” he said. “Everything is spinning. I . . . am I free?” “Balat and Wikim traded their knives for you.” “Mill took so little in trade?” “Obviously, he did not know your true worth.” Jushu smiled a toothy smile. “Always quick with your tongue, aren’t you?” He climbed to his feet with Shallan’s help and began to limp back toward the house. Halfway there, Balat joined them, taking Jushu under his arm. “Thank you,” Jushu whispered. “She says you saved me. Thank you, Brother.” He started weeping. “I . . .” Balat looked to Shallan, then back to Jushu. “You’re my brother. Let’s get you back and cleaned up.” Content that Jushu would be cared for, Shallan left them and entered the manor house. She climbed the stairs, passed Father’s glowing room, and entered her chambers. She sat down on the bed. There, she waited for the highstorm. Shouts rose from below. Shallan squeezed her eyes shut. Finally, the door to her rooms opened. She opened her eyes. Father stood outside. Shallan could make out a crumpled form beyond him, lying on the floor of the hallway. Minara, the serving maid. Her body didn’t lie right, one arm bent at the wrong angle. Her figure stirred, whimpering, leaving blood on the wall as she tried to crawl away. Father entered Shallan’s room and shut the door behind him. “You know I would never hurt you, Shallan,” he said softly. She nodded, tears leaking from her eyes. “I’ve found a way to control myself,” her father said. “I just have to let the anger out. I can’t blame myself for that anger. Others create it when they disobey me.” Her objection—that he hadn’t told her to go immediately to her room, only that she shouldn’t leave it once she was there—died on her lips. A foolish excuse. They both knew she’d intentionally disobeyed.
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“I would not want to have to punish anyone else because of you, Shallan,” Father said. This cold monster, was this really her father? “It is time.” Father nodded. “No more indulgences. If we are to be important in Jah Keved, we cannot be seen as weak. Do you understand?” She nodded, unable to stop the tears. “Good,” he said, resting his hand on her head, then running his fingers through her hair. “Thank you.” He left her, shutting the door. After leaving her carriage at a stable in the Outer Market, Shallan was led to a stairwell carved into the stone of a hillside. She climbed this, then stepped hesitantly out onto a terrace that had been cut from the side of the hill here. Lighteyes wearing stylish clothing chatted over cups of wine at the patio’s numerous ironwork tables. They were high enough here to look out over the warcamps. The perspective was eastward, toward the Origin. What an unnatural arrangement; it made her feel exposed. Shallan was accustomed to balconies, gardens, and patios all facing away from the storms. True, nobody was likely to be out here when a highstorm was expected, but it just felt off to her. A master-servant in black and white arrived and bowed, calling her Brightness Davar without need of an introduction. She’d have to get used to that; in Alethkar she was a novelty, and an easily recognizable one. She let the servant lead her among the tables, sending her guards for the day off toward a larger room cut farther into the stone to the right. This one had a proper roof and walls, so it could be completely closed off, and a group of other guards waited here upon the whims of their masters. Shallan drew the eyes of the other patrons. Well, good. She had come here to upset their world. The more people spoke of her, the better her chances of persuading them, when the time came, to listen to her regarding the parshmen. Those were everywhere in camp, even here in this luxurious winehouse. She spotted three in the corner, moving wine bottles from wall-mounted racks to crates. They moved at a plodding yet implacable pace. A few more steps brought her to the marble balustrade right at the edge of the terrace. Here Adolin had a table set off by itself with an unobstructed view directly east. Two members of Dalinar’s house guard stood by the wall a short distance away; Adolin was important enough, apparently, that his guards didn’t need to wait with the others. Adolin browsed a folio, oversized by design so it wouldn’t be mistaken for a woman’s book. Shallan had seen some folios containing battle maps, others with designs for armor or pictures of architecture. She was amused as she caught sight of the glyphs for this one, with women’s script underneath for further clarification. Fashions out of Liafor and Azir. Adolin looked as handsome as he had before. Maybe more so, now that he was obviously more relaxed. She would not let
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him muddle her mind. She had a purpose to this meeting: an alliance with House Kholin to help her brothers and give her resources for exposing the Voidbringers and discovering Urithiru. She couldn’t afford to come off as weak. She had to control the situation, could not act like a sycophant, and she couldn’t— Adolin saw her and closed the portfolio. He stood up, grinning. —oh, storms. That smile. “Brightness Shallan,” he said, holding out a hand toward her. “You are settling well in Sebarial’s camp?” “Yeah,” she said, grinning at him. That mop of unruly hair just made her want to reach out and run her fingers through it. Our children would have the strangest hair ever, she thought. His gold and black Alethi locks, my red ones, and . . . And was she really thinking about their children? Already? Foolish girl. “Yes,” she continued, trying to de-melt a little. “He has been quite kind to me.” “It’s probably because you’re family,” Adolin said, letting her sit, then pushing in her chair. He did it himself, rather than allowing the master-servant to do so. She would not have expected that of someone so highborn. “Sebarial only does what he feels he’s forced to.” “I think he may surprise you,” Shallan said. “Oh, he’s already done that on several occasions.” “Really? When?” “Well,” Adolin said, sitting, “he once produced a very, um, loud and inappropriate noise at a meeting with the king. . . .” Adolin smiled, shrugging as if embarrassed, but he didn’t blush as Shallan might have in a similar situation. “Does that count?” “I’m not sure. Knowing what I do of Uncle Sebarial, I doubt that such a thing is particularly surprising from him. Expected is more like it.” Adolin laughed, tossing his head back. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. That you are.” He seemed so confident. Not in a particularly conceited way, not like her father had been. In fact, it occurred to her that her father’s attitude had been caused not by confidence, but the opposite. Adolin seemed perfectly at ease both with his station and those around him. When he waved for the master-servant to bring him a list of wines, he smiled at the woman, though she was darkeyed. That smile was enough to produce a blush even in a master-servant. Shallan was supposed to get this man to court her? Storms! She’d felt far more capable when trying to scam the leader of the Ghostbloods. Act refined, Shallan told herself. Adolin has moved with the elite, and has been in relationships with the most sophisticated ladies of the world. He will expect that from you. “So,” he said, flipping through the list of wines, described by glyphs, “we are supposed to get married.” “I would lighten that phrasing, Brightlord,” Shallan said, choosing her words carefully. “We aren’t supposed to get married. Your cousin Jasnah merely wanted us to consider a union, and your aunt seemed to agree.” “The Almighty save a man when his female relatives collude about his future,” Adolin said with
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a sigh. “Sure, it’s all right for Jasnah to run about into her middle years without a spouse, but if I reach my twenty-third birthday without a bride, it’s like I’m some kind of menace. Sexist of her, don’t you think?” “Well, she wanted me to get married too,” Shallan said. “So I wouldn’t call her sexist. Merely . . . Jasnah-ist?” She paused. “Jasnagynistic? No, drat. It would have to be Misjasnahistic, and that doesn’t work nearly as well, does it?” “You’re asking me?” Adolin asked, turning around the menu so she could see it. “What do you think we should order?” “Storms,” she breathed. “Those are all different kinds of wine?” “Yeah,” Adolin said. He leaned toward her, as if conspiratorial. “Honestly, I don’t pay a lot of attention. Renarin knows the difference between them—he’ll drone on if you let him. Me, I order something that sounds important, but I’m really just choosing based on color.” He grimaced. “We’re technically at war. I won’t be able to take anything too intoxicating, just in case. Kind of silly, as there won’t be any plateau runs today.” “You’re sure? I thought they were random.” “Yeah, but my warcamp isn’t up. They almost never come too close before a highstorm, anyway.” He leaned back, scanning the menu, before pointing at one of the wines and winking at the serving woman. Shallan felt cold. “Wait. Highstorm?” “Yeah,” Adolin said, checking the clock in the corner. Sebarial had mentioned that those were growing more and more common around here. “Should come any time now. You didn’t know?” She sputtered, looking eastward, across the cracked landscape. Act poised! she thought. Elegant! Instead, a primal part of her wanted to scramble for a hole and hide. Suddenly she imagined she could sense the pressure dropping, as if the air itself were trying to escape. Could she see it out there, starting? No, that was nothing. She squinted anyway. “I didn’t look at the list of storms Sebarial keeps,” Shallan forced herself to say. In all honesty, it was probably outdated, knowing him. “I’ve been busy.” “Huh,” Adolin said. “I wondered why you didn’t ask about this place. I just assumed you’d heard of it already.” This place. The open balcony, facing east. The lighteyes drinking wine now seemed anticipatory to her, with an air of nervousness. The second room—the large one for bodyguards she’d seen with the substantial doors—made far more sense now. “We’re here to watch?” Shallan whispered. “It’s the new fad,” Adolin said. “Apparently we’re supposed to sit here until the storm is almost upon us, then run into that other room and take shelter. I’ve wanted to come for weeks now, and only just managed to convince my minders that I’d be safe here.” He said that last part somewhat bitterly. “We can go move into the safe room now, if you want.” “No,” Shallan said, forcing herself to pry her fingers from the table edge. “I’m fine.” “You look pale.” “It’s natural.” “Because you’re Veden?” “Because I’m always at the edge of panic
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these days. Oh, is that our wine?” Poised, she reminded herself yet again. She pointedly did not look eastward. The servant had brought them two cups of brilliant blue wine. Adolin picked his up and studied it. He smelled it, sipped it, then nodded in satisfaction and dismissed the servant with a parting smile. He watched the woman’s backside as she retreated. Shallan raised an eyebrow at him, but he didn’t seem to notice that he’d done anything wrong. He looked back at Shallan and leaned in again. “I know you’re supposed to swish the wine about and taste it and things,” he whispered, “but nobody has ever explained to me what I’m looking for.” “Bugs floating in the liquid, perhaps?” “Nah, my new food taster would have spotted one of those.” He smiled, but Shallan realized he probably wasn’t joking. A thin man who didn’t wear a uniform had walked over to chat with the bodyguards. Probably the food taster. Shallan sipped her wine. It was good—slightly sweet, a tad spicy. Not that she could spare much thought for its taste, with that storm— Stop it, she told herself, smiling at Adolin. She needed to make sure this meeting went well for him. Get him to talk about himself. That was one piece of advice she remembered from books. “Plateau runs,” Shallan said. “How do you know when to begin one, anyway?” “Hmm? Oh, we have spotters,” Adolin said, lounging back in his chair. “Men who stand atop towers with these enormous spyglasses. They inspect every plateau we can reach in a reasonable time, watching for a chrysalis.” “I hear you’ve captured your share of those.” “Well, I probably shouldn’t talk about it. Father doesn’t want it to be a competition anymore.” He looked at her, expectant. “But surely you can talk about what happened before,” Shallan said, feeling as if she were filling an expected role. “I suppose,” Adolin said. “There was one run a few months back where I seized the chrysalis basically by myself. You see, Father and I, we would usually jump the chasm first and clear the way for the bridges.” “Isn’t that dangerous?” Shallan asked, dutifully looking at him with widened eyes. “Yes, but we’re Shardbearers. We have strength and power granted by the Almighty. It’s a great responsibility, and it’s our duty to use it for the protection of our men. We save hundreds of lives by going across first. Lets us lead the army, firsthand.” He paused. “So brave,” Shallan said, in what she hoped was a breathy, adoring voice. “Well, it’s the right thing to do. But it is dangerous. That day, I leaped across, but my father and I got pushed too far apart by the Parshendi. He was forced to jump back across, and a blow to his leg meant that when he landed, his greave—that’s a piece of armor on the leg—cracked. That made it dangerous for him to jump back again. I was left alone while he waited for the bridge to lock down.” He paused again. She
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was probably supposed to ask what happened next. “What if you need to poop?” she asked instead. “Well, I put my back to the chasm and laid about me with my sword, intending to . . . Wait. What did you say?” “Poop,” Shallan said. “You’re out there on the battlefield, encased in metal like a crab in its shell. What do you do if nature calls?” “I . . . er . . .” Adolin frowned at her. “That is not something any woman has ever asked me before.” “Yay for originality!” Shallan said, though she blushed as she said it. Jasnah would have been displeased. Couldn’t Shallan mind her tongue for a single conversation? She’d gotten him talking about something he liked; everything had been going well. Now this. “Well,” Adolin said slowly, “every battle has breaks in the flow, and men rotate in and out of the front lines. For every five minutes you’re fighting, you often have almost as many resting. When a Shardbearer pulls back, men inspect his armor for cracks, give him something to drink or eat, and help him with . . . what you just mentioned. It’s not something that makes a good topic of conversation, Brightness. We don’t really talk about it.” “That’s precisely what makes it a good topic of conversation,” she said. “I can find out about wars and Shardbearers and glorious killing in the official accounts. The grimy details, though—nobody writes those down.” “Well, it does get grimy,” Adolin said with a grimace, taking a drink. “You can’t really . . . I can’t believe I’m saying this . . . you can’t really wipe yourself in Shardplate, so someone has to do it for you. Makes me feel like an infant. Then, sometimes, you just don’t have time . . .” “And?” He inspected her, narrowing his eyes. “What?” she asked. “Just trying to determine if you’re secretly Wit wearing a wig. This is something he would do to me.” “I’m not doing anything to you,” she said. “I’m just curious.” And honestly, she was. She’d thought about this. Perhaps more than it deserved consideration. “Well,” Adolin said, “if you must know, an old adage on the battlefield teaches that it’s better to be embarrassed than dead. You can’t let anything draw your attention from fighting.” “So . . .” “So yes, I, Adolin Kholin—cousin to the king, heir to the Kholin princedom—have shat myself in my Shardplate. Three times, all on purpose.” He downed the rest of his wine. “You are a very strange woman.” “If I must remind you,” Shallan said, “you are the one who opened our conversation today with a joke about Sebarial’s flatulence.” “I guess I did at that.” He grinned. “This is not exactly going the way it’s supposed to, is it?” “Is that a bad thing?” “No,” Adolin said, then his grin widened. “Actually, it’s kind of refreshing. Do you know how many times I’ve told that story about saving the plateau run?” “I’m sure you were quite brave.” “Quite.” “Though probably
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not as brave as the poor men who have to clean your armor.” Adolin bellowed out a laugh. For the first time it seemed like something genuine—an emotion from him that wasn’t scripted or expected. He pounded his fist on the table, then waved for more wine, wiping a tear from his eye. The grin he gave her threatened to bring out another blush. Wait, Shallan thought, did that just . . . work? She was supposed to be acting feminine and delicate, not asking men what it’s like to have to defecate in battle. “All right,” Adolin said, taking the cup of wine. He didn’t even glance at the serving woman this time. “What other dirty secrets do you want to know? You’ve got me laid bare. There are tons of things the stories and official histories don’t mention.” “The chrysalises,” Shallan said, eager. “What do they look like?” “That’s what you want to know?” Adolin said, scratching his head. “I thought for sure you’d want to know about the chafing. . . .” Shallan got out her satchel, setting a piece of paper on the table and starting a sketch. “From what I’ve been able to determine, nobody has done a solid study on the Chasmfiends. There are some sketches of dead ones, but that’s it, and the anatomy on those is dreadful. “They must have an interesting life cycle. They haunt these chasms, but I doubt they actually live here. There’s not enough food to support creatures of their size. That means they come here as part of some migratory pattern. They come here to pupate. Have you ever seen a juvenile? Before they form the chrysalis?” “No,” Adolin said, scooting his chair around the table. “It often happens at night, and we don’t spot them until morning. They’re hard to see out there, colored like rock. Makes me think that the Parshendi must be watching us. We end up fighting over plateaus so often. It might mean they spot us mobilizing, then use the direction we’re going to judge where to find the chrysalis. We get a head start, but they move faster over the Plains, so we arrive near the same time. . . .” He trailed off, cocking his head to get a better look at her sketch. “Storms! That’s really good, Shallan.” “Thanks.” “No, I mean really good.” She’d done a quick sketch of several types of chrysalises she had read about in her books, along with quick depictions of a man beside them for size reference. It wasn’t very good—she’d done it for speed. Yet Adolin seemed genuinely impressed. “The shape and texture of the chrysalis,” Shallan said, “could help place the chasmfiends in a family of similar animals.” “It looks most like this one,” Adolin said, scooting closer and pointing at one of the sketches. “When I’ve touched one, they’ve been hard as rock. It’s hard to dig into one without a Shardblade. It can take men with hammers forever to break into one.” “Hmmm,” Shallan said, making a note. “You’re sure?” “Yeah.
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That’s how they look. Why?” “That’s the chrysalis of a yu-nerig,” Shallan said. “A greatshell from the seas around Marabethia. The people there feed criminals to them, I’m told.” “Ouch.” “This might be a false positive, a coincidence. The yu-nerig are an aquatic species. The only time they come onto land is to pupate. Seems tenuous to assume a relationship to the chasmfiends . . .” “Sure,” Adolin said, taking a drink of wine. “If you say so.” “This is probably important,” Shallan said. “For research. Yeah, I know. Aunt Navani is always talking about things like that.” “This could be of more practical import than that,” Shallan said. “About how many of these things total are killed by your armies and the Parshendi each month?” Adolin shrugged. “One every three days or so, I’d guess. Sometimes more, sometimes less. So . . . fifteen or so a month?” “You see the problem?” “I . . .” Adolin shook his head. “No. Sorry. I’m kind of useless at anything that doesn’t involve someone getting stabbed.” She smiled at him. “Nonsense. You proved skilled at choosing wine.” “I did that basically at random.” “And it tastes delicious,” Shallan said. “Empirical proof of your methodology. Now, you probably don’t see the problem because you don’t have the proper facts. Greatshells, generally, are slow to breed and slow to grow. This is because most ecosystems can only support a small population of apex predators of this size.” “I’ve heard some of those words before.” She looked to him, raising an eyebrow. He’d gotten a lot closer to her, in order to look at her drawing. He wore a faint cologne, a brisk woody scent. Oh my . . . “All right, all right,” he said, chuckling as he inspected her drawings. “I’m not as dense as I feign. I see what you’re saying. You really think we could kill enough of them that it could be a problem? I mean, people have been doing greatshell hunts for generations, and the beasts are still around.” “You’re not hunting them here, Adolin. You’re harvesting them. You’re systematically destroying their juvenile population. Have fewer of them been pupating lately?” “Yeah,” he said, though he sounded reluctant. “We think it might be the season.” “It might be. Or, it might be that, after over five years of harvesting, the population is starting to dwindle. Animals like the chasmfiends don’t normally have predators. Suddenly losing a hundred and fifty or more of their numbers a year could be catastrophic to their population.” Adolin frowned. “The gemhearts we get feed the people of the warcamps. Without a constant flow of new stones of reasonable size, the Soulcasters will eventually crack the ones we have, and we won’t be able to support the armies here.” “I’m not telling you to stop your hunts,” Shallan said, blushing. This probably wasn’t the point she should be making. Urithiru and the parshmen, that was the immediate problem. Still, she needed to gain Adolin’s trust. If she could provide useful help regarding the chasmfiends, perhaps he’d
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listen when she approached him with something even more revolutionary. “All I’m saying,” Shallan continued, “is that it’s worth thinking about and studying. What would it be like if you could start raising chasmfiends, growing them to juveniles in batches like men raise chulls? Instead of hunting three a week, what if you could breed and harvest hundreds?” “That would be useful,” Adolin said thoughtfully. “What would you need in order to make it happen?” “Well, I wasn’t saying . . . I mean . . .” She stopped herself. “I need to get out onto the Shattered Plains,” she said more firmly. “If I’m going to try to figure out how to breed them, I’d need to see one of these chrysalises before it’s been cut into. Preferably, I get to see an adult chasmfiend, and—ideally—I’d like a captured juvenile to study.” “Just a small list of impossibilities.” “Well, you did ask.” “I might be able to get you onto the Plains,” Adolin said. “Father promised that he’d show Jasnah a dead chasmfiend, so I think he was planning to take her out after a hunt. Seeing a chrysalis, though . . . those rarely appear close to camp. I’d have to take you dangerously close to Parshendi territory.” “I’m sure you can protect me.” He looked at her, expectant. “What?” Shallan asked. “I’m waiting for a wisecrack.” “I was serious,” Shallan said. “With you there, I’m certain the Parshendi wouldn’t dare get close.” Adolin smiled. “I mean,” she said, “the stench alone—” “I suspect I’m never going to live down telling you about that.” “Never,” Shallan agreed. “You were honest, detailed, and engaging. Those aren’t the sorts of things I let myself forget about a man.” His smile broadened. Storms, those eyes . . . Careful, Shallan told herself. Careful! Kabsal took you in easily. Don’t repeat that. “I’ll see what I can do,” Adolin said. “The Parshendi might not be an issue in the near future.” “Really?” He nodded. “It’s not widely known, though we’ve told the highprinces. Father is going to be meeting with some of the Parshendi leaders tomorrow. It could end up starting a peace negotiation.” “That’s fantastic!” “Yeah,” Adolin said. “I’m not hopeful. The assassin . . . anyway, we’ll see what happens tomorrow, though I’ll have to do this between the other work Father has for me.” “The duels,” Shallan said, leaning in. “What is going on there, Adolin?” He seemed hesitant. “Whatever is going on in the camps now,” she said, speaking more softly, “Jasnah didn’t know about it. I feel woefully ignorant about politics here, Adolin. Your father and Highprince Sadeas had a falling-out, I’ve gathered. The king has changed the nature of these plateau runs, and everyone is talking about how you’re dueling now. But from what I’ve been able to gather, you never stopped dueling.” “It’s different,” he said. “Now I’m dueling to win.” “And you didn’t before?” “No, then I dueled to punish.” He glanced about, then met her eyes. “It began when my father started seeing visions .
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. .” He continued. He poured out a surprising story, one with far greater detail than she’d anticipated. A story of betrayal, and of hope. Visions of the past. A unified Alethkar, prepared to weather a coming storm. She didn’t know what to make of it all, though she gathered that Adolin was telling her of it because he knew the rumors in camp. She’d heard of Dalinar’s fits, of course, and had an inkling of what Sadeas had done. When Adolin mentioned that his father wanted the Knights Radiant to return, Shallan felt a chill. She glanced about for Pattern—he’d be close—but couldn’t find him. The meat of the story, at least in Adolin’s estimation, was the betrayal by Sadeas. The young prince’s eyes grew dark, face flushed, as he talked of being abandoned on the Plains, surrounded by enemies. He seemed embarrassed when he spoke of salvation by a lowly bridge crew. He’s actually confiding in me, Shallan thought, feeling a thrill. She rested her freehand on his arm as he spoke, an innocent gesture, but it seemed to spur him forward as he quietly explained Dalinar’s plan. She wasn’t certain he should be sharing all of this with her. They barely knew one another. But speaking of it seemed to lift a weight from Adolin’s back, and he grew more relaxed. “I guess,” Adolin said, “that’s the end of it. I’m supposed to win Shardblades off the others, taking away their bite, embarrassing them. But I don’t know if it will work.” “Why not?” Shallan asked. “The ones who agree to duel me aren’t important enough,” he said, forming a fist. “If I win too much from them, the real targets—the highprinces—will get scared of me and refuse duels. I need matches that are more high profile. No, what I need is to duel Sadeas. Pound that grinning face of his into the stones and take back my father’s Blade. He’s too oily, though. We’ll never get him to agree.” She found herself wishing desperately to do something, anything, to help. She felt herself melting at the intense concern in those eyes, the passion. Remember Kabsal . . . she reminded herself again. Well, Adolin wasn’t likely to try to assassinate her—but then, that didn’t mean she should let her brain turn to curry paste around him. She cleared her throat, tearing her eyes away from his and looking down at her sketch. “Bother,” she said. “I’ve left you upset. I’m not very good at this wooing thing.” “Could have fooled me . . .” Adolin said, resting his hand on her arm. Shallan covered another blush by ducking her head and digging into her satchel. “You,” she said, “need to know what your cousin was working on before she died.” “Another volume in her father’s biography?” “No,” Shallan said, getting out a sheet of paper. “Adolin, Jasnah thought that the Voidbringers were going to return.” “What?” he said, frowning. “She didn’t even believe in the Almighty. Why would she believe in the Voidbringers?” “She had evidence,” Shallan said,
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tapping the paper with one finger. “A lot of that sank in the ocean, I’m afraid, but I do have some of her notes, and . . . Adolin, how hard do you think it would be to convince the highprinces to get rid of their parshmen?” “Get rid of what?” “How hard would it to be to make everyone stop using parshmen as slaves? Give them away, or . . .” Storms. She didn’t want to start a genocide here, did she? But these were the Voidbringers. “. . . or set them free or something. Get them out of the warcamps.” “How difficult would it be?” Adolin said. “Off the cuff, I’d say impossible. That, or really impossible. Why would we even want to do something like that?” “Jasnah thought they might be related to the Voidbringers and their return.” Adolin shook his head, looking bemused. “Shallan, we can barely get the highprinces to fight this war properly. If my father or the king were to require everyone to get rid of their parshmen . . . Storms! It would break the kingdom in a heartbeat.” So Jasnah was right on that count as well. Unsurprising. Shallan was interested to see how violently Adolin himself opposed the idea. He took a big gulp of wine, seeming utterly floored. Time to pull back, then. This meeting had gone very well; she wouldn’t want to end it on a sour note. “It was something Jasnah said,” Shallan said, “but really, I’d rather that Brightlady Navani judge how important a suggestion it was. She would know her daughter, her notes, better than anyone.” Adolin nodded. “So go to her.” Shallan tapped the paper in her fingers. “I’ve tried. She’s not been very accommodating.” “Aunt Navani can be overbearing sometimes.” “It’s not that,” Shallan said, scanning the words on the letter. It was a reply she’d gotten after requesting to meet the woman and discuss her daughter’s work. “She doesn’t want to meet with me. She barely seems to want to acknowledge I exist.” Adolin sighed. “She doesn’t want to believe. About Jasnah, I mean. You represent something to her—the truth, in a way. Give her time. She just needs to grieve.” “I’m not certain if this is something that should wait, Adolin.” “I’ll talk to her,” he said. “How about that?” “Wonderful,” she said. “Much like you yourself.” He grinned. “It’s nothing. I mean, if we’re going to halfway-almost-kind-of-maybe-get-married, we should probably look out for one another’s interests.” He paused. “Don’t mention that parshman thing to anyone else, though. That’s not something that will go over well.” She nodded absently, then realized she’d been staring at him. She was going to kiss those lips of his someday. She let herself imagine it. And, Ash’s eyes . . . he had a very friendly way about him. She hadn’t expected that in someone so highborn. She’d never actually met anyone of his rank before coming to the Shattered Plains, but all the men she knew near his level had been stiff and even angry.
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Not Adolin. Storms, but being with him was something else she could get very, very used to. People began to stir on the patio. She ignored them for a moment, but then many began to stand up from their seats, looking eastward. Highstorm. Right. Shallan felt a spike of alarm as she looked toward the Origin of Storms. The wind picked up, leaves and bits of refuse fluttering across the patio. Down below, the Outer Market had been packed up, tents folded away, awnings withdrawn, windows closed. The entirety of the warcamps braced itself. Shallan stuffed her things into her satchel, then rose to her feet, stepping to the edge of the terrace, freehand fingers on the stone railing there. Adolin joined her. Behind them, people whispered and gathered. She heard iron grinding across stone; the parshmen had begun pulling away the tables and chairs, stowing them to both protect them and make a path for the lighteyes to retreat to safety. The horizon had bled from light to dark, like a man flushing with anger. Shallan gripped the railing, watching the entire world transform. Vines withdrew, rockbuds closed. Grass hid in its holes. They knew, somehow. They all knew. The air grew chill and wet, and prestorm winds gusted against her, blowing her hair back. Below and just to the north, the warcamps had piled refuse and waste to be blown away with the storm. It was a forbidden practice in most civilized areas, where that waste could blow into the next town. Out here, there was no next town. The horizon grew even darker. A few people on the balcony fled to the back room’s safety, their nerves getting the better of them. Most stayed, silent. Windspren zipped in tiny rivers of light overhead. Shallan took Adolin by the arm, staring eastward. Minutes passed until finally, she saw it. The stormwall. A huge sheet of water and debris blown before the storm. In places, it flashed with light from behind, revealing movement and shadows within. Like the skeleton of a hand when light illuminated the flesh, there was something inside this wall of destruction. Most of the people fled the balcony, though the stormwall was still distant. In moments, only a handful remained, Shallan and Adolin among them. She watched, transfixed, as the storm approached. It took longer than she’d expected. It was moving at a terrible speed, but it was so large, they’d been able to spot it from quite a distance. It consumed the Shattered Plains, one plateau at a time. Soon, it loomed over the warcamps, coming on with a roar. “We should go,” Adolin eventually said. She barely heard him. Life. Something lived inside that storm, something that no artist had ever drawn, no scholar had ever described. “Shallan!” Adolin began to tow her toward the protected room. She grabbed the railing with her freehand, remaining in place, clutching her satchel to her chest with her safehand. That humming, that was Pattern. She’d never been so close to a highstorm. Even when she’d been only inches
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away from one, separated by a window shutter, she had not been as close as she was now. Watching that darkness descend upon the warcamps . . . I need to draw. “Shallan!” Adolin said, pulling her away from the railing. “They’ll close the doors if we don’t go now!” With a start, she realized that everyone else had left the balcony. She allowed Adolin to get her moving, and she joined him in a dash across the empty patio. They reached the room at the side, packed with huddled lighteyes who watched in terror. Adolin’s guards entered right after her, and several parshmen slammed the thick doors. The bar thumped in place, locking out the sky, leaving them to the light of spheres on the walls. Shallan counted. The highstorm hit—she could feel it. Something beyond the thumping of the door and the distant sound of thunder. “Six seconds,” she said. “What?” Adolin asked. His voice was hushed, and others in the room spoke in whispers. “It took six seconds after the servants closed the doors until the storm hit. We could have spent that much longer out there.” Adolin regarded her with an incredulous expression. “When you first realized what we were doing on that balcony, you seemed terrified.” “I was.” “Now you wish you’d stayed out until the last moment before the storm hit?” “I . . . yeah,” she said, blushing. “I have no idea what to make of you.” Adolin regarded her. “You’re not like anyone I’ve met.” “It’s my air of feminine mystique.” He raised an eyebrow. “It’s a term we use,” she said, “when we’re feeling particularly erratic. It’s considered polite not to point out that you know this. Now, do we just . . . wait in here?” “In this box of a room?” Adolin asked, sounding amused. “We’re lighteyes, not livestock.” He gestured to the side, where several servants had opened doors leading to places burrowed deeper into the mountain. “Two sitting rooms. One for men, the other for women.” Shallan nodded. Sometimes during a highstorm, the genders would retire to separate rooms to chat. It looked like the winehouse followed this tradition. They’d probably have finger food. Shallan walked toward the indicated room, but Adolin rested a hand on her arm, making her pause. “I’ll see about getting you out onto the Shattered Plains,” he said. “Amaram wants to go explore more, he’s said, than he gets to during a plateau run. I think he and Father are having dinner to talk about it tomorrow night, and I can ask then if I can bring you. I’ll also talk to Aunt Navani. Maybe we can discuss what I’ve come up with at the feast next week?” “There’s a feast next week?” “There’s always a feast next week,” Adolin said. “We just have to figure out who’s throwing it. I’ll send to you.” She smiled, and then they separated. Next week is not soon enough, she thought. I’ll have to find a way to drop in on him when it’s not too awkward.
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Had she really promised to help him breed chasmfiends? As if she needed something else to take her time. Still, she felt good about the day as she entered the women’s sitting room, her guards taking their places in the appropriate waiting room. Shallan strolled through the women’s room, which was well lit with gemstones gathered in goblets—cut stones, but not in spheres. An expensive display. She felt that, if her teachers had been watching, both would have been disappointed at her conversation with Adolin. Tyn would have wanted her to manipulate the prince more; Jasnah would have wanted Shallan to be more poised, more in control of her tongue. It seemed that Adolin liked her anyway. That made her want to cheer. The looks of the women about her washed away that emotion. Some turned backs toward Shallan, and others pressed their lips together and looked her up and down skeptically. Courting the kingdom’s most eligible bachelor was not going to make her popular, not when she was an outsider. That didn’t bother Shallan. She didn’t need acceptance from these women; she just needed to find Urithiru and the secrets it contained. Gaining Adolin’s trust was a big step in that direction. She decided to reward herself by stuffing her face with sweets and thinking further on her plan to sneak into Brightlord Amaram’s house. Adolin sat in a high-backed chair, cup of wine in his hand, listening to the highstorm rumble outside. He should have felt safe in this bunker of rock, but there was something about storms that undercut any sense of security, no matter how rational. He’d be glad for the Weeping, and the end of the highstorms for a few weeks. Adolin raised his cup toward Elit, who stomped past. He hadn’t seen the man above, on the winehouse terrace, but this chamber also served as a highstorm bunker for several shops in the Outer Market. “Are you ready for our duel?” Adolin asked. “You’ve made me wait an entire week so far, Elit.” The short, balding man took a drink of wine, then lowered his cup, not looking at Adolin. “My cousin is planning to kill you for challenging me,” he said. “Right after he kills me for agreeing to the challenge.” He finally turned toward Adolin. “But when I stomp you into the sands and claim all of your family’s Shards, I’ll be the rich one and he’ll be forgotten. Am I ready for our duel? I long for it, Adolin Kholin.” “You’re the one who wanted to wait,” Adolin noted. “The more time to savor what I’m going to do to you.” Elit smiled with white lips, then moved on. Creepy fellow. Well, Adolin would deal with him in two days, the date of their duel. Before that, though, was tomorrow’s meeting with the Parshendi Shardbearer. It loomed over him like a thunderhead. What would it mean, if they finally found peace? He mulled over that thought, regarding his wine and listening with half an ear to Elit chatting behind him with someone. Adolin
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recognized that voice, didn’t he? Adolin sat upright, then looked over his shoulder. How long had Sadeas been back there, and why hadn’t Adolin spotted him when first entering? Sadeas turned to him, a calm smile on his face. Maybe he’ll just . . . Sadeas strolled up to Adolin, hands clasped behind his back, wearing a fashionable open-fronted short brown coat and an embroidered green stock. The buttons along the front of the coat were gemstones. Emeralds to match the stock. Storms. He did not want to deal with Sadeas today. The highprince took the seat beside Adolin, their backs to a hearth that a parshman had begun stoking. The room contained a low hum of nervous conversation. You could never quite be comfortable, no matter how pretty the decor, when a highstorm raged outside. “Young Adolin,” Sadeas said. “What do you think of my coat?” Adolin took a gulp of wine, not trusting himself to reply. I should just get up and walk away. But he didn’t. A small part of him wished for Sadeas to provoke him, push away his inhibitions, drive him to do something stupid. Killing the man right here, right now, would likely earn Adolin an execution—or at least an exile. It might be worth either punishment. “You’ve always been so keen-eyed when it comes to style,” Sadeas continued. “I’d know your opinion. I do think the coat is splendid, but I worry that the short cut might be trending out of fashion. What is the latest from Liafor?” Sadeas pulled out the front of his jacket, moving his hand to display a ring that matched the buttons. The ring’s emerald, like those on the jacket, was uncut. They glowed softly with Stormlight. Uncut emeralds, Adolin thought, then looked up to meet Sadeas’s eyes. The man smiled. “The gemstones are recent acquisitions,” Sadeas noted. “I am fond of them.” Gained from doing a plateau run with Ruthar that he wasn’t supposed to have been on. Racing ahead of the other highprinces, like this was the old days, where each prince tried to be first and claim their winnings. “I hate you,” Adolin whispered. “As well you should,” Sadeas said, letting go of his coat. He nodded toward Adolin’s bridgeman guards, watching with overt hostility nearby. “My former property is treating you well? I’ve seen their like patrolling the market here. I find that amusing for reasons I doubt I could ever properly express.” “They patrol,” Adolin said, “to create a better Alethkar.” “Is that what Dalinar wants? I am surprised to hear it. He talks of justice, of course, but he doesn’t allow justice to take its course. Not properly.” “And I know where you’re going, Sadeas,” Adolin snapped. “You’re annoyed that we haven’t been letting you put judges into our warcamp as Highprince of Information. Well, I’ll have you know that Father has decided to let—” “Highprince of . . . Information? You didn’t hear? I recently renounced the title.” “What?” “Yes,” Sadeas said. “I fear I was never a good match for the position.
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My Shalashian temperament, perhaps. I wish Dalinar good fortune in finding a replacement—though from what I’ve heard, the other highprinces have come to an agreement that none of us are . . . suited to these kinds of appointments.” He renounces the king’s authority, Adolin thought. Storms, this was bad. He gritted his teeth, and found himself reaching his hand to the side to summon his Blade. No. He pulled the hand back. He’d find a way to force this man into the dueling ring. Killing Sadeas now—no matter how much he deserved it—would undermine the very laws and codes Adolin’s father was working so hard to uphold. But storms . . . Adolin was tempted. Sadeas smiled again. “Do you think me an evil man, Adolin?” “That’s too simple a term,” Adolin snapped. “You’re not just evil, you’re a selfish, crem-crusted eel who is trying to strangle this kingdom with his bulbous, bastard hand.” “Eloquent,” Sadeas said. “You realize I created this kingdom.” “You only helped my father and uncle.” “Men who are both gone,” Sadeas said. “The Blackthorn is as dead as old Gavilar. Instead, two idiots rule this kingdom, and each one is—in a way—a shadow of a man I loved.” He leaned forward, looking Adolin straight in the eyes. “I’m not strangling Alethkar, son. I’m trying with everything I have to keep a few chunks of it strong enough to weather the collapse your father is bringing.” “Don’t call me son,” Adolin hissed. “Fine,” Sadeas said, standing. “But I’ll tell you one thing. I’m glad you survived the events on the Tower that day. You’ll make a fine highprince in the coming months. I have a feeling that in ten years or so—following an extended civil war between the two of us—our alliance will be a strong one. By then, you’ll understand why I did what I did.” “I doubt it. I’ll have rammed my sword through your gut long before that, Sadeas.” Sadeas raised his cup of wine, then walked off, joining a different group of lighteyes. Adolin let out a long sigh of exhaustion, then leaned back against the chair. Nearby, his short bridgeman guard—the one with the silver at his temples—gave Adolin a nod of respect. Adolin slumped there, feeling drained, until long after the highstorm ended and people started to depart. Adolin preferred to wait until the rain stopped completely before leaving, anyway. He never had liked how his uniform looked when it got wet. Eventually, he rose, collected his two guards, and stepped out of the winehouse to a grey sky and a deserted Outer Market. He was mostly over the conversation with Sadeas, and kept reminding himself that up to that point the day had been going very well. Shallan and her carriage had already gone, of course. He could have ordered a ride for himself, but after being locked away for so long, it felt good to be walking in the open air; chill, wet, and fresh from the storm. Hands in the pockets of his uniform, he started along a
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pathway through the Outer Market, strolling around puddles. Gardeners had begun growing ornamental shalebark along the sides of the path, though it wasn’t very high yet, just a few inches. A good shalebark ridge could take years to grow properly. Those two insufferable bridgemen followed along behind him. Not that Adolin minded the men personally—they seemed like amiable enough fellows, particularly when away from their commander. Adolin just didn’t like needing minders. Though the storm had passed into the west, the afternoon felt gloomy. Clouds obscured the sun, which had moved from its zenith and was drooping slowly toward the distant horizon. He didn’t pass many people, so his only companions were the bridgemen—well, those and a legion of cremlings that had emerged to feast upon plants that lapped at water in pools. Why did plants spend so much more time in their shells out here than they did back home? Shallan probably knew. He smiled, forcing thoughts of Sadeas into the back of his mind. This thing with Shallan, it was working. It always worked at first though, so he contained his enthusiasm. She was marvelous. Exotic, witty, and not smothered in Alethi propriety. She was smarter than he was, but she didn’t make him feel stupid. That was a large point in her favor. He passed out of the market, then crossed the open ground beyond it, eventually reaching Dalinar’s warcamp. The guards let him through with crisp salutes. He idled in the warcamp market, comparing the wares he saw here with those in the market near the Pinnacle. What will happen to this place, Adolin thought, when the war stops? It would end someday. Perhaps tomorrow, with the negotiations with the Parshendi Shardbearer. The Alethi presence wouldn’t end here, not with the chasmfiends to hunt, but surely this large a population couldn’t continue, could it? Could he really be witnessing a permanent shift of the king’s seat? Hours later—after spending some time at jewelry shops looking for something for Shallan—Adolin and his guards reached his father’s complex. By then, Adolin’s feet were starting to ache and the camp had grown dark. He yawned, making his way through the cavernous guts of his father’s bunkerish dwelling. Wasn’t it about time they built a proper mansion? Being an example for the men was all well and good, but there were certain standards a family like theirs should uphold. Particularly if the Shattered Plains were going to remain as important as they had been. It was . . . He hesitated, stopping at an intersection and looking right. He’d been intending to visit the kitchens for a snack, but a group of men moved and threw shadows in the other direction. Hushed whispers. “What is this?” Adolin demanded, marching toward the gathering, his two guards following. “Soldiers? What have you found?” The men scrambled to turn and salute, spears to shoulders. They were more bridgemen from Kaladin’s unit. Just beyond them were the doors to the wing where Dalinar, Adolin, and Renarin all made their quarters. Those doors lay open, and the
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men had set spheres on the ground. What was going on? Normally, two or maybe four men would be on guard here. Not eight. And . . . why was there a parshman wearing a guardsman uniform, holding a spear with the others? “Sir!” said a lanky, long-armed man at the front of the bridgemen. “We were just heading in to check on the highprince, when . . .” Adolin didn’t hear the rest. He pushed through the bridgemen, finally seeing what the spheres illuminated on the floor of the sitting room. More scratched glyphs. Adolin knelt down, trying to read them. Unfortunately, they hadn’t been drawn in any kind of picture to help. He thought they were numbers . . . “Thirty-two days,” said one of the bridgemen, a short Azish man. “Seek the center.” Damnation. “Have you told anyone of this?” Adolin asked. “We just found it,” the Azish man said. “Post guards at either end of the hallway,” Adolin said. “And send for my aunt.” * * * Adolin summoned his Blade, then dismissed it, then summoned it again. A nervous habit. The white fog appeared—manifesting as little vines sprouting in the air—before snapping into the form of a Shardblade, which suddenly weighed down his hand. He stood in the sitting room, those foreboding markings staring up at him, as if in silent challenge. The closed door kept the bridgemen out so only he, Dalinar, and Navani would be privy to the discussion. Adolin wanted to use the Blade to cut those cursed glyphs away. Dalinar had proven that he was sane. Aunt Navani almost had an entire document of the Dawnchant translated, using the words of Father’s visions as a guide! The visions were from the Almighty. It all made sense. Now this. “They were made with a knife,” Navani said, kneeling beside the glyphs. The sitting room was a large open area, used for receiving callers or holding meetings. Doors beyond led to the study and the bedrooms. “This knife,” Dalinar replied, holding up a side knife of the style most lighteyes wore. “My knife.” The edge was blunted and still bore flecks of stone from the gouges. The scratches matched the size of the blade. They’d found it just in front of the door to Dalinar’s study, where he’d spent the highstorm. Alone. Navani’s carriage had been delayed, and she’d been forced to return to the palace or risk being caught in the storm. “Someone else could have taken it and done this,” Adolin snapped. “They could have sneaked into your study, grabbed it while you were consumed by the visions, and come out here . . .” The other two looked at him. “Often,” Navani said, “the simplest answer is the right one.” Adolin sighed, dismissing his Blade and slumping down in a chair beside the offending glyphs. His father stood tall. In fact, Dalinar Kholin never seemed to have stood as tall as he did now, hands clasped behind his back, eyes away from the glyphs, toward the wall—eastward. Dalinar was a rock, a
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boulder too big for even storms to move. He seemed so sure. It was something to cling to. “You don’t remember anything?” Navani asked Dalinar, rising. “No.” He turned to Adolin. “I think it’s obvious now that I was behind each of these. Why does that bother you so, son?” “It’s the idea of you scribbling on the ground,” Adolin said, shivering. “Lost in one of those visions, not in control of yourself.” “The Almighty’s path for me is a strange one,” Dalinar said. “Why do I need to get the information this way? Scratches on the ground or the wall? Why not say it to me plainly in the visions?” “It’s foretelling, you realize,” Adolin said softly. “Seeing the future. A thing of the Voidbringers.” “Yes.” Dalinar narrowed his eyes. “Seek the center. What do you think, Navani? The center of the Shattered Plains? What truths hide there?” “The Parshendi, obviously.” They talked about the center of the Shattered Plains as if they knew of the place. But no man had been there, only Parshendi. To the Alethi, the word “center” just referred to the vast open expanse of unexplored plateaus beyond the scouted rims. “Yes,” Adolin’s father said. “But where? Maybe they move around? Maybe there is no Parshendi city in the center.” “They would only be able to move if they had Soulcasters,” Navani said, “which I personally doubt. They’ll have entrenched somewhere. They aren’t a nomadic people, and there’s no reason for them to move.” “If we can make peace,” Dalinar mused, “reaching the center would be a lot easier. . . .” He looked to Adolin. “Have the bridgemen fill those scratches with crem, then have them pull the rug over that section of floor.” “I’ll see it done.” “Good,” Dalinar said, seeming distant. “After that, get some sleep, son. Tomorrow is a big day.” Adolin nodded. “Father. Were you aware that there is a parshman among the bridgemen?” “Yes,” Dalinar said. “There has been one among their numbers from the beginning, but they didn’t arm him until I gave them permission.” “Why would you do such a thing?” “Out of curiosity,” Dalinar said. He turned and nodded toward the glyphs on the floor. “Tell me, Navani. Assuming these numbers are counting toward a date, is it a day when a highstorm will come?” “Thirty-two days?” Navani asked. “That will be in the middle of the Weeping. Thirty-two days won’t even be the exact end of the year, but two days ahead of it. I can’t fathom the significance.” “Ah, it was too convenient an answer anyway. Very well. Let’s allow the guards back in and swear them to secrecy. Wouldn’t want to inspire a panic.” The next day, Adolin stomped his feet into his boots, hair still damp from a morning bath. It was amazing the difference a little hot water and some time to reflect could make. He’d come to two decisions. He wasn’t going to worry about his father’s disconcerting behavior during the visions. The whole of it—the visions, the command to refound the
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Knights Radiant, the preparation for a disaster that might or might not come—was a package. Adolin had already decided to believe that his father wasn’t mad. Further worry was pointless. The other decision might get him into trouble. He left his quarters, entering the sitting room, where Dalinar was already planning with Navani, General Khal, Teshav, and Captain Kaladin. Renarin, frustratingly, guarded the door wearing a Bridge Four uniform. He’d refused to give up on that decision of his, despite Adolin’s insistence. “We’ll need the bridgemen again,” Dalinar said. “If something goes wrong, we may need a quick retreat.” “I’ll prepare Bridges Five and Twelve for the day, sir,” Kaladin said. “Those two seem nostalgic for their bridges, and talk about the bridge runs with fondness.” “Weren’t those bloodbaths?” Navani asked. “They were,” Kaladin said, “but soldiers are a strange lot, Brightness. A disaster unifies them. These men would never want to go back, but they still identify as bridgemen.” Nearby, General Khal nodded in understanding, though Navani still seemed baffled. “I’ll take my position here,” Dalinar said, holding up a map of the Shattered Plains. “We can scout the meeting plateau first, while I wait. It apparently has some odd rock formations.” “That sounds good,” Brightness Teshav said. “It does,” Adolin said, joining the group, “except for one thing. You won’t be there, Father.” “Adolin,” Dalinar said with a suffering tone. “I know you think this is too dangerous, but—” “It is too dangerous,” Adolin said. “The assassin is still out there—and he attacked us last on the very day the Parshendi messenger came to camp. Now, we have a meeting with the enemy out on the Shattered Plains? Father, you can’t go.” “I have to,” Dalinar said. “Adolin, this could mean an end to the war. It could mean answers—why they attacked in the first place. I will not give up this opportunity.” “We’re not going to give it up,” Adolin said. “We’re just going to do things a little differently.” “How?” Dalinar asked, narrowing his eyes. “Well for one thing,” Adolin said, “I’m going to go in your place.” “Impossible,” Dalinar said, “I won’t risk my son on—” “Father!” Adolin snapped. “This is not subject to discussion!” The room fell silent. Dalinar lowered his hand from the map. Adolin stuck out his jaw, meeting his father’s eyes. Storms, it was difficult to deny Dalinar Kholin. Did his father realize the presence he had, the way he moved people about by sheer force of expectation? Nobody contradicted him. Dalinar did what he wanted. Fortunately, these days those motives had a noble purpose. But in many ways he was the same man he had been twenty years ago, when he’d conquered a kingdom. He was the Blackthorn, and he got what he wanted. Except today. “You are too important,” Adolin said, pointing. “Deny that. Deny that your visions are vital. Deny that if you die, Alethkar would fall apart. Deny that every single person in this room is less important than you are.” Dalinar drew in a deep breath, then exhaled
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slowly. “It shouldn’t be so. The kingdom needs to be strong enough to survive the loss of one man, no matter who.” “Well, it’s not there yet,” Adolin said. “To get it there, we’re going to need you. And that means you need to let us watch out for you. I’m sorry, Father, but once in a while you just have to let someone else do their job. You can’t fix every problem with your own hands.” “He’s right, sir,” Kaladin said. “You really shouldn’t be risking yourself out on those Plains. Not if there’s another option.” “I fail to see that there is one,” Dalinar said, his tone cool. “Oh, there is,” Adolin said. “But I’m going to need to borrow Renarin’s Shardplate.” * * * The strangest thing about this experience, in Adolin’s estimation, wasn’t wearing his father’s old armor. Despite the outward stylistic differences, suits of Shardplate all tended to fit similarly. The armor adapted, and within a short time after donning it, the Plate felt exactly like Adolin’s own. It also wasn’t strange to ride at the front of the force, Dalinar’s banner flapping over his head. Adolin had been leading them to battle on his own for six weeks now. No, the strangest part was riding his father’s horse. Gallant was a large black animal, bulkier and squatter than Sureblood, Adolin’s horse. Gallant looked like a warhorse even when compared to other Ryshadium. So far as Adolin knew, no man had ever ridden him but Dalinar. Ryshadium were finicky that way. It had taken a lengthy explanation from Dalinar to even get the horse to allow Adolin to hold the reins, let alone climb into the saddle. It had eventually worked, but Adolin wouldn’t dare ride Gallant into battle; he was pretty sure the beast would throw him off and run away, looking to protect Dalinar. It did feel odd climbing on a horse that wasn’t Sureblood. He kept expecting Gallant to move differently than he did, turn his head at the wrong times. When Adolin patted his neck, the horse’s mane felt off to him in ways he couldn’t explain. He and his Ryshadium were more than simply rider and horse, and he found himself oddly melancholy to be out on a ride without Sureblood. Foolishness. He had to stay focused. The procession approached the meeting plateau, which had a large, oddly shaped mound of rock near the center. This plateau was close to the Alethi side of the Plains, but much farther south than Adolin had ever gone. Early patrols had said chasmfiends were more common out in this region, but they never spotted a chrysalis here. Some kind of hunting ground, but not a place for pupating? The Parshendi weren’t there yet. When the scouts reported that the plateau was secure, Adolin urged Gallant across the mobile bridge. He felt warm in his Plate; the seasons, it seemed, had finally decided to inch through spring and maybe even toward summer. He approached the rock mound at the center. It really was odd. Adolin circled
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it, noticing its shape, ridged in places, almost like . . . “It’s a chasmfiend,” Adolin realized. He passed the face, a hollowed-out piece of stone that evoked the exact feeling of a chasmfiend’s head. A statue? No, it was too natural. A chasmfiend had died here centuries ago, and instead of being blown away, had slowly crusted over with crem. The result was eerie. The crem had duplicated the creature’s form, clinging to the carapace, entombing it. The hulking rock seemed like a creature born of stone, like the ancient stories of Voidbringers. Adolin shivered, nudging the horse away from the stone corpse and toward the other side of the plateau. Shortly, he heard alarms from the outrunners. Parshendi coming. He steeled himself, ready to summon his Shardblade. Behind him arrayed a group of bridgemen, ten in number, including that parshman. Captain Kaladin had remained with Dalinar back in the warcamp, just in case. Adolin was the one more exposed. Part of him wished for the assassin to come today. So Adolin could try himself again. Of all the duels he hoped to fight in the future, this one—against the man who had killed his uncle—would be the most important, even more than taking down Sadeas. The assassin did not make an appearance as a group of two hundred Parshendi crossed from the next plateau, jumping gracefully and landing on the meeting plateau. Adolin’s soldiers stirred, armor clanking, spears lowering. It had been years since men and Parshendi had met without blood being spilled. “All right,” Adolin said in his helm. “Fetch my scribe.” Brightness Inadara was carried up through the ranks in a palanquin. Dalinar wanted Navani with him—ostensibly because he wanted her advice, but probably also to protect her. “Let’s go,” Adolin said, nudging Gallant forward. They crossed the plateau, just him and Brightness Inadara, who rose from her palanquin to walk. She was a wizened matron, with grey hair she cut short for simplicity. He’d seen sticks with more flesh on them than she had, but she was keen-minded and as trustworthy a scribe as they had. The Parshendi Shardbearer emerged from the ranks and strode forward on the rocks alone. Uncaring, unworried. This was a confident one. Adolin dismounted and went the rest of the way on foot, Inadara at his side. They stopped a few feet from the Parshendi, the three of them alone on an expanse of rock, the fossilized chasmfiend staring at them from the left. “I am Eshonai,” the Parshendi said. “Do you remember me?” “No,” Adolin said. He pitched his voice down to try and match the voice of his father, and hoped that—with the helm in place—it would be enough to fool this woman, who couldn’t know well what Dalinar sounded like. “Not surprising,” Eshonai said. “I was young and unimportant when we first met. Barely worth remembering.” Adolin had originally expected Parshendi conversation to be singsongish, from what he’d heard said of them. That wasn’t the case at all. Eshonai had a rhythm to her words, the way she emphasized
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them and where she paused. She changed tones, but the result was more of a chant than a song. Inadara took out a writing board and spanreed, then started writing down what Eshonai said. “What is this?” Eshonai demanded. “I came alone, as you asked,” Adolin said, trying to project his father’s air of command. “But I will record what is said and send it back to my generals.” Eshonai did not raise her faceplate, so Adolin had a good excuse not to raise his. They stared at each other through eye slits. This was not going as well as his father had hoped, but it was about what Adolin had expected. “We are here,” Adolin said, using the words his father had suggested he begin with, “to discuss the terms of a Parshendi surrender.” Eshonai laughed. “That is not the point at all.” “Then what?” Adolin demanded. “You seemed eager to meet with me. Why?” “Things have changed since I spoke with your son, Blackthorn. Important things.” “What things?” “Things you cannot imagine,” Eshonai said. Adolin waited, as if pondering, but actually giving Inadara time to correspond with the warcamps. Inadara leaned up to him, whispering what Navani and Dalinar had written for him to say. “We tire of this war, Parshendi,” Adolin said. “Your numbers dwindle. We know this. Let us make a truce, one that would benefit us both.” “We are not as weak as you believe,” Eshonai said. Adolin found himself frowning. When she’d spoken to him before, she’d seemed passionate, inviting. Now she was cold and dismissive. Was that right? She was Parshendi. Perhaps human emotions didn’t apply to her. Inadara whispered more to him. “What do you want?” Adolin asked, speaking the words his father sent. “How can there be peace?” “There will be peace, Blackthorn, when one of us is dead. I came here because I wanted to see you with my own eyes, and I wanted to warn you. We have just changed the rules of this conflict. Squabbling over gemstones no longer matters.” No longer matters? Adolin started to sweat. She makes it sound like they were playing their own game all this time. Not desperate at all. Could the Alethi have misjudged everything so profoundly? She turned to go. No. All of this, just to have the meeting puff into smoke? Storm it! “Wait!” Adolin cried, stepping forward. “Why? Why are you acting like this? What is wrong?” She looked back at him. “You really want to end this?” “Yes. Please. I want peace. Regardless of the cost.” “Then you will have to destroy us.” “Why?” Adolin repeated. “Why did you kill Gavilar, all those years ago? Why betray our treaty?” “King Gavilar,” Eshonai said, as if mulling over the name. “He should not have revealed his plans to us that night. Poor fool. He did not know. He bragged, thinking we would welcome the return of our gods.” She shook her head, then turned again and jogged off, armor clinking. Adolin stepped back, feeling useless. If his father had been there,
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would he have been able to do more? Inadara still wrote, sending the words to Dalinar. A reply from him finally came. “Return to the warcamps. There is nothing you, or I myself, could have done. Clearly, her mind is already made up.” Adolin spent the return ride brooding. When he finally reached the warcamps a few hours later, he found his father in conference with Navani, Khal, Teshav, and the army’s four battalionlords. Together, they pored over the words that Inadara had sent. A group of parshman servants quietly brought wine and fruit. Teleb—wearing the Plate that Adolin had won from his duel with Eranniv—watched from the side of the room, Shardhammer on his back, faceplate up. His people had once ruled Alethkar. What did he think of all this? The man usually kept his opinions to himself. Adolin stomped into the room, pulling off his father’s—well, Renarin’s—helm. “I should have let you go,” Adolin said. “It wasn’t a trap. Perhaps you could have talked sense to her.” “These are the people who murdered my brother on the very night they signed a treaty with him,” Dalinar said, inspecting maps on the table. “It seems they have not changed at all from that day. You did perfectly, son; we know everything we need to.” “We do?” Adolin said, walking up to the table, helm under arm. “Yes,” Dalinar said, looking up. “We know that they will not agree to peace, no matter what. My conscience is clear.” Adolin looked over the outspread maps. “What is this?” he asked, noting troop movement symbols. They were all pointed across the Shattered Plains. “A plan of assault,” Dalinar said quietly. “The Parshendi will not deal with us, and they are planning something big. Something to change the war. The time has come to bring the fight directly to them and end this war, one way or another.” “Stormfather,” Adolin said. “And if we’re surrounded while we’re out there?” “We will take everyone,” Dalinar said, “our whole army, and as many of the highprinces as will join me. Soulcasters for food. The Parshendi won’t be able to surround that large a force, and even if they did, it wouldn’t matter. We’d be able to stand against them.” “We can leave right after the final highstorm before the Weeping,” Navani said, writing some numbers on the side of the map. “It is the Light Year, and so we’ll have steady rains, but no highstorms for weeks. We won’t be exposed to one while out on the Plains.” It would also put them out on the Shattered Plains, alone, within days of the date that had been scratched on the walls and floor. . . . Adolin’s spine crawled. “We have to beat them to it,” Dalinar said softly, scanning the maps. “Interrupt whatever it is they are planning. Before the countdown ends.” He looked up at Adolin. “I need you to duel more. High-profile matches, as high profile as you can manage. Win Shards for me, son.” “I’m dueling Elit tomorrow,” Adolin said. “From there, I
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have a plan for my next target.” “Good. To succeed out on the Plains, we will need Shardbearers—and we will need the loyalty of as many highprinces as will follow me. Focus your dueling on the Shardbearers of the faction loyal to Sadeas, and beat them with as much fanfare as you can manage. I will go to the neutral highprinces, and will remind them of their oaths to fulfill the Vengeance Pact. If we can take Shards from those who follow Sadeas and use them to end the war, it will go a long way toward proving what I’ve been saying all along. That unity is the path to Alethi greatness.” Adolin nodded. “I’ll see it done.” Kaladin strolled along the Shattered Plains at night, passing tufts of shalebark and vines, lifespren spinning about them as motes. Puddles still lingered in low spots from the previous day’s highstorm, fat with crem for the plants to feast upon. To his left, Kaladin heard the sounds of the warcamps, busy with activity. To the right . . . silence. Just those endless plateaus. When he’d been a bridgeman, Sadeas’s troops hadn’t stopped him from walking this path. What was there for men out here, on the Plains? Instead, Sadeas had posted guards at the edges of the camps and at bridges, so the slaves couldn’t escape. What was there for men out here? Nothing but salvation itself, discovered in the depths of those chasms. Kaladin turned and strolled out along one of the chasms, passing soldiers on guard duty at bridges, torches shivering in the wind. They saluted him. There, he thought, picking his way along a particular plateau. The warcamps to his left stained the air with light, enough to see where he was. At the plateau’s edge he came to the place where he had met with the King’s Wit on that night weeks ago. A night of decision, a night of change. Kaladin stepped up to the edge of the chasm, looking eastward. Change and decision. He checked over his shoulder. He’d passed the guard post, and now nobody was close enough to see him. So, belt laden with bags of spheres, Kaladin stepped off into the chasm. * * * Shallan did not care for Sadeas’s warcamp. The air was different here than it was in Sebarial’s camp. It stank, and it smelled of desperation. Was desperation even a smell? She thought she could describe it. The scent of sweat, of cheap drink, and of crem that had not been cleaned off the streets. That all churned above roads that were poorly lit. In Sebarial’s camp, people walked in groups. Here, they loped along in packs. Sebarial’s camp smelled of spice and industry—of new leather and, sometimes, livestock. Dalinar’s camp smelled of polish and oil. Around every second corner in Dalinar’s camp, someone was doing something practical. There were too few soldiers in Dalinar’s camp these days, but each wore his uniform, as if it were a shield against the chaos of the times. In Sadeas’s camp, the men
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who wore their uniforms wore them with unbuttoned jackets and wrinkled trousers. She passed tavern after tavern, each spitting forth a racket. The women who idled in front of some indicated that not all were simply taverns. Whorehouses were common in every camp, of course, but they seemed more blatant here. She passed fewer parshmen than she commonly saw in Sebarial’s camp. Sadeas preferred traditional slaves: men and women with branded foreheads, scurrying about with backs bowed and shoulders slumped. This was, honestly, what she’d expected from all of the warcamps. She’d read accounts of men at war—of camp followers and discipline problems. Of tempers flaring, of the attitudes of men who were trained to kill. Perhaps, instead of wondering at the awfulness of Sadeas’s camp, she should be marveling that the others weren’t the same. Shallan hurried on her way. She wore the face of a young darkeyed man, her hair pushed up into her cap. She wore a pair of sturdy gloves. Even disguised as a boy, she wasn’t about to go around with her safehand exposed. Before leaving tonight, she had done a series of sketches to use as new faces, if need be. Testing had proven she could draw a sketch in the morning, then use it for an image in the afternoon. If she waited longer than about a day, though, the image she created was blurred and sometimes looked melted. That made perfect sense to Shallan. The process of creation left a picture in her mind that eventually wore thin. Her current face had been based on the messenger youths who moved in Sadeas’s camp. Though her heart thumped every time she passed a pack of soldiers, nobody gave her a second glance. Amaram was a highlord—a man of third dahn, which made him a full rank higher than Shallan’s father had been, two ranks higher than Shallan herself. That entitled him to his own little domain within his liege’s warcamp. His manor flew his own banner, and he had his own personal military force occupying nearby buildings. Posts set into the stone and striped with his colors—burgundy and forest green—delineated his sphere of influence. She passed them without pausing. “Hey, you!” Shallan froze in place, feeling very small in the darkness. Not small enough. She turned slowly as a pair of patrolling guards walked up. Their uniforms were sharper than any she’d seen in this camp. Even the buttons were polished, though at the waists they wore skirtlike takama instead of trousers. Amaram was a traditionalist, and his uniforms reflected that. The guards loomed over her, as most Alethi did. “Messenger?” one asked. “This time of night?” He was a solid fellow with a greying beard and a thick, wide nose. “It’s not even second moon yet, sir,” Shallan said in what she hoped was a boyish voice. He frowned at her. What had she said? Sir, she realized. He’s not an officer. “Report at the guard posts from now on when you visit,” the man said, pointing toward a small, lit area in the
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distance behind them. “We’re going to start keeping a secure perimeter.” “Yes, Sergeant.” “Oh, stop harassing the lad, Hav,” the other soldier said. “You can’t expect him to know rules that half the soldiers don’t even know yet.” “On with you,” Hav said, waving Shallan through. She hastened to obey. A secure perimeter? She didn’t envy these men that task. Amaram didn’t have a wall to keep people out, just some striped posts. Amaram’s manor was relatively small—two stories, with a handful of rooms on each floor. It might once have been a tavern, and was temporary, as he’d only just arrived at the warcamps. Stacked piles of crembrick and stone nearby indicated some far grander building was being planned. Near the piles stood other buildings that had been appropriated as barracks for Amaram’s personal guard, which included only about fifty men. Most of the soldiers he’d brought, recruited from Sadeas’s lands and sworn to him, would billet elsewhere. Once she got close to Amaram’s home, she ducked beside an outbuilding and squatted down. She’d spent three evenings scouting this area, wearing a different face each time. Perhaps that had been overly cautious. She wasn’t certain. She’d never done anything like this before. Fingers trembling, she took off her cap—that part of the costume was real—and let her hair spill around her shoulders. Then she dug a folded picture out of her pocket and waited. Minutes passed as she stared at the manor. Come on . . . she thought. Come on . . . Finally, a young darkeyed woman stepped out of the manor, arm-in-arm with a tall man in trousers and a loose buttoned shirt. The woman tittered as her friend said something, then she scampered off into the night, the man calling after her and following. The maid—Shallan still hadn’t been able to learn her name—left every night at this time. Twice with this man. Once with another. Shallan took a deep breath, drawing in Stormlight, then held up the picture she’d drawn of the girl earlier. About Shallan’s height, hair about the same length, similar enough build . . . It would have to do. She breathed out, and became someone else. She giggles and laughs, Shallan thought, plucking off her masculine gloves and replacing the one on the safehand with a tan feminine one, and often prances about, walking on her toes. Her voice is higher than mine, and she doesn’t have an accent. Shallan had practiced sounding right, but hopefully she wouldn’t need to find out how believable her voice was. All she had to do was go in the door, up the stairs, and slip into the appropriate room. Easy. She stood up, holding her breath and living off the Stormlight, and strode toward the building. * * * Kaladin hit the bottom of the chasm in a glowing storm of Light. He took off at a jog, spear over his shoulder. It was difficult to stand still with Stormlight in his veins. He dropped a few of the pouches of spheres to use later.
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The Stormlight rising from his exposed skin was enough to illuminate the chasm, and it cast shadows on the walls as he ran. Those seemed to become figures, crafted by the bones and branches stretching from the heaps on the ground. Bodies and souls. His movement made the shadows twist, as if turning to regard him. He ran with a silent audience, then. Syl flew down as a ribbon of light and took up position beside his head, matching his speed. He leaped over obstacles and splashed through puddles, letting his muscles warm to the exercise. Then he jumped up onto the wall. He hit awkwardly, tripping and rolling through some frillblooms. He came to rest facedown, lying on the wall. He growled and pushed himself to his feet as Stormlight sealed a small cut on his arm. Jumping onto the wall felt too unnatural; when he hit, it took time to orient himself. He started running again, sucking in more Stormlight, accustoming himself to the change of perspective. When he reached the next gap between plateaus, to his eyes it looked as if he’d reached a deep pit. The walls of the chasm were his floor and ceiling. He hopped off the wall, focused on the floor of the chasm, and blinked—willing that direction to become down to him again. He landed in another stumble, and this time tripped into a puddle. He rolled over onto his back, sighing, lying in the cold water. Crem that had settled to the bottom squished between his fingers as he clenched fists. Syl landed on his chest, taking the form of a young woman. She put hands on her hips. “What?” he asked. “That was pathetic.” “Agreed.” “Maybe you’re taking it a little too quickly,” she said. “Why not try to jump onto the wall without a running start?” “The assassin could do it this way,” Kaladin said. “I need to be able to fight like he does.” “I see. And I suppose he started doing all of this the moment he was born, without any practice at all.” Kaladin exhaled softly. “You sound like Tukks used to.” “Oh? Was he brilliant, beautiful, and always right?” “He was loud, intolerant, and profoundly acerbic,” Kaladin said, standing up. “But yes, he was basically always right.” He faced the wall and leaned his spear against it. “Szeth called this ‘Lashing.’” “A good term,” Syl said, nodding. “Well, to get this down, I’m going to have to practice some fundamentals.” Just like learning a spear. That probably meant hopping onto and off the wall a couple hundred times. Better than dying on that assassin’s Shardblade, he thought, and got to it. * * * Shallan stepped into Amaram’s kitchens, trying to move with the energetic grace of the girl whose face she wore. The large room smelled strongly of the curry simmering over the hearth—the remnants of the night’s meal, waiting in case any lighteyes got peckish. The cook browsed a novel in the corner while her girls scrubbed pots. The room was well lit with spheres.
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Amaram apparently trusted his servants. A long flight of steps led up to the second floor, providing quick access for servants to bring meals to Amaram. Shallan had drawn a layout of the building from guesses based on window locations. The room with the secrets had been easy to locate—Amaram had the windows shuttered, and never opened them. She’d guessed right about the stairwell in the kitchens, it seemed. She strode toward those steps, humming to herself, as the woman she imitated often did. “Back already?” the cook said, not looking up from her novel. She was Herdazian, from the accent. “His gift tonight wasn’t nice enough? Or did the other one spot you two together?” Shallan said nothing, trying to cover her anxiety with the humming. “Might as well put you to use,” the cook said. “Stine wanted someone to polish mirrors for him. He’s in the study, cleaning the master’s flutes.” Flutes? A soldier like Amaram had flutes? What would the cook do if Shallan bolted up the stairs and ignored the order? The woman was probably high ranked for a darkeyes. An important member of the household staff. The cook didn’t look up from her novel, but continued softly. “Don’t think we haven’t noticed you sneaking off during midday, child. Just because the master is fond of you doesn’t mean you can take advantage. Go to work. Spending your free evening cleaning instead of playing might remind you that you have duties.” Gritting her teeth, Shallan looked up those steps toward her goal. The cook slowly lowered her novel. Her frown seemed the type that one didn’t disobey. Shallan nodded, moving away from the steps and into the corridor beyond. There would be another set of steps upward in the front hall. She’d just have to make her way in that direction and— Shallan froze in place as a figure stepped into the hallway from a side room. Tall with a square face and angular nose, the man wore a lighteyed outfit of modern design: an open jacket over a buttoned shirt, stiff trousers, a stock tied in place at his neck. Storms! Highlord Amaram—fashionable or otherwise—was not supposed to be in the building today. Adolin had said that Amaram was dining with Dalinar and the king tonight. Why was he here? Amaram stood looking over a ledger in his hand, and didn’t seem to have noticed her. He turned away from her and strolled down the corridor. Run. It was her immediate reaction. Escape out the front doors, vanish into the night. The problem was, she’d spoken to the cook. When the woman Shallan was imitating came back later, she’d be in a storm of trouble—and she’d be able to prove, with witnesses, that she hadn’t come back into the house earlier. Whatever Shallan did, there was a good chance that once she was gone, Amaram would find out that someone had been sneaking about, imitating one of his maids. Stormfather! She’d only just stepped into the building, and already she’d messed everything up. Stairs creaked up ahead.
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Amaram was going up to his room, the one Shallan was supposed to inspect. The Ghostbloods will be mad at me for alerting Amaram, Shallan thought, but they’ll be even angrier if I do that and then return with no information. She had to get into that room, alone. That meant she couldn’t let Amaram enter it. Shallan scrambled after him, rushing into the entry hall and twisting around the newel post to propel herself up the stairs. Amaram reached the top landing and turned toward the hallway. Maybe he wouldn’t go in that room. She wasn’t so lucky. As Shallan scurried up the steps, Amaram turned toward just that door and raised a key, slipping it into the lock and turning it. “Brightlord Amaram,” Shallan said, out of breath as she reached the top landing. He turned toward her, frowning. “Telesh? Weren’t you going out tonight?” Well, at least she knew her name now. Did Amaram really take such an interest in his servants as to be aware of a lowly maid’s evening plans? “I did, Brightlord,” Shallan said, “but I came back.” Need a distraction. But not something too suspicious. Think! Was he going to notice that the voice was different? “Telesh,” Amaram said, shaking his head. “You still can’t choose between them? I promised your good father I’d see you cared for. How can I do that if you won’t settle down?” “It’s not that, Brightlord,” Shallan said quickly. “Hav stopped a messenger on the perimeter coming for you. He sent me back to tell you.” “Messenger?” Amaram said, slipping the key back out of the lock. “From whom?” “Hav didn’t say, Brightlord. He seemed to think it was important, though.” “That man . . .” Amaram said with a sigh. “He’s too protective. He thinks he can keep a tight perimeter in this mess of a camp?” The highlord considered, then stuffed the key back in his pocket. “Better see what it’s about.” Shallan gave him a bow as he passed her by and trotted down the stairs. She counted to ten once he was out of sight, then scrambled to the door. It was still locked. “Pattern!” Shallan whispered. “Where are you?” He came out from the folds of her skirts, moving across the floor and then up the door until he was just before her, like a raised carving on the wood. “The lock?” Shallan asked. “It is a pattern,” he said, then grew very small and moved into the keyhole. She’d had him try a few more times on locks back in her rooms, and he’d been able to unlock those as he had Tyn’s trunk. The lock clicked, and she opened the door and slipped into the dark room. A sphere plucked from her dress pocket lit it for her. The secret room. The room with shutters always closed, kept locked at all times. A room that the Ghostbloods wanted so desperately to see. It was filled with maps. * * * The trick to jumping between surfaces wasn’t the landing, Kaladin discovered. It
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wasn’t about reflexes or timing. It wasn’t even about changing perspective. It was about fear. It was about that moment when, hanging in the air, his body lurched from being pulled down to being pulled sideways. His instincts weren’t equipped to deal with this shift. A primal part of him panicked every time down stopped being down. He ran at the wall and jumped, throwing his feet to the side. He couldn’t hesitate, couldn’t be afraid, couldn’t flinch. It was like teaching himself to dive face-first onto a stone surface without raising his hands for protection. He shifted his perspective and used Stormlight to make the wall become downward. He positioned his feet. Even still, in that brief moment, his instincts rebelled. The body knew, it knew, that he was going to fall back to the chasm floor. He would break bones, hit his head. He landed on the wall without stumbling. Kaladin stood up straight, surprised, and exhaled a deep breath, puffing with Stormlight. “Nice!” Syl said, zipping around him. “It’s unnatural,” Kaladin said. “No. I could never be involved in anything unnatural. It’s just . . . extranatural.” “You mean supernatural.” “No I don’t.” She laughed and zipped on ahead of him. It was unnatural—as walking wasn’t natural for a child who was just learning. It became natural over time. Kaladin was learning to crawl—and unfortunately, he’d soon be required to run. Like a child dropped in a whitespine’s lair. Learn quickly or be lunch. He ran along the wall, hopping over a shalebark outcropping, then jumped to the side and shifted to the floor of the chasm. He landed with only a slight stumble. Better. He ran after Syl and kept at it. * * * Maps. Shallan crept forward, her solitary sphere revealing a room draped with maps and strewn with papers. They were covered in glyphs that had been scribbled quickly, not made to be beautiful. She could barely read most of them. I’ve heard of this, she thought. The stormwarden script. The way they get around the restrictions on writing. Amaram was a stormwarden? A chart of times on one wall, listing highstorms and calculations of their next arrival—written in the same hand as the notes on the maps—seemed proof of that. Perhaps this was what the Ghostbloods were seeking: blackmail material. Stormwardens, as male scholars, made most people uncomfortable. Their use of glyphs in a way that was basically the same as writing, their secretive nature . . . Amaram was one of the most accomplished generals in all of Alethkar. He was respected even by those he fought. Exposing him as a stormwarden could seriously damage his reputation. Why would he bother with such strange hobbies? All of these maps faintly reminded her of the ones she’d discovered in her father’s study, after his death—though those had been of Jah Keved. “Watch outside, Pattern,” she said. “Bring me word quickly when Amaram returns to the building.” “Mmmm,” he buzzed, withdrawing. Aware that her time was short, Shallan hurried to the wall, holding up her
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sphere and taking Memories of the maps. The Shattered Plains? This map was far more extensive than any she’d seen before—and that included the Prime Map that she’d studied in the king’s Gallery of Maps. How had Amaram obtained something so extensive? She tried to work out the use of glyphs—there was no grammar to them that she could see. Glyphs weren’t meant to be used that way. They conveyed a single idea, not a string of thoughts. She read a few in a row. Origin . . . direction . . . uncertainty. . . . The place of the center is uncertain? That was probably what it meant. Other notes were similar, and she translated in her head. Perhaps pushing this direction will yield results. Warriors spotted watching from here. Other groupings of glyphs made no sense to her. This script was bizarre. Perhaps Pattern could translate it, but she certainly couldn’t. Aside from the maps, the walls were covered in long sheets of paper filled with writing, figures, and diagrams. Amaram was working on something, something big— Parshendi! she realized. That’s what those glyphs mean. Parap-shenesh-idi. The three glyphs individually meant three separate things—but together, their sounds made the word “Parshendi.” That was why some of the writings seemed like gibberish. Amaram was using some glyphs phonetically. He underlined them when he did this, and that allowed him to write in glyphs things that never should have worked. The stormwardens really were turning glyphs into a full script. Parshendi, she translated, still distracted by the nature of the characters, must know how to return the Voidbringers. What? Remove secret from them. Reach center before Alethi armies. Some of the writings were lists of references. Though they’d been translated to glyphs, she recognized some of the quotes from Jasnah’s work. They referred to the Voidbringers. Others were purported sketches of Voidbringers and other creatures of mythology. This was it, full proof that the Ghostbloods were interested in the same things Jasnah was. As was Amaram, apparently. Heart beating with excitement, Shallan turned around, looking over the room. Was the secret to Urithiru here? Had he found it? There was too much for Shallan to translate fully at the moment. The script was too difficult, and her thumping heart made her too nervous. Besides, Amaram would likely return very soon. She took Memories so she could sketch this all out later. As she did, the writings she translated in passing caused a new species of dread to rise within her. It seemed . . . it seemed that Highlord Amaram—paragon of Alethi honor—was actively trying to bring about the return of the Voidbringers. I have to stay a part of this, Shallan thought. I can’t afford to have the Ghostbloods cast me out for making a mess of this incursion. I need to discover what else they know. And I have to know why Amaram is doing what he does. She couldn’t just run tonight. She couldn’t risk leaving Amaram alerted that someone had infiltrated his secret room. She couldn’t botch
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this assignment. Shallan had to craft better lies. She pulled a sheet of paper from her pocket and slapped it onto the desk, then began to frantically draw. * * * Kaladin jumped off the wall at a careful speed, twisting to the side and landing back on the ground without breaking step. He wasn’t going very quickly, but at least he didn’t stumble anymore. With each jump, he shoved the visceral panic farther down. Up, back onto the wall. Down again. Again and again, sucking in Stormlight. Yes, this was natural. Yes, this was him. He continued running along the chasm bottom, feeling a surge of excitement. Shadows waved him on as he dodged between piles of bone and moss. He leaped over a large pool of water, but misjudged its size. He came down—about to splash into the shallow water. But by reflex, he looked upward and Lashed himself toward the sky. For a brief moment, Kaladin stopped falling down and fell up instead. His momentum continued forward, and he cleared the pool, then Lashed himself downward again. He landed in a trot, sweating. I could Lash myself upward, he thought, and fall into the sky forever. But no, that was how an ordinary person thought. A skyeel didn’t fear falling, did it? A fish didn’t fear drowning. Until he began thinking in a new way, he wouldn’t control this gift he had been given. And it was a gift. He would embrace this. The sky was now his. Kaladin shouted, dashing forward. He leaped and Lashed himself to the wall. No pausing, no hesitance, no fear. He hit at a dead run, and nearby, Syl laughed for joy. But that, that was simple. Kaladin jumped off the wall and looked directly above him at the opposite wall. He Lashed himself in that direction, and flung his body into a flip. He landed, going down on one knee upon what had been the ceiling to him a moment before. “You did it!” Syl said, flitting around him. “What changed?” “I did.” “Well, yeah, but what about you?” Syl asked. “Everything.” She frowned at him. He grinned back, then took off at a run along the side of the chasm. * * * Shallan strode down the mansion’s back steps to the kitchen, thumping each foot down harder than it would normally fall, trying to imitate being heavier than she was. The cook looked up from her novel and dropped it in a wide-eyed panic, moving to stand. “Brightlord!” “Remain seated,” Shallan mouthed, scratching at her face to mask her lips. Pattern spoke the words she’d told him to say in a perfect imitation of Amaram’s voice. The cook remained seated, as ordered. Hopefully, from that position, she wouldn’t notice that Amaram was shorter than he should be. Even walking on her tiptoes—which was masked by the illusion—she was much shorter than the highprince. “You spoke to the maid Telesh earlier,” Pattern said as Shallan mouthed the words. “Yes, Brightlord,” the cook said, speaking softly to match Pattern’s tone of voice.
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“I sent her off to work with Stine for the evening. I thought the girl needed a little direction.” “No,” Pattern said. “Her return was at my command. I have sent her out again, and told her not to speak of what happened tonight.” The cook frowned. “What . . . happened tonight?” “You are not to speak of this event. You interfered with something that is not of your concern. Pretend you did not see Telesh. Never speak of this event to me. If you do, I will pretend none of this happened. Do you understand?” The cook grew pale, and nodded her head, sinking down in her chair. Shallan nodded to her curtly, then walked from the kitchens out into the night. There, she ducked to the side of the building, heart pounding. A grin formed on her face anyway. Out of sight, she exhaled Stormlight in a cloud, then stepped forward. As she passed through it, the image of Amaram vanished, replaced by that of the messenger boy she’d been imitating before. She scrambled back to the front of the building and sat down on the steps, slumping and leaning with her head on her hand. Amaram and Hav walked up through the night, speaking softly. “. . . I didn’t notice that the girl had seen me talking to the messenger, Highlord,” Hav was saying. “She must have realized . . .” He trailed off as they saw Shallan. She hopped to her feet and bowed to Amaram. “It’s no matter now, Hav,” Amaram said, waving the soldier back to his rounds. “Highlord,” Shallan said. “I bring you a message.” “Obviously, darkborn,” the man said, stepping up to her. “What does he want?” “He?” Shallan asked. “This is from Shallan Davar.” Amaram cocked his head. “Who?” “Betrothed of Adolin Kholin,” she said. “She is trying to update the accounting of all of the Shardblades in Alethkar with pictures. She would like to schedule a time to come and do a sketch of yours, if you are willing.” “Oh,” Amaram said. He seemed to relax. “Yes, well, that would be fine. I am free most afternoons. Have her send someone to speak with my steward to arrange a meeting.” “Yes, Highlord. I’ll see that it is done.” Shallan moved to leave. “You came this late?” Amaram asked. “To ask such a simple question.” Shallan shrugged. “I don’t question the commands of lighteyes, Highlord. But my mistress, well, she can be distracted at times. I suppose she wanted me on her task while it was fresh in her mind. And she’s really interested in Shardblades.” “Who isn’t?” Amaram mused, turning away, speaking softly. “They’re wondrous things, aren’t they?” Was he talking to her, or to himself? Shallan hesitated. A sword formed in his hand, mist coalescing, water beading on its surface. Amaram held it up, looking at himself in the reflection. “Such beauty,” he said. “Such art. Why must we kill with our grandest creations? Ah, but I’m babbling, delaying you. I apologize. The Blade is still new to me.
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I find excuses to summon it.” Shallan was barely listening. A Blade with the back edge ridged like flowing waves. Or perhaps tongues of fire. Etchings all along its surface. Curved, sinuous. She knew this Blade. It belonged to her brother Helaran. * * * Kaladin charged through the chasm, and the wind joined him, blowing at his back. Syl soared before him as a ribbon of light. He reached a boulder in his way and jumped into the air, Lashing himself upward. He soared a good thirty feet upward before Lashing himself to the side and downward at the same time. The downward Lashing slowed his momentum upward; the sideways Lashing brought him to the wall. He dismissed the downward Lashing and hit the wall with one hand, twisting and throwing himself to his feet. He kept running along the chasm wall. When he reached the end of the plateau, he leaped toward the next one and Lashed himself at its wall instead. Faster! He held nearly all of the Stormlight he had left, fetched from the pouches he’d dropped earlier. He held so much that he glowed like a bonfire. It encouraged him as he jumped and Lashed himself forward, eastward. This made him fall through the chasm. The floor of the chasm whipped along beneath him, plants a blur to his sides. He had to remember that he was falling. This was not flight, and every second he moved, his speed increased. That didn’t stop the feeling of liberty, of ultimate freedom. It just meant this could be dangerous. The winds picked up and he Lashed himself backward at the last moment, slowing his descent as he crashed against a chasm wall before him. That direction was down to him now, so he stood and ran along it. He was using the Stormlight at a furious rate, but he didn’t need to scrimp. He was paid like a lighteyed officer of the sixth dahn, and his spheres held not tiny chips of gemstone, but broams. A month’s pay for him now was more than he had ever seen at a time, and the Stormlight it held was a vast fortune compared to what he’d once known. He shouted as he jumped a group of frillblooms, their fronds pulling in beneath him. He Lashed himself to the other chasm wall and crossed the chasm, landing on his hands. He threw himself back upward, and somehow Lashed himself only slightly in that direction. Now much lighter, he was able to twist in the air and come down on his feet. He stood on the wall, facing down the chasm, hands in fists and Light pouring off him. Syl hesitated, flitting around him back and forth. “What?” she asked. “More,” he said, then Lashed himself forward again, down the corridor. Fearless, he fell. This was his ocean to swim, his winds upon which to soar. He fell face-first toward the next plateau. Just before he arrived, he Lashed himself sideways and backward. His stomach lurched. He felt like someone had tied a
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rope around him and pushed him off a cliff, then yanked on the rope right as he reached the end of it. The Stormlight inside, however, made the discomfort negligible. He pulled sideways, into another chasm. Lashings sent him eastward again down another corridor, and he wove around plateaus, keeping to the chasms—like an eel swimming through the waves, swerving around boulders. Onward, faster, still falling . . . Teeth clenched at both the wonder and the forces twisting him, he tossed caution aside and Lashed himself upward. Once, twice, three times. He let go of all else, and amid the streaming Light, he shot from the chasms out into the open air above. He Lashed himself back to the east so that he could fall in that direction again, but now no plateau walls got in his way. He soared toward the horizon, distant, lost in the darkness. He gained speed, coat flapping, hair whipping behind him. Air buffeted his face, and he narrowed his eyes, but did not close them. Beneath, dark chasms passed one after another. Plateau. Pit. Plateau. Pit. This sensation . . . flying over the land . . . he had felt this before, in dreams. What took bridgemen hours to cross, he passed in minutes. He felt as if something were boosting him from behind, the wind itself carrying him. Syl zipped along to his right. And to his left? No, those were other windspren. He’d accumulated dozens of them, flying around him as ribbons of light. He could pick out Syl. He didn’t know how; she didn’t look different, but he could tell. Like you could pick a family member out of a crowd just by their walk. Syl and her cousins twisted around him in a spiral of light, free and loose, but with a hint of coordination. How long had it been since he felt this good, this triumphant, this alive? Not since before Tien’s death. Even after saving Bridge Four, darkness had shadowed him. That evaporated. He saw a spire of rock ahead on the plateaus, and nudged himself toward it with a careful Lashing to the right. Other Lashings to his rear slowed his fall enough that when he hit the tip of the spire of rock, he could clutch to it and spin around it, fingers on the smooth cremstone. A hundred windspren broke around him, like the crash of a wave, spraying outward from Kaladin in a fan of light. He grinned. Then he looked upward, toward the sky. * * * Highlord Amaram continued to stare at the Shardblade in the night. He held it up before him in the light spilling from the front of the manor house. Shallan remembered her father’s quiet terror as he looked upon that weapon, leveled toward him. Could it be a coincidence? Two weapons that looked the same? Perhaps her memory was flawed. No. No, she would never forget the look of that Blade. It was the one Helaran had held. And no two Blades were the same. “Brightlord,” Shallan
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said, drawing Amaram’s attention. He seemed startled, as if he’d forgotten she was there. “Yes?” “Brightness Shallan,” she said, “wants to make certain the records are all correct and that the histories of the Blades and Plate in the Alethi army have been properly traced. Your Blade is not in them. She asked if you would mind sharing the origin of your Blade, in the name of scholarship.” “I’ve explained this to Dalinar already,” Amaram said. “I don’t know the history of my Shards. Both were in the possession of an assassin who tried to kill me. A younger man. Veden, with red hair. We don’t know his name, and his face was ruined in my counterattack. I had to stab him through his faceplate, you see.” Young man. Red hair. She stood before her brother’s killer. “I . . .” Shallan stammered, feeling sick. “Thank you. I will pass the information along.” She turned, trying not to stumble as she walked away. She finally knew what had happened to Helaran. You were involved in all of this, weren’t you, Helaran? she thought. Just like Father was. But how, why? It seemed that Amaram was trying to bring back the Voidbringers. Helaran had tried to kill him. But would anyone really want to bring back the Voidbringers? Perhaps she was mistaken. She needed to get to her rooms, draw those maps from the Memories she’d taken, and try to figure this all out. The guards, blessedly, did not give her any further troubles as she slipped away from Amaram’s camp and into the anonymity of the darkness. That was well, for if they’d looked closely, they’d have seen the messenger boy with tears in his eyes. Crying for a brother that now, once and for all, Shallan knew was dead. * * * Upward. One Lashing, then another, then a third. Kaladin shot up into the sky. Nothing but open expanse, an infinite sea for his delight. The air grew cold. Still upward he went, reaching for the clouds. Finally, worried about running out of Stormlight before returning to the ground—he had only one infused sphere left, carried in his pocket for an emergency—Kaladin reluctantly Lashed himself downward. He didn’t fall downward immediately; his momentum upward merely slowed. He was still Lashed to the sky; he hadn’t dismissed the upward Lashings. Curious, he Lashed himself downward to slow further, then dismissed all of his Lashings except one up and one down. He eventually came to a stop hanging in midair. The second moon had risen, bathing the Plains in light far below. From here, they looked like a broken plate. No . . . he thought, squinting. It’s a pattern. He’d seen this before. In a dream. Wind blew against him, causing him to drift like a kite. The windspren he’d attracted scampered away now that he wasn’t riding upon the winds. Funny. He’d never realized one could attract windspren as one attracted the spren of emotions. All you had to do was fall into the sky. Syl remained, spinning around him
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in a swirl until finally coming to rest on his shoulder. She sat, then looked down. “Not many men ever see this view,” she noted. From up here, the warcamps—circles of fire to his right—seemed insignificant. It was cold enough to be uncomfortable. Rock claimed the air was thinner up high, though Kaladin couldn’t tell any difference. “I’ve been trying to get you to do this for a while now,” Syl said. “It’s like when I first picked up a spear,” Kaladin whispered. “I was just a child. Were you with me back then? All that time ago?” “No,” Syl said, “and yes.” “It can’t be both.” “It can. I knew I needed to find you. And the winds knew you. They led me to you.” “So everything I’ve done,” Kaladin said. “My skill with the spear, the way I fight. That’s not me. It’s you.” “It’s us.” “It’s cheating. Unearned.” “Nonsense,” Syl said. “You practice every day.” “I have an advantage.” “The advantage of talent,” Syl said. “When the master musician first picks up an instrument and finds music in it that nobody else can, is that cheating? Is that art unearned, just because she is naturally more skilled? Or is it genius?” Kaladin Lashed himself westward, back toward the warcamps. He didn’t want to leave himself stranded in the middle of the Shattered Plains without Stormlight. The tempest within had calmed greatly since he started. He fell in that direction for a time—getting as close as he dared before slowing himself—then removed part of the upward Lashing and began to drift downward. “I’ll take it,” Kaladin said. “Whatever it is that gives me that edge. I’ll use it. I’ll need it to beat him.” Syl nodded, still sitting on his shoulder. “You don’t think he has a spren,” Kaladin said. “But how does he do what he does?” “The weapon,” Syl said, more confidently than she had before. “It’s something special. It was created to give abilities to men, much as our bond does.” Kaladin nodded, light wind ruffling his jacket as he fell through the night. “Syl . . .” How to broach this? “I can’t fight him without a Shardblade.” She looked the other way, squeezing her arms together, hugging herself. Such human gestures. “I’ve avoided the training with the Blades that Zahel offers,” Kaladin continued. “It’s hard to justify. I need to learn how to use one of those weapons.” “They’re evil,” she said in a small voice. “Because they’re symbols of the knights’ broken oaths,” Kaladin said. “But where did they come from in the first place? How were they forged?” Syl didn’t answer. “Can a new one be forged? One that doesn’t bear the stain of broken promises?” “Yes.” “How?” She didn’t reply. They floated downward for a time in silence until gently coming to rest on a dark plateau. Kaladin got his bearings, then walked over and drifted off the edge, going down into the chasms. He wouldn’t want to walk back using the bridges. The scouts would find it odd that he was
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coming back without having gone out. Storms. They’d have seen him flying out here, wouldn’t they? What would they think? Were any close enough to have seen him land? Well, he couldn’t do anything about that now. He reached the bottom of the chasm and started walking back toward the warcamps, his Stormlight slowly dying out, leaving him in darkness. He felt deflated without it, sluggish, tired. He fished the last infused sphere from his pocket and used it to light his path. “There’s a question you’re avoiding,” Syl said, landing on his shoulder. “It’s been two days. When are you going to tell Dalinar about those men that Moash took you to meet?” “He didn’t listen when I told him about Amaram.” “This is obviously different,” Syl said. It was, and she was right. So why hadn’t he told Dalinar? “Those men didn’t seem the type who would wait long,” Syl said. “I’ll do something about them,” Kaladin said. “I just want to think about it some more. I don’t want Moash to get caught in the storm when we bring them down.” She fell silent as he walked the rest of the way, retrieving his spear, then climbed the ladder up onto the plateaus. The sky overhead had grown cloudy, but the weather had been turning toward spring lately. Enjoy it while you can, he thought. The Weeping comes soon. Weeks of ceaseless rain. No Tien to cheer him up. His brother had always been able to do that. Amaram had taken that from him. Kaladin lowered his head and started walking. At the warcamps’ edge, he turned right and walked northward. “Kaladin?” Syl asked, flitting in beside him. “Why are you walking this way?” He looked up. This was the way toward Sadeas’s camp. Dalinar’s camp was the other direction. Kaladin kept walking. “Kaladin? What are you doing?” Finally, he stopped in place. Amaram would be there, just ahead, inside Sadeas’s camp somewhere. It was late, Nomon inching toward its zenith. “I could end him,” Kaladin said. “Enter his window in a flash of Stormlight, kill him, and be off before anyone has time to react. So easy. Everyone would blame it on the Assassin in White.” “Kaladin . . .” “It’s justice, Syl,” he said, suddenly angry, turning toward her. “You tell me that I need to protect. If I kill him, that’s what I’m doing! Protecting people, keeping him from ruining them. Like he ruined me.” “I don’t like how you get,” she said, seeming small, “when you think about him. You stop being you. You stop thinking. Please.” “He killed Tien,” Kaladin said. “I will end him, Syl.” “But tonight?” Syl asked. “After what you just discovered, after what you just did?” He took a deep breath, remembering the thrill of the chasms and the freedom of flight. He’d felt true joy for the first time in what seemed like ages. Did he want to taint that memory with Amaram? No. Not even with the man’s demise, which would surely be a wonderful day. “All right,”
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he said, turning back toward Dalinar’s camp. “Not tonight.” Evening stew was finished by the time Kaladin arrived back at the barracks. He passed the fire, where embers still glowed, and made his way to his room. Syl zipped up into the air. She’d ride the winds overnight, playing with her cousins. So far as he knew, she didn’t need sleep. He stepped into his private room, feeling tired and drained, but in a pleasing way. It— Someone stirred in the room. Kaladin spun, leveling his spear, and sucked in the last light of the sphere he’d been using to guide his way. The Light that streamed off him revealed a red and black face. Shen looked disturbingly eerie in those shadows, like an evil spren from the stories. “Shen,” Kaladin said, lowering his spear. “What in the—” “Sir,” Shen said. “I must leave.” Kaladin frowned. “I am sorry,” Shen added speaking in his slow, deliberate way. “I cannot tell you why.” He seemed to be waiting for something, his hands tense on his spear. The spear Kaladin had given him. “You’re a free man, Shen,” Kaladin said. “I won’t keep you here if you feel you must go, but I don’t know that there is another place you can go where you will be able to make good on your freedom.” Shen nodded, then moved to walk past Kaladin. “You are leaving tonight?” “Immediately.” “The guards at the edges of the Plains might try to stop you.” Shen shook his head. “Parshmen do not flee captivity. They will see only a slave doing some assigned task. I will leave your spear beside the fire.” He walked to the door, but then hesitated beside Kaladin, and placed a hand on his shoulder. “You are a good man, Captain. I have learned much. My name is not Shen. It is Rlain.” “May the winds treat you well, Rlain.” “The winds are not what I fear,” Rlain said. He patted Kaladin’s shoulder, then took a deep breath as if anticipating something difficult, and stepped from the chamber. Adolin slapped away Elit’s Shardblade with his forearm. Shardbearers didn’t use shields—each section of Plate was stronger than stone. He swept in, using Windstance as he moved across the sand of the arena. Win Shards for me, son. Adolin flowed through the stance’s strikes, one direction then the other, forcing Elit away. The man scrambled, Plate leaking from a dozen places where Adolin had struck him. Any hope for a peaceful end to the war on the Shattered Plains was gone. Done for. He knew how much his father had wanted that end, and the Parshendi arrogance made him angry. Frustrated. He kept that down. He could not be consumed by it. He moved smoothly through the stance, careful, maintaining a calm serenity. Elit had apparently expected Adolin to be reckless, as in his first duel for Shards. Elit kept backing up, waiting for that moment of recklessness. Adolin didn’t give it to him. Today, he fought with precision—exacting form and stance, nothing out of place. Downplaying
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his ability in his previous duel had not coaxed anyone powerful into agreeing to a bout. Adolin had barely persuaded Elit. Time for a different tactic. Adolin passed where Sadeas, Aladar, and Ruthar watched. The core of the coalition against Father. By now, each of them had gone on plateau runs illicitly, getting to the plateau and stealing the gemheart before those assigned could arrive. Each time, they paid the fines Dalinar levied for their disobedience. Dalinar couldn’t do anything more to them without risking open war. But Adolin could punish them in other ways. Elit stumbled back, wary, as Adolin swept in. The man tested forward, and Adolin slapped the Blade away, then brought in a backhand and clipped Elit’s forearm. It, too, started to leak Stormlight. The crowd murmured, conversations rising over the arena. Elit came in again, and Adolin slapped away his strikes, but did not counterattack. Ideal form. Each step in place. The Thrill rose within him, but he shoved it down. He was disgusted by the highprinces and their squabbling, but today he would not show them that fury. Instead, he’d show them perfection. “He’s trying to wear you down, Elit!” Ruthar’s voice from the stands nearby. In his younger years, he’d been something of a duelist himself, though nowhere near as good as Dalinar or Aladar. “Don’t let him!” Adolin smiled inside his helm as Elit nodded and dashed forward in Smokestance, thrusting with his Blade. A gamble. Most contests against Plate were won by breaking sections, but at times you could drive the point of your Blade through a joint between plates, cracking them and scoring a hit. It was also a way to try to wound your opponent, more than just defeat him. Adolin calmly stepped back and used the proper Windstance sweeps for parrying a thrust. Elit’s weapon clanged away, and the crowd grumbled further. First, Adolin had given them a brutal show, which had annoyed them. Then, he’d given them a close fight, with plenty of excitement. This time, he did something opposite of both, refusing the exciting clashes that were often so much a part of a duel. He stepped to the side and swung to score a slight hit on Elit’s helm. It leaked from a small crack. Not as much as it should, however. Excellent. Elit growled audibly from within his helm, then came in with another thrust. Right at Adolin’s faceplate. Trying to kill me, are you? Adolin thought, taking one hand from his Blade and raising it just under Elit’s oncoming Blade, letting it slide between his thumb and forefinger. Elit’s Blade ground along Adolin’s hand as he lifted upward and to the right. It was a move that you could never perform without Plate—you’d end with your hand sliced in half if you tried that on a regular sword, worse if you tried it on a Shardblade. With Plate, he easily guided the thrust up past his head, then swept in with his other hand, slamming his Blade against Elit’s side. Some in the crowd cheered
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at the straight-on blow. Others booed, however. The classical strike there would have been to hit Elit’s head, trying to shatter the helm. Elit stumbled forward, knocked off balance by the missed thrust and subsequent blow. Adolin heaved against him with a shoulder, throwing him to the ground. Then, instead of pouncing, he stepped backward. More booing. Elit stood up, then took a step. He lurched slightly, then took another step. Adolin backed up and set his Blade with the point toward the ground, waiting. Overhead, the sky rumbled. It would probably rain later today—not a highstorm, thankfully. Just a mundane rainshower. “Fight me!” Elit shouted from within his helm. “I have.” Adolin replied quietly. “And I’ve won.” Elit lurched forward. Adolin backed up. To the boos of the crowd, he waited until Elit locked up completely—his Plate out of Stormlight. The dozens of small cracks Adolin had put in the man’s armor had finally added up. Then, Adolin strolled forward, placed a hand against Elit’s chest, and shoved him over. He crashed to the ground. Adolin looked up at Brightlady Istow, highjudge. “Judgment,” the highjudge said with a sigh, “again goes to Adolin Kholin. The victor. Elit Ruthar forfeits his Plate.” The crowd didn’t much like it. Adolin turned to face them, sweeping his Blade a few times before dismissing it to mist. He removed his helm and bowed to their boos. Behind, his armorers—whom he’d prepared for this—rushed out and pushed away those of Elit. They pulled off the Plate, which now belonged to Adolin. He smiled, and when they were done, followed them into the staging room beneath the seats. Renarin waited by the door, wearing his own Plate, and Aunt Navani sat by the room’s brazier. Renarin peeked out at the dissatisfied crowds. “Stormfather. The first duel like this you did, you were done in under a minute, and they hated you. Today you were at it for the better part of an hour, and they seem to hate you more.” Adolin sat down with a sigh on one of the benches. “I won.” “You did,” Navani said, stepping up, inspecting him as if for wounds. She was always worried when he dueled. “But weren’t you supposed to do it with great fanfare?” Renarin nodded. “That’s what Father asked for.” “This will be remembered,” Adolin said, accepting a cup of water from Peet, one of the bridgeman guards for the day. He nodded thankfully. “Fanfare is about making everyone pay attention. This will work.” He hoped. The next part was as important. “Aunt,” Adolin said as she started writing a prayer of thanks. “Have you given any thought to what I asked?” Navani kept drawing. “Shallan’s work really does sound important,” Adolin said. “I mean—” A knock came at the door to the chamber. So quickly? Adolin thought, rising. One of the bridgemen opened the door. Shallan Davar burst in, wearing a violet dress, red hair flaring as she crossed the room. “That was incredible!” “Shallan!” She wasn’t the person he’d been expecting—but he wasn’t unhappy to see
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her. “I checked your seat before the fight and you weren’t there.” “I forgot to burn a prayer,” she said, “so I stopped to do so. I caught most of the fight, though.” She hesitated right before him, seeming awkward for a moment. Adolin shared that awkwardness. They had only been officially courting for little more than a week, but with the causal in place . . . what was their relationship? Navani cleared her throat. Shallan spun and raised her freehand to her lips, as if having only just noticed the former queen. “Brightness,” she said, and bowed. “Shallan,” Navani said. “I hear only good things from my nephew regarding you.” “Thank you.” “I will leave you two, then,” Navani said, walking toward the door, her glyphward unfinished. “Brightness . . .” Shallan said, raising a hand toward her. Navani left and pulled the door closed. Shallan lowered her hand, and Adolin winced. “Sorry,” Adolin said. “I’ve been trying to talk to her about it. I think she needs a few more days, Shallan. She’ll come around—she knows that she shouldn’t be ignoring you, I can sense it. You just remind her of what happened.” Shallan nodded, looking disappointed. Adolin’s armorers came over to help him remove his Plate, but he waved them away. It was bad enough to show her his sloppy hair, plastered to his head from being in the helm. His clothing underneath—a padded uniform—would look awful. “So, uh, you liked the duel?” he asked. “You were wonderful,” Shallan said, turning back to him. “Elit kept jumping at you, and you just brushed him off like an annoying cremling trying to crawl up your leg.” Adolin grinned. “The rest of the crowd didn’t think it was wonderful.” “They came to see you get stomped,” she said. “You were so inconsiderate for not giving that to them.” “I’m quite stingy in that regard,” Adolin said. “You almost never lose, from what I’ve discovered. Awfully boring of you. Maybe you should try for a tie now and then. For variety.” “I’ll consider it,” he said. “We can discuss it, perhaps over dinner this evening? At my father’s warcamp?” Shallan grimaced. “I’m busy this evening. Sorry.” “Oh.” “But,” she said, stepping closer. “I might have a gift for you soon. I haven’t had much time to study—I’ve been working hard to reconstruct Sebarial’s house ledgers—but I might have stumbled upon something that can help you. With your duels.” “What?” he asked, frowning. “I remembered something from King Gavilar’s biography. It would require you to win a duel in a spectacular way, though. Something amazing, something that would awe the crowd.” “Fewer boos, then,” Adolin said, scratching at his head. “I think everyone would appreciate that,” Renarin noted from beside the door. “Spectacular . . .” Adolin said. “I’ll explain more tomorrow,” Shallan said. “What happens tomorrow?” “You’re feeding me dinner.” “I am?” “And taking me on a walk,” she said. “I am?” “Yes.” “I’m a lucky man.” He smiled at her. “All right, then, we can—” The door slammed open. Adolin’s
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bridgeman guards jumped, and Renarin cursed, standing up. Adolin just turned, gently moving Shallan to the side so he could see who was standing beyond. Relis, current dueling champion and Highprince Ruthar’s eldest son. As expected. “What,” Relis demanded, stalking into the room, “was that?” He was followed by a small gaggle of other lighteyes, including Brightlady Istow, the highjudge. “You insult me and my house, Kholin.” Adolin clasped his gauntleted hands behind his back as Relis stalked right up to him, shoving his face into Adolin’s. “You didn’t like the duel?” Adolin asked casually. “That was not a duel,” Relis snapped. “You embarrassed my cousin by refusing to fight properly. I demand that this farce be invalidated.” “I’ve told you, Prince Relis,” Istow said from behind. “Prince Adolin didn’t break any—” “You want your cousin’s Plate back?” Adolin asked quietly, meeting Relis’s eyes. “Fight me for it.” “I won’t be goaded by you,” Relis said, tapping the center of Adolin’s breastplate. “I won’t let you pull me into another of your dueling farces.” “Six Shards, Relis,” Adolin said. “Mine, those of my brother, Eranniv’s Plate, and your cousin’s Plate. I wager them all on a single bout. You and me.” “You are a dunnard if you think I’ll agree to that,” Relis snapped. “Too afraid?” Adolin asked. “You’re beneath me, Kholin. These last two fights prove it. You don’t even know how to duel anymore—all you know are tricks.” “Then you should be able to beat me easily.” Relis wavered, shifting from one foot to the other. Finally, he pointed at Adolin again. “You’re a bastard, Kholin. I know you fought my cousin to embarrass my father and myself. I refuse to be goaded.” He turned to leave. Something spectacular, Adolin thought, glancing at Shallan. Father asked for fanfare. . . . “If you’re afraid,” Adolin said, looking back to Relis, “you don’t have to duel me alone.” Relis stopped in place. He looked back. “Are you saying you’ll take me on with anyone else at the same time?” “I am,” Adolin said. “I’ll fight you and whomever you bring, together.” “You are a fool,” Relis breathed. “Yes or no?” “Two days,” Relis snapped. “Here in the arena.” He looked to the highjudge. “You witness this?” “I do,” she said. Relis stormed out. The others trailed after. The highjudge lingered, regarding Adolin. “You realize what you have done.” “I know the dueling conventions quite well. Yes. I’m aware.” She sighed, but nodded, walking out. Peet closed the door, then looked at Adolin, raising an eyebrow. Great. Now he was getting attitude from the bridgemen. Adolin sank back down on the bench. “Will that do for spectacular?” he asked Shallan. “You really think you can beat two at once?” she asked. Adolin didn’t reply. Fighting two men at once was hard, particularly if they were both Shardbearers. They could gang up on you, flank you, blindside you. It was far harder than fighting two in a row. “I don’t know,” he said. “But you wanted spectacular. So I’ll try for spectacular. Now,
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I hope you actually have a plan.” Shallan sat down next to him. “What do you know of Highprince Yenev . . . ?” Shallan stepped from the carriage into a light rainfall. She wore the white coat and trousers of the darkeyed version of herself that she’d named Veil. Rain sprinkled on the brim of her hat. She’d spent too long talking with Adolin after his duel, and had needed to rush to make it to this appointment, which was happening in the Unclaimed Hills a good hour’s ride out of the warcamps. But she was here, in costume, on time. Barely. She strode forward, listening to the rain patter on stone around her. She had always liked rainfalls like these. The younger sisters of highstorms, they brought life without the fury. Even the desolate stormlands here west of the warcamps bloomed with the advent of water. Rockbuds split, and though these didn’t have blossoms like the ones back home, they did put out vibrant green vines. Grass rose thirstily from holes and refused to retreat until it was practically stepped on. Some reeds produced flowers to entice cremlings, which would feast upon the petals and in so doing rub themselves with spores that would give rise to the next generation, once mixed with the spores of other plants. If she’d been at home, there would be far more vines—so many that it would be hard to walk without tripping. Going out in a wooded area would require a machete to move more than a couple of feet. Here, the vegetation became colorful, but not an impediment. Shallan smiled at the wonderful surroundings, the light rainfall, the beautiful plant life. A little dampness was a small price to pay for the melodious sound of sprinkling rain, for fresh clean air and a beautiful sky full of clouds that varied in every shade of grey. Shallan walked with a waterproof satchel under her arm, the hired carriage driver—she couldn’t use Sebarial’s coach for today’s activity—awaiting her return as she’d instructed. This coach was pulled by parshmen instead of horses, but they were faster than chulls and had worked well enough. She hiked toward a hillside ahead of her, the destination indicated on the map she’d received via spanreed. She wore a nice pair of sturdy boots. This clothing of Tyn’s might be unusual, but Shallan was glad for it. The coat and hat kept off the rain, and the boots gave her sure footing on the slick rock. She rounded the hill and found that it was broken on the other side, the rock having cracked and fallen in a small avalanche. The strata of hardened crem were clearly visible on the edges of the chunks of rock, which meant this was a newer fracture. If it had been old, new crem would have obscured that coloring. The crack made a small valley in the hillside—full of clefts and ridges from the crumbled rock. These had caught spores and windborne stems, and that in turn had created an explosion of life. Wherever
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sheltered from the wind, plants would find purchase and start to grow. The snarl of green grew haphazardly—this was not a true lait, where life would be safe over time, but instead a temporary shelter, good for a few years at most. For now, plants grew eagerly, sometimes atop one another, sprouting, blossoming, shaking, twisting, alive. It was an example of raw nature. The pavilion, however, was not. It covered four people who sat in chairs too fine for the surroundings. Snacking, they were warmed by a brazier at the center of the open-sided tent. Shallan approached, taking Memories of the people’s faces. She’d draw those later, as she had done with the first group of the Ghostbloods she’d met. Two of them were the same as last time. Two were not. The discomforting woman with the mask did not seem to be present. Mraize, standing tall and proud, inspected his long blowgun. He did not look up as Shallan stepped under the awning. “I like to learn to use the local weapons,” Mraize said. “It is a quirk, though I feel it is justified. If you want to understand a people, learn their weapons. The way men kill one another says far more about a culture than any scholar’s ethnography.” He raised his weapon toward Shallan, and she froze in place. Then he turned toward the crack and puffed, blowing a dart into the foliage. Shallan stepped up beside him. The dart pinned a cremling to one of the plant stems. The small, many-legged creature spasmed and thrashed, trying to get free, though surely having a dart sticking through it would prove lethal. “This is a Parshendi blowgun,” Mraize noted. “What does it say about them, do you suppose, little knife?” “It’s obviously not for killing big game,” Shallan said. “Which makes sense. The only big game I know of in the area are the chasmfiends, which the Parshendi are said to have worshipped as gods.” She wasn’t convinced that they actually did. Early reports—which she’d read in detail at Jasnah’s insistence—made the assumption that the Parshendi gods were the chasmfiends. It wasn’t actually clear. “They probably used it for stalking small game,” Shallan continued. “Which means they hunted for food, rather than pleasure.” “Why do you say this?” Mraize asked. “Men who glory in the hunt seek grand captures,” Shallan said. “Trophies. That blowgun is the weapon of a man who simply wants to feed his family.” “And if he used it against other men?” “It wouldn’t be useful in war,” Shallan said. “Too short a range, I’d guess, and the Parshendi have bows anyway. Maybe this could be used in assassination, though I’d be very curious to discover if it was.” “And why is that?” Mraize asked. A test of some sort. “Well,” Shallan said, “most indigenous populations—the Silnasen natives, the Reshi peoples, the runners of the Iri plains—have no real concept of assassination. From what I know, they don’t seem to have much use for battle at all. Hunters are too valuable, and so a ‘war’ in these
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cultures will involve a lot of shouting and posturing, but few deaths. That kind of boastful society doesn’t seem the type to have assassins.” And yet the Parshendi had sent one. Against the Alethi. Mraize was studying her—watching her with unreadable eyes, long blowgun held lightly in his fingertips. “I see,” he finally said, “Tyn chose a scholar to be her apprentice this time around? I find that unusual.” Shallan blushed. It occurred to her that this person she became when she put on the hat and dark hair was not an imitation of someone else, not a different person. It was just a version of Shallan herself. That could be dangerous. “So,” Mraize said, fishing another dart from his shirt pocket, “what excuse did Tyn give you today?” “Excuse?” Shallan asked. “For failing in her mission.” Mraize loaded the dart. Failing? Shallan began to sweat, cold prickles on her forehead. But she’d watched to see if anything out of the ordinary happened at Amaram’s camp! This morning, she’d gone back—the real reason she’d been late to Adolin’s duel—while wearing the face of a worker. She’d listened to see if anyone spoke of a break-in, or of Amaram being suspicious. She’d found nothing. Well, obviously Amaram had not made his suspicions public. After all the work she’d done to cover up her incursion, she had failed. She probably shouldn’t be surprised, but she was anyway. “I—” Shallan began. “I’m beginning to wonder if Tyn really is sick,” Mraize said, raising the blowgun and shooting another dart into the foliage. “To not even try to carry out the assigned task.” “Not even try?” Shallan asked, baffled. “Oh, is that the excuse?” Mraize asked. “That she made an attempt, and failed? I have people watching that house. If she had . . .” He trailed off as Shallan shook the water from her satchel, then carefully undid it and lifted out a sheet of paper. It was a representation of Amaram’s locked room with its maps on the walls. She’d had to guess at some of the details—it had been dark, and her single sphere hadn’t illuminated much—but she figured it was close enough. Mraize took the picture from her and raised it. He studied it, leaving Shallan to sweat nervously. “It is rare,” Mraize said, “that I am proven a fool. Congratulations.” Was that a good thing? “Tyn doesn’t have this skill,” Mraize continued, still inspecting the sheet. “You saw this room yourself?” “There is a reason that she chose a scholar as her assistant. My skills are meant to complement her own.” Mraize lowered the sheet. “Surprising. Your mistress might be a brilliant thief, but her choice of associates has always been unenlightened.” He had such a refined way of speaking. It didn’t seem to match his scarred face, misaligned lip, and weathered hands. He talked like a man who had spent his days sipping wine and listening to fine music, but he looked like someone who had repeatedly had his bones broken—and likely returned the favor many times over. “Pity there
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is not more detail to these maps,” Mraize noted, inspecting the picture again. Shallan obligingly got out the other five pictures she’d drawn for him. Four were the maps on the walls in detail, the other a closer depiction of the wall scrolls with Amaram’s script. In each one, the actual writing was indecipherable, just wiggled lines. Shallan had done this on purpose. Nobody would expect an artist to be able to capture such detail from memory, even though she could. She would keep the details of the script from them. She intended to gain their trust, to learn what she could, but she would not help them more than she had to. Mraize passed his blowgun to the side. The short, masked girl was there, holding the cremling that Mraize had speared along with a dead mink, a blowgun dart in its neck. No, its leg twitched. It was merely stunned. Some poison on the dart, then? Shallan shivered. Where had this woman been hiding? Those dark eyes stared at Shallan, unblinking, the rest of the face hidden behind the mask of paint and shell. She took the blowgun. “Amazing,” Mraize said of Shallan’s pictures. “How did you get in? We watched the windows.” Was that how Tyn would have done it, sneaking in during the dead of night through one of the windows? She hadn’t trained Shallan in that sort of thing, only accents and imitation. Perhaps she had spotted that Shallan, who sometimes stumbled over her own feet, would not be best at acrobatic larceny. “These are masterful,” Mraize said, walking to a table and setting out the pictures. “A triumph, certainly. Such artistry.” What had happened to the dangerous, emotionless man who had confronted her at her first meeting with the Ghostbloods? Animated with emotion, he leaned down, studying the pictures one at a time. He even got out a magnifying glass in order to inspect the details. She did not ask what she wondered. What is Amaram doing? Do you know how he got his Shardblade? How he . . . killed Helaran Davar? Her breath caught in her throat even still as she thought about it, but a part of her had admitted years ago that her brother wasn’t coming back. That didn’t stop her from feeling a distinct, and surprising, hatred for the man Meridas Amaram. “Well?” Mraize asked, glancing at her. “Come sit down, child. You did this yourself?” “I did,” Shallan said, shoving down her emotions. Had Mraize just called her “child”? She’d intentionally made this version of her look older, with a more angular face. What did she need to do? Start adding grey hairs to her head? She settled into the seat beside the table. The woman with the mask appeared beside her, holding a cup and a kettle of something steaming. Shallan nodded hesitantly, and was rewarded with a cup of mulled orange wine. She sipped it—she probably didn’t need to worry about poison, as these people could have killed her at any time. The others under the pavilion spoke
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with one another in hushed voices, but Shallan couldn’t make out any of it. She felt like she was on display before an audience. “I copied some of the text for you,” Shallan said, fishing out one page of script. These were lines she had specifically chosen to show them—they didn’t reveal too much, but might act as a primer to get Mraize talking about the topic. “We didn’t have much time in the room, so I only got a few lines.” “You spent so long in there drawing the pictures, and so little recording the text?” Mraize asked. “Oh,” Shallan said. “No, I did those pictures from memory.” He looked up at her, jaw lowered a fraction, an expression of genuine surprise crossing his face before he quickly restored his usual confident equanimity. That . . . probably wasn’t wise to admit, Shallan realized. How many people could draw so well from memory? Had Shallan publicly demonstrated her skill in the warcamps? So far as she knew, she hadn’t. Now she would have to keep that aspect of her skill secret, lest the Ghostbloods make a connection between Shallan the lighteyed lady and Veil the darkeyed con artist. Storms. Well, she was bound to make some mistakes. At least this one wasn’t life threatening. Probably. “Jin,” Mraize snapped. A golden-haired man with a bare chest beneath a flowing outer robe stood up from one of the chairs. “Look at him,” Mraize said to Shallan. She took a Memory. “Jin, leave us. You will draw him, Veil.” She had no choice but to oblige. As Jin walked off, grumbling to himself at the rain, Shallan started sketching. She did a full sketch—not just his face and shoulders, but an environment study, including the background of fallen boulders. Nervous, she didn’t do as good a job as she could have, but Mraize still cooed over her picture like a proud father. She finished and got out her lacquer—this was in charcoal, and would want it—but Mraize plucked it from her fingers first. “Incredible,” he said, holding the sheet up. “You are wasted with Tyn. You can’t do this with text, however?” “No,” Shallan lied. “Pity. Still, this is marvelous. Marvelous. There should be ways to use this, yes indeed.” He looked to her. “What is your goal, child? I might have a place for you in my organization, if you prove reliable.” Yes! “I wouldn’t have agreed to come in Tyn’s place if I hadn’t wanted that opportunity.” Mraize narrowed his eyes at Shallan. “You killed her, didn’t you?” Oh, blast. Shallan blushed immediately, of course. “Uh . . .” “Ha!” Mraize exclaimed. “She finally picked an assistant who was too capable. Delightful. After all of her arrogant posturing, she was brought down by someone she thought to make into a sycophant.” “Sir,” Shallan said. “I didn’t . . . I mean, I didn’t want to. She turned on me.” “That must be quite the story,” Mraize said, smiling. It was not a pleasant smile. “Know that what you have done is not
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forbidden, but it is hardly encouraged. We cannot run an organization properly if subordinates consider hunting their superiors to be a primary method of advancement.” “Yes, sir.” “Your superior, however, was not a member of our organization. Tyn thought herself to be the hunter, but she was game all along. If you are to join us, you should understand. We are not like others you may have known. We have a greater purpose, and we are . . . protective of one another.” “Yes, sir.” “So who are you?” he asked, waving for his servant to bring back the blowgun. “Who are you really, Veil?” “Someone who wants to be part of things,” Shallan said. “Things more important than stealing from the odd lighteyes or scamming for a weekend of luxury.” “So it is a hunt, then,” Mraize said softly, grinning. He turned away from her, walking back to the edge of the pavilion. “More instructions will follow. Do the task assigned to you. Then we shall see.” It is a hunt, then. . . . What kind of hunt? Shallan felt chilled by that statement. Once again, her dismissal was uncertain, but she did up her satchel and started to leave. As she did so, she glanced at the remaining seated people. Their expressions were cold. Frighteningly so. Shallan left the pavilion and found that the rain had stopped. She walked away, feeling eyes on her back. They all know that I can identify them with exactness, she realized, and can present accurate pictures of them for any who request. They would not like that. Mraize had made it clear that Ghostbloods didn’t often kill one another. But he’d also made it clear that she wasn’t one of them, not yet. He’d said it pointedly, as if granting permission to those listening in. Talat’s hand, what had she gotten herself into? You’re only considering that now? she thought as she rounded the hillside. Her carriage was ahead, the coachman lounging on top, his back to her. Shallan looked anxiously over her shoulder. Nobody had followed yet, at least not that she could see. “Is anyone watching, Pattern?” she asked. “Mmm. Me. No people.” A rock. She’d drawn a boulder in the picture for Mraize. Not thinking—working by instinct and no small amount of panic—she breathed out Stormlight and shaped an image of that boulder before her. Then, she promptly hid inside of it. It was dark in there. She curled up in the boulder, sitting with her legs pulled against her. It felt undignified. The other people Mraize worked with probably didn’t do silly things like this. They were practiced, smooth, capable. Storms, she probably didn’t need to be hiding in the first place. She sat there anyway. The looks in the eyes of the others . . . the way that Mraize had spoken . . . Better to be overly cautious than naive. She was tired of people assuming she couldn’t care for herself. “Pattern,” she whispered. “Go to the carriage driver. Tell him this, in my exact voice.
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‘I have entered the carriage when you weren’t looking. Do not look. My exit must be stealthy. Carry me back to the city. Pull up to the warcamps and wait to a count of ten. I will leave. Do not look. You have your payment, and discretion was part of it.’” Pattern hummed and moved off. A short time later, the carriage rattled away, pulled by its parshmen. It didn’t take long for hoofbeats to follow. She hadn’t seen horses. Shallan waited, anxious. Would any of the Ghostbloods realize this boulder wasn’t supposed to be here? Would they come back, looking for her once they didn’t see her leave the carriage at the warcamps? Perhaps they hadn’t even gone after her. Perhaps she was being paranoid. She waited, pained. It started raining again. What would that do to her illusion? The stone she’d drawn had already been wet, so dryness wouldn’t give it away—but from the way the rain fell on her, it obviously was passing through the image. I need to find a way to see the outside while I’m hiding like this, she thought. Eyeholes? Could she make those inside her illusion? Perhaps she— Voices. “We will need to find how much he knows.” Mraize’s voice. “You will bring these pages to Master Thaidakar. We are close, but so—it appears—are Restares’s cronies.” The response came in a rasping voice. Shallan couldn’t make it out. “No, I’m not worried about that one. The old fool sows chaos, but does not reach for the power offered by opportunity. He hides in his insignificant city, listening to its songs, thinking he plays in world events. He has no idea. His is not the position of the hunter. This creature in Tukar, however, is different. I’m not convinced he is human. If he is, he’s certainly not of the local species. . . .” Mraize continued speaking, but Shallan heard no more as they moved off. A short time later, she heard more hoofbeats. She waited, water soaking though her coat and trousers. She shivered, satchel in her lap, and clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering. Weather lately had been warmer, but sitting in the rain belied that. She waited until her spine complained and her muscles screamed at her. She waited until finally, the boulder broke into luminescent smoke and faded away. Shallan started. What had happened? Stormlight, she realized, stretching her legs. She checked the pouch in her pocket. She’d drained every sphere, unconsciously, while holding up the illusion of the boulder. Hours had passed, the sky darkening as evening approached. Maintaining something simple like the boulder didn’t take much Light, and she didn’t have to consciously think about it to keep it going. That was good to know. She’d also proven herself a fool again for not even worrying about how much Light she had been using. Sighing, she climbed to her feet. She wobbled, her legs protesting the sudden motion. She took a deep breath, then walked over and peeked around the corner. The pavilion was gone and
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all signs of the Ghostbloods with it. “I guess this means I’m walking,” Shallan said, turning back toward the warcamps. “Did you expect otherwise?” Pattern asked from his place on her coat, sounding genuinely curious. “No,” Shallan said. “I’m just talking to myself.” “Mmm. No, you talk to me.” She walked on into the evening, cold. However, it wasn’t the deadly coldness she’d suffered in the south. This was uncomfortable, but nothing more. If she hadn’t been wet, the air probably would have been pleasant, despite the shade. She passed the time practicing her accents with Pattern—she’d speak, then have him repeat back to her exactly what she’d said, in her voice and tone. Being able to hear it that way helped a great deal. She had the Alethi accent down, she was certain. That was good, since Veil pretended to be Alethi. That one was easy, however, as Veden and Alethi were so similar you could almost understand one by knowing the other. Her Horneater accent was quite good too, in both Alethi and Veden. She was getting better and not overdoing it, as Tyn had suggested. Her Bav accent in both Veden and Alethi was passable, and through most of the time walking back, she practiced speaking both tongues with a Herdazian accent. Palona gave her a good example of this in Alethi, and Pattern could repeat to her things the woman had said, which was helpful for practice. “What I need to do,” Shallan said, “is train you to speak along with my images.” “You should have them speak themselves,” Pattern said. “Can I do that?” “Why not?” “Because . . . well, I use Light for the illusion, and so they create an imitation of light. Makes sense. I don’t use sound to make them, though.” “This is a Surge,” Pattern said. “Sound is a part of it. Mmm . . . Cousins of one another. Very similar. It can be done.” “How?” “Mmmm. Somehow.” “You’re very helpful.” “I am glad . . .” He trailed off. “Lie?” “Yup.” Shallan stuffed her safehand into her pocket, which was also wet, and continued walking through patches of grass that pulled away in front of her. Distant hills showed lavis grain growing in orderly fields of polyps, though she didn’t see any farmers at this hour. At least it had stopped raining. She did still like rain, though she hadn’t considered how unpleasant it might be to have to walk a long distance in it. And— What was that? She pulled up short. A clump of something dark shadowed the ground ahead of her. She approached hesitantly, and found that she could smell smoke. The sodden, wet kind of smoke you smelled after a campfire was doused. Her carriage. She could make it out now, partially burned in the night. The rains had put out the fire; it hadn’t burned long. They’d probably started the blaze on the inside, where it would have been dry. It was certainly the one she’d hired. She recognized the trim on the wheels. She
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approached hesitantly. Well, she’d been right in her worry. It was a good thing she’d stayed behind. Something nagged at her. . . . The coachman! She ran ahead, fearing the worst. His corpse was there, lying beside the broken carriage, staring up at the sky. His throat had been slit. Beside him, his parshman porters lay dead in a pile. Shallan sat back on the wet stones, feeling sick, hand to her mouth. “Oh . . . Almighty above . . .” “Mmm . . .” Pattern hummed, somehow conveying a morose tone. “They’re dead because of me,” Shallan whispered. “You did not kill them.” “I did,” Shallan said. “As sure as if I’d held the knife. I knew the danger I was going into. The coachman didn’t.” And the parshmen. How did she feel about that? Voidbringers, yes, but it was difficult not to feel sick at what had been done. You’ll cause something far worse than this if you prove what Jasnah claims, part of her said. Briefly, while watching Mraize’s excitement over her art, she’d wanted to like the man. Well, she’d best remember this moment. He’d allowed these murders. He might not have been the one to slit the coachman’s throat, but he’d all but assured the others it was all right to remove her if they could. They’d burned the carriage to make it look like bandits had been behind this, but no bandits would come this close to the Shattered Plains. You poor man, she thought toward the coachman. But if she hadn’t arranged a ride, she wouldn’t have been able to hide as she did while the coach laid a false trail. Storms! How could she have handled this so nobody died? Would it have been possible? She eventually forced herself to her feet and, with slumped shoulders, continued to walk back toward the warcamps. “Great. You’re the one guarding me today?” Kaladin turned as Adolin came out of his room. The prince wore a sharp uniform, as always. Monogrammed buttons, boots that cost more than some houses, side sword. An odd choice for a Shardbearer, but Adolin probably wore it as an ornament. His hair was a mess of blond sprinkled with black. “I don’t trust her, princeling,” Kaladin said. “Foreign woman, secret betrothal, and the only person who could vouch for her is dead. She could be an assassin, and that means putting you under the watch of the best I have.” “Humble, aren’t we?” Adolin said, striding down the stone hallway, Kaladin falling into step beside him. “No.” “That was a joke, bridgeboy.” “My mistake. I was under the impression that jokes were supposed to be funny.” “Only to people with a sense of humor.” “Ah, of course,” Kaladin said. “I traded in my sense of humor long ago.” “And what did you get for it?” “Scars,” Kaladin said softly. Adolin’s eyes flicked toward the brands on Kaladin’s forehead, though most would be obscured by hair. “This is great,” Adolin said under his breath. “Just great. I’m so happy you’re coming
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along.” At the end of the hallway, they stepped into daylight. Not much of it, though. The sky was still overcast from the rains of the last few days. They emerged into the warcamp. “We collecting any other guards?” Adolin asked. “Usually there’s two of you.” “Just me today.” Kaladin was short-manned, with the king under his watch and with Teft taking the new recruits out patrolling again. He had two or three men on everyone else, but Adolin he figured he could watch on his own. A carriage waited, pulled by two mean-looking horses. All horses looked mean, with those too-knowing eyes and sudden movements. Unfortunately, a prince couldn’t arrive in a carriage pulled by chulls. A footman opened the door for Adolin, who settled into the confines. The footman closed the door, then climbed into a place at the back of the carriage. Kaladin prepared to swing up into the seat beside the carriage driver, then stopped. “You!” he said, pointing at the driver. “Me!” the King’s Wit replied from where he sat holding the reins. Blue eyes, black hair, black uniform. What was he doing driving the carriage? He wasn’t a servant, was he? Kaladin clambered cautiously up into his seat, and Wit shook the reins, prodding the horses into motion. “What are you doing here?” Kaladin asked him. “Trying to find mischief,” Wit replied cheerfully, as the horses’ hooves rang against the stone. “Have you been practicing with my flute?” “Uh . . .” “Don’t tell me you left it in Sadeas’s camp when you moved out.” “Well—” “I said not to tell me,” Wit replied. “You don’t need to, since I already know. A shame. If you knew the history of that flute, it would make your brain flip upside-down. And by that, I mean that I would shove you off the carriage for having spied on me.” “Uh . . .” “Eloquent today, I see.” Kaladin had left the flute behind. When he had gathered the bridgemen left in Sadeas’s camp—the wounded from Bridge Four, and the members of the other bridge crews—he’d been focused on people, not things. He hadn’t bothered with his little bundle of possessions, forgetting that the flute was among them. “I’m a soldier, not a musician,” Kaladin said. “Besides, music is for women.” “All people are musicians,” Wit countered. “The question is whether or not they share their songs. As for music being feminine, it’s interesting that the woman who wrote that treatise—the one you all practically worship in Alethkar—decided that all of the feminine tasks involve sitting around having fun while all the masculine ones involve finding someone to stick a spear in you. Telling, eh?” “I guess so.” “You know, I’m working very hard to come up with engaging, clever, meaningful points of interest to offer you. I can’t help thinking you’re not upholding your side of the conversation. It’s a little like playing music for a deaf man. Which I might try doing, as it sounds fun, if only someone hadn’t lost my flute.” “I’m sorry,” Kaladin said.
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He’d rather be thinking about the new sword stances that Zahel had taught him, but Wit had shown him kindness before. The least Kaladin could do was chat with him. “So, uh, did you keep your job? As King’s Wit, I mean. When we met before, you implied you were in danger of losing your title.” “I haven’t checked yet,” Wit said. “You . . . you haven’t . . . Does the king know you’re back?” “Nope! I’m trying to think of a properly dramatic way to inform him. Perhaps a hundred chasmfiends marching in unison, singing an ode to my magnificence.” “That sounds . . . hard.” “Yeah, the storming things have real trouble tuning their tonic chords and maintaining just intonation.” “I have no idea what you just said.” “Yeah, the storming things have real trouble tuning their tonic chords and maintaining just intonation.” “That didn’t help, Wit.” “Ah! So you’re going deaf, are you? Let me know when the process is complete. I have something I want to try. If I can just remember—” “Yes, yes,” Kaladin said, sighing. “You want to play the flute for one.” “No, that’s not it . . . Ah! Yes. I’ve always wanted to sneak up and poke a deaf man in the back of the head. I think it will be hilarious.” Kaladin sighed. It would take an hour or so, even moving quickly, to reach Sebarial’s warcamp. A very long hour. “So you’re just here,” Kaladin said, “to mock me?” “Well, it’s kind of what I do. But I’ll go easy on you. I wouldn’t want you to go flying off on me.” Kaladin jolted with a start. “You know,” Wit said, nonchalant, “flying off in an angry tirade. That kind of thing.” Kaladin narrowed his eyes at the tall lighteyed man. “What do you know?” “Almost everything. That almost part can be a real kick in the teeth sometimes.” “What do you want, then?” “What I can’t have.” Wit turned to him, eyes solemn. “Same as everyone else, Kaladin Stormblessed.” Kaladin fidgeted. Wit knew about him and about Surgebinding. Kaladin was sure of it. So, should he expect some kind of demand? “What do you want,” Kaladin said, trying to speak more precisely, “from me?” “Ah, so you’re thinking. Good. From you, my friend, I want one thing. A story.” “What kind of story?” “That is for you to decide.” Wit smiled at him. “I hope it will be dynamic. If there is one thing I cannot stomach, it is boredom. Kindly avoid being dull. Otherwise I might have to sneak up and poke you in the back of the head.” “I’m not going deaf.” “It’s also hilarious on people who aren’t deaf, obviously. What, you think I’d torment someone just because they were deaf? That would be immoral. No, I torment all people equally, thank you very much.” “Great.” Kaladin settled back, waiting for more. Amazingly, Wit seemed content to let the conversation die. Kaladin watched the sky, so dull. He hated days like these, which reminded him
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of the Weeping. Stormfather. Grey skies and miserable weather made him wonder why he’d even bothered to get out of bed. Eventually, the carriage reached Sebarial’s warcamp, a place that looked even more like a city than the other warcamps. Kaladin marveled at the fully constructed tenements, the markets, the— “Farmers?” he asked as they rolled past a group of men hiking toward the gates, carrying worming reeds and buckets of crem. “Sebarial has them setting up lavis fields on the southwestern hills,” Wit explained. “The highstorms out here are too powerful for farming.” “Tell that to the Natan people. They used to farm this entire area. Requires a strain of plant that doesn’t grow as large as you’re accustomed to.” “But why?” Kaladin asked. “Why wouldn’t farmers go someplace where it’s easier? Like Alethkar proper.” “You don’t know a lot about human nature, do you, Stormblessed?” “I . . . No, I don’t.” Wit shook his head. “So frank, so blunt. You and Dalinar are alike, certainly. Someone needs to teach the pair of you how to have a good time now and then.” “I know full well how to have a good time.” “Is that so?” “Yes. It involves being anywhere you aren’t.” Wit stared at him, then chuckled, shaking the reins so the horses danced a little. “So you do have some spark of wit in you.” It came from Kaladin’s mother. She’d often said things like that, though never so insulting. Being around Wit must be corrupting me. Eventually, Wit pulled the carriage up to a nice manor home, the likes of which Kaladin would have expected in some fine lait, not here in a warcamp. With those pillars and beautiful glass windows, it was even finer than the citylord’s manor back in Hearthstone. In the carriageway, Wit asked the footman to fetch Adolin’s causal betrothed. Adolin climbed out to await her, straightening his jacket, polishing the buttons on one sleeve. He glanced up toward the driver’s seat, then started. “You!” Adolin exclaimed. “Me!” Wit replied. He swung down from the top of the carriage and performed a flowery bow. “Ever at your service, Brightlord Kholin.” “What did you do with my usual carriage driver?” “Nothing.” “Wit—” “What, you’re implying that I hurt the poor fellow? Does that sound like me, Adolin?” “Well, no,” Adolin said. “Exactly. Besides, I’m certain he’s gotten the ropes undone by now. Ah, and here’s your lovely almost-but-not-quite bride.” Shallan Davar had emerged from the house. She bobbed down the steps, not gliding down them as most lighteyed ladies would have. She’s certainly an enthusiastic one, Kaladin thought idly, holding the reins, which he’d picked up after Wit had dropped them. Something just felt off about this Shallan Davar. What was she hiding behind that eager attitude and ready smile? That buttoned sleeve on the safehand of a lighteyed woman’s dress, that could hide any number of deadly implements. A simple poisoned needle, stuck through the fabric, would be enough to end Adolin’s life. Unfortunately, he couldn’t watch her every moment she was
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with Adolin. He had to show more initiative than that; could he instead confirm that she was who she said she was? Decide from her past if she was a threat or not? Kaladin stood up, planning to jump down onto the ground to keep an eye on her as she approached Adolin. She suddenly started, eyes widening. She pointed at Wit with her freehand. “You!” Shallan exclaimed. “Yes, yes. People certainly are good at identifying me today. Perhaps I need to wear—” Wit cut off as Shallan lunged at him. Kaladin dropped to the ground, reaching for his side knife, then hesitated as Shallan grabbed Wit in an embrace, her head against his chest, her eyes squeezed shut. Kaladin took his hand off his knife, raising an eyebrow at Wit, who looked completely flabbergasted. He stood with his arms at his sides, as if he didn’t know what to do with them. “I always wanted to say thank you,” Shallan whispered. “I never had a chance.” Adolin cleared his throat. Finally, Shallan released Wit and looked at the prince. “You hugged Wit,” Adolin said. “Is that his name?” Shallan asked. “One of them,” Wit said, apparently still unsettled. “There are too many to count, really. Granted, most of them are related to one form of curse or another. . . .” “You hugged Wit,” Adolin said. Shallan blushed. “Was that improper?” “It’s not about propriety,” Adolin said. “It’s about common sense. Hugging him is like hugging a whitespine or, or a pile of nails or something. I mean it’s Wit. You’re not supposed to like him.” “We need to talk,” Shallan said, looking up at Wit. “I don’t remember everything we talked about, but some of it—” “I’ll try to squeeze it into my schedule,” Wit said. “I’m fairly busy, though. I mean, insulting Adolin alone is going to take until sometime next week.” Adolin shook his head, waving away the footman and helping Shallan into the carriage himself. After he did so, he leaned in to Wit. “Hands off.” “She’s far too young for me, child,” Wit said. “That’s right,” Adolin said with a nod. “Stick to women your own age.” Wit grinned. “Well, that might be a little harder. I think there’s only one of those around these parts, and she and I never did get along.” “You are so bizarre,” Adolin said, climbing into the carriage. Kaladin sighed, then moved to follow them in. “You intend to ride in there?” Wit asked, grin widening. “Yeah,” Kaladin said. He wanted to watch Shallan. She wasn’t likely to try something in the open, while riding in the carriage with Adolin. But Kaladin might learn something by watching her, and he couldn’t be absolutely certain she wouldn’t try to harm him. “Try not to flirt with the girl,” Wit whispered. “Young Adolin seems to be growing possessive. Or . . . what am I saying? Flirt with the girl, Kaladin. It might make the prince’s eyes bulge.” Kaladin snorted. “She’s lighteyed.” “So?” Wit asked. “You people are too fixated on that.”
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“No offense,” Kaladin whispered, “but I’d sooner flirt with a chasmfiend.” He left Wit to drive the carriage, hauling himself into it. Inside, Adolin looked toward the heavens. “You’re kidding.” “It’s my job,” Kaladin said, seating himself next to Adolin. “Surely I’m safe in here,” Adolin said through gritted teeth, “with my betrothed.” “Well, maybe I just want a comfortable seat, then,” Kaladin said, nodding to Shallan Davar. She ignored him, smiling at Adolin as the carriage started rolling. “Where are we going today?” “Well, you said something about a dinner,” Adolin said. “I know of a new winehouse in the Outer Market, and it actually serves food.” “You always know the best places,” Shallan said, her smile widening. Could you be any more obvious with your flattery, woman? Kaladin thought. Adolin smiled back. “I just listen.” “Now if you only paid more attention to what wines were good . . .” “I don’t because it’s easy!” He grinned. “They’re all good.” She giggled. Storms, lighteyes were annoying. Particularly when they fawned over one another. Their conversation continued, and Kaladin found it blatantly obvious how badly this woman wanted a relationship with Adolin. Well, that wasn’t surprising. Lighteyes were always looking for chances to get ahead—or to stab one another in the back, if they were in that mood instead. His job wasn’t to figure out if this woman was an opportunist. Every lighteyes was an opportunist. He just had to find out if she was an opportunistic fortune hunter or an opportunistic assassin. They continued talking, and Shallan circled the conversation back toward the day’s activity. “Now, I’m not saying I mind another winehouse,” Shallan said. “But I do wonder if those are becoming a tad too obvious a choice.” “I know,” Adolin replied. “But there’s storming little to do out here otherwise. No concerts, no art shows, no sculpture contests.” Is that really what you people spend your time on? Kaladin wondered. Almighty save you if you don’t have sculpture contests to watch. “There’s a menagerie,” Shallan said, eager. “In the Outer Market.” “A menagerie,” Adolin said. “Isn’t that a little . . . low?” “Oh, come on. We could look at all of the animals, and you could tell me which ones you’ve bravely slaughtered while hunting. It’ll be very diverting.” She hesitated, and Kaladin thought he saw something in her eyes. A flash of something deeper. Pain? Worry? “And I could use some distraction,” Shallan added more softly. “I actually despise hunting,” Adolin said, as if he hadn’t noticed. “No real contest to it.” He looked to Shallan, who pasted on a smile and nodded eagerly. “Well, something different could be a pleasant change. All right, I’ll tell Wit to take us there instead. Hopefully he’ll do it, instead of driving us into a chasm to laugh at our screams of horror.” Adolin turned to open the small sliding shutter up to the driver’s perch and gave the order. Kaladin watched Shallan, who sat back, a self-satisfied smile on her face. She had an ulterior motive for going
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to the menagerie. What was it? Adolin turned back around and asked after her day. Kaladin listened with half an ear, studying Shallan, trying to pick out any knives hidden on her person. She blushed at something Adolin said, then laughed. Kaladin didn’t really like Adolin, but at least the prince was honest. He had his father’s earnest temperament, and had always been straight with Kaladin. Dismissive and spoiled, but straight. This woman was different. Her movements were calculated. The way she laughed, the way she chose her words. She would giggle and blush, but her eyes were always discerning, always watching. She exemplified what made him sick about lighteyed culture. You’re just in an irritable mood, part of him acknowledged. It happened sometimes, more often when the sky was cloudy. But did they have to act nauseatingly cheery? He kept an eye on Shallan as the ride continued, and eventually decided he was being too suspicious of her. She wasn’t an immediate threat to Adolin. He found his mind drifting back toward the night in the chasms. Riding the winds, Light churning inside of him. Freedom. No, not just freedom. Purpose. You have a purpose, Kaladin thought, dragging his mind back to the present. Guard Adolin. This was an ideal job for a soldier, one others dreamed of. Great pay, his own squad to command, an important task. A dependable commander. It was perfect. But those winds . . . “Oh!” Shallan said, reaching for her satchel and digging into it. “I brought that account for you, Adolin.” She hesitated, glancing at Kaladin. “You can trust him,” Adolin said, somewhat grudgingly. “He’s saved my life twice, and Father lets him guard us at even the most important meetings.” Shallan took out several sheets of paper with notes on them in the scribble-like women’s script. “Eighteen years ago, Highprince Yenev was a force in Alethkar, one of the most powerful highprinces who opposed King Gavilar’s unification campaign. Yenev wasn’t defeated in battle. He was killed in a duel. By Sadeas.” Adolin nodded, leaning forward, eager. “Here is Brightness Ialai’s own account of events,” Shallan said. “‘Bringing down Yenev was an act of inspired simplicity. My husband spoke with Gavilar regarding the Right of Challenge and the King’s Boon, ancient traditions that many of the lighteyes knew, but ignored in modern circumstances. “‘As traditions that shared a relationship to the historical crown, invoking them echoed our right of rule. The occasion was a gala of might and renown, and my husband first entered into a duel with another man.’” “A what of might and renown?” Kaladin asked. Both looked at him, as if surprised to hear him speak. Keep forgetting I’m here, do you? Kaladin thought. You prefer to ignore darkeyes. “A gala of might and renown,” Adolin said. “It’s fancy speak for a tournament. They were common back then. Ways for the highprinces who happened to be at peace with one another to show off.” “We need a way for Adolin to duel, or at least discredit, Sadeas,” Shallan explained. “While thinking
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about it, I remembered a reference to the Yenev duel in Jasnah’s biography of the old king.” “All right . . .” Kaladin said, frowning. “‘The purpose,’” Shallan continued, holding up her finger as she read further from the account, “‘of this preliminary duel was to conspicuously awe and impress the highprinces. Though we had plotted this earlier, the first man to be defeated did not know of his role in our ploy. Sadeas defeated him with calculated spectacle. He paused the fighting at several points and raised the stakes, first with money, then with lands. “‘In the end, the victory was dramatic. With the crowd so engaged, King Gavilar stood and offered Sadeas a boon for having pleased him, after the ancient tradition. Sadeas’s reply was simple: ‘I will have no boon other than Yenev’s cowardly heart on the end of my sword, Your Majesty!’” “You’re kidding,” Adolin said. “Blowhard Sadeas said it like that?” “The event, along with his words, is recorded in several major histories,” Shallan said. “Sadeas then dueled Yenev, killed the man, and made an opening for an ally—Aladar—to take control of that princedom instead.” Adolin nodded thoughtfully. “It could work, Shallan. I can try the same thing—make a spectacle of my fight with Relis and the other person he brings, wow the crowd, earn a boon from the king and demand a Right of Challenge to Sadeas himself.” “It has a certain charm to it,” Shallan agreed. “Taking a maneuver that Sadeas himself employed, then using it against him.” “He’d never agree,” Kaladin said. “Sadeas won’t let himself be trapped like that.” “Perhaps,” Adolin said. “But I think you underestimate the position he’d be in, if we do this correctly. The Right of Challenge is an ancient tradition—some say the Heralds instituted it. A lighteyed warrior who has proven himself before the Almighty and the king, turning and demanding justice from one who wronged him . . .” “He’ll agree,” Shallan said. “He’ll have to. But can you be spectacular, Adolin?” “The crowd expects me to cheat,” Adolin said. “They won’t come thinking much of my recent duels—that should work to my favor. If I can give them a real show, they’ll be thrilled. Besides, defeating two men at once? That alone should give us the attention we need.” Kaladin looked from one to the other. They were taking this very seriously. “You really think this could work?” Kaladin said, growing thoughtful. “Yes,” Shallan said, “though, by this tradition, Sadeas could appoint a champion to fight on his behalf, so Adolin might not get to duel him personally. He’d still win Sadeas’s Shards, though.” “It wouldn’t be quite as satisfying,” Adolin said. “But it would be acceptable. Beating his champion in a duel would cut Sadeas off at the knees. He’d lose immense credibility.” “But it wouldn’t really mean anything,” Kaladin said. “Right?” The other two looked at him. “It’s just a duel,” Kaladin said. “A game.” “This would be different,” Adolin said. “I don’t see why. Sure, you might win his Shards, but his title
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and authority would be the same.” “It’s about perception,” Shallan said. “Sadeas has formed a coalition against the king. That implies he is stronger than the king. Losing to the king’s champion would deflate that.” “But it’s all just games,” Kaladin said. “Yes,” Adolin said—Kaladin hadn’t expected him to agree. “But it’s a game that Sadeas is playing. They are rules he’s accepted.” Kaladin sat back, letting it sink in. This tradition might be an answer, he thought. The solution I’ve been looking for . . . “Sadeas used to be such a strong ally,” Adolin said, sounding regretful. “I’d forgotten things like his defeat of Yenev.” “So what changed?” Kaladin asked. “Gavilar died,” Adolin said softly. “The old king was what kept Father and Sadeas pointed in the same direction.” He leaned forward, looking at Shallan’s sheets of notes, though he obviously couldn’t read them. “We have to make this happen, Shallan. We have to yank this noose around that eel’s throat. This is brilliant. Thank you.” She blushed, then packed away the notes in an envelope and handed it to him. “Give this to your aunt. It details what I’ve found. She and your father will know better if this is a good idea or not.” Adolin accepted the envelope, and took her hand in his as he did so. The two shared a moment, melting over one another. Yes, Kaladin was increasingly convinced that the woman wasn’t going to be of immediate danger to Adolin. If she was some kind of con woman, she wasn’t after Adolin’s life. Just his dignity. Too late, Kaladin thought, watching Adolin sit back with a stupid grin on his face. That’s dead and burned already. The carriage soon reached the Outer Market, where they passed several groups of men on patrol in Kholin blue. Bridgemen from the various bridges other than Bridge Four. Being guardsmen here was one of the ways Kaladin was training them. Kaladin climbed out of the carriage first, noting the lines of stormwagons set up in rows nearby. Ropes on posts blocked off the area, ostensibly to keep people from sneaking in, though the men with cudgels lounging beside some of the posts probably did a better job of that. “Thanks for the ride, Wit,” Kaladin said, turning. “I’m sorry again about that flute you—” Wit was gone from the top of the carriage. Another man sat there instead, a younger fellow in brown trousers and a white shirt, a cap on his head. He pulled that off, looking embarrassed. “Oi’m sorry, sir,” the man said. He had an accent Kaladin didn’t recognize. “He paid me well, he did. Said exactly where Oi was to stand so we could swap places.” “What’s this?” Adolin said, climbing from the carriage and looking up. “Oh. Wit does this, bridgeboy.” “This?” “Likes to vanish mysteriously,” Adolin said. “It weren’t so mysterious, sir,” the lad said, turning and pointing. “It was joust back there a short ways, where the carriage stopped ’fore turning. Oi was to wait for him, then take over driving
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