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about Herdazians. He seemed to find those extra funny. As they approached the plateaus, the dead silence gave way to the low roar of thousands of people assembled in a limited area. Kaladin and Lopen finally broke free of the barrack rows, emerging onto the natural terrace just above the parade grounds that debouched onto the Shattered Plains. Thousands of soldiers were gathered there. Spearmen in huge blocks, lighteyed archers in thinner ranks, officers prancing on horseback in gleaming armor. Kaladin gasped softly. “What?” Lopen asked. “It’s what I always thought I’d find.” “What? Today?” “As a young man in Alethkar,” Kaladin said, unexpectedly emotional. “When I dreamed of the glory of war, this is what I imagined.” He hadn’t pictured the greenvines and barely capable soldiers that Amaram had trained in Alethkar. Neither had he pictured the crude, if effective, brutes of Sadeas’s army—or even the quick strike teams of Dalinar’s plateau runs. He’d imagined this. A full army, arrayed for a grand march. Spears held high, banners fluttering, drummers and trumpeters, messengers in livery, scribes on horses, even the king’s Soulcasters in their own sectioned-off square, hidden from sight by walls of cloth carried on poles. Kaladin knew the truth of battle now. Fighting was not about glory, but about men lying on the ground screaming and thrashing, tangled in their own viscera. It was about bridgemen thrown against a wall of arrows, or of Parshendi cut down while they sang. Yet in this moment, Kaladin let himself dream again. He gave his youthful self—still there deep inside him—the spectacle he’d always imagined. He pretended that these soldiers were about something wonderful, instead of just another pointless slaughter. “Hey, someone else is actually coming,” Lopen said, pointing. “Look at that.” By the banners, Dalinar had been joined by only a single highprince: Roion. However, as Lopen pointed out, another force—not quite as large or as well organized—was flowing northward up the wide, open pathway along the eastern rim of the warcamps. At least one other highprince had responded to Dalinar’s call. “Let’s find Bridge Four,” Kaladin said. “I want to see the men off.” * * * “Sebarial?” Dalinar asked. “Sebarial’s troops are joining us?” Roion grunted, wringing his hands—as if wishing to wash them—as he sat in the saddle. “I guess we should be glad for any support at all.” “Sebarial,” Dalinar said, dumbfounded. “He wouldn’t even send troops on close plateau runs, where there was no risk of Parshendi. Why would he send men now?” Roion shook his head and shrugged. Dalinar turned Gallant and trotted the horse toward the oncoming group, as did Roion. They passed Adolin, who rode just behind with Shallan, side by side, her guards and his following. Renarin was over with the bridgemen, of course. Shallan was riding one of Adolin’s own horses, a petite gelding over which Sureblood towered. Shallan wore a traveling dress of the kind messenger women preferred, with the front and back slit all the way to the waist. She wore leggings—basically silk trousers, but women preferred other names—underneath.
Behind them rode a large group of Navani’s scholars and cartographers, including Isasik, the ardent who was the royal cartographer. These passed around the map Shallan had drawn, Isasik riding to the side, chin raised, as if pointedly ignoring the praise the women were giving Shallan’s map. Dalinar needed all these scholars, though he wished he didn’t. Each scribe he brought was another life he risked. That was made worse by Navani herself coming. He couldn’t dismiss her argument. If you think it’s safe enough for you to bring the girl, then it’s safe enough for me. As Dalinar made his way toward Sebarial’s oncoming procession, Amaram rode up, wearing his Shardplate, his golden cloak trailing behind. He had a fine warhorse, the hulking breed used in Shinovar to pull heavy carts. It still looked like a pony beside Gallant. “Is that Sebarial?” Amaram asked, pointing at the oncoming force. “Apparently.” “Should we send him away?” “Why would we do that?” “He’s untrustworthy,” Amaram said. “He keeps his word, so far as I know,” Dalinar said. “That is more than I can say for most.” “He keeps his word because he never promises anything.” Dalinar, Roion, and Amaram trotted up to Sebarial, who stepped out of a carriage at the front of the army. A carriage. For a war procession. Well, it wouldn’t slow Dalinar any more than all of these scribes. In fact, he should probably have a few more carriages made ready. It would be nice for Navani to have a way to ride in comfort once the days wore long. “Sebarial?” Dalinar asked. “Dalinar!” the plump man said, shading his eyes. “You look surprised.” “I am.” “Ha! That’s reason enough to have come. Wouldn’t you say, Palona?” Dalinar could barely make out the woman sitting in the carriage, wearing an enormous fashionable hat and a sleek gown. “You brought your mistress?” Dalinar asked. “Sure. Why not? If we fail out there, I’ll be dead and she’ll be out on her ear. She insisted, anyway. Storming woman.” Sebarial walked up right beside Gallant. “I’ve got a feeling about you, Dalinar old man. I think it’s wise to stay close to you. Something’s going to happen out there on the Plains, and opportunity rises like the dawn.” Roion sniffed. “Roion,” Sebarial said, “shouldn’t you be hiding under a table somewhere?” “Perhaps I should, if only to get away from you.” Sebarial laughed. “Well said, you old turtle! Maybe this trip won’t be a complete bore. Onward, then! To glory and some such nonsense. If we find riches, remember that I get my part! I got here before Aladar. That has to count for something.” “Before . . .” Dalinar said with a start. He twisted around, looking back toward the warcamp bordering his own to the north. There, an army wearing Aladar’s colors of white and dark green spilled out onto the Shattered Plains. “Now that,” Amaram said, “I really didn’t expect.” * * * “We could try a coup,” Ialai said. Sadeas turned in his saddle toward his wife. Their
guards scattered the hills around them, distant enough to be out of earshot as the highprince and his wife enjoyed a gentle “ride through the hills.” In reality, the two of them had wanted a closer look at Sebarial’s expansions out here west of the warcamps, where he was setting up full-scale farming operations. Ialai rode with eyes forward. “Dalinar will be gone from the camp, and with him Roion, his only supporter. We could seize the Pinnacle, execute the king, and take the throne.” Sadeas turned his horse, looking eastward over the warcamps. He could just barely make out Dalinar’s army gathering distantly on the Shattered Plains. A coup. One last step, a slap in the face of old Gavilar. He’d do it. Storm it, he would. Except for the fact that he didn’t need to. “Dalinar has committed to this foolish expedition,” Sadeas said. “He’ll be dead soon, surrounded and destroyed on those Plains. We don’t need a coup; if I’d known that he would actually do this, we wouldn’t have even needed your assassin.” Ialai looked away. Her assassin had failed. She considered it a strong fault on her part, though the plan had been executed with exactness. These things were never certain. Unfortunately, now that they’d tried and failed, they’d need to be careful about . . . Sadeas turned his horse, frowning as a messenger approached on horseback. The youth was allowed to pass the guards and proffered a letter to Ialai. She read it, and her disposition darkened. “You aren’t going to like this,” she said, looking up. * * * Dalinar kicked Gallant into motion, tearing across the landscape, startling plants into their dens. He passed his army in a few minutes of hard riding and approached the new force. Aladar sat on horseback here, surveying his army. He wore a fashionable uniform, black with maroon stripes on the sleeves and a matching stock at the neck. Soldiers swarmed around him. He had one of the largest forces on the Plains—storms, with Dalinar’s numbers reduced, Aladar’s army might be the largest. He was also one of Sadeas’s greatest supporters. “How are we going to do this, Dalinar?” Aladar asked as Dalinar trotted up. “Do we all go out on our own, crossing different plateaus but meeting back up, or do we march in an enormous column?” “Why?” Dalinar asked. “Why have you come?” “You made such passionate arguments all along, and now you act surprised that someone listened?” “Not someone. You.” Aladar pressed his lips to a line, finally turning to meet Dalinar’s eyes. “Roion and Sebarial, the two biggest cowards in our midst, are marching to war. Am I to stay behind and let them seek the fulfillment of the Vengeance Pact without me?” “The other highprinces seem content to do so.” “I suspect they are better at lying to themselves than I am.” Suddenly, all of Aladar’s vehement arguments—at the forefront of the faction against Dalinar—took on a different cast. He was arguing to convince himself, Dalinar thought. He was worried all along
that I was right. “Sadeas will not be pleased,” Dalinar said. “Sadeas can storm off. He doesn’t own me.” Aladar fiddled with his reins for a moment. “He wants to, though. I can feel it in the deals he forces me to make, the knives he slowly places at everyone’s throats. He’d have us all as his slaves by the end of this.” “Aladar,” Dalinar said, moving his horse right up alongside the other man’s so the two of them faced each other directly. He held Aladar’s eyes. “Tell me Sadeas didn’t put you up to this. Tell me this isn’t part of another plot to abandon or betray me.” Aladar smiled. “You think I’d just tell you if it were?” “I would hear a promise from your own lips.” “And you’ll trust that promise? How well did that serve you, Dalinar, when Sadeas professed his friendship?” “A promise, Aladar.” Aladar met his eyes. “I think the things you say about Alethkar are naive at best, and undoubtedly impossible. Those delusions of yours aren’t a sign of madness, as Sadeas wants us to think—they’re just the dreams of a man who wants desperately to believe in something, something foolish. ‘Honor’ is a word applied to the actions of men from the past who have had their lives scrubbed clean by historians.” He hesitated. “But . . . storm me for a fool, Dalinar, I wish they could be true. I came for myself, not Sadeas. I won’t betray you. Even if Alethkar can’t ever be what you want, we can at least crush the Parshendi and avenge old Gavilar. It’s just the right thing to do.” Dalinar nodded. “I could be lying,” Aladar said. “But you aren’t.” “How do you know?” “Honestly? I don’t. But if this is all going to work, I am going to have to trust some of you.” To an extent. He would never put himself in another position like the Tower. Either way, Aladar’s presence meant this incursion was actually possible. Together, the four of them would likely outnumber the Parshendi—though he wasn’t certain how trustworthy the scribes’ counts of their numbers were. It was not the grand coalition of all highprinces that Dalinar had wanted, but even with the chasms favoring the Parshendi, this could be enough. “We march together,” Dalinar said, pointing. “I don’t want us spread out. We keep to plateaus next to one another, or the same plateau when possible. And you’ll need to leave your parshmen behind.” “That’s an unusual requirement,” Aladar said with a frown. “We’re marching against their cousins,” Dalinar said. “Best to not risk the possibility of them turning against us.” “But they’d never . . . Bah, whatever. It can be done.” Dalinar nodded, extending a hand to Aladar as, behind, Roion and Amaram finally trotted up; Dalinar had outstripped them on Gallant. “Thank you,” Dalinar said to Aladar. “You really do believe in all of this, don’t you?” “Yes.” Aladar extended his hand, but hesitated. “You realize that I’m stained through and through. I’ve got blood on
these hands, Dalinar. I’m not some perfect, honorable knight as you seem to want to pretend.” “I know you’re not,” Dalinar said, taking the hand. “I’m not either. We will have to do.” They shared a nod, then Dalinar turned Gallant and began to trot back toward his own army. Roion groaned, complaining about his thighs after having galloped all the way over. The ride today was not going to be pleasant for him. Amaram fell in beside Dalinar. “First Sebarial, then Aladar? Your trust seems to come cheaply today, Dalinar.” “Would you have me turn them away?” “Think how spectacular this victory would be if we did it on our own.” “I hope we’re above such vainglory, old friend,” Dalinar said. They rode for a time, passing Adolin and Shallan again. Dalinar scanned his force and noticed something. A tall man in blue sat on a stone in the midst of Bridge Four’s bodyguards. Speaking of fools . . . “Come with me,” Dalinar said to Amaram. Amaram let his horse lag behind. “I think I should go see to—” “Come,” Dalinar said sharply. “I want you to speak to that young man so we can put a stop to the rumors and the things he’s been saying about you. Those don’t do anyone any good.” “Very well,” Amaram said, catching up. * * * Kaladin found himself standing up amid the bridgemen, despite the pain of his leg, as he noticed Adolin and Shallan riding past. He followed the pair with his eyes. Adolin, astride his thick-hooved Ryshadium, and Shallan on a more modestly sized brown animal. She looked gorgeous. Kaladin was willing to admit it, if only to himself. Brilliant red hair, ready smile. She said something clever; Kaladin could almost hear the words. He waited, hoping that she’d look toward him, meet his eyes across the short distance. She didn’t. She rode on, and Kaladin felt like an utter fool. A part of him wanted to hate Adolin for holding her attention, but he found that he couldn’t. The truth was, he liked Adolin. And those two were good for one another. They fit. Perhaps Kaladin could hate that. He settled back down on a rock, bowing his head. The bridgemen crowded in around him. Hopefully they hadn’t seen Kaladin following Shallan with his eyes, straining to hear her voice. Renarin stood, like a shade, at the back of the group. The bridgemen were coming to accept him, but he still seemed very awkward around them. Of course, he seemed awkward around most people. I need to talk to him more about his condition, Kaladin thought. Something seemed off to him about that man and his explanation of the epilepsy. “Why are you here, sir?” Bisig asked, drawing Kaladin’s attention back to the other bridgemen. “I wanted to see you off,” Kaladin said, sighing. “I assumed you’d be happy to see me.” “You are like child,” Rock said, wagging a thick finger at Kaladin. “What would you do, great Captain Stormblessed, if you caught one of these men
walking about with hurt leg? You would have that man beaten! Once he healed, of course.” “I thought,” Kaladin noted, “that I was your commander.” “Nah, can’t be,” Teft said, “because our commander would be smart enough to stay in bed.” “And eat much stew,” Rock said. “I left you stew to eat while I am gone.” “You’re going on the expedition?” Kaladin asked, looking up at the large Horneater. “I thought you were just seeing the men off. You aren’t willing to fight. What will you do out there?” “Someone must fix food for them,” Rock said. “This expedition, it will take days. I will not leave my friends to the mercy of camp chefs. Ha! The food they cook will all be from Soulcast grain and meat. Tastes like crem! Someone must come with proper spices.” Kaladin looked up at the group of frowning men. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll go back. Storms, I . . .” Why were the bridgemen parting? Rock looked over his shoulder, then laughed, backing away. “Now we shall see real trouble.” Behind them, Dalinar Kholin was climbing from his saddle. Kaladin sighed, then waved for Lopen to help him to his feet so he could salute properly. He got upright—earning a glare from Teft—before noticing that Dalinar was not alone. Amaram. Kaladin stiffened, straining to keep his face expressionless. Dalinar and Amaram approached. The pain in Kaladin’s leg seemed to fade, and for the moment he could only see that man. That monster of a man. Wearing Plate Kaladin had earned, a golden cloak billowing out behind, bearing the symbol of the Knights Radiant. Control yourself, Kaladin thought. He managed to swallow his rage. Last time it had gotten the better of him, he’d earned himself weeks in prison. “You should be resting, soldier,” Dalinar said. “Yes, sir,” Kaladin replied. “My men have already made that abundantly clear.” “Then you trained them well. I’m proud to have them along with me on this expedition.” Teft saluted. “If there is danger to you, Brightlord, it will be out there on the Plains. We can’t protect you if we wait back here.” Kaladin frowned, realizing something. “Skar is here . . . Teft . . . so who is watching the king?” “We’ve seen to it, sir,” Teft said. “Brightlord Dalinar asked me leave our best man behind with a team of his own selection. They’ll watch the king.” Their best man . . . Coldness. Moash. Moash had been left in charge of the king’s safety, and had a team of his own choosing. Storms. “Amaram,” Dalinar said, waving for the highlord to step up. “You told me that you’d never seen this man before arriving here on the Shattered Plains. Is that true?” Kaladin met the eyes of a murderer. “Yes,” Amaram said. “What of his claim that you took your Blade and Plate from him?” Dalinar asked. “Brightlord,” Amaram said, taking Dalinar by the arm, “I don’t know if the lad is touched in the head or merely starved for attention. Perhaps he served
in my army, as he claims—he certainly bears the correct slave brand. But his allegations regarding me are obviously preposterous.” Dalinar nodded to himself, as if this were all expected. “I believe an apology is due.” Kaladin struggled to remain upright, his leg feeling weak. So this would be his final punishment. Apologizing to Amaram in public. A humiliation above all others. “I—” Kaladin began. “Not you, son,” Dalinar said softly. Amaram turned, posture suddenly more alert—like that of a man preparing for a fight. “Surely you don’t believe these allegations, Dalinar!” “A few weeks ago,” Dalinar said, “I received two special visitors in camp. One was a trusted servant who had come from Kholinar in secret, bringing a precious cargo. The other was that cargo: a madman who had arrived at the gates of Kholinar carrying a Shardblade.” Amaram paled and stepped back, hand going to his side. “I told my servant,” Dalinar said calmly, “to go drinking with your personal guard—he knew many of them—and talk of a treasure that the madman said had been hidden for years outside the warcamp. By my order, he then placed the madman’s Shardblade in a nearby cavern. After that, we waited.” He’s summoning his Blade, Kaladin thought, looking at Amaram’s hand. Kaladin reached for his side knife, but Dalinar was already raising his own hand. White mist coalesced in Dalinar’s fingers, and a Shardblade appeared, tip to Amaram’s throat. Wider than most, it was almost cleaverlike in appearance. A Blade formed in Amaram’s hand a second later—a second too late. His eyes went wide as he stared at the silvery Blade held to his throat. Dalinar had a Shardblade. “I thought,” Dalinar said, “that if you had been willing to murder for one Blade, you would certainly be willing to lie for a second. And so, after I knew you’d sneaked in to see the madman on your own, I asked you to investigate his claims for me. I gave your conscience plenty of time to come clean, out of respect for our friendship. When you told me you’d found nothing—but in fact you had actually recovered the Shardblade—I knew the truth.” “How?” Amaram hissed, looking at the Blade Dalinar held. “How did you get it back? I removed it from the cave. My men had it safe!” “I wasn’t about to risk it just to prove a point,” Dalinar said, cold. “I bonded this Blade before we hid it away.” “That week you spent ill,” Amaram said. “Yes.” “Damnation.” Dalinar exhaled, a hissing sound through his teeth. “Why, Amaram? Of all people, I thought that you . . . Bah!” Dalinar’s grip on the weapon tightened, knuckles white. Amaram raised his chin, as if thrusting his neck toward the point of the Shardblade. “I did it,” Amaram said, “and I would do it again. The Voidbringers will soon return, and we must be strong enough to face them. That means practiced, accomplished Shardbearers. In sacrificing a few of my soldiers, I planned to save many more.” “Lies!” Kaladin said, stumbling forward. “You
just wanted the Blade for yourself!” Amaram looked Kaladin in the eyes. “I am sorry for what I did to you and yours. Sometimes, good men must die so that greater goals may be accomplished.” Kaladin felt a gathering chill, a numbness that spread from his heart outward. He’s telling the truth, he thought. He . . . honestly believes that he did the right thing. Amaram dismissed his Blade, turning back to Dalinar. “What now?” “You are guilty of murder—of killing men for personal wealth.” “And what is it,” Amaram said, “when you send thousands of men to their deaths so that you may secure gemhearts, Dalinar? Is that different somehow? We all know that sometimes lives must be spent for the greater good.” “Take off that cloak,” Dalinar growled. “You are no Radiant.” Amaram reached up and undid it, then dropped it to the rock. He turned and started to walk away. “No!” Kaladin said, stumbling after him. “Let him go, son,” Dalinar said, sighing. “His reputation is broken.” “He is still a murderer.” “And we will try him fairly,” Dalinar said, “once I return. I can’t imprison him—Shardbearers are above that, and he’d cut his way out anyway. Either you execute a Shardbearer or you leave him free.” Kaladin sagged, and Lopen appeared on one side, holding him up while Teft got under his other arm. He felt drained. Sometimes lives must be spent for the greater good. . . . “Thank you,” Kaladin said to Dalinar, “for believing me.” “I do listen sometimes, soldier,” Dalinar said. “Now go back to camp and get some rest.” Kaladin nodded. “Sir? Stay safe out there.” Dalinar smiled grimly. “If possible. At least now I’ve got a way to fight that assassin, if he arrives. With all of these Shardblades flying around lately, I figured having one myself made too much sense to ignore.” He narrowed his eyes, turning eastward. “Even if it feels . . . wrong somehow to hold one. Strange, that. Why should it feel wrong? Perhaps I just miss my old Blade.” Dalinar dismissed the Blade. “Go,” he said, walking back toward his horse, where Highprince Roion—looking stunned—was watching Amaram stalk away, his personal guard of fifty joining him. * * * Yes, that was Aladar’s banner, joining Dalinar’s. Sadeas could make it out through the spyglass. He lowered it, and sat quietly for a long, long time. So long that his guards, and even his wife, started to fidget and looked nervous. But there was no reason. He quelled his annoyance. “Let them die out there,” he said. “All four. Ialai, make a report for me. I would like to know . . . Ialai?” His wife started, looking toward him. “Is all well?” “I was merely thinking,” she said, seeming distant. “About the future. And what it is going to bring. For us.” “It is going to bring Alethkar new highprinces,” Sadeas said. “Make a report of which among our sworn highlords would be appropriate to take the place of those who will fall on Dalinar’s
trip.” He tossed the spyglass back to the messenger. “We do nothing until they’re dead. This will end, it appears, with Dalinar killed by the Parshendi after all. Aladar can go with him, and to Damnation with the lot of them.” He turned his horse and continued the day’s ride, his back pointedly toward the Shattered Plains. Like a river suddenly undammed, the four armies flooded out onto the plateaus. Shallan watched from horseback, excited, anxious. Her little part of the convoy included Vathah and her soldiers, along with Marri, her lady’s maid. Gaz, notably, hadn’t arrived yet, and Vathah claimed to not know where he was. Perhaps she should have looked more into the nature of his debts. She’d been so busy with other things . . . storms, if the man vanished, how would she feel about that? She would have to deal with that later. Today, she was part of something extremely important—a story that had begun with Gavilar and Dalinar’s first hunting expedition into the Unclaimed Hills years ago. Now came the final chapter, the mission that would unearth the truth and determine the future of the Shattered Plains, the Parshendi, and perhaps Alethkar itself. Shallan kicked her horse forward, eager. The gelding started to walk, placid despite Shallan’s prodding. Storming animal. Adolin trotted up beside her on Sureblood. The beautiful animal was pure white—not dusty grey, like some horses she’d seen, but actually white. That Adolin should have the larger horse was patently unfair. She was shorter than he was, so she should be on the taller horse. “You purposely gave me a slow one,” Shallan complained, “didn’t you?” “Sure did.” “I’d smack you. If I could reach you up there.” He chuckled. “You said you don’t have a lot of experience riding, so I picked a horse that had a lot of experience being ridden. Trust me, you’ll be thankful.” “I want to ride in a majestic charge as we begin our expedition!” “And you can do so.” “Slowly.” “Technically, slow speeds can be very majestic.” “Technically,” she said, “a man doesn’t need all of his toes. Shall we remove a few of yours and prove it?” He laughed. “As long as you don’t hurt my face, I suppose.” “Don’t be ridiculous. I like your face.” He grinned, Shardplate helm hanging from his saddle so as to not mess up his hair. She waited for him to add a quip to hers, but he didn’t. That was all right. She liked Adolin as he was. He was kind, noble, and genuine. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t brilliant or . . . or whatever else Kaladin was. She couldn’t even define it. So there. Passionate, with an intense, smoldering resolve. A leashed anger that he used, because he had dominated it. And a certain tempting arrogance. Not the haughty pride of a highlord. Instead, the secure, stable sense of determination that whispered that no matter who you were—or what you did—you could not hurt him. Could not change him. He was. Like the wind and rocks
were. Shallan completely missed what Adolin said next. She blushed. “What was that?” “I said that Sebarial has a carriage. You might want to travel with him.” “Because I’m too delicate for riding?” Shallan said. “Did you miss that I walked back through the chasms in the middle of a highstorm?” “Um, no. But walking and riding are different. I mean, the soreness . . .” “Soreness?” Shallan asked. “Why would I be sore? Doesn’t the horse do all of the work?” Adolin looked at her, eyes widening. “Um,” she said. “Dumb question?” “You said you’d ridden before.” “Ponies,” she said, “on my father’s estates. Around in circles . . . All right, from that expression, I’m led to believe I’m being an idiot. When I get sore, I’ll go ride with Sebarial.” “Before you get sore,” Adolin said. “We’ll give it an hour.” As annoyed as she was at this turn, she couldn’t deny his expertise. Jasnah had once defined a fool as a person who ignored information because it disagreed with desired results. She determined to not be bothered, and instead enjoy the ride. The army as a whole moved slowly, considering that each piece seemed to be so efficient. Spearmen in blocks, scribes on horseback, scouts roving outward. Dalinar had six of the massive mechanical bridges, but he had also brought all of the former bridgemen and their simpler, man-carried bridges, designed as copies of the ones they’d left in Sadeas’s camp. That was good, since Sebarial only had a couple of bridge crews. She allowed herself a moment of personal satisfaction at the fact that he’d come on the expedition. As she was thinking on that, she noticed someone running up the line of troops behind her. A short man, with an eye patch, who drew glares from Adolin’s bridgeman guards for the day. “Gaz?” Shallan said with relief as he hustled up, carrying a package under his arm. Her fears that he’d been knifed in an alley somewhere were unfounded. “Sorry, sorry,” he said. “It came. You owe the merchant two sapphire broams, Brightness.” “It?” Shallan asked, accepting the package. “Yeah. You asked me to find one for you. I storming did.” He seemed proud of himself. She unwrapped the cloth around the rectangular object, and found inside a book. Words of Radiance, the cover said. The sides were worn, and the pages faded—one patch across the top was even stained from spilled ink sometime in the past. Rarely had she been as pleased to receive something so damaged. “Gaz!” she said. “You’re wonderful!” He grinned, shooting Vathah a triumphant smile. The taller man rolled his eyes, muttering something Shallan didn’t hear. “Thank you,” Shallan said. “Thank you truly, Gaz.” * * * As the time passed and one day led into another, Shallan found the distraction of the book extremely welcome. The armies moved about as fast as a herd of sleepy chulls, and the scenery was actually quite boring, though she’d never admit that to Kaladin or Adolin, considering what she’d told them last time
she was out here. The book, though. The book was wonderful. And frustrating. But what was the “wicked thing of eminence” that led to the Recreance? she thought, writing the quote in her notebook. It was the second day of their travels on the Plains, and she had agreed to ride in the coach Adolin had provided—alone, though it baffled Adolin why she wouldn’t want her lady’s maid with her. Shallan did not want to explain Pattern to the girl. The book had a chapter for each order of Knights Radiant, with talk of their traditions, their abilities, and their attitudes. The author admitted that a lot of it was hearsay—the book had been written two hundred years after the Recreance, and by then facts, lore, and superstition had mixed freely. Beyond that, it was in an old dialect of Alethi, using the protoscript, a precursor to the true women’s script of modern day. She spent a lot of her time sorting out meanings, occasionally calling over some of Navani’s scholars to provide definitions or interpretation. Still, she had learned a great deal. For example, each order had different Ideals, or standards, to determine advancement. Some were specific, others left to the interpretation of the spren. Also, some orders were individualistic, while others—like the Windrunners—functioned in teams, with a specific hierarchy. She settled back, thinking about the powers described. Would the others be appearing, then? As she and Jasnah had? Men who could glide elegantly across the ground as if they weighed nothing, women who could melt stone with a touch. Pattern had offered some few insights, but mostly he had been of use telling her what sounded likely to have been real, and what from the book was a mistake based on hearsay. His memory was spotty, but growing much better, and hearing what the book said often made him remember more. Right now, he buzzed on the seat beside her in a contented way. The carriage hit a bump—it was rough out here—but at least in the coach, she could read and reference other books at the same time. That would have been practically impossible while riding. The coach did make her feel shut away, though. Not everyone who tries to take care of you is trying to do what your father did, she told herself firmly. Adolin’s warned-of soreness had never manifested, of course. Originally, she’d felt a small amount of pain in her thighs from holding herself in place in the saddle, but Stormlight had made it vanish. “Mmm,” Pattern said, climbing onto the door of the carriage. “It comes.” Shallan looked out the window and felt a drop of water sprinkle against her face. Rock darkened as rain coated it. Soon, the air filled with a steady drizzle, light and pleasant. Though colder, it reminded her of some of the rainfalls back in Jah Keved. Here in the stormlands, it seemed that rain was rarely this soft. She pulled down the shades and scooted to the center of the seat so she wouldn’t get rained on. She
soon found that the pleasing sound of water muffled the soldiers’ voices and the monotonous sound of marching feet, making it a nice accompaniment to reading. A quote sparked her interest, and so she dug out her sketch of the Shattered Plains and her old maps of Stormseat. I need to find out how these maps relate, she thought. Multiple points of reference, preferably. If she could identify two places on the Shattered Plains that matched points on her map of Stormseat, she could judge how large Stormseat had been—the old map had no scale—and then overlay it on the map of the Shattered Plains. That would give them some context. What really drew her attention was the Oathgate. On the map of Stormseat, Jasnah thought it was represented by a round disc, like a dais, on the southwestern side of the city. Was there a doorway there on that dais somewhere? A magical portal to Urithiru? How did one of the knights operate it? “Mmm,” Pattern said. Shallan’s carriage started to slow. She frowned, scooting to the door, meaning to peek out the window. The door opened, however, to reveal Highlady Navani standing outside, Dalinar himself holding up an umbrella for her. “Would you mind company?” Navani asked. “Not at all, Brightness,” Shallan said, scrambling to pick up her papers and books, which she’d spread about on all of the seats. Navani patted Dalinar fondly on the arm, then climbed into the coach, using a towel to dry her feet and legs. She sat once Dalinar shut the door. They started rolling again, and Shallan fidgeted with her papers. What was her relationship with Navani? She was Adolin’s aunt, but she was romantically involved with his father. So she was kind of Shallan’s future mother-in-law, though by Vorin tradition Dalinar would never be allowed to marry her. Shallan had tried for weeks to get this woman to listen to her, and had failed. Now, she seemed to have been forgiven for bearing the news of Jasnah’s death. Did that mean Navani . . . liked her? “So,” Shallan said, feeling awkward, “did Dalinar exile you to the coach to protect you from getting sore, as Adolin did to me?” “Sore? Heavens no. If anyone should be riding in the coach, it’s Dalinar. When there is fighting to be done, we’ll need him rested and ready. I came because it’s rather difficult to read while riding in the rain.” “Oh.” Shallan shifted in her seat. Navani studied her, then finally sighed. “I have been ignoring things,” the older woman said, “that I should not. Because they bring me pain.” “I am sorry.” “You have nothing to apologize for.” Navani held out her hand toward Shallan. “May I?” Shallan looked at her handful of notes, diagrams, and maps. She hesitated. “You are engaged in work you obviously think very important,” Navani said softly. “This city Jasnah was searching for, according to the notes you sent me? Perhaps I can help you interpret my daughter’s intentions.” Was there anything in these pages that would
incriminate Shallan and reveal her powers? Her activities as Veil? She didn’t think so. She’d been studying the Knights Radiant as part of it, but she was searching for their center of power, so that made sense. Hesitant, she handed over the papers. Navani leafed through them, reading by spherelight. “The organization of these notes is . . . interesting.” Shallan blushed. The organization made sense to her. As Navani continued to look through the notes, Shallan found herself growing oddly anxious. She’d wanted Navani’s help—she’d all but begged for it. Now, however, she found herself feeling like this woman was intruding. This had become Shallan’s project, her duty and her quest. Now that Navani had apparently overcome her grief, would she insist on taking over completely? “You think like an artist,” Navani said. “I can see it in the way you put the notes together. Well, I suppose I can’t expect everything you do to be annotated precisely as I’d wish. A magical portal to another city? Jasnah actually believed in this?” “Yes.” “Hmm,” Navani said. “Then it’s probably true. That girl never did have the decency to be wrong an appropriate amount of the time.” Shallan nodded, glancing at the notes, feeling anxious. “Oh, don’t get so touchy,” Navani said. “I’m not going to steal the project from you.” “I’m that transparent?” Shallan said. “This research is obviously very important to you. I assume Jasnah persuaded you that the fate of the world itself rested upon the answers you find?” “She did.” “Damnation,” Navani said, flipping to the next page. “I shouldn’t have ignored you. It was petty.” “It was the act of a grieving mother.” “Scholars don’t have time for such nonsense.” Navani blinked, and Shallan caught a tear in the woman’s eye. “You’re still human,” Shallan said, reaching across, putting her hand on Navani’s knee. “We can’t all be emotionless chunks of rock like Jasnah.” Navani smiled. “She sometimes had the empathy of a corpse, didn’t she?” “Comes from being too brilliant,” Shallan said. “You grow accustomed to everyone else being something of an idiot, trying to keep up with you.” “Chana knows, I wondered sometimes how I raised that child without strangling her. By age six, she was pointing out my logical fallacies as I tried to get her to go to bed on time.” Shallan grinned. “I always just assumed she was born in her thirties.” “Oh, she was. It just took thirty-some years for her body to catch up.” Navani smiled. “I won’t take this from you, but neither should I allow you to attempt a project so important on your own. I would be part. Figuring out the puzzles that captivated her . . . it will be like having her again. My little Jasnah, insufferable and wonderful.” How surreal it was to imagine Jasnah as a child being held by a mother. “It would be an honor to have your aid, Brightness Navani.” Navani held up the page. “You’re trying to overlay Stormseat with the Shattered Plains. It’s not going to work unless
you have a point of reference.” “Preferably two,” Shallan said. “It’s been centuries since that city fell. It was destroyed during Aharietiam itself, I believe. We’re going to have trouble finding clues out here, though your list of descriptions will help.” She tapped her finger against the papers. “This isn’t my area of expertise, but I have several archaeologists among Dalinar’s scribes. I should show them these pages.” Shallan nodded. “We’ll want copies of everything here,” Navani said. “I don’t want to lose originals to all of this rain. I could have the scribes work on it tonight, after we camp.” “If you wish.” Navani looked up at her, then frowned. “It is your decision.” “You’re serious?” Shallan asked. “Absolutely. Think of me as an additional resource.” All right then. “Yes, have them make copies,” Shallan said, digging in her satchel. “And copies of this too—it’s my attempt at re-creating one of the murals described as being on the outer wall of the temple to Chanaranach in Stormseat. It faced leeward, and was supposedly shaded, so we might be able to find hints of it. “Also, I need a surveyor to measure each new plateau we cross, once we get farther in. I can draw them out, but my spatial reasoning can be off. I want exact sizes to make the map more accurate. I’ll need guards and scribes to ride out with me ahead of the army to visit plateaus parallel to our course. It would really help if you could convince Dalinar to allow this. “I’d like a team to study the quotes on that page underneath the map. They talk about methods for opening the Oathgate, which was supposed to be the duty of the Knights Radiant. Hopefully we can discover another method. Also, alert Dalinar that we’ll be trying to open the portal if we find it. I do not expect there to be anything dangerous on the other side, but he’ll undoubtedly want to send soldiers through first.” Navani raised an eyebrow at her. “You’ve done a touch of thinking about this, I see.” Shallan nodded, blushing. “I’ll see it done,” Navani said. “I myself will head the research team studying those quotes you mention.” She hesitated. “Do you know why Jasnah thought this city, Urithiru, was so important?” “Because it was the seat of the Knights Radiant, and she expected to find information on them—and the Voidbringers—there.” “So she was like Dalinar,” Navani said, “trying to bring back powers that—perhaps—we should leave alone.” Shallan felt a sudden spike of anxiety. I need to say it. Say something. “She wasn’t trying. She succeeded.” “Succeeded?” Shallan took a deep breath. “I don’t know what she said regarding the origin of her Soulcaster, but the truth was that it was a fake. Jasnah could Soulcast on her own, without any fabrial. I saw her do it. She knew secrets from the past, secrets I don’t think anyone else knows. Brightness Navani . . . your daughter was one of the Knights Radiant.” Or as close to one as the
world was going to have again. Navani raised an eyebrow, obviously skeptical. “I swear this is true,” Shallan said, “on the tenth name of the Almighty.” “That is disturbing. Radiants, Heralds, and Voidbringers alike are supposed to be gone. We won that war.” “I know.” “I will go get to work on this,” Navani said, knocking for the carriage driver to halt the vehicle. * * * The Weeping began. A steady stream of rain. Kaladin could hear it inside his room, like a whisper in the background. Weak, miserable rain, without the fury and passion of a true highstorm. He lay in the darkness, listening to the patter, feeling his leg throb. Wet, cold air leaked into his room, and he dug for the extra blankets that the quartermaster had delivered. He curled up and tried to sleep, but after sleeping most of the day yesterday—the day that Dalinar’s army had left—he found himself wide awake. He hated being wounded. Bed rest wasn’t supposed to happen to him. Not anymore. Syl . . . The Weeping was a bad time for him. Days spent trapped indoors. A perpetual gloom in the sky that seemed to affect him more than it did others, leaving him lethargic and uncaring. A knock came at his door. Kaladin raised his head in the darkness, then sat up and settled himself on his bench of a bed. “Come,” he said. The door opened and let in the sound of rain, like a thousand little footsteps scrambling about. Very little light accompanied the sounds. The overcast sky of the Weeping left the land in perpetual twilight. Moash stepped in. He wore his Shardplate, as always. “Storms, Kal. Were you asleep? I’m sorry!” “No, I was awake.” “In the darkness?” Kaladin shrugged. Moash clicked the door shut behind him, but took off his gauntlet and hung it from a clip at the waist of his Shardplate. He reached beneath a fold in the metal and pulled out a handful of spheres to light his way. Riches that would have seemed incredible to bridgemen were now pocket change to Moash. “Aren’t you supposed to be guarding the king?” Kaladin asked. “On and off,” Moash said, sounding eager. “They quartered the five of us guards up by his rooms. In the palace itself! Kaladin, it’s perfect.” “When?” Kaladin asked softly. “We don’t want to ruin Dalinar’s expedition,” Moash said, “so we’re going to wait until he’s out there some distance, maybe until he’s engaged the enemy. That way, he’ll be committed and won’t turn back when he gets news. Better for Alethkar if he succeeds at defeating the Parshendi. He will return a hero . . . and a king.” Kaladin nodded, feeling sick. “We have everything planned out,” Moash said. “We’ll raise an alert in the palace that the Assassin in White has been seen. Then we’ll do what was done last time—send all of the servants into hiding in their rooms. Nobody will be around to see what we do, nobody will get hurt, and they’ll all believe
that the Shin assassin was behind this. We couldn’t have asked for this to play out better! And you won’t have to do anything, Kal. Graves says that we won’t need your help after all.” “So why are you here?” Kaladin asked. “I just wanted to check on you,” Moash said. He stepped in closer. “Is it true, what Lopen says? About your . . . abilities?” Storming Herdazian. Lopen had stayed behind—with Dabbid and Hobber—to take care of the barrack and watch over Kaladin. They’d been talking to Moash, it seemed. “Yes,” Kaladin said. “What happened?” “I’m not sure,” he lied. “I offended Syl. I haven’t seen her in days. Without her, I can’t draw in Stormlight.” “We’ll have to fix that somehow,” Moash said. “Either that, or get you Plate and Blade of your own.” Kaladin looked up at his friend. “I think she left because of the plot to kill the king, Moash. I don’t think a Radiant could be involved in something like this.” “Shouldn’t a Radiant care about doing what is right? Even if it means a difficult decision?” “Sometimes lives must be spent for the greater good,” Kaladin said. “Yes, exactly!” “That’s what Amaram said. In regards to my friends, whom he murdered to cover up his secrets.” “Well, that’s different, obviously. He’s a lighteyes.” Kaladin looked to Moash, whose eyes had turned as light a tan as those of any Brightlord. Same color as Amaram’s, actually. “So are you.” “Kal,” Moash said. “You’re worrying me. Don’t say things like that.” Kaladin looked away. “The king wanted me to deliver a message,” Moash said. “That’s my excuse for being here. He wants you to come talk to him.” “What? Why?” “I don’t know. He’s been dipping into the wine, now that Dalinar is gone. Not the orange stuff, either. I’ll tell him you’re too wounded to come.” Kaladin nodded. “Kal,” Moash said. “We can trust you, right? You’re not having second thoughts?” “You said it yourself,” Kaladin said. “I don’t have to do anything. I just have to stay away.” What could I do, anyway? Wounded, with no spren? Everything was in motion. It was too far along for him to stop. “Great,” Moash said. “You heal up, all right?” Moash walked out, leaving Kaladin in the darkness again. In the darkness, Shallan’s violet spheres gave life to the rain. Without the spheres, she couldn’t see the drops, only hear their deaths upon the stones and the cloth of her pavilion. With the light, each falling speck of water flashed briefly, like starspren. She sat at the edge of the pavilion, as she liked to watch the rainfall between bouts of sketching, while the other scholars sat closer to the center. So did Vathah and a couple of his soldiers, watching over her like nesting skyeels with a single pup. It amused her that they’d grown so protective; they seemed actively proud to be her soldiers. She’d honestly expected them to run off after gaining their clemency. Four days into the Weeping, and she still enjoyed
the weather. Why did the soft sound of gentle rain make her feel more imaginative? Around her, creationspren slowly vanished, most having taken the shapes of things about the camp. Swords that sheathed and unsheathed repeatedly, tiny tents that untied and blew in unseen wind. Her picture was of Jasnah as she’d been on that night just over a month ago, when Shallan had last seen her. Leaning upon the desk of a darkened ship’s cabin, hand pushing back hair freed from its customary twists and braids. Exhausted, overwhelmed, terrified. The drawing didn’t depict a single faithful Memory, not as Shallan usually did them. This was a re-creation of what she remembered, an interpretation that was not exact. Shallan was proud of it, as she’d captured Jasnah’s contradictions. Contradictions. Those were what made people real. Jasnah exhausted, yet somehow still strong—stronger, even, because of the vulnerability she revealed. Jasnah terrified, yet also brave, for one allowed the other to exist. Jasnah overwhelmed, yet powerful. Shallan had recently been trying to do more drawings like this—ones synthesized from her own imaginings. Her illusions would suffer if she could only reproduce what she’d experienced. She needed to be able to create, not just copy. The last creationspren faded away, this one imitating a puddle that was being splashed by a boot. Her sheet of paper dimpled as Pattern moved up onto it. He sniffed. “Useless things.” “The creationspren?” “They don’t do anything. They flit around and watch, admire. Most spren have a purpose. These are merely attracted by someone else’s purpose.” Shallan sat back, thinking on that, as Jasnah had taught her. Nearby, the scholars and ardents argued about how large Stormseat had been. Navani had done her part well—better than Shallan could have hoped. The army’s scholars now worked at Shallan’s command. Around her in the night, an uncountable array of lights both near and far indicated the breadth of the army. The rain continued to sprinkle down, catching the purple spherelight. She had chosen all spheres of one color. “The artist Eleseth,” Shallan observed to Pattern, “once did an experiment. She set out only ruby spheres, in their strength, to light her studio. She wanted to see what effect the all-red light would have upon her art.” “Mmmm,” Pattern said. “To what result?” “At first, during a painting session, the color of light affected her strongly. She would use too little red, and fields of blossoms would look washed out.” “Not unexpected.” “The interesting thing, however, was what happened if she continued working,” Shallan said. “If she painted for hours by that light, the effects diminished. The colors of her reproductions grew more balanced, the pictures of flowers more vivid. She eventually concluded that her mind compensated for the colors she saw. Indeed, if she switched the color of the light during a session, she’d continue for a time to paint as if the room were still red, reacting against the new color.” “Mmmmmm . . .” Pattern said, content. “Humans can see the world as it is not. It is why
your lies can be so strong. You are able to not admit that they are lies.” “It frightens me.” “Why? It is wonderful.” To him, she was a subject of study. For a moment, she understood how Kaladin must have seen Shallan as she spoke of the chasmfiend. Admiring its beauty, the form of its creation, oblivious to the present reality of its danger. “It frightens me,” Shallan said, “because we all see the world by some kind of light personal to us, and that light changes our perception. I don’t see clearly. I want to, but I don’t know if I ever truly can.” Eventually, a pattern broke through the sound of rain, and Dalinar Kholin entered the tent. Straight-backed and greying, he looked more like a general than a king. She had no sketches of him. It seemed a gross omission on her part, so she took a Memory of him walking into the pavilion, an aide holding an umbrella for him. He strode up to Shallan. “Ah, here you are. The one who has taken command of this expedition.” Shallan belatedly scrambled to her feet and bowed. “Highprince?” “You have co-opted my scribes and cartographers,” Dalinar said, sounding amused. “They hum of it like the rainfall. Urithiru. Stormseat. How did you do it?” “I didn’t. Brightness Navani did.” “She says you convinced her.” “I . . .” Shallan blushed. “I was really just there, and she changed her mind . . .” Dalinar nodded curtly to the side, and his aide stepped over to the debating scholars. The aide spoke with them softly, and they rose—some quickly, others with reluctance—and departed into the rain, leaving their papers. The aide followed them, and Vathah looked to Shallan. She nodded, excusing him and the other guards. Soon Shallan and Dalinar were alone in the pavilion. “You told Navani that Jasnah had discovered the secrets of the Knights Radiant,” Dalinar said. “I did.” “You’re certain that Jasnah didn’t mislead you somehow,” Dalinar said, “or allow you to mislead yourself—that would be far more like her.” “Brightlord, I . . . I don’t think that is . . .” She took a breath. “No. She did not mislead me.” “How can you be sure?” “I saw it,” Shallan said. “I witnessed what she did, and we spoke of it. Jasnah Kholin did not use a Soulcaster. She was one.” Dalinar folded his arms, looking past Shallan into the night. “I think I’m supposed to refound the Knights Radiant. The first man I thought I could trust for the job turned out to be a murderer and a liar. Now you tell me that Jasnah might have had actual power. If that is true, then I am a fool.” “I don’t understand.” “In naming Amaram,” Dalinar said. “I did what I thought was my task. I wonder now if I was mistaken all along, and that refounding them was never my duty. They might be refounding themselves, and I am an arrogant meddler. You have given me a great deal to think upon. Thank
you.” He did not smile as he said it; in fact, he looked severely troubled. He turned to leave, clasping his hands behind his back. “Brightlord Dalinar?” Shallan said. “What if your task wasn’t to refound the Knights Radiant?” “That is what I just said,” Dalinar replied. “What if instead, your task was to gather them?” He looked back to her, waiting. Shallan felt a cold sweat. What was she doing? I have to tell someone sometime, she thought. I can’t do as Jasnah did, holding it all. This is too important. Was Dalinar Kholin the right person? Well, she certainly couldn’t think of anyone better. Shallan held out her palm, then breathed in, draining one of her spheres. Then she breathed back out, sending a cloud of shimmering Stormlight into the air between herself and Dalinar. She formed it into a small image of Jasnah, the one she’d just drawn, on top of her palm. “Almighty above,” Dalinar whispered. A single awespren, like a ring of blue smoke, burst out above him, spreading like the ripple from a stone dropped in a pond. Shallan had seen such a spren only a handful of times in her life. Dalinar stepped closer, reverent, leaning down to inspect Shallan’s image. “Can I?” he asked, reaching out a hand. “Yes.” He touched the image, causing it to fuzz back into shifting light. When he withdrew his finger, the image re-formed. “It’s just an illusion,” Shallan said. “I can’t create anything real.” “It’s amazing,” Dalinar said, his voice so soft she could barely hear it over the pattering rain. “It is wonderful.” He looked up at her, and there were—shockingly—tears in his eyes. “You’re one of them.” “Maybe, kind of?” Shallan said, feeling awkward. This man, so commanding, so much larger than life, should not be crying in front of her. “I’m not mad,” he said, more to himself, it seemed. “I had decided that I wasn’t, but that’s not the same as knowing. It’s all true. They’re returning.” He tapped at the image again. “Jasnah taught you this?” “I more stumbled into it on my own,” Shallan said. “I think I was led to her so she could teach me. We didn’t have much time for that, unfortunately.” She grimaced, withdrawing the Stormlight, heart beating quickly because of what she’d done. “I need to give you the golden cape,” Dalinar said, standing up straight, wiping his eyes and growing firm of voice again. “Put you in charge of them. So we—” “Me?” Shallan yelped, thinking of what that would mean to her alternate identity. “No, I can’t! I mean, Brightlord, sir, what I can do is mostly useful if nobody knows it’s possible. I mean, if everyone is looking for my illusions, I’ll never fool them.” “Fool them?” Dalinar said. Perhaps the not best choice of words for Dalinar. “Brightlord Dalinar!” Shallan spun, alert, suddenly worried that someone had seen what she did. A lithe messenger approached the tent, dripping wet, locks of hair undone from her braids and sticking to her face. “Brightlord Dalinar!
Parshendi spotted, sir!” “Where?” “Eastern side of this plateau,” the messenger said, panting. “Scouting party, we think.” Dalinar looked from the messenger to Shallan, then cursed and started out into the rain. Shallan tossed her sketchpad onto her chair and followed. “This could be dangerous,” Dalinar said. “I appreciate the concern, Brightlord,” she said softly. “But I think I could actually take a spear through the stomach, and my abilities would heal me up without a scar. I’m probably the most difficult person to kill in this entire camp.” Dalinar strode in silence for a moment. “The fall into the chasm?” he asked softly. “Yes. I think I must have rescued Captain Kaladin too, though I don’t know how I managed that.” He grunted. They moved quickly through the rain, the water wetting Shallan’s hair and clothing. She practically had to jog to keep pace with Dalinar. Storming Alethi and their long legs. Guards ran up, members of Bridge Four, and fell in around them. She heard shouting in the distance. Dalinar sent the guards into a wider perimeter to give himself and Shallan a measure of privacy. “Can you Soulcast?” Dalinar asked softly. “Like Jasnah did?” “Yes,” Shallan said. “But I haven’t practiced it much.” “It could prove very useful.” “It’s also very dangerous. Jasnah didn’t want me practicing without her, though now that she’s gone . . . Well, I will do more with it, eventually. Sir, please don’t tell anyone about this. For now, at least.” “This was why Jasnah took you on as a ward,” Dalinar said. “It’s why she wanted you marrying Adolin, isn’t it? To bind you to us?” “Yes,” Shallan said, blushing in the darkness. “A great many things make more sense now. I will tell Navani about you, but nobody else, and I will swear her to secrecy. She can keep a secret, if she has to.” She opened her mouth to say yes, but stopped herself. Was that what Jasnah would have said? “We’ll send you back to the warcamps,” Dalinar continued, eyes forward, speaking softly. “Immediately, with an escort. I don’t care how hard you are to kill. You’re too valuable to risk on this expedition.” “Brightlord,” Shallan said, splashing through a pool of water, glad she was wearing boots and leggings under the skirt, “you are not my king, nor are you my highprince. You have no authority over me. My duty is to find Urithiru, so you will not be sending me back. And, by your honor, I will have your promise not to tell a soul what I can do unless I give leave. That includes Brightness Navani.” He stopped in place, and stared at her in surprise. Then he grunted, his face barely visible. “I see Jasnah in you.” Rarely had Shallan been given such a compliment. Lights bobbed and approached in the rain, soldiers bearing sphere lanterns. Vathah and his men jogged up, having been left behind, and Bridge Four held them back for the moment. “Very well, Brightness,” Dalinar said to Shallan. “Your secret will remain
one, for now. We will consult further, once this expedition is done. You have read of the things I have been seeing?” She nodded. “The world is about to change,” Dalinar said. He took a deep breath. “You give me hope, true hope, that we can change it in the right way.” The approaching scouts saluted, and Bridge Four parted to allow their leader access to Dalinar. He was a portly man with a brown hat that reminded her of the one Veil wore, except it was wide-brimmed. The scout wore soldier’s trousers, but a leather jacket over them, and certainly didn’t seem in fighting shape. “Bashin,” Dalinar said. “Parshendi on that plateau next to us, sir,” Bashin said, pointing. “The Parshendi stumbled over one of my scouting teams. The lads raised the alarm quickly, but we lost all three men.” Dalinar cursed softly, then turned toward Highlord Teleb, who had approached from the other direction, wearing his Shardplate, which he’d painted silver. “Wake the army, Teleb. Everyone on alert.” “Yes, Brightlord,” Teleb said. “Brightlord Dalinar,” Bashin said, “the lads took down one of those shellheads before being killed themselves. Sir . . . you need to see this. Something has changed.” Shallan shivered, feeling sodden and cold. She’d brought clothing that would last well in the rain, of course, but that didn’t mean standing out here was comfortable. Though they wore coats, nobody else seemed to pay much heed. Likely, they took it for granted that during the Weeping, you were going to get soaked. That was something else for which her sheltered childhood had not prepared her. Dalinar did not object as Shallan joined him in walking toward a nearby bridge—one of the more mobile ones run by Kaladin’s bridge teams, who wore raincoats and front-brimmed caps. A group of soldiers on the other side of the bridge dragged something across, pushing a little wave of water before it. A Parshendi corpse. Shallan had only seen the one that she’d found with Kaladin in the chasm. She’d done a sketch of that earlier, and this one looked very different. It had hair—well, a kind of hair. Leaning down, she found that it was thicker than human hair, and felt too . . . slick. Was that the right word? The face was marbled, like that of a parshman, this one with prominent red streaks through the black. The body was lean and strong, and something seemed to grow under the skin of the exposed arms, peeking out. Shallan prodded at it, and found it hard and ridged, like a crab shell. In fact, the face was crusted with a kind of thin, bumpy carapace just above the cheeks and running back around the sides of the head. “This isn’t a type we’ve seen before, sir,” Bashin said to Dalinar. “Look at those ridges. Sir . . . some of the lads that were killed, they had burn marks on them. In the rain. Shakiest thing I’ve ever seen . . .” Shallan looked up at them. “What do you mean
by a ‘type,’ Bashin?” “Some Parshendi have hair,” the man said—he was a darkeyes, but clearly well respected, though he didn’t bear an obvious military rank. “Others have carapace. The ones we met with King Gavilar long ago, they were . . . shaped different from the ones we fight.” “They have specialized subspecies?” Shallan said. Some cremlings were like that, working in a hive, with different specializations and varied forms. “We might be depleting their numbers,” Dalinar said to Bashin. “Forcing them to send out their equivalent of lighteyes to fight.” “And the burns, Dalinar?” Bashin said, scratching his head under his hat. Shallan reached out to check the Parshendi’s eye color. Did they have lighteyes and dark, like humans? She lifted the eyelid. The eye beneath was completely red. She screamed, jumping back, pulling her hand up to her chest. The soldiers cursed, looking around, and Dalinar’s Shardblade appeared in his hand a few seconds later. “Red eyes,” Shallan whispered. “It’s happening.” “The red eyes are just a legend.” “Jasnah had an entire notebook of references to this, Brightlord,” Shallan said, shivering. “The Voidbringers are here. Time is short.” “Throw the body into the chasm,” Dalinar said to his men. “I doubt we’d be able to easily burn it. Keep everyone alert. Be prepared for an attack tonight. They—” “Brightlord!” Shallan spun as a hulking armored figure came up, rainwater trailing down his silvery Plate. “We’ve found another one, sir,” Teleb said. “Dead?” Dalinar said. “No, sir,” the Shardbearer said, pointing. “He walked right up to us, sir. He’s sitting on a rock over there.” Dalinar looked to Shallan, who shrugged. Dalinar started off in the direction Teleb had pointed. “Sir?” Teleb said, voice resonating inside his helm. “Should you . . .” Dalinar ignored the warning, and Shallan hastened after him, collecting Vathah and his two guards. “Should you head back?” Vathah said under his breath to her. Storms, but that face of his looked dangerous in the dim light, even if his voice was respectful. She couldn’t help but still see him as the man who had almost killed her, back in the Unclaimed Hills. “I will be safe,” Shallan replied softly. “You might have a Blade, Brightness, but you could still die to an arrow in the back.” “Unlikely, in this rain,” she said. He fell in behind her, offering no further objection. He was trying to do the job she had assigned him. Unfortunately, she was discovering that she didn’t much like being guarded. They found the Parshendi after a hike through the rain. The rock he sat on was about as high as a man was tall. He seemed to have no weapons, and about a hundred Alethi soldiers stood around the base of his seat, spears pointed upward. Shallan couldn’t make out much more, as he sat across the chasm from them, a portable bridge in place to his plateau. “Has he said anything?” Dalinar asked softly as Teleb stepped up. “Not that I know of,” the Shardbearer said. “He just sits there.” Shallan
peered across the chasm toward the solitary Parshendi man. He stood up, and shaded his eyes against the rain. The soldiers below shuffled, spears rising into more threatening positions. “Skar?” the Parshendi’s voice called. “Skar, is that you? And Leyten?” Nearby, one of Dalinar’s bridgeman guards cursed. He ran across the bridge, and several other bridgemen followed. They returned a moment later. Shallan crowded in closely to hear what their leader whispered to Dalinar. “It’s him, sir,” Skar said. “He’s changed, but storm me for a fool if I’m wrong—it’s him. Shen. He ran bridges with us for months, then vanished. Now he’s here. He says he wants to surrender to you.” Dalinar stood with hands behind his back, waiting in his command tent and listening to the patter of rain on the cloth. The floor of the tent was wet. You couldn’t avoid that, in the Weeping. He knew that from miserable experience—he’d been out on more than one military excursion during this time of year. It was the day after they’d discovered the Parshendi on the Plains—both the dead one and the one the bridgemen called Shen, or Rlain, as he had said his name was. Dalinar himself had allowed the man to be armed. Shallan claimed that all parshmen were Voidbringers in embryo. He had ample reason to believe her word, considering what she’d shown him. But what was he to do? The Radiants had returned, the Parshendi had manifested red eyes. Dalinar felt as if he were trying to stop a dam from breaking, all the while not knowing where the leaks were actually coming from. The tent flaps parted and Adolin ducked in, escorting Navani. She hung her stormcoat on the rack beside the flap, and Adolin grabbed a towel and began drying his hair and face. Adolin was betrothed to a member of the Knights Radiant. She says she’s not one yet, Dalinar reminded himself. That made sense. One could be a trained spearman without being a soldier. One implied skill, the other a position. “They are bringing the Parshendi man?” Dalinar asked. “Yes,” Navani said, sitting down in one of the room’s chairs. Adolin didn’t take his seat, but found a pitcher of filtered rainwater and poured himself a cup. He tapped the side of the tin cup as he drank. They were restless, all of them, following the discovery of red-eyed Parshendi. After no attack had come that night, Dalinar had pushed the three armies into another day of marching. Slowly, they approached the middle of the Plains, at least as Shallan’s projections indicated. They were already well beyond the regions that scouts had explored. Now, they had to rely on the young woman’s maps. The flaps opened again, and Teleb marched in with the prisoner. Dalinar had put the highlord and his personal guard in charge of this “Rlain,” as he didn’t like how defensive the bridgemen were about him. He did invite their lieutenants—Skar and the Horneater cook they called Rock—to come to the interrogation, and those two entered after Teleb and
his men. General Khal and Renarin were in another tent with Aladar and Roion, going over tactics for when they approached the Parshendi encampment. Navani sat up, leaning forward, narrowing her eyes at the prisoner. Shallan had wanted to attend, but Dalinar had promised to have everything written down for her. The Stormfather had given her some sense, fortunately, and she hadn’t insisted. Having too many of them near this spy felt dangerous to Dalinar. He had a vague recollection of the parshman guard who had occasionally joined the men of Bridge Four. Parshmen were practically invisible, but once this one had started carrying a spear, he had become instantly noticeable. Not that there had been anything else distinctive about him—same squat parshman body, marbled skin, dull eyes. This creature before him was nothing like that. He was a full Parshendi warrior, complete with orange-red skullplate and armored carapace at the chest, thighs, and outer arms. He was as tall as an Alethi, and more muscular. Though he carried no weapon, the guards still treated him as if he were the most dangerous thing on this plateau—and perhaps he was just that. As he stepped up, he saluted Dalinar, hand to chest. Like the other bridgemen. He bore their tattoo on his forehead, reaching up and blending into his skullplate. “Sit,” Dalinar ordered, nodding toward a stool at the center of the room. Rlain obeyed. “I’m told,” Dalinar said, “that you refuse to tell us anything about the Parshendi plans.” “I don’t know them,” Rlain said. He had the rhythmic intonations common to the Parshendi, but he spoke Alethi very well. Better than any parshman Dalinar had heard. “You were a spy,” Dalinar said, hands clasped behind his back, trying to loom over the Parshendi—but staying far enough away that the man could not grab him without Adolin getting in the way first. “Yes, sir.” “For how long?” “About three years,” Rlain said. “In various warcamps.” Nearby, Teleb—faceplate up—turned and raised an eyebrow at Dalinar. “You answer me when I ask,” Dalinar said. “But not the others. Why?” “You’re my commanding officer,” Rlain said. “You’re Parshendi.” “I . . .” The man looked down at the ground, shoulders bowing. He raised a hand to his head, feeling at the ridge of skin just where his skullplate ended. “Something is very wrong, sir. Eshonai’s voice . . . on the plateau that day, when she came to meet with Prince Adolin . . .” “Eshonai,” Dalinar prompted. “The Parshendi Shardbearer?” Nearby, Navani scribbled on a pad of paper, writing down each word spoken. “Yes. She was my commander. But now . . .” He looked up, and despite the alien skin and the strange way of speaking, Dalinar recognized grief in this man’s face. Terrible grief. “Sir, I have reason to believe that everyone I know . . . everyone I loved . . . has been destroyed, monsters left in their place. The listeners, the Parshendi, may be no more. I have nothing left . . .” “Yes you do,” Skar said
from outside the ring of guards. “You’re Bridge Four.” Rlain looked at him. “I’m a traitor.” “Ha!” Rock said. “Is little problem. Can be fixed.” Dalinar gestured to quiet the bridgemen. He glanced at Navani, who nodded for him to continue. “Tell me,” Dalinar said, “how you hid among the parshmen.” “I . . .” “Soldier,” Dalinar barked. “That was an order.” Rlain sat up. Amazingly, he seemed to want to obey—as if he needed something to lend him strength. “Sir,” Rlain said, “it’s just something my people can do. We choose a form based on what we need, the job required of us. Dullform, one of those forms, looks a lot like a parshman. Hiding among them is easy.” “We account our parshmen with precision,” Navani said. “Yes,” Rlain replied, “and we are noticed—but rarely questioned. Who questions when you find an extra sphere lying on the ground? It’s not something suspicious. It’s merely fortune.” Dangerous territory, Dalinar thought, noticing the change in Rlain’s voice—the beat to which he was speaking. This man did not like how the parshmen were treated. “You spoke of the Parshendi,” Dalinar said. “This has to do with the red eyes?” Rlain nodded. “What does it mean, soldier?” Dalinar asked. “It means our gods have returned,” Rlain whispered. “Who are your gods?” “They are the souls of those ancient. Those who gave of themselves to destroy.” A different rhythm to his words this time, slow and reverent. He looked up at Dalinar. “They hate you and your kind, sir. This new form they have given my people . . . it is something terrible. It will bring something terrible.” “Can you lead us to the Parshendi city?” Dalinar asked. Rlain’s voice changed again. A different rhythm. “My people . . .” “You said they are gone,” Dalinar said. “They might be,” Rlain said. “I got close enough to see an army, tens of thousands. But surely they left some in other forms. The elderly? The young? Who watches our children?” Dalinar stepped up to Rlain, waving back Adolin, who raised an anxious hand. He stooped down, laying an arm on the Parshendi man’s shoulder. “Soldier,” Dalinar said, “if what you’re telling me is correct, then the most important thing you can do is lead us to your people. I will see that the noncombatants are protected, my word of honor on it. If something terrible is happening to your people, you need to help me stop it.” “I . . .” Rlain took a deep breath. “Yes, sir,” he said to a different rhythm. “Meet with Shallan Davar,” Dalinar said. “Describe the route to her, and get us a map. Teleb, you may release the prisoner into the custody of Bridge Four.” The Oldblood Shardbearer nodded. As the group of them left, letting in a gust of rainy wind, Dalinar sighed and sat down beside Navani. “You trust his word?” “I don’t know,” Dalinar said. “But something did shake that man, Navani. Soundly.” “He’s Parshendi,” she said. “You may be misreading his body language.” Dalinar leaned
forward, clasping his hands before him. “The countdown?” he asked. “Three days away,” Navani said. “Three days before Lightday.” So little time. “We hasten our pace,” he said. Inward. Toward the center. And destiny. Shallan fought against the wind, pulling her stormcoat—stolen from a soldier—close around her as she struggled up the slick incline. “Brightness?” Gaz asked. He grabbed his cap to keep it from blowing free. “Are you certain you want to do this?” “Of course I am,” Shallan said. “Whether or not what I’m doing is wise . . . well, that’s another story.” These winds were unusual for the Weeping, which was supposed to be a period of placid rainfall, a time for contemplating the Almighty, a respite from highstorms. Maybe things were different out here in the stormlands. She pulled herself up the rocks. The Shattered Plains had grown increasingly rough as the armies traveled inward—now on their eighth day of the expedition—following Shallan’s map, created with the help of Rlain, the former bridgeman. Shallan crested the rock formation and found the view that the scouts had described. Vathah and Gaz stomped up behind her, muttering about the cold. The heart of the Shattered Plains extended before Shallan. The inner plateaus, never explored by men. “It’s here,” she said. Gaz scratched at the socket beneath his eye patch. “Rocks?” “Yes, guardsman Gaz,” Shallan said. “Rocks. Beautiful, wonderful rocks.” In the distance, she saw shadows draped in a veil of misty rain. Seen together in a group like this, it was unmistakable. This was a city. A city covered over with centuries’ worth of crem, like children’s blocks dribbled with many coats of melted wax. To the innocent eye, it undoubtedly looked much like the rest of the Shattered Plains. But it was oh so much more. It was proof. Even this formation Shallan stood upon had probably once been a building. Weathered on the stormward side, dribbled with crem down the leeward side to create the bulbous, uneven slope they had climbed. “Brightness!” She ignored the voices from down below, instead waving impatiently for the spyglass. Gaz handed it to her, and she raised it to inspect the plateaus ahead. Unfortunately, the thing had fogged up on one end. She tried to rub it clean, rain washing over her, but the fog was on the inside. Blasted device. “Brightness?” Gaz asked. “Shouldn’t we, uh, listen to what they’re saying down below?” “More twisted Parshendi spotted,” Shallan said, raising the spyglass again. Wouldn’t the designer of the thing have built it to be sealed on the inside, to prevent moisture from getting in? Gaz and Vathah stepped back as several members of Bridge Four reached the top of the incline. “Brightness,” one of the bridgemen said, “Highprince Dalinar has withdrawn the vanguard and ordered a secure perimeter on the plateau behind us.” He was a tall, handsome man whose arms seemed entirely too long for his body. Shallan looked with dissatisfaction at the inner plateaus. “Brightness,” the bridgeman continued reluctantly, “he did say that if you wouldn’t come, he
would send Adolin to . . . um . . . cart you back over his shoulder.” “I would like to see him do that,” Shallan said. It did sound kind of romantic, the sort of thing you’d read of in a novel. “He’s that worried about the Parshendi?” “Shen . . . er, Rlain . . . says we’re practically to their home plateau, Brightness. Too many of their patrols have been spotted. Please.” “We need to get in there,” Shallan said, pointing. “That’s where the secrets are.” “Brightness . . .” “Very well,” she said, turning and hiking down the incline. She slipped, which did not help her dignity, but Vathah caught her arm before she tumbled onto her face. Once down, they quickly crossed this smaller plateau, joining scouts who were jogging back toward the bulk of the army. Rlain claimed to know nothing himself of the Oathgate—or even really much about the city, which he called “Narak” instead of Stormseat. He said his people had only taken up permanent residence here following the Alethi invasion. During the push inward, Dalinar’s soldiers had spotted an increasing number of Parshendi and had clashed with them in brief skirmishes. General Khal thought that the forays had been intended to draw the army off course, though how they would figure that, Shallan didn’t know—but she did know she was growing tired of feeling damp all the time. They had been out here nearly two weeks now, and some of the soldiers had begun to mutter that the army would need to return to the warcamps soon, or risk not getting back before the highstorms resumed. Shallan stalked across the bridge and passed several lines of spearmen setting up behind short, wavelike ridges in the stone—likely the footings of old walls. She found Dalinar and the other highprinces in a tent set up at the center of camp. It was one of six identical tents, and it wasn’t immediately obvious which one held the four highprinces. A safety precaution of some sort, she assumed. As Shallan stepped in out of the rain, she intruded upon their conversation. “The current plateau does have very favorable defensible positions,” Aladar said, gesturing toward a map set out on the travel table before them. “I prefer our chances against an assault here to moving deeper.” “And if we move deeper,” Dalinar said with a grunt, “we’ll be in danger of getting split during an attack, half on one plateau, half on the other.” “But do they even need to attack?” Roion said. “If I were them, I’d just form up out there as if to prepare for an attack—but then I wouldn’t. I’d stall, forcing my enemy to get stuck out here waiting for an attack until the highstorms returned!” “He makes a valid point,” Aladar admitted. “Trust a coward,” Sebarial said, “to know the smartest way to stay out of fighting.” He sat with Palona beside the table, eating fruit and smiling pleasantly. “I am not a coward,” Roion said, forming fists at his sides. “I
didn’t mean it as an insult,” Sebarial said. “My insults are far more pithy. That was a compliment. If I had my way, I’d hire you to run all wars, Roion. I suspect there would be far fewer casualties, and the price of undergarments would double once soldiers were told that you were in charge. I’d make a fortune.” Shallan handed her dripping coat to a servant, then took off her cap and began drying her hair with a towel. “We need to press closer to the center of the Plains,” she said. “Roion is right. I refuse to let us bivouac. The Parshendi will just wait us out.” The others looked to her. “I wasn’t aware,” Dalinar said, “that you decided our tactics, Brightness Shallan.” “It’s our own fault, Dalinar,” Sebarial said, “for giving her so much leeway. We probably should have tossed her off the Pinnacle weeks ago, the moment she arrived at that meeting.” Shallan was stirring up a retort as the tent flaps parted and Adolin trudged in, Shardplate streaming. He pushed up his faceplate. Storms . . . he looked so good, even when you could see only half his face. She smiled. “They are definitely agitated,” Adolin said. He saw her, and gave her a quick smile before clinking up to the table. “There are at least ten thousand of those twisted Parshendi out there, moving in groups around the plateaus.” “Ten thousand,” Aladar said with a grunt. “We can take ten thousand. Even with them having the terrain advantage, even if we have to assault rather than defend, we should handle that many with ease. We have over thirty thousand.” “This is what we came to do,” Dalinar said. He looked at Shallan, who blushed at her forwardness earlier. “Your portal, the one you think is out here. Where would it be?” “Closer to the city,” Shallan said. “What of those red eyes?” Roion asked. He looked very uncomfortable. “And the flashes of light they cause when they fight? Storms, when I spoke earlier, I didn’t mean that I wanted us to go farther. I was just worried at what the Parshendi would do. I . . . there’s no easy way to do this, is there?” “So far as Rlain has said,” Navani said from her seated position at the side of the room, “only their soldiers can jump between plateaus, but we can assume the new form capable of it as well. They can flee us if we push forward.” Dalinar shook his head. “They set up on the Plains, rather than fleeing all those years ago, because they knew it was their best chance for survival. On the open, unbroken rock of the stormlands, they could be hunted and destroyed. Out here they have the advantage. They won’t abandon it now. Not if they think they can fight us.” “If we want to make them fight, then,” Aladar said, “we need to threaten their homes. I guess we really should press toward the city.” Shallan relaxed. Each step closer to the center—by
Rlain’s explanations, they were but half a day away—got her closer to the Oathgate. Dalinar leaned forward, spreading his hands to the sides, his shadow falling on the battle maps. “Very well. I did not come all this way to timidly wait upon Parshendi whims. We’ll march inward tomorrow, threaten their city, and force them to engage.” “The closer we get,” Sebarial noted, “the more likely we are to become cut off without hope of retreat.” Dalinar didn’t respond, but Shallan knew what he was thinking. We gave up hope of retreat days ago. A flight across days and days of plateaus would be a disaster if the Parshendi decided to harry. The Alethi fought here, and they won, seizing the shelter of Narak. That was their only option. Dalinar adjourned the meeting, and the highprinces left, surrounded by groups of aides holding umbrellas. Shallan waited as Dalinar caught her eyes. In moments only she, Dalinar, Adolin, and Navani remained. Navani walked up to Dalinar, taking his arm with both of hers. An intimate posture. “This portal of yours,” Dalinar said. “Yes?” Shallan asked. Dalinar looked up and met her eyes. “How real is it?” “Jasnah was convinced it was completely real. She was never wrong.” “This would be a storming bad time for her to break her record,” he said softly. “I agreed to press forward, in part, because of your exploration.” “Thank you.” “I did not do it for scholarship,” Dalinar said. “From what Navani tells me, this portal offers a unique opportunity for retreat. I had hoped to defeat the Parshendi before danger overtook us, whatever it was. Judging by what we’ve seen, danger has arrived early.” Shallan nodded. “Tomorrow is the last day of the countdown,” Dalinar said. “Scribbled on the walls during highstorms. Whatever it is, whatever it was, we meet it tomorrow—and you are my backup plan, Shallan Davar. You will find this portal, and you will make it work. If the evil overwhelms us, your pathway will be our escape. You may be the only chance that our armies—and indeed, Alethkar itself—have for survival.” * * * Days passed, and Kaladin refused to let the rain overcome him. He limped through the camp, using a crutch that Lopen had fetched for him despite objecting that it was too soon for Kaladin to be up and about. The place was still empty, save for the occasional parshmen lugging wood from the forests outside or carrying sacks of grain. The camp didn’t get any news about the expedition. The king was probably being sent word via spanreed, but he didn’t share it with everyone else. Storms, this place feels eerie, Kaladin thought, limping past deserted barracks, rain pattering against the umbrella that Lopen had tied to Kaladin’s crutch. It worked. Kind of. He passed rainspren, like blue candles sprouting from the ground, each with a single eye in the center of its top. Creepy things. Kaladin had always disliked them. He fought the rain. Did that make any sense? It seemed that the rain wanted him to
stay inside, so he went out. The rain wanted him to give in to the despair, so he forced himself to think. Growing up, he’d had Tien to help lighten the gloom. Now, even thinking of Tien increased that gloom instead—though he couldn’t avoid it. The Weeping reminded him of his brother. Of laughter when the darkness threatened, of cheerful joy and carefree optimism. Those images warred with ones of Tien’s death. Kaladin squeezed his eyes shut, trying to banish that memory. Of the frail young man, barely trained, being cut down. Tien’s own company of soldiers had put him at the front as a distraction, a sacrifice to slow the enemy. Kaladin set his jaw, opening his eyes. No more moping. He would not whine or wallow. Yes, he’d lost Syl. He’d lost many loved ones during his life. He would survive this agony as he had survived the others. He continued his limping circuit of the barracks. He did this four times a day. Sometimes Lopen came with him, but today Kaladin was alone. He splashed through puddles of water, and found himself smiling because he wore the boots Shallan had stolen from him. I never did believe she was a Horneater, he thought. I need to make sure she knows that. He stopped, leaning on the crutch and looking out through the rain toward the Shattered Plains. He couldn’t see far. The haze of rainfall prevented that. You come back safely, he thought to those out there. All of you. This time, I can’t help you if something goes wrong. Rock, Teft, Dalinar, Adolin, Shallan, everyone in Bridge Four—all out on their own. How different a place would the world be if Kaladin had been a better man? If he’d used his powers and had returned to the warcamp with Shallan full of Stormlight? He had been so close to revealing what he could do . . . You’d been thinking that for weeks, he thought to himself. You’d never have done it. You were too scared. He hated admitting it, but it was true. Well, if his suspicions about Shallan were true, perhaps Dalinar would have his Radiant anyway. May she make a better run of it than Kaladin had. He continued on his limping way, rounding back to Bridge Four’s barrack. He stopped when he saw a fine carriage, pulled by horses bearing the king’s livery, waiting in front of it. Kaladin cursed, hobbling forward. Lopen ran out to meet him, not carrying an umbrella. A lot of people gave up on trying to stay dry during the Weeping. “Lopen!” Kaladin said. “What?” “He’s waiting for you, gancho,” Lopen said, gesturing urgently. “The king himself.” Kaladin limped more quickly toward his room. The door was open, and Kaladin peeked in to find King Elhokar standing inside, looking about the small chamber. Moash guarded the door, and Taka—a former member of the King’s Guard—stood nearer to the king. “Your Majesty?” Kaladin asked. “Ah,” the king said, “bridgeman.” Elhokar’s cheeks were flushed. He’d been drinking, though he didn’t appear
drunk. Kaladin understood. With Dalinar and that disapproving glare of his gone for a time, it was probably nice to relax with a bottle. When Kaladin had first met the king, he’d thought Elhokar lacked regality. Now, oddly, he thought Elhokar did look like a king. It wasn’t that the king had changed—the man still had his imperious features, with that overly large nose and condescending manner. The change was in Kaladin. The things he’d once associated with kingship—honor, strength of arms, nobility—had been replaced with Elhokar’s less inspiring attributes. “This is really all that Dalinar assigns one of his officers?” Elhokar asked, gesturing around the room. “That man. He expects everyone to live with his own austerity. It is as if he’s completely forgotten how to enjoy himself.” Kaladin looked to Moash, who shrugged, Shardplate clinking. The king cleared his throat. “I was told you were too weak to make the trip to see me. I see that might not be the case.” “I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” Kaladin said. “I’m not well, but I walk the camp each day to rebuild my strength. I feared that my weakness and appearance might be offensive to the Throne.” “You’ve learned to speak politically, I see,” the king said, folding his arms. “The truth is that my command is meaningless, even to a darkeyes. I no longer have authority in the eyes of men.” Great. Here we go again. The king waved curtly. “Out, you other two. I’d speak to this man alone.” Moash glanced at Kaladin, looking concerned, but Kaladin nodded. With reluctance, Moash and Taka walked out, shutting the door, leaving them to the light of a few dwindling spheres that the king set out. Soon, those wouldn’t have any Stormlight to them at all—it had been too long without a highstorm. They’d need to break out candles and oil lamps. “How did you know,” the king asked him, “how to be a hero?” “Your Majesty?” Kaladin asked, sagging against his crutch. “A hero,” the king said, waving flippantly. “Everyone loves you, bridgeman. You saved Dalinar, you fought Shardbearers, you came back after falling into the storming chasms! How do you do it? How do you know?” “It’s really just luck, Your Majesty.” “No, no,” the king said. He began pacing. “It’s a pattern, though I can’t figure it out. When I try to be strong, I make a fool of myself. When I try to be merciful, people walk all over me. When I try to listen to counsel, it turns out I’ve picked the wrong men! When I try to do everything on my own, Dalinar has to take over lest I ruin the kingdom. “How do people know what to do? Why don’t I know what to do? I was born to this office, given the throne by the Almighty himself! Why would he give me the title, but not the capacity? It defies reason. And yet, everyone seems to know things that I do not. My father could rule even the likes of Sadeas—men loved Gavilar, feared him,
and served him all at once. I can’t even get a darkeyes to obey a command to come visit the palace! Why doesn’t this work? What do I have to do?” Kaladin stepped back, shocked at the frankness. “Why are you asking me this, Your Majesty?” “Because you know the secret,” the king said, still pacing. “I’ve seen how your men regard you; I’ve heard how people speak of you. You’re a hero, bridgeman.” He stopped, then walked up to Kaladin, taking him by the arms. “Can you teach me?” Kaladin regarded him, baffled. “I want to be a king like my father was,” Elhokar said. “I want to lead men, and I want them to respect me.” “I don’t . . .” Kaladin swallowed. “I don’t know if that’s possible, Your Majesty.” Elhokar narrowed his eyes at Kaladin. “So you do still speak your mind. Even after the trouble it brought you. Tell me. Do you think me a bad king, bridgeman?” “Yes.” The king drew in a sharp breath, still holding Kaladin by the arms. I could do it right here, Kaladin realized. Strike the king down. Put Dalinar on the throne. No hiding, no secrets, no cowardly assassination. A fight, him and me. That seemed a more honest way to be about it. Sure, Kaladin would probably be executed, but he found that didn’t bother him. Should he do it, for the good of the kingdom? He could imagine Dalinar’s anger. Dalinar’s disappointment. Death didn’t bother Kaladin, but failing Dalinar . . . Storms. The king let go and stalked away. “Well, I did ask,” he muttered to himself. “I merely have to win you over as well. I will figure this out. I will be a king to be remembered.” “Or you could do what is best for Alethkar,” Kaladin said, “and step down.” The king stopped in place. He turned on Kaladin, expression darkening. “Do not overstep yourself, bridgeman. Bah. I should never have come here.” “I agree,” Kaladin said. He found this entire experience surreal. Elhokar made to leave. He stopped at the door, not looking at Kaladin. “When you came, the shadows went away.” “The . . . shadows?” “I saw them in mirrors, in the corners of my eyes. I could swear I even heard them whispering, but you frightened them. I haven’t seen them since. There’s something about you. Don’t try to deny it.” The king looked to him. “I am sorry for what I did to you. I watched you fight to help Adolin, and then I saw you defend Renarin . . . and I grew jealous. There you were, such a champion, so loved. And everyone hates me. I should have gone to fight myself. “Instead, I overreacted to your challenge of Amaram. You weren’t the one who ruined our chance against Sadeas. It was me. Dalinar was right. Again. I’m so tired of him being right, and me being wrong. In light of that, I am not at all surprised that you find me a bad king.” Elhokar pushed
open the door and left. Dalinar strode from the tent into a subtle rain, joined by Navani and Shallan. The rain sounded softer out here than it had inside the tent, where the drops had drummed upon the fabric. They had marched farther inward all that morning, bringing them to the very heart of the ruined plateaus. They were close now. So close, they had the Parshendi’s full attention. It was happening. An attendant offered an umbrella to each person leaving the tent, but Dalinar waved his away. If his men had to stand in this, he’d join them. He’d be soaked by the end of this day anyway. He strode through the ranks, following bridgemen in stormcoats who led the way with sapphire lanterns. It was still day, but the thick cloud cover rendered everything dim. He used blue light to identify himself. Roion and Aladar, seeing that Dalinar had eschewed an umbrella, stepped out into the rain with him. Sebarial, of course, stayed underneath his. They reached the edge of the mass of troops who had formed up in a large oval, facing outward. He knew his soldiers well enough to sense their anxiety. They stood too stiffly, with no shuffling or stretching. They were also silent, not chattering to distract themselves—not even griping. The only voices he heard were occasional barked orders as officers trimmed the lines. Dalinar soon saw what was causing the uneasiness. Glowing red eyes amassed on the next plateau. They hadn’t glowed before. Red eyes yes, but not with those uncanny glows. In the dim light, the Parshendi bodies were indistinct, no more than shadows. The crimson eyes hovered like Taln’s Scar—like spheres in the darkness, deeper in color than any ruby. Parshendi beards often bore bits of gemstone woven into them in patterns, but today those didn’t glow. Too long without a highstorm, Dalinar thought. Even the gems in Alethi spheres—cut with facets and so able to hold light longer—had almost all failed by this point of the Weeping, though larger gemstones might last another week or so. They had entered the darkest part of the year. The time when Stormlight did not shine. “Oh, Almighty!” Roion whispered, looking at those red eyes. “Oh, by the names of God himself. What have you brought us to, Dalinar?” “Can you do anything to help?” Dalinar asked softly, looking to Shallan, who stood beneath her umbrella at his side, her guards just behind. Face pale, she shook her head. “I’m sorry.” “The Knights Radiant were warriors,” Dalinar said, very softly. “If they were, then I’ve got a long way to go. . . .” “Go, then,” Dalinar told the girl. “When there is an opening in the fighting, find that pathway to Urithiru, if it exists. You’re my only contingency plan, Brightness.” She nodded. “Dalinar,” Aladar said, sounding horrified as he watched the red eyes, which were forming into ordered ranks on the other side of the chasm, “tell me straight. When you brought us on this march, did you expect to find these horrors?” “Yes.”
It was true enough. He didn’t know what horrors he’d find, but he had known that something was coming. “You came anyway?” Aladar demanded. “You hauled us all the way out onto these cursed plains, you let us be surrounded by monsters, to be slaughtered and—” Dalinar grabbed Aladar by the front of the jacket and hauled him forward. The move caught the other man completely off guard, and he quieted, eyes widening. “Those are Voidbringers out there,” Dalinar hissed, rain dribbling down his face. “They’ve returned. Yes, it is true. And we, Aladar, we have a chance to stop them. I don’t know if we can prevent another Desolation, but I’d do anything—including sacrificing myself and this entire army—to protect Alethkar from those things. Do you understand?” Aladar nodded, wide-eyed. “I hoped to get here before this happened,” Dalinar said, “but I didn’t. So now we’re going to fight. And storm it, we’re going to destroy those things. We’re going to stop them, and we’re going to hope that will stop this evil from spreading to the world’s parshmen, as my niece feared. If you survive this day, you’ll be known as one of the greatest men of our generation.” He released Aladar, letting the highprince stumble back. “Go to your men, Aladar. Go lead them. Be a champion.” Aladar stared at Dalinar, mouth gaping. Then, he straightened. He slapped his arm to his chest, giving a salute as crisp as any Dalinar had seen. “It will be done, Brightlord,” Aladar said. “Highprince of War.” Aladar barked to his attendants—including Mintez, the highlord that Aladar usually had use his Shardplate in battle—then put his hand to his side-sword and dashed away in the rain. “Huh,” Sebarial said from beneath his umbrella. “He’s actually buying into it. He thinks he’s going to be a storming hero.” “He now knows I was right about the need to unify Alethkar. He’s a good soldier. Most of the highprinces are . . . or were, at some point.” “Pity you ended up with us two instead of them,” Sebarial said, nodding toward Roion, who still stared out at the shifting red eyes. There were thousands now, still increasing as more Parshendi arrived. Scouts reported that they were gathering on all three plateaus bordering the large one that the Alethi occupied. “I’m useless in a battle,” Sebarial continued, “and Roion’s archers will be wasted in this rain. Besides, he’s a coward.” “Roion is not a coward,” Dalinar said, laying a hand on the shorter highprince’s arm. “He’s careful. That did not serve him well in the squabbling over gemhearts, where men like Sadeas threw away lives in exchange for prestige. But out here, care is an attribute I’d choose over recklessness.” Roion turned to Dalinar, blinking away water. “Is this really happening?” “Yes,” Dalinar said. “I want you with your men, Roion. They need to see you. This is going to terrify them, but not you. You’re careful, in control.” “Yeah,” Roion said. “Yes. You . . . you’re going to get us out of this,
right?” “No, I’m not,” Dalinar said. Roion frowned. “We’re all going to get ourselves out of it together.” Roion nodded, and didn’t object. He saluted as Aladar had, if less crisply, then headed toward his army on the northern flank, calling for his aides to give him the numbers of his reserves. “Damnation,” Sebarial said, watching Roion go. “Damnation. What about me? Where’s my impassioned speech?” “You,” Dalinar said, “are to go back to the command tent and not get in the way.” Sebarial laughed. “All right. That I can do.” “I want Teleb in command of your army,” Dalinar said. “And I’m sending both Serugiadis and Rust to join him. Your men will fight better against these things with a few Shardbearers at their head.” All three were men who had been given Shards following Adolin’s dueling spree. “I’ll give the order that Teleb is to be obeyed.” “And Sebarial?” Dalinar asked. “Yes?” “If you have a mind for it, burn some prayers. I don’t know if anyone up there is listening anymore, but it can’t hurt.” Dalinar turned toward the sea of red eyes. Why were they just standing there watching? Sebarial hesitated. “Not as confident as you acted to the other two, eh?” He smiled, as if that comforted him, then sauntered off. What a strange man. Dalinar nodded to one of his aides, who went to give the orders to the three Kholin Shardbearers, first picking Serugiadis—a lanky young man whose sister Adolin had once courted—out of his command post along the ranks, then running off to fetch Teleb and explain Dalinar’s orders. That seen to, Dalinar stepped up to Navani. “I need to know you’re safe in the command tent. As safe as anyone can be.” “Then pretend I’m there,” she said. “But—” “You want my help with fabrials?” Navani said. “I can’t set up that sort of thing remotely, Dalinar.” He ground his teeth, but what could he say? He was going to need every edge he could get. He looked out at the red eyes again. “Campfire tales come alive,” said Rock, the massive Horneater bridgeman. Dalinar had never seen that one guarding him or his sons; he was a quartermaster, Dalinar believed. “These things should not be. Why do they not move?” “I don’t know,” Dalinar said. “Send a few of your men to fetch Rlain. I want to see if he can provide any explanations.” As two bridgemen ran off, Dalinar turned to Navani. “Gather your scribes to write my words. I will speak to the soldiers.” Within moments, she had a pair of scribes—shivering as they stood under umbrellas with pencils out to write—ready to record his words. They’d send women down the lines and read his message to all the men. Dalinar climbed into Gallant’s saddle to get a little height. He turned toward the ranks of men nearby. “Yes,” he shouted over the sound of the rain, “these are Voidbringers. Yes, we’re going to fight them. I don’t know what they can do. I don’t know why they’ve returned. But
we came here to stop them. “I know you’re scared, but you have heard of my visions in the highstorms. In the warcamps, the lighteyes mocked me and dismissed what I’d seen as delusions.” He thrust his arm to the side, pointing at the sea of red eyes. “Well out there, you see proof that my visions were true! Out there, you see what I have been told would come!” Dalinar licked wet lips. He had given many battlefield speeches in his life, but never had he said anything like what came to him now. “I,” he shouted, “have been sent by the Almighty himself to save this land from another Desolation. I have seen what those things can do; I have lived lives broken by the Voidbringers. I’ve seen kingdoms shattered, peoples ruined, technology forgotten. I’ve seen civilization itself brought to the trembling edge of collapse. “We will prevent this! Today you fight not for the wealth of a lighteyes, or even for the honor of your king. Today, you fight for the good of all men. You will not fight alone! Trust in what I have seen, trust in my words. If those things have returned, then so must the forces that once defeated them. We will see miracles before this day is out, men! We merely have to be strong enough to deserve them.” He looked across a sea of hopeful eyes. Storms. Were those gloryspren about his head, spinning like golden spheres in the rain? His scribes finished writing down the short speech, then hurriedly started making copies to send with runners. Dalinar watched them go, hoping to the Tranquiline Halls that he hadn’t just lied to everyone. His force seemed small in this darkness, surrounded by enemies. Soon, he heard his own words being spoken in the distance, read out to the troops. Dalinar remained seated, Shallan beside his horse, though Navani moved off to see to several of her contraptions. The battle plan called for them to wait a little longer, and Dalinar was content to do so. With these chasms to cross, it was far better to be assaulted than to assault. Perhaps the separate armies forming up would encourage the Parshendi to start the battle by coming to him. Fortunately, the rain meant no arrows. The bowstrings wouldn’t stand the dampness, nor would the animal glue in the Parshendi recurve bows. The Parshendi started singing. It came in a sudden roar over the rains, startling his men, making them shy backward in a wave. The song wasn’t one Dalinar had ever heard during plateau runs. This was more staccato, more frenetic. It rose all around, coming from the three surrounding plateaus, shouted like thrown axes at the Alethi in the center. Dalinar shivered. Wind blew against him, stronger than was normal during the Weeping. The gust drove raindrops against the side of his face. Cold bit his skin. “Brightlord!” Dalinar turned in his saddle, noting four bridgemen approaching along with Rlain—he still had the man under guard at all times. He waved for his
guards to part, allowing the Parshendi bridgeman to scramble up to his horse. “That song!” Rlain said. “That song.” “What is it, man?” “It is death,” Rlain whispered. “Brightlord, I have never heard it before, but the rhythm is one of destruction. Of power.” Across the chasm, the Parshendi started to glow. Tiny lines of red sparked around their arms, blinking and shaking, like lightning. “What is that?” Shallan asked. Dalinar narrowed his eyes, and another burst of wind washed over him. “You have to stop it,” Rlain said. “Please. Even if you have to kill them. Do not let them finish that song.” It was the day of the countdown he had scribbled on the walls without knowing. The last day. Dalinar made his decision based on instinct. He called for a messenger, and one jogged up—Teshav’s ward, a girl in her fifteenth year. “Pass the word,” he commanded her. “Send to General Khal at the command tent, the battalionlords, my son, Teleb, and the other highprinces. We’re changing strategies.” “Brightlord?” the messenger asked. “What change?” “We attack. Now!” * * * Kaladin stopped at the entrance to the lighteyed training grounds, rainwater streaming off his umbrella’s waxed cloth, surprised at what he saw. In preparation for a storm, the ardents normally swept and shoveled the sand into covered trenches at the edges of the ground to keep it from being blown away. He had expected to see something similar during the Weeping. Instead, they had left the sand out, but had then placed a short wooden barrier across the gateway in. It plugged the front of the sparring grounds, allowing them to fill up with water. A small cascade of rainwater poured over the lip of the barrier and into the roadway. Kaladin regarded the small lake that now filled the courtyard, then sighed and reached down, undoing his laces, then pulling off both boots and socks. When he stepped in, the cold water came up to his calves. Soft sand squished between his toes. What was the purpose of this? He crossed the courtyard, crutch under his arm, boots joined by the laces and slung over his shoulder. The chill water numbed his wounded foot, which actually felt nice, though his leg still hurt with each step. It seemed that the two weeks of healing hadn’t done much for his wounds. His continued insistence that he walk so much probably wasn’t helping. He’d been spoiled by his abilities; a soldier with such a wound normally would take months to recover. Without Stormlight, he’d just have to be patient and heal like everyone else. He had expected to find the training grounds as abandoned as most of the camp. Even the markets were relatively empty, people preferring to remain indoors during the Weeping. Here, however, he found the ardents laughing and chatting as they sat in chairs in the raised arcades framing the sparring grounds. They sewed leather practice jerkins, cups of auburn wine on tables at their sides. That area rose enough above the yard floor to stay dry.
Kaladin walked along, searching among them, but didn’t find Zahel. He even peeked in the man’s room, but it was empty. “Up above, bridgeman!” one of the ardents called. The bald woman pointed toward the stairwell at the corner, where Kaladin had often sent guards to secure the roof when Adolin and Renarin practiced. Kaladin waved in thanks, then hobbled over and awkwardly made his way up the steps. He had to close his umbrella to fit. Rain fell on his head as he poked it out of the opening in the roof, where the stairwell ended. The roof was made of tile set into hardened crem, and Zahel lay there in a hammock he’d strung between two poles. Kaladin thought they might be lightning rods, which didn’t strike him as safe. A tarp hung above the hammock and kept Zahel almost dry. The ardent swung gently, eyes closed, holding a square bottle of hard honu, a type of lavis grain liquor. Kaladin inspected the rooftop, judging his ability to cross those sloped tiles without toppling off and breaking his neck. “Ever been to the Purelake, bridgeman?” Zahel asked. “No,” Kaladin said. “One of my men talks about it, though.” “What have you heard?” “It’s an ocean that’s so shallow, you can wade across it.” “It’s ridiculously shallow,” Zahel said. “Like an endless bay, mere feet deep. Warm water. Calm breezes. Reminds me of home. Not like this cold, damp, godsforsaken place.” “So why aren’t you there instead of here?” “Because I can’t stand being reminded of home, idiot.” Oh. “Why are we talking about it, then?” “Because you were wondering why we made our own little Purelake down below.” “I was?” “Of course you were. Damnation boy. I know you well enough by now to know that questions bother you. You don’t think like a spearman.” “Spearmen can’t be curious?” “No. Because if they are, they either get killed or they end up showing someone in charge how smart they are. Then they get put somewhere more useful.” Kaladin raised an eyebrow, waiting for more explanation. Finally, he sighed, and asked, “Why have you blocked off the courtyard below?” “Why do you think?” “You are a really annoying person, Zahel. Do you realize that?” “Sure do.” He took a drink of his honu. “I assume,” Kaladin said, “that you blocked off the front of the practice grounds so that the rain wouldn’t wash the sand away.” “Excellent deduction,” Zahel said. “Like fresh blue paint on a wall.” “Whatever that means. The problem is, why is it necessary to keep the sand in the courtyard? Why not just put it away, like you do before highstorms?” “Did you know,” Zahel said, “that rains during the Weeping don’t drop crem?” “I . . .” Did he know that? Did it matter? “Good thing too,” Zahel said, “or our entire camp here would end up clogged with the stuff. Anyway, rain like this, it’s great for washing.” “You’re telling me that you’ve turned the floor of the dueling grounds into a bath?” “Sure did.”
“You wash in that?” “Sure do. Not ourselves, of course.” “Then what?” “Sand.” Kaladin frowned, then peered over the side, looking at the pool below. “Every day,” Zahel said, “we go in there and stir it up. The sand settles back down to the bottom, and all the yuck floats away, carried by the rain in little streams out of the camp. Did you ever consider that sand might need washing?” “No, actually.” “Well it does. After a year’s worth of being kicked by stinky bridgeman feet and equally stinky—but far more refined—lighteyes feet, after a year of having people like me spill food on it, or having animals find their way in here to do business, the sand needs cleaning.” “Why are we talking about this?” “Because it’s important,” Zahel said, taking a drink. “Or something. I don’t know. You came to me, kid, interrupting my vacation. That means you have to listen to me blab.” “You’re supposed to say something profound.” “Did you miss the part about me being on vacation?” Kaladin stood in the rain. “Do you know where the King’s Wit is?” “That fool, Dust? Not here, blessedly. Why?” Kaladin needed someone to talk to, and had spent the better part of the day searching for Wit. He hadn’t found the man, though he had broken down and bought some chouta from a lonely street vendor. It had tasted good. That hadn’t helped his mood. So, he’d given up on finding Wit and had come to Zahel instead. That appeared to have been a mistake. Kaladin sighed, turning back down the stairs. “What was it you wanted?” Zahel called to him. The man had cracked an eye, looking toward Kaladin. “Have you ever had to choose between two equally distasteful choices?” “Every day I choose to keep breathing.” “I worry something awful is going to happen,” Kaladin said. “I can prevent it, but the awful thing . . . it might be best for everyone if it does happen.” “Huh,” Zahel said. “No advice?” Kaladin asked. “Choose the option,” Zahel said, rearranging his pillow, “that makes it easiest for you to sleep at night.” The old ardent closed his eyes and settled back. “That’s what I wish I’d done.” Kaladin continued down the steps. Below, he didn’t get out his umbrella. He was already soaked anyway. Instead, he poked through the racks at the side of the practice grounds until he found a spear—real, not practice. Then he set down his crutch and hobbled out into the water. There, he fell into a spearman’s stance and closed his eyes. Rain fell around him. It splattered in the water of the pool, sprinkled the rooftop, pattered the streets outside. Kaladin felt drained, like his blood had been sucked from him. The gloom made him want to sit still. Instead, he started dancing with the rain. He went through spear forms, doing his best to avoid putting weight on his wounded leg. He splashed in the waters. He sought peace and purpose in the comfortable forms. He didn’t find either.
His balance was off, and his leg screamed. The rain didn’t accompany him; it just annoyed him. Worse, the wind didn’t blow. The air felt stale. Kaladin stumbled over his own feet. He twisted the spear about him, then dropped it clumsily. It spun away to splash into the pool. As he fetched it, he noticed the ardents watching him with looks ranging from befuddled to amused. He tried again. Simple spear forms. No spinning the weapon, no showing off. Step step thrust. The spear’s shaft felt wrong in his fingers. Off balance. Storms. He’d come here seeking solace, but he only grew more and more frustrated as he tried to practice. How much of his ability with the spear had come from his powers? Was he nothing without them? He dropped the spear again after trying a simple twist and thrust. He reached for it, and found a rainspren sitting next to it in the water, looking upward, unblinking. He snatched the spear with a growl, then looked up toward the sky. “He deserves it!” he bellowed at those clouds. Rain pelted him. “Give me a reason why he doesn’t!” Kaladin yelled, uncaring if the ardents heard. “It might not be his fault, and he might be trying, but he’s still failing.” Silence. “It’s right to remove the wounded limb,” Kaladin whispered. “This is what we have to do. To . . . To . . .” To stay alive. Where had those words come from? Gotta do what you can to stay alive, son. Turn a liability into an advantage whenever you can. Tien’s death. That moment, that horrible moment, when he watched unable to do anything as his brother died. Tien’s own squadleader had sacrificed the untrained to gain a moment’s advantage. That squadleader had spoken to Kaladin after it was all over. Gotta do what you can to stay alive. . . . It made a twisted, horrible kind of sense. It hadn’t been Tien’s fault. Tien had tried. He’d still failed. So they’d killed him. Kaladin fell to his knees in the water. “Almighty, oh Almighty.” The king . . . The king was Dalinar’s Tien. * * * “Attack?” Adolin asked. “Are you certain that is what my father said?” The young woman who had run the message nodded a rain-slicked head, looking miserable in her slitted dress and runner’s sash. “You’re to stop that singing, if you can, Brightlord. Your father indicated it was important.” Adolin looked over his battalions, which held the southern flank. Just beyond them, on one of the three plateaus that surrounded their army, the Parshendi sang a horrible song. Sureblood danced, snorting. “I don’t like it either,” Adolin said softly, patting the horse on the neck. That song put him on edge. And those threads of red light on their arms, in their hands. What were those? “Perel,” he said to one of his field commanders, “tell the men to get ready for the mark. We’re going to charge across those bridges onto the southern plateau. Heavy infantry first, shortspears
behind, longspears at the ready in case we’re overrun. I want the men ready to form blocks on the other side until we’re sure where the Parshendi lines will fall. Storms, I wish we had archers. Go!” The word spread, and Adolin nudged Sureblood up beside one of the bridges, which had already been set. His bridgeman guards for the day followed, a pair named Skar and Drehy. “You two going to sit out?” Adolin asked the bridgemen, his eyes forward. “Your captain doesn’t like you going into battle against Parshendi.” “To Damnation with that!” Drehy said. “We’ll fight, sir. Those aren’t Parshendi anyway. Not anymore.” “Good answer. They’ll advance once we start our assault. We need to hold the bridgehead for the rest of our army. Try to keep up with me, if you can.” He glanced over his shoulder, waiting. Watching until . . . A large blue gemstone rose into the air, hoisted high on a distant pole near the command tent. “Go!” Adolin kicked Sureblood into motion, thundering across the bridge and splashing through a pool on the other side. Rainspren wavered. His two bridgemen followed at a run. Behind them, the heavy infantry in thick armor with hammers and axes—perfect for splitting Parshendi carapace—surged into motion. The bulk of the Parshendi continued their chanting. A smaller group broke off, perhaps two thousand in number, and moved to intercept Adolin. He growled, leaning low, Shardblade appearing in his hand. If they— A flash of light. The world lurched, and Adolin found himself skidding on the ground, his Shardplate grinding against stones. The armor absorbed the blow of the fall, but could do nothing for Adolin’s own shock. The world spun, and a spray of water spurted in through the slits in his helm, washing over his face. As he came to rest, he heaved himself backward, up to his feet. He stumbled, clanking, thrashing about in case any Parshendi had gotten close. He blinked away water inside his helm, then oriented himself on a change in the landscape in front of him. White amid the brown and grey. What was that . . . He finally blinked his eyes clear enough to get a good look. The whiteness was a horse, fallen to the ground. Adolin screamed something raw, a sound that echoed in his helm. He ignored the shouts of soldiers, the sound of rain, the sudden and unnatural crack behind him. He ran to the body on the ground. Sureblood. “No, no, no,” Adolin said, skidding to his knees beside the horse. The animal bore a strange, branching burn all down the side of his white coat. Wide, jagged. Sureblood’s dark eyes, open to the rain, did not blink. Adolin raised his hands, suddenly hesitant to touch the animal. A youth on an unfamiliar field. Sureblood wasn’t moving. More nervous that day than during the duel that won his Blade. Shouts. Another crack in the air, sharp, immediate. They pick their rider, son. We fixate on Shards, but any man—courageous or coward—can bond a Blade. Not
so here, on this ground. Only the worthy win here . . . Move. Grieve later. Move! Adolin roared, leaping to his feet and charging past the two bridgemen who nervously stood guard over him with spears. He started the process of summoning his Blade and ran toward the fighting up ahead. Only moments had passed, but already the Alethi lines were collapsing. Some infantry advanced in clusters while others had hunkered down, stunned and confused. Another flash, accompanied by a cracking of the air. Lightning. Red lightning. It appeared in flashes from groups of Parshendi, then was gone in the blink of an eye. It left a bright afterimage—glowing, forked—that briefly obscured Adolin’s sight. Ahead of him, men dropped, fried in their armor. Adolin shouted as he charged, bellowing for the men to hold their lines. More cracks sounded, but the strikes didn’t seem well aimed. They’d sometimes flash backward or would follow strange paths, rarely going straight toward the Alethi. As he ran, he saw a blast come from a pair of Parshendi, but it arced immediately down into the ground. The Parshendi stared downward, befuddled. It was as if the lightning worked . . . well, like lightning from the sky, not following any sort of predictable path. “Charge them, you cremlings!” Adolin shouted, running through the middle of the soldiers. “Back into your lines! It’s just like advancing on archers! Keep your heads. Tighten up. If we break, we’re dead!” He wasn’t certain how much of that they heard, but the image of him yelling, crashing into the line of Parshendi, did something. Shouts rose from officers, lines re-formed. Lightning flashed right at Adolin. The sound was incredible, and the light. He stood in place, blinded. When it faded, he found himself completely unharmed. He looked down at the armor, which was vibrating softly—a hum that rattled his skin in a strangely comforting way. Nearby, another crack of lightning left a small group of Parshendi, but it didn’t blind him. His helm—which as always was partially translucent from the inside—darkened in a jagged streak, perfectly overlaying the lightning. Adolin grinned with clenched teeth, feeling a savage satisfaction as he pushed into the Parshendi and swung his Shardblade through their necks. By the old stories, the suit he wore had been created to fight these very monsters. Though these Parshendi soldiers were sleeker and more ferocious-looking than the ones he’d previously fought, their eyes burned just as easily. Then they dropped dead and something wiggled out of their chests—small red spren, like tiny lightning, that zipped into the air and vanished. “They can be killed!” one of the soldiers yelled nearby. “They can die!” Others raised the call, passing it down the lines. Obvious though the revelation seemed, it bolstered his troops, and they surged forward. They can die. * * * Shallan drew. Frantic. A map in ink. Each line precise. The large sheet, crafted at her order, covered a wide board on the floor. It was the largest drawing she’d ever done; she’d filled it in, section
by section, as they traveled. She listened with half an ear to the other scholars in the tent. They were a distraction, but an important one. Another line, rippled on the sides, forming a thin plateau. It was a copy of the one she’d drawn in seven other places on the map. The Plains were a fourfold radial pattern mirrored down the center of each quadrant, and so anything she drew in one quadrant she could repeat in the others, mirrored as appropriate. The eastern side was worn down, yes, so her map wouldn’t be accurate in that area—but for cohesion, she needed to finish those parts. So she could see the whole pattern. “Scout reporting in,” a messenger woman said, bursting into the tent, letting in a gust of the wet wind. This unexpected wind . . . it almost felt like the wind before a highstorm. “What is the report?” Inadara asked. The severe woman was supposed to be a great scholar. She reminded Shallan of her father’s ardents. In the corner of the room, Prince Renarin stood in his Shardplate, arms folded. He had orders to protect them all, should the Parshendi try to break onto the command plateau. “The large center plateau is just as the parshman told us,” the scout said, breathless. “It’s only one plateau over, to the east.” Lyn was a solid-looking woman with long black hair and keen eyes. “It’s obviously inhabited, though there doesn’t seem to be anyone there right now.” “And the plateaus surrounding it?” Inadara asked. “Shim and Felt are scouting those,” Lyn said. “Felt should be back soon. I can do a rough drawing of what I saw of the center plateau for you.” “Do it,” Inadara said. “We need to find that Oathgate.” Shallan wiped a stray drop of water—fallen from Lyn’s coat—off her map, then continued drawing. The army’s path from the warcamps inward had allowed her to extrapolate and draw eight chains of plateaus, two each—mirrored—starting from the four “sides” of the Plains and working inward. She had almost completed the last of the eight arms reaching toward the center. This close, earlier scout reports—and what Shallan had seen herself—allowed her to fill in everything around the center. Rlain’s explanations had helped, but he hadn’t been able to draw out the center plateaus for her. He’d never paid attention to their shapes, and Shallan needed precision. Fortunately, earlier reports had almost been enough. She didn’t need much more. She was almost done. “What do you think?” Lyn asked. “Show it to Brightness Shallan.” Inadara sounded displeased, which seemed her normal state. Shallan glanced over Lyn’s hastily sketched map, then nodded, turning back to her drawing. It would be better if she could see the center plateau herself, but the corner this woman had drawn gave Shallan an idea. “Not going to say anything?” Inadara asked. “Not done yet,” Shallan said, dipping her pen in the ink. “We have been given an order by the highprince himself to find the Oathgate.” “I will.” Something crashed outside, like distant
lightning. “Mmm . . .” Pattern said. “Bad. Very bad.” Inadara looked at Pattern, who dimpled the floor near Shallan. “I do not like this thing. Spren should not speak. It may be of them, a Voidbringer.” “I am not a Voidspren,” Pattern said. “Brightness Shallan—” “He’s not a Voidspren,” Shallan said absently. “We should study it,” Inadara said. “How long did you say it has been following you?” A heavy footstep sounded on the floor, Renarin stepping forward. Shallan would have preferred to keep Pattern secret, but when the winds had started picking up, he’d started buzzing loudly. There was no avoiding it now that he’d drawn the scholars’ attention. Renarin leaned down. He seemed fascinated by Pattern. He wasn’t the only one. “It is likely involved,” Inadara said. “You should not dismiss one of my theories so quickly. I still think it might be related to the Voidbringers.” “Know you nothing of Patterns, old human?” Pattern said, huffing. When had he picked up how to huff? “Voidbringers have no pattern. Besides, I have read of them in your lore. They speak of spindly arms like bone, and horrific faces. I should think, if you wish to find one, the mirror might be a location where you can begin your search.” Inadara recoiled. Then she stomped away, moving to chat with Brightness Velat and the ardent Isasik about their interpretation of Shallan’s map. Shallan smiled as she drew. “That was clever.” “I am trying to learn,” Pattern replied. “Insults in particular will be of great use to my people, as they are truths and lies combined in a quite interesting manner.” The pops continued outside. “What is that?” she asked softly, finishing another plateau. “Stormspren,” Pattern said. “They are a variety of Voidspren. It is not good. I feel something very dangerous brewing. Draw more quickly.” “The Oathgate must be in that center plateau somewhere,” Inadara said to her group of scholars. “We will never search the entire thing in time,” said one of the ardents, a man who seemed to be constantly removing his spectacles and wiping them down. He put them back on. “That plateau is by far the largest we’ve found on the Plains.” It was a problem. How to find the Oathgate? It could be anywhere. No, Shallan thought, drawing with precise motions, the old maps placed what Jasnah thought was the Oathgate southwest of the city center. Unfortunately, she still didn’t have a scale for reference. The city was too ancient, and all the maps were copies of copies of copies or re-creations from descriptions. She was certain by now that Stormseat hadn’t made up the entire Shattered Plains—the city hadn’t been nearly so huge. Structures like the warcamps had been outbuildings, or satellite cities. But that was just a guess. She needed something concrete. Some sign. The tent flaps opened again. It had grown cold outside. Was the rain harder than it had been? “Damnation!” the newcomer swore, a thin man in a scout’s uniform. “Have you seen what is happening out there? Why are
we split across the plateaus? Wasn’t the plan to fight a defensive battle?” “Your report?” Inadara asked. “Get me a towel and some paper,” the scout said. “I rounded the southern side of the central plateau. I’ll draw what I saw . . . but Damnation! They’re throwing lightning, Brightness. Throwing it! It’s insane. How do we fight such things?” Shallan finished the last plateau on her drawing. She settled back on her heels, lowering her pen. The Shattered Plains, drawn almost in their entirety. But what was she doing? What was the point? “We will make an expedition into the central plateau,” Inadara said. “Brightlord Renarin, we will need your protection. Perhaps in the Parshendi city we will find the elderly or the workers, and we can protect them, as Brightlord Dalinar has instructed. They might know about the Oathgate. If not, we can begin breaking into buildings and searching for clues.” Too slow, Shallan thought. The newly arrived scout stepped up to Shallan’s large map. He leaned over, inspecting it as he dried himself off with a towel. Shallan gave him a glare. If he dripped water on this after all she’d done . . . “That’s wrong,” he said. Wrong? Her art? Of course it wasn’t wrong. “Where?” she asked, exhausted. “That plateau there,” the man said, pointing. “It’s not long and thin, as you drew it. It’s a perfect circle, with big gaps between it and the plateaus on its east and west.” “That’s unlikely,” Shallan said. “If it were that way—” She blinked. If it were that way, it wouldn’t match the pattern. * * * “Well then, find Brightness Shallan a squad of soldiers and do as she says!” Dalinar said, turning and raising his arm against the wind. Renarin nodded. Blessedly, he’d agreed to put on his Plate for the battle, rather than continuing on with Bridge Four. Dalinar barely understood the lad these days. . . . Storms. Dalinar had never known a man who could look awkward in Shardplate, but his son managed it. The sheet of wind-driven rain passed. Light from blue lanterns reflected from Renarin’s wet armor. “Go,” Dalinar said. “Protect the scholars on their mission.” “I . . .” Renarin said. “Father, I don’t know . . .” “It wasn’t a request, Renarin!” Dalinar shouted. “Do as you’re told, or give that storming Plate to someone who will!” The boy stumbled back, then saluted with a metallic slap. Dalinar pointed at Gaval, who barked orders, gathering a squad of soldiers. Renarin followed Gaval as the two of them moved off. Stormfather. The sky had grown darker and darker. They’d need Navani’s fabrials soon. That wind came in bursts, blowing rain that was entirely too strong for the Weeping. “We have to interrupt that singing!” Dalinar shouted against the rain, making his way to the edge of the plateau, joined by officers and messengers, including Rlain and several members of Bridge Four. “Parshman. Is this storm their doing?” “I believe so, Brightlord Dalinar!” On the other side of the chasm, Aladar’s
army fought a desperate battle against the Parshendi. Red lightning came in bursts, but according to field reports, the Parshendi didn’t know how to control it. It could be very dangerous to those who stood close by, but was not the terrible weapon it had first seemed. In direct combat, unfortunately, these new Parshendi were another thing entirely. A group of them prowled close to the chasm, where they ripped through a squad of spearmen like a whitespine through a patch of ferns. They fought with a ferocity beyond what the Parshendi had ever shown on the plateau runs, and their weapons connected with flashes of red. It was difficult to watch, but Dalinar’s place was not out there fighting. Not today. “Aladar’s eastern flank needs reinforcement,” Dalinar said. “What do we have?” “Light infantry reserves,” General Khal said, wearing only his uniform. His son wore his Shards, fighting with Roion’s army. “Fifteenth spear division from Sebarial’s army. But those were supposed to support Brightlord Adolin. . . .” “He’ll survive without them. Get those men over here and see Aladar reinforced. Tell him to punch through to those Parshendi in the back, engage the ones singing at all costs. What’s Navani’s status?” “She is ready with the devices, Brightlord,” a messenger said. “She wants to know where she should begin.” “Roion’s flank,” Dalinar said immediately. He sensed a disaster brewing there. Speeches were all well and good, but even with Khal’s son fighting on that front, Roion’s troops were the worst he had. Teleb was supporting them with some of Sebarial’s troops, who were surprisingly good. The man himself was practically useless in a battle, but he knew how to hire the right people—and that had always been his genius. Sebarial probably assumed that Dalinar didn’t know that. He’d kept many of Sebarial’s troops as a reserve up until now. With them on the field, they’d committed almost every soldier they had. Dalinar hiked back toward the command tent, passing Shallan, Inadara, some bridgemen, and a squad of soldiers—Renarin included—crossing the plateau at a trot, heading out on their mission. They’d have to skirt across the southern plateau, near the fighting, to get where they were going. Kelek speed their way. Dalinar himself pushed through the rain, soaked to the very bones, reading the battle through what he could see of the flanks. His force had the size advantage, as anticipated. But now, this red lightning, this wind . . . The Parshendi moved through the darkness and the gusts of wind with ease while the humans slipped, squinted, and were battered. Still, the Alethi were holding their own. The problem was that this was only half of the Parshendi. If the other half attacked, his people would be in serious trouble—but they didn’t attack, so they must consider that singing to be important. They saw the wind they were creating as more damaging, more deadly to the humans, than simply joining the battle. That terrified him. What was coming would be worse. “I am sorry that you have to die
this way.” Dalinar stood still. Rain streamed down. He looked to the flock of messengers, aides, bodyguards, and officers who attended him. “Who spoke?” They looked at one another. Wait . . . He recognized that voice, didn’t he? It was familiar to him. Yes. He’d heard it many times. In his visions. It was the voice of the Almighty. Kaladin limped up the switchbacks to the palace, his leg a knotted mass of pain. Almost falling as he reached the doors, he slumped against them, gasping, his crutch under one arm, spear in the other hand. As if he could do anything with that. Have . . . to get . . . to the king. . . . How would he get Elhokar away? Moash would be watching. Storms. The assassination could happen any day . . . any hour now. Surely Dalinar was already far enough from the warcamps. Keep. Moving. Kaladin stumbled into the entryway. No guards at the doors. Bad sign. Should he have raised the alarm? There weren’t any soldiers in camp to help, and if he’d come in force, Graves and his men would know something was wrong. Alone, Kaladin might be able to see the king. His best hope was to get Elhokar to safety quietly. Fool, Kaladin thought to himself. You change your mind now? After all of this? What are you doing? But storm it . . . the king tried. He actually tried. The man was arrogant, perhaps incapable, but he tried. He was sincere. Kaladin stopped, exhausted, leg screaming, and leaned against the wall. Shouldn’t this be easier? Now that he’d made the decision, shouldn’t he be focused, confident, energized? He felt none of that. He felt wrung out, confused, and uncertain. He pushed himself forward. Keep going. Almighty send that he wasn’t too late. Was he back to praying now? He picked through darkened corridors. Shouldn’t there be more light? With some difficulty, he reached the king’s upper rooms, with the conference chamber and its balcony to the side. Two men in Bridge Four uniforms guarded the door, but Kaladin didn’t recognize either of them. They weren’t Bridge Four—they weren’t even members of the old King’s Guard. Storms. Kaladin hobbled up to them, knowing he must look a sight, soaked through and through, limping on a leg that—he noticed—was trailing blood. He’d split the sutures on his wounds. “Stop,” said one of the men. The fellow had a chin so cleft, it looked like he’d taken an axe to the face as a baby. He looked Kaladin up and down. “You’re the one they call Stormblessed.” “You’re Graves’s men.” The two looked at each other. “It’s all right,” Kaladin said. “I’m with you. Is Moash here?” “He’s off for the moment,” the soldier said. “Getting some sleep. It’s an important day.” I’m not too late, Kaladin thought. Luck was with him. “I want to be part of what you’re doing.” “It’s taken care of, bridgeman,” the guard said. “Go back to your barrack and pretend nothing is happening.” Kaladin
leaned in close, as if to whisper something. The guard leaned forward. So Kaladin dropped his crutch and slammed his spear up between the man’s legs. Kaladin immediately turned, spinning on his good leg and dragging the other one, whipping his spear toward the other man. The man got his spear up to block, and tried to shout. “To arms! To—” Kaladin slammed against him, knocking aside his spear. Kaladin dropped his own spear and grabbed the man by the neck with numb, wet fingers and cracked his head against the wall. Then he twisted and dropped, bringing his elbow down onto Cleft-chin’s head, driving it down into the floor. Both men fell still. Light-headed from the sudden exertion, Kaladin slammed himself back against the door. The world spun. At least he knew he could still fight without Stormlight. He found himself laughing, though it turned into a cough. Had he really just attacked those men? He was committed now. Storms, he didn’t even really know why he was doing this. The king’s sincerity was part of it, but that wasn’t the true reason, not deep down. He knew this was what he should do, but why? The thought of the king dying for no good reason made him sick. It reminded him of what had been done to Tien. But that wasn’t the full reason either. Storms, he wasn’t making any sense, not even to himself. Neither guard moved save for a few twitches. Kaladin coughed and coughed, gasping for breath. No time for weakness. He reached up a clawlike hand and twisted the door handle, forcing it open. He half fell into the room, then stumbled to his feet. “Your Majesty?” he called, propping himself up on his spear and dragging his bad leg. He reached the back of a couch and used it to pull himself fully upright. Where was the— The king lay on the couch, unmoving. * * * Adolin swept broadly with his Blade, maintaining perfect Windstance, the sword’s point spraying water as he sheared through the neck of a Parshendi soldier. Red lightning crackled from the corpse in a bright flare, connecting the soldier to the ground as he died. Nearby Alethi were careful not to step in puddles beside the corpse. They had learned the hard way that this strange lightning could kill quickly via water. Raising his sword and charging, Adolin led a rush against the nearest Parshendi group. Curse this storm and the winds that had brought it! Fortunately, the darkness had been pushed back somewhat, as Navani had sent fabrials to bathe the battlefield in an extraordinarily even white light. Adolin and his team clashed again with the Parshendi. However, as soon as he got among the enemy, he felt something tug on his left arm. A loop of rope? He jerked back. No rope could hold Shardplate. He growled and yanked the rope free of the hands holding it. Then he jerked as another rope looped his neck and pulled him backward. He shouted, spinning and sweeping his Blade through
the rope, severing it. Three more loops leaped from the darkness for him; the Parshendi had sent an entire team. Adolin turned to defensive sweeps, as he’d been trained by Zahel to resist a dedicated rope strike. They’d have strung other ropes across the ground in front of him, expecting that he’d charge them . . . Yes, there they were. Adolin backed away, slicing free the ropes that reached him. Unfortunately, his men had been depending on him to break the Parshendi line. As he backed away instead, the enemy pressed against the Alethi line in force. As always, they didn’t use traditional battle formations, instead attacking in squads and pairs. That was frightfully effective on this chaotic, rain-soaked battlefield, with cracks of lightning and bursts of wind. Perel, the field commander that he’d put in charge near the lights, called the retreat for Adolin’s flank. Adolin let out a series of curses, cutting loose one final rope and stepping backward, sword out in case the Parshendi pursued. They didn’t. Two figures, however, shadowed him as he joined the retreat. “Still alive, bridgemen?” Adolin asked. “Still alive,” Skar said. “You’ve got some loops of rope stuck to you still, sir,” Drehy said. Adolin held out his arm and let Drehy cut them free with his side knife. Over his shoulder, Adolin watched the Parshendi re-form their lines. From farther back, the sound of that harsh chanting reached him between crashes of lightning and bursts of wind. “They keep sending teams to engage and distract me,” Adolin said. “They don’t intend to defeat me; they just want to keep me out of the battle.” “They’ll have to really fight you sooner or later,” Drehy said, cutting off another of the ropes. Drehy reached up and ran his hand over his bald head, wiping the rain off. “They can’t just leave a Shardbearer alone.” “Actually,” Adolin said, narrowing his eyes, listening to that chanting. “That’s exactly what they’re doing.” Through sheets of windborne rain, Adolin jogged in a clanking run up to the command position, near the lights. Perel—wrapped in a large stormcoat—stood there bellowing orders. He gave Adolin a quick salute. “Status?” Adolin asked. “Treading water, Brightlord.” “I have no idea what that means,” Adolin said. “Swimming term, sir,” Perel said. “We’re fighting back and forth, but we’re not making any headway. We’re fairly evenly matched; each side is looking for an edge. I’m most worried about those Parshendi reserves. They should have committed those by now.” “The reserves?” Adolin asked, peering across the dim plateau. “You mean the singers.” To both right and left, Alethi troops engaged other Parshendi units. Men shouted and screamed, weapons clashed, the familiar deadly sounds of a battlefield. “Yes, sir,” Perel said. “They’re up against that rock formation at the middle of the plateau, singing their storming hearts out.” Adolin remembered that rock outcropping, looming in the dim light. It was easily large enough for a battalion on top. “Could we climb it from behind?” “In this rain, Brightlord?” Perel asked. “Not likely. Maybe you could,
but would you really want to go alone?” Adolin waited for the familiar eagerness to urge him forward, the desire to rush into the fight without concern for the consequences. He’d trained himself to resist that urge, and was surprised to find it . . . gone. Nothing. He frowned. He was tired. Was that the reason? He considered the situation, thinking to the sound of rain on his helmet. We need to get to those Parshendi at the back, he thought. Father wants the reserves engaged, the song broken off . . . What had Shallan said about these inner plateaus? And the rock formations on them? “Gather me a battalion,” Adolin said. “A thousand men, heavy infantry. Once I’ve been gone with them for a half hour, send the rest of the men in a full assault against the Parshendi. I’m going to try something, and I want you to provide a distraction.” * * * “You’re dead,” Dalinar shouted toward the sky. He spun about, still on the central plateau between the three battlefields, startling the aides and attendants near him. “You told me you had been killed!” Rain pelted his face. Were his ears playing tricks on him in this havoc of rain and shouting? “I am not the Almighty,” the voice said. Dalinar turned, searching among his startled companions. Four bridgemen in stormcoats stepped back, as if frightened. His captains watched the clouds unsteadily, holding hands on swords. “Did any of you hear that voice?” Dalinar asked. Women and men alike shook heads. “Are you . . . hearing the Almighty?” asked one of the messenger women. “Yes.” It was the simplest answer, though he wasn’t sure what was happening. He continued to cross the central plateau, intending to check on Adolin’s battlefront. “I am sorry,” the voice repeated. Unlike in the visions, Dalinar could find no avatar speaking the words. They came out of nowhere. “You have striven hard. But I can do nothing for you.” “Who are you?” Dalinar hissed. “I am the one left behind,” the voice said. It wasn’t exactly as he’d heard it in the visions; this voice had a depth to it. A density. “I am the sliver of Him that remains. I saw His corpse, saw Him die when Odium murdered Him. And I . . . I fled. To continue as I always have. The piece of God left in this world, the winds that men must feel.” Was he responding to Dalinar’s question, or speaking a mere monologue? In the visions, Dalinar had originally assumed he was having conversations with this voice, only to find that its half of the seeming dialogue had been preset. He could not tell if this was the same or not. Storms . . . was he in the middle of a vision now? He froze in place, suddenly imagining a horrible picture of himself, sprawled on the floor of the palace, having imagined everything leading up to this battle in the rain. No, he thought forcefully. I will not travel down that
path. He had always recognized when he was in a vision before; he had no reason to believe that had changed. The reserves he’d ordered for Aladar trotted past, spearmen with points toward the sky. That would be storming dangerous if real lightning came, but they didn’t have much choice. Dalinar waited for the voice to say more, but nothing happened. He proceeded, and soon approached Adolin’s plateau. Was that thunder? No. Dalinar turned and picked out a horse galloping across the plateau toward him, a messenger on its back. He held up a hand, interrupting a tactical report by Captain Javih. “Brightlord!” the messenger shouted. She reared the horse. “Brightlord Teleb has fallen! Highprince Roion has been routed. His lines are broken, his remaining men surrounded by Parshendi! He’s trapped on the northern plateau!” “Damnation! Captain Khal?” “Still up, fighting toward where Roion was last seen. He’s nearly overwhelmed.” Dalinar spun to Javih. “Reserves?” “I don’t know what we have left,” the man said, face pale in the dim light. “Depends on if any have rotated out.” “Find out and bring them here!” Dalinar said, running to the messenger. “Off,” he told her. “Sir?” “Off!” The woman scrambled from the saddle as Dalinar placed foot into stirrup and swung into position. He turned the horse—thankful, for once, he didn’t have on any Shardplate. This light horse wouldn’t have been able to carry him. “Gather whatever you can and follow!” he shouted. “I need men, even if you have to pull that battalion of spearmen back from Aladar.” Captain Javih’s reply was lost in the rain as Dalinar leaned low and cued the horse with his heels. The animal snorted, and Dalinar had to fight it before getting it to move. The pops of lightning in the distance had the creature skittish. Once pointed the right direction, he gave the horse its head, and it galloped eagerly. Dalinar crossed the plateau in a rush, triage tents, command posts, and food stations passing in a blur. As he neared the northern plateau, he reined in the horse and scanned the area for Navani. No sign of her, though he did see several large tarps laid on the ground here—expansive squares of black cloth. She’d been at work. He called a question to an engineer, and she pointed, so Dalinar rode along the chasm in that direction. He passed a succession of other tarps that had been arranged on the stone. Across the chasm to his left, men died with shouts and screams. He saw firsthand how terribly Roion’s battle was progressing. The danger was manifest in broken groups of men flying beleaguered banners, split into vulnerable small bunches by red-eyed enemies. The Alethi would fight on, but with their line fragmenting, their prospects were grim. Dalinar remembered fighting like that himself two months ago, surrounded by a sea of enemies, without hope for salvation. Dalinar pushed his horse faster, and soon spotted Navani. She stood beneath an umbrella directing a group of workers with another large tarp. “Navani!” Dalinar shouted, pulling his horse
to a slippery stop across the tarp from her. “I need a miracle!” “Working on it,” she shouted back. “No time for working. Execute your plan. Now.” He was too distant to see her glare, but he felt it. Fortunately, she waved workers away from her current tarp and began shouting orders to her engineers. The women ran up to the chasm, where a line of rocks was arrayed. They were attached to ropes, Dalinar thought, though he wasn’t sure how this process worked. Navani shouted instructions. Too much time, Dalinar thought, anxious, watching across the chasm. Had they recovered Teleb’s Shards? He couldn’t spare grief for the man, not now. They needed those Shards. Behind Dalinar, soldiers gathered. Roion’s archers, finest in the warcamps, had been useless in this rain. The engineers backed up at a barked order from Navani, and the workers shoved the line of some forty rocks into the chasm. As the rocks fell, tarps jumped fifty feet into the air, pulled at the front corners and centers. In an instant, a long line of improvised pavilions flanked the chasm. “Move!” Dalinar said, urging his horse between two of the pavilions. “Archers forward!” Men dashed into the protected areas under the tarps, some muttering at the lack of any visible poles holding them in the air. Navani had pulled up only the fronts, so the tarps slanted backward, away from the chasm. The rain streamed down in that direction. They also had sides, like tents, so only the open faces were toward Roion’s battlefront. Dalinar swung from the horse and handed the reins to a worker. He jogged under one of the pavilions to where archers were forming ranks. Navani entered, carrying a large sack over her shoulder. She opened it to reveal a large glowing garnet suspended within a delicate wire lacework fabrial. She fiddled with it for a moment, then stepped back. “We really should have had more time to test this,” she warned to Dalinar, folding her arms. “Attractors are new inventions. I’m still half afraid this thing will suck the blood out of anyone who touches it.” It didn’t. Instead, water quickly started to pool around the thing. Storms, it worked! The fabrial was pulling moisture from the air. Roion’s archers removed bowstrings from protected pockets, bending bows and stringing them at the orders of their lieutenants. Many of the men here were lighteyes—archery was seen as an acceptable Calling for a lighteyed man of modest means. Not everyone could be an officer. The archers began loosing waves of arrows across the chasm into the Parshendi who had surrounded Roion’s forces. “Good,” Dalinar said, watching the arrows fly. “Very good.” “The rain and wind are still going to make aiming the arrows difficult,” Navani said. “And I don’t know how well the fabrials will work; with the front of the pavilions open, humidity is going to flood in constantly. We might run out of Stormlight after just a short time.” “It’s enough,” Dalinar said. The arrows made an almost immediate difference, drawing Parshendi attention
away from the beleaguered men. It wasn’t a maneuver to try unless you were desperate—the risk of hitting allies was great—but Roion’s archers proved deserving of their reputation. He pulled Navani close with one arm. “You did well.” Then he called for his horse—his horse, not that wild messenger beast—as he charged out of the pavilion. Those archers would give him an opening. Hopefully it wasn’t too late for Roion. * * * No! Kaladin thought, rounding the couch to the king’s side. Was he dead? There was no obvious wound. The king shifted, then groaned in a lazy way and sat upright. Kaladin let out a deep breath. An empty wine bottle rested on the end table, and Kaladin could smell the spilled wine now that he was closer. “Bridgeman?” Elhokar’s speech was slurred. “Have you come to gloat over me?” “Storms, Elhokar,” Kaladin said. “How much have you had?” “They all . . . they all talk about me,” Elhokar said, flopping down on the couch. “My own guards . . . every one. Bad king, they say. Everyone hates him, they say.” Kaladin felt a chill. “They wanted you to drink, Elhokar. Makes their job easier.” “Huh?” Storms. The man was barely conscious. “Come on,” Kaladin said. “Assassins are coming for you. We’re getting out of here.” “Assassins?” Elhokar leapt to his feet, then wobbled. “He wears white. I knew he’d come . . . but then . . . he only cared about Dalinar . . . Not even the assassin thinks I’m worthy of the throne. . . .” Kaladin managed to get under Elhokar’s arm, holding his spear for support with one hand. The king slumped against him, and Kaladin’s leg cried out. “Please, Your Majesty,” Kaladin said, almost collapsing, “I need you to try to walk.” “Assassins probably want you, bridgeman,” the king muttered. “You’re more a leader than I am. I wish . . . wish you’d teach me . . .” Thankfully, Elhokar then did support himself to an extent. It was a struggle to walk the two of them to the doorway, where the guard’s body still lay— Body? Where was the other one? Kaladin twisted out of the king’s grip as a blur with a knife lunged at him. By instinct, Kaladin snapped his spear haft back—bringing his hands up near to the head for a close-quarters fight—then thrust. The spearhead sank in deep into Cleft-chin’s stomach. The man grunted. But he hadn’t been lunging for Kaladin. He’d plunged his knife into the king’s side. Cleft-chin flopped to the floor, falling off Kaladin’s spear and dropping his knife. Elhokar reached—a stunned expression on his face—to his side. The hand came away bloody. “I’m dead,” Elhokar whispered, regarding the blood. In that moment, Kaladin’s pain and weakness seemed to fade. The moment of panic was a moment of strength, and he used it to rip at Elhokar’s clothing while kneeling on his good leg. The knife had glanced off a rib. The king was bleeding heavily, but it was a very survivable
wound, with medical attention. “Keep pressure on that,” Kaladin said, pushing a cut section of the king’s shirt against the wound, then placing the king’s hand over it. “We need to get out of the palace. Find safety somewhere.” The dueling grounds, maybe? The ardents could be relied upon, and they could fight too. But would that be too obvious? Well, first they had to actually get out of the palace. Kaladin grabbed his spear and turned to lead the way out, but his leg nearly betrayed him. He managed to catch himself, but it left him gasping in pain, clinging to his spear to keep from falling. Storms. Was that pool of blood at his feet his? He’d ripped his sutures out, and then some. “I was wrong,” the king said. “We’re both dead.” “Fleet kept running,” Kaladin growled, getting back under Elhokar’s arm. “What?” “He couldn’t win, but he kept running. And when the storm caught him, it didn’t matter that he’d died, because he’d run for all he had.” “Sure. All right.” The king sounded groggy, though Kaladin couldn’t tell if it was the alcohol or the blood loss. “We all die in the end, you see,” Kaladin said. The two of them walked down the corridor, Kaladin leaning on his spear to keep them upright. “So I guess what truly matters is just how well you’ve run. And Elhokar, you’ve kept running since your father was killed, even if you screw up all the storming time.” “Thank you?” the king said, drowsy. They reached an intersection, and Kaladin decided on escaping through the bowels of the palace complex, rather than the front gates. It was equally fast, but might not be the first place the plotters would look. The palace was empty. Moash had done as he’d said, sending the servants away into hiding, using the precedent of the Assassin in White’s attack. It was a perfect plan. “Why?” the king whispered. “Shouldn’t you hate me?” “I don’t like you, Elhokar,” Kaladin said. “But that doesn’t mean it’s right to let you die.” “You said I should step down. Why, bridgeman? Why help me?” I don’t know. They turned down a hallway, but only made it about halfway before the king stopped walking and slumped to the ground. Kaladin cursed, kneeling beside Elhokar, checking his pulse and the wound. This is the wine, Kaladin decided. That, plus the blood loss, left the king too light-headed. Bad. Kaladin worked to rebind the wound as best he could, but then what? Try to pull the king out on a litter? Go for help, and risk leaving him alone? “Kaladin?” Kaladin froze, still kneeling over the king. “Kaladin, what are you doing?” Moash’s voice demanded from behind. “We found the men at the door to the king’s room. Storms, did you kill them?” Kaladin rose and turned, putting his weight on his good leg. Moash stood at the other end of the corridor, resplendent in his blue and red Shardplate. Another Shardbearer accompanied him, Blade up on the shoulder of his
Plate, faceplate down. Graves. The assassins had arrived. Shallan stepped off the bridge onto a deserted plateau. The rain muffled the sounds of warfare, making the area feel even more isolated. Darkness like dusk. Rainfall like hushed whispers. This plateau was higher than most, so she could see Stormseat’s center arrayed around her. Pillars with crem accreting at their bases, transforming them to stalagmites. Buildings that had become mounds, overgrown with stone like snow covering a fallen log. In the darkness and rain, the ancient city presented a sketch of skyline for the imagination to fill in. This city hid beneath time’s own illusion. The others followed her across the bridge. They’d skirted the fighting on Aladar’s battlefront, slipping along the Alethi lines to attain this farther plateau. Getting up here had taken time, as the bridgemen had needed to locate a usable landing. They’d had to climb a slope on the adjoining plateau and place their bridge there to get across the chasm. “How can you be sure this is the right place?” Renarin asked, clinking down onto the plateau beside her. Shallan had opted for an umbrella, but Renarin stood in the rain, helm under his arm, letting the water stream down his face. Didn’t he wear spectacles? She hadn’t seen them on him much lately. “It is the right place,” Shallan said, “because it’s deviant.” “That’s hardly a logical conclusion,” Inadara said, joining the two of them as soldiers and bridgemen crossed to the empty plateau. “A portal of this nature would be kept hidden; it would not be deviant.” “The Oathgates were not hidden,” Shallan said. “That is beside the point, however. This plateau is a circle.” “Many are circular.” “Not this circular,” Shallan said, striding forward. Now that she was here, she could see just how irregularly . . . well, regular the plateau was. “I was looking for a dais on a plateau, but didn’t realize the scale of what I was searching for. This entire plateau is the dais upon which the Oathgate sat. “Don’t you see? The other plateaus were created by some kind of disaster—they are jagged, broken. This place is not. That’s because it was already here when the shattering happened. On the old maps it was a raised section, like a giant pedestal. When the Plains were broken, it remained this way.” “Yes . . .” Renarin said, nodding. “Imagine a plate with a circle etched into the center . . . if a force shattered the plate, it might break along the already weakened lines.” “Leaving you with a bunch of irregular pieces,” Shallan agreed, “and one shaped like a circle.” “Perhaps,” Inadara said. “But I find it odd that something so tactically important would be exposed.” “The Oathgates were a symbol,” Shallan said, continuing to walk. “The Vorin Right of Travel, given to all citizens of sufficient rank, is based on the Heralds’ declaration that all borders should be open. If you were going to create a symbol of that unity—a portal that connected all of the Silver Kingdoms
together—where would you put it? Hidden in a locked room? Or on a stage that rose above the city? It was out here because they were proud of it.” They continued through the blowing rain. There was a hallowed quality to this place, and honestly, that was part of how she knew she was right. “Mmmm,” Pattern said softly. “They are raising a storm.” “The Voidspren?” Shallan whispered. “The bonded ones. They craft a storm.” Right. Her task was urgent; she didn’t have time to stand around thinking. She was about to order the search begun, but paused as she noticed Renarin staring westward, his eyes distant. “Prince Renarin?” she asked. “The wrong way,” he whispered. “The wind is blowing from the wrong direction. West to east . . . Oh, Almighty above. It’s terrible.” She followed his gaze, but could see nothing. “It’s actually real,” Renarin said. “The Everstorm.” “What are you talking about?” Shallan asked, feeling a chill at the tone of his voice. “I . . .” He looked to her and wiped the water from his eyes, gauntlet hanging from his waist. “I should be with my father. I should be able to fight. Only I’m useless.” Great. He was creepy and whiny. “Well, your father ordered you to help me, so deal with your issues. Everyone, let’s search this place.” “What are we looking for, cousin?” asked Rock, one of the bridgemen. Cousin, she thought. Cute. Because of the red hair. “I don’t know,” she said. “Anything strange, out of the ordinary.” They split up and spread out across the plateau. Along with Inadara, Shallan had a small group of ardents and scholars to help her, including one of Dalinar’s stormwardens. She sent teams of several scholars, one bridgeman, and one soldier each in different directions. Renarin and the majority of the bridgemen insisted on going with her. She couldn’t complain about that—this was a war zone. Shallan passed a lump on the ground, part of a large ring. Perhaps once a low ornamental wall. How would this place have looked? She pictured it in her mind, and wished she could have drawn it. That would certainly have helped her visualize. Where would the portal be? Most likely at the center, so that was the direction she went. There she found a large stone mound. “This is all?” Rock asked. “He is just more rock.” “That is exactly what I was hoping to find,” Shallan said. “Anything exposed to the air would have weathered away or become immured with crem. If we’re to discover anything useful, it will have to be inside.” “Inside?” asked one of the bridgemen. “Inside what?” “The buildings,” Shallan said, feeling at the wall until she found a ripple in the back of the rock. She turned to Renarin. “Prince Renarin, would you kindly slay this rock for me?” * * * Adolin raised his sphere in the dark chamber, shining light on the wall. After so long outdoors in the Weeping, it felt strange not to have rain tapping against his helm.
The musty air in this place was already growing humid, and even with the shuffling of soldiers and men coughing, Adolin felt like it was too silent. Within this rocky tomb, they may as well have been miles away from the battlefield just outside. “How did you know, sir?” asked Skar, the bridgeman. “How’d you guess that this rock mound would be hollow?” “Because a clever woman,” Adolin said, “once asked me to attack a boulder for her.” Together, he and these men had circled to the other side of the large rock formation that the chanting Parshendi were using to guard their backs. With a few twists of the Shardblade, Adolin had cut an entrance into the mound, which had proven to be hollow as he’d hoped. He picked his way through the dusty chambers, passing bones and dried debris that might once have been furniture. Presumably it had rotted away before the crem had finished sealing the building. Had it been a kind of communal dwelling, long ago? Or perhaps a market? It did have a lot of rooms; many doorways still bore rusted hinges that had once held doors. A thousand men moved through the building with him, holding lanterns that carried large cut gems—five times bigger than broams, though even some of those were starting to fail, as it had been so long since a highstorm. A thousand men was a large number to navigate through these eerie confines. But, unless he was completely off, they should now be approaching the opposite wall—the one just behind the Parshendi. Some of his men scouted nearby rooms, and came back with the confirmation. The building ended here. Adolin now saw the outlines of windows, sealed up with crem that had spilled in through gaps over the years, dribbling down the wall and piling on the floor. “All right,” he called out to the company commanders and their captains. “Let’s gather everyone we can in this room here and the hall right outside. I’ll cut an exit hole. As soon as it’s open, we need to spill out and attack those singing Parshendi. “First Company, you split to either side and secure this exit. Don’t get pushed back! I’ll charge and try to draw attention. Everyone else move through and join the assault as quickly as you can manage.” The men nodded. Adolin took a deep breath, then closed his faceplate and stepped up to the wall. They were on the second floor of the building, but he estimated the buildup of crem outside would place that at about ground level. Indeed, from outside he heard a faint sound. Humming, resonating through the wall. Storms, the Parshendi were right there. He summoned his Blade, waited until the company commanders passed the word back that their men were ready, then hacked at the wall in several long ribbons. He sliced it the other way with sweeping blows, then slammed his Plate shoulder into it. The wall broke down and fell out, stone blocks cascading away from him. The rain returned in force.
He was only a few feet off the ground, and he eagerly pushed his way out onto the slick wet rocks. Just to his left, Parshendi reserves stood in rows facing away from him, absorbed in their chanting. The clamor of battle was nearly inaudible here, all but drowned out by the spine-tingling sound of that inhuman singing. Perfect. The rain and chanting had covered the noise of the hole opening. He hacked open another hole as men spilled out from the first one, bearing lights. He began to open a third exit, but heard a shout. One of the Parshendi had finally noticed him. She was female—with this new form of theirs, that was more obvious than it had been before. He charged the short distance to the Parshendi and launched himself into their ranks, sweeping lethally with his Blade. Bodies fell dead with burned eyes. Five, then ten. His soldiers joined him, thrusting spears into the Parshendi, cutting off their awful song. It was shockingly easy. These Parshendi abandoned their song reluctantly, coming out of their trance disoriented and confused. Those who fought did so without coordination, and Adolin’s swift attack didn’t allow time for them to summon their strange sparking energy. It was like killing sleeping men. Adolin had done dirty work with his Shards before. Damnation, any time you took the field with Plate and Blade against ordinary men, you did dirty work—slaughtering those who might as well have been children with sticks. This was worse though. Often they’d come to just before he killed them—blinking to consciousness, shaking themselves awake, only to find themselves face-to-face with a full Shardbearer in the rain, murdering their friends. Those looks of horror haunted Adolin as he sent corpse after corpse to the ground. Where was the Thrill that usually propelled him through this kind of butchery? He needed it. Instead, he felt only nausea. Standing amid a field of the newly dead—the acrid smoke of burned-out eyes curling up through the rain—he trembled and dropped his Blade in disgust. It vanished to mist. Something crashed into him from behind. He lurched over a corpse—stumbling but keeping his feet—and spun about. A Shardblade smashed against his chest, spreading a glowing web of cracks across his breastplate. He deflected the next blow with his forearm and stepped back, taking a battle stance. She stood before him, rain streaming from her armor. What had she named herself? Eshonai. Inside his helm, Adolin grinned at the Shardbearer. This he could do. An honest fight. He raised his hands, the Shardblade forming from mist as he swung upward and deflected her attack in a sweeping parry. Thank you, he thought. * * * Dalinar rode Gallant back across the bridge from Roion’s plateau, nursing a bloody wound at his side. Stupid. He should have seen that spear. He’d been too focused on that red lightning and the quickly shifting Parshendi fighting pairs. The truth, Dalinar thought, sliding from his horse so a surgeon could inspect the wound, is that you’re an old man now. Perhaps
not by the measuring of lifespans, as he was only in his fifties, but by the yardstick of soldiers he was certainly old. Without Shardplate to assist, he was getting slow, getting weak. Killing was a young man’s game, if only because the old men fell first. That cursed rain kept coming, so he escaped it under one of Navani’s pavilions. The archers kept the Parshendi from following across the chasm to harry Roion’s beleaguered retreat. With the help of the bowmen, Dalinar had successfully saved the highprince’s army, half of it at least—but they’d lost the entire northern plateau. Roion rode across to safety, followed by an exhausted Captain Khal on foot—General Khal’s son wore his own Plate and bore Teleb’s Blade, which he’d blessedly recovered from the corpse after the other man had fallen. They’d been forced to leave the body, and the Plate. Just as bad, the Parshendi singing continued unabated. Despite the soldiers saved, this was a terrible defeat. Dalinar undid his breastplate and sat down with a grunt as the surgeon ordered him a stool. He suffered the woman’s ministration, though he knew the wound was not terrible. It was bad—any wound was bad on the battlefield, particularly if it impaired the sword arm—but it wouldn’t kill him. “Storms,” the surgeon said. “Highprince, you’re all scars under here. How many times have you been wounded in the shoulder?” “Can’t remember.” “How can you still use your arm?” “Training and practice.” “That’s not how it works . . .” she whispered, eyes wide. “I mean . . . storms . . .” “Just sew the thing up,” he said. “Yes, I’ll stay off the battlefield today. No, I won’t stress it. Yes, I’ve heard all the lectures before.” He shouldn’t have been out there in the first place. He’d told himself he wouldn’t ride into battle anymore. He was supposed to be a politician now, not a warlord. But once in a while, the Blackthorn needed to come out. The men needed it. Storms, he needed it. The— Navani thundered into the tent. Too late. He sighed as she stalked up to him, passing this tent’s fabrial—which glowed on a little pedestal, collecting water around it in a shimmering globe. That water streamed off along two metal rods at the sides of the fabrial, spilling onto the ground, then running out of the tent and over the plateau’s edge. He looked up at Navani grimly, expecting to be dressed down like a recruit who had forgotten his whetstone. Instead, she took him by his good side, then pulled him close. “No reprimand?” Dalinar asked. “We’re at war,” she whispered. “And we’re losing, aren’t we?” Dalinar glanced at the archers, who were running low on arrows. He didn’t speak too loudly, lest they hear. “Yes.” The surgeon glanced at him, then lowered her head and kept sewing. “You rode to battle when someone needed you,” Navani said. “You saved the lives of a highprince and his soldiers. Why would you expect anger from me?” “Because you’re you.” He reached
up with his good hand and ran his fingers through her hair. “Adolin has won his plateau,” Navani said. “The Parshendi there are scattered and routed. Aladar holds. Roion has failed, but we’re still evenly matched. So how are we losing? I can sense that we are, from your face, but I don’t see it.” “An even match is a loss for us,” Dalinar said. He could feel it building. Distant, to the west. “If they complete that song, then as Rlain warned, that is the end.” The surgeon finished as best she could, wrapping the wound and giving Dalinar leave to replace his shirt and coat, which would hold the bandage tight. Once dressed, he climbed to his feet, intending to go to the command tent and get an update on the situation from General Khal. He was interrupted as Roion burst into the pavilion. “Dalinar!” the tall, balding man rushed in, grabbing him by the arm. The bad one. Dalinar winced. “It’s a storming bloodbath out there! We’re dead. Storms, we’re dead!” Nearby archers shuffled, their arrows spent. A sea of red eyes gathered on the plateau across the chasm, smoldering coals in the darkness. For all that Dalinar wanted to slap Roion, that wasn’t the sort of thing you did to a highprince, even a hysterical one. Instead, he towed Roion out of the pavilion. The rain—now a full-blown storm—felt icy as it washed over his soaked uniform. “Control yourself, Brightlord,” Dalinar said sternly. “Adolin has won his plateau. Not all is as bad as it seems.” “It should not end this way,” the Almighty said. Storm it! Dalinar shoved Roion away and strode out into the center of the plateau, looking up toward the sky. “Answer me! Let me know if you can hear me!” “I can.” Finally. Some progress. “Are you the Almighty?” “I said I am not, child of Honor.” “Then what are you?” I AM THAT WHICH BRINGS LIGHT AND DARKNESS. The voice took on more of a rumbling, distant quality. “The Stormfather,” Dalinar said. “Are you a Herald?” NO. “Then are you a spren or a god?” BOTH. “What is the point of talking to me?” Dalinar shouted at the sky. “What is happening?” THEY CALL FOR A STORM. MY OPPOSITE. DEADLY. “How do we stop it?” YOU DON’T. “There has to be a way!” I BRING YOU A STORM OF CLEANSING. IT WILL CARRY AWAY YOUR CORPSES. THIS IS ALL I CAN DO. “No! Don’t you dare abandon us!” YOU MAKE DEMANDS OF ME, YOUR GOD? “You aren’t my god. You were never my god! You are a shadow, a lie!” Distant thunder rumbled ominously. The rain beat harder against Dalinar’s face. I AM CALLED. I MUST GO. A DAUGHTER DISOBEYS. YOU WILL SEE NO FURTHER VISIONS, CHILD OF HONOR. THIS IS THE END. FAREWELL. “Stormfather!” Dalinar yelled. “There has to be a way! I will not die here!” Silence. Not even thunder. People had gathered around Dalinar: soldiers, scribes, messengers, Roion and Navani. Frightened people. “Don’t abandon us,” Dalinar said, voice trailing
off. “Please . . .” * * * Moash stepped forward, his faceplate up, his face pained. “Kaladin?” “I had to make the choice that would let me sleep at night, Moash,” Kaladin said wearily, standing before the unconscious form of the king. Blood pooled around Kaladin’s boot from the wounds he’d reopened. Light-headed, he had to lean on his spear to keep on his feet. “You said he was trustworthy,” Graves said, turning toward Moash, his voice ringing inside his Shardplate helm. “You promised me, Moash!” “Kaladin is trustworthy,” Moash said. It was just the three of them—four, if you counted the king—standing in a lonely hallway of the palace. This would be a sad place to die. A place away from the wind. “He’s just a little confused,” Moash said, stepping forward. “This will still work. You didn’t tell anyone, right, Kal?” I recognize this hallway, Kaladin realized. It’s the very place we fought the Assassin in White. To his left, windows lined the wall, though shutters kept out the light rainfall. Yes . . . there. He spotted where planks had been installed over the hole that the assassin had cut through the wall. The place where Kaladin had fallen into blackness. Back here again. He took a deep breath and steadied himself as best he could on his good leg, then raised the spear, point toward Moash. Storms, his leg hurt. “Kal, the king is obviously wounded,” Moash said. “We followed your trail of blood here. He’s practically dead already.” Trail of blood. Kaladin blinked bleary eyes. Of course. His thoughts were coming slowly. He should have caught that. Moash stopped a few feet from Kaladin, just out of easy striking range with the spear. “What are you going to do, Kal?” Moash demanded, looking at the spear pointed toward him. “Would you really attack a member of Bridge Four?” “You left Bridge Four the moment you turned against our duty,” Kaladin whispered. “And you’re different?” “No, I’m not,” Kaladin said, feeling a hollowness in his stomach. “But I’m trying to change that.” Moash took another step forward, but Kaladin pushed the spear point upward, toward Moash’s face. His friend hesitated, raising his gauntleted hands in a warding gesture. Graves moved forward, but Moash shooed him away, then turned to Kaladin. “What do you think this will accomplish, Kal? If you get in our way, you’ll just get yourself killed, and the king will still be dead. You want me to know you don’t agree with this? Fine. You tried. Now you’re overmatched, and there is no point in fighting. Put down the spear.” Kaladin glanced over his shoulder. The king was still breathing. Moash’s armor clinked. Kaladin turned back, raising the spear again. Storms . . . his head was really throbbing now. “I mean it, Kal,” Moash said. “You’d attack me?” Kaladin said. “Your captain? Your friend?” “Don’t turn this around on me.” “Why not? Which is more important to you? Me or petty vengeance?” “He murdered them, Kaladin,” Moash snapped. “That sorry excuse for a
king killed the only family I ever had.” “I know.” “Then why are you protecting him?” “It wasn’t his fault.” “That’s a load of—” “It wasn’t his fault,” Kaladin said. “But I’d be here even if it had been, Moash! We have to be better than this, you and I. It’s . . . I can’t explain it, not perfectly. You have to trust me. Back down. The king hasn’t yet seen you or Graves. We’ll go to Dalinar, and I’ll see that you get justice against the right man, Roshone, the one truly behind your grandparents’ deaths. “But Moash, we’re not going to be this kind of men. Murders in dark corridors, killing a drunk man because we find him distasteful, telling ourselves it’s for the good of the kingdom. If I kill a man, I’m going to do it in the sunlight, and I’m going to do it only because there is no other way.” Moash hesitated. Graves clinked up beside him, but again Moash raised a hand, stopping him. Moash met Kaladin’s eyes, then shook his head. “Sorry, Kal. It’s too late.” “You won’t have him. I won’t back down.” “I guess I wouldn’t want you to.” Moash slammed his faceplate down, the sides misting as it sealed. The stone block slid inward, confirming Shallan’s deduction. They had opened a building that hadn’t been entered, or even seen, for centuries. Renarin stepped back from the hole he’d made, giving Shallan a chance to step forward. The air from inside smelled stale, musty. Renarin dismissed his Blade, and oddly, as he did so, he let out a relieved sigh and relaxed against the outer wall of the building. Shallan moved to enter, but the bridgemen slipped in front of her to check the building’s safety first, raising sapphire lanterns. The light revealed majesty. Shallan’s breath caught in her throat. The large, circular room was a space worthy of a palace or temple. A mosaic mural covered the wall and floor with majestic images and dazzling color. Knights in armor stood before swirling skies of red and blue. People from all walks of life were depicted in all manner of settings, each crafted from vivid colors of every kind of stone—a masterwork that brought the whole world into one room. Worried she’d damage the portal somehow, she’d placed Renarin’s cuts near a ripple that she had hoped indicated a doorway, and it seemed that she’d been correct. She entered through the hole and walked a curving path through the circular chamber, silently counting the divisions in the floor mural. There were ten main ones, just as there had been ten orders of knights, ten kingdoms, ten peoples. And then—between the segments representing the first and tenth kingdoms—was a narrower eleventh section. It depicted a tall tower. Urithiru. She’d found it, the portal. And this artwork! Such beauty. It was breathtaking. No, there wasn’t time to admire art right now. The large floor mosaic swirled around the center, but the swords of each knight pointed toward the same area of the wall,
so Shallan walked in that direction. Everything in here seemed perfectly preserved, even the lamps on the walls, which appeared to still hold dun gemstones. On the wall, she found a metal disc set into the stone. Was this steel? It hadn’t rusted or even tarnished despite its long abandonment. “It’s coming,” Renarin announced from the other side of the room, his quiet voice echoing across the domed chamber. Storms, that boy was disturbing, particularly when accompanied by a howling storm and the sound of rain pelting the plateau outside. Brightness Inadara and several scholars arrived. Stepping into the chamber, they gasped and then began talking over one another as they rushed to examine the mural. Shallan studied the strange disc set into the wall. It was shaped like a ten-pointed star and had a thin slot directly in the center. The Radiants could operate this place, she thought. And what did the Radiants have that nobody else did? Many things, but the shape of that slot in the metal gave her a pretty good guess why only they could make the Oathgate work. “Renarin, get over here,” Shallan said. The boy clomped in her direction. “Shallan,” Pattern said warningly. “Time is very short. They have summoned the Everstorm. And . . . and there’s something else, coming from the other direction. A highstorm?” “It’s the Weeping,” Shallan said, looking to Pattern, who dimpled the wall just beside the steel disc. “No highstorms.” “One is coming anyway. Shallan, they’re going to hit together. Two storms coming, one from each direction. They will crash into each other right here.” “I don’t suppose they’ll just, you know, cancel each other out?” “They will feed each other,” Pattern said. “It will be like two waves hitting with their peaks coinciding . . . it will create a storm like none the world has ever seen. Stone will shatter, plateaus themselves might collapse. It’s going to be bad. Very, very bad.” Shallan looked to Inadara, who had walked up beside her. “Thoughts?” “I don’t know what to think, Brightness,” Inadara said. “You were right about this place. I . . . I no longer trust myself to judge what is correct and what is false.” “We need to move the armies to this plateau,” Shallan said. “Even if they defeat the Parshendi, they’re doomed unless we can make this portal work.” “It doesn’t look like a portal at all,” Inadara said. “What will it do? Open a doorway in the wall?” “I don’t know,” Shallan said, looking to Renarin. “Summon your Shardblade.” He did so, wincing as it appeared. Shallan pointed at the slot like a keyhole in the wall—acting on a hunch. “See if you can scratch that metal with your Blade. Be very careful. We don’t want to ruin the Oathgate, in case I’m wrong.” Renarin stepped up and carefully—using his hand to pinch the weapon from above—placed the tip of the blade on the metal around the keyhole. He grunted as the Blade wouldn’t cut. He tried a little harder, and the metal
resisted the Blade. “Made of the same stuff!” Shallan said, growing excited. “And that slot is shaped like it might fit a Blade. Try sliding the weapon in, very slowly.” He did so, and as the point moved into the hole, the entire shape of the keyhole shifted, the metal flowing to match the shape of Renarin’s Shardblade. It was working! He got the weapon placed, and they turned around, looking over the chamber. Nothing appeared to have changed. “Did that do anything?” Renarin asked. “It has to have,” Shallan said. They’d unlocked a door, perhaps. But how to turn the equivalent of the doorknob? “We need Highlady Navani to help,” Shallan said. “More importantly, we need to bring everyone here. Go, soldiers, bridgemen! Run and tell Dalinar to gather his armies on this plateau. Tell him that if he doesn’t, they are doomed. The rest of you scholars, we’re going to put our heads together and figure out how this storming thing works.” * * * Adolin danced through the storm, trading blows with Eshonai. She was good, though she didn’t use stances he recognized. She dodged back and forth, feeling him out with her Blade, bursting through the storm like a crackling thunderbolt. Adolin kept after her, sweeping with his Shardblade, forcing her away. A duel. He could win a duel. Even in the middle of a storm, even against a monster, this was something he could do. He backed her away across the battlefield, closer to where his armies had crossed the chasm to join this battle. She was difficult to maneuver. He had only met this Eshonai twice, but he felt he knew her through the way she fought. He sensed her eagerness for blood. Her eagerness to kill. The Thrill. He did not feel it himself. He sensed it in her. Around him, Parshendi fled or fought in pockets as his men harried them. He passed a Parshendi, forced to the ground by soldiers, being gutted in the rain as he tried to crawl away. Water and blood splashed on the plateau, frantic yells sounding amid the thunder. Thunder. Distant thunder from the west. Adolin glanced in that direction, and nearly lost his concentration. He could see it building, wind and rain spinning in a gigantic pillar, flashing red. Eshonai swung for him, and Adolin turned back, blocking the blow with his forearm. That section of his Plate was getting weak, the cracks leaking Stormlight. He stepped into the blow and swung his own Blade, one-handed, into Eshonai’s side. He was rewarded by a grunt. She didn’t fold, though. She didn’t even step back. She raised her Blade and smashed it down against his forearm yet again. The Plate there exploded in a flash of light and molten metal. Storms. Adolin was forced to pull the arm back and release the gauntlet—now too heavy, without the connecting Plate to help it—letting it drop off his hand. The wind that blew against his exposed skin was startlingly powerful. A little more, Adolin thought, not backing away despite the
lost section of Plate. He grabbed his Shardblade in two hands—one metal, the other flesh—and battered forward with a series of strikes. He transitioned out of Windstance. No sweeping majesty for him. He needed the frantic fury of Flamestance. Not just for the power, but because of what he needed to convey to Eshonai. Eshonai growled, forced backward. “Your day has ended, destroyer,” she said inside her helm. “Today, your brutality turns against you. Today, extinction turns from us to you.” A little more. Adolin pressed her with a burst of swordplay, then he flagged, presenting her with an opening. She took it immediately, swinging for his helm, which leaked from an earlier blow. Yes, she was fully caught up in the Thrill. That lent her energy and strength, but it drove her to recklessness. To ignore her surroundings. Adolin took the hit to the head and stumbled. Eshonai laughed with glee and moved to swing again. Adolin lunged forward and slammed his shoulder and head into her chest. His helm exploded from the force of it, but his gambit succeeded. Eshonai had not noticed how close they were to the chasm. His shove threw her over the plateau’s edge. He felt Eshonai’s panic, heard her shout, as she was dropped into the open blackness. Unfortunately, the exploding helm left Adolin momentarily blinded. He stumbled, and when he put a foot down, it landed only on empty air. He lurched, then fell toward the void of the chasm. For a timeless moment, all he felt was panic and fright, a frozen eternity before he realized he wasn’t falling. His vision cleared, and he looked down into the maw before him, rain falling in curtains all around. Then he looked back over his shoulder. To where two bridgemen had grabbed hold of the steel link skirt of his Plate and were struggling to hold him back from the brink. Grunting, they clung to the slick metal, holding tight with feet thrust against stones to keep from being pulled off with him. Other soldiers materialized, rushing to help. Hands grabbed Adolin around the waist and shoulders, and together they hauled him back from the brink of the void—to the point that he was able to get his balance again and stumble away from the chasm. Soldiers cheered, and Adolin let out an exhausted laugh. He turned to the bridgemen, Skar and Drehy. “I guess,” Adolin said, “I don’t need to wonder if you two can keep up with me or not.” “This was nothing,” Skar said. “Yeah,” Drehy added. “Lifting fat lighteyes is easy. You should try a bridge sometime.” Adolin grinned, then wiped water from his face with his exposed hand. “See if you can find a chunk of my helm or forearm piece. Regrowing the armor will go faster if we’ve got a seed. Collect my gauntlet too, if you would.” The two nodded. That red lightning in the sky was building, and that spinning column of dark rain was expanding, growing outward. That . . . that did not seem like
a good sign. He needed a better grasp on what was happening in the rest of the army. He jogged across the bridge to the central plateau. Where was his father? What was happening on Aladar’s and Roion’s fronts? Had Shallan returned from her expedition? Everything seemed chaotic here on the central plateau. The rising winds tore at tents, and some of them had collapsed. People ran this way and that. Adolin spotted a figure in a thick cloak, striding purposefully through the rain. That person looked like he knew what he was doing. Adolin caught his arm as he passed. “Where’s my father?” he asked. “What orders are you delivering?” The hood of the cloak fell down and the man turned to regard Adolin with eyes that were slightly too large, too rounded. A bald head. Filmy, loose clothing beneath the cloak. The Assassin in White. * * * Moash stepped forward, but did not summon his Shardblade. Kaladin struck with his spear, but it was futile. He’d used what strength he had to merely remain upright. His spear glanced off Moash’s helm, and the former bridgeman slapped a fist down on the weapon, shattering the wood. Kaladin lurched to a stop, but Moash wasn’t done. He stepped forward and slammed an armored fist into Kaladin’s gut. Kaladin gasped, folding as things broke inside of him. Ribs snapped like twigs before that impossibly strong fist. Kaladin coughed, spraying blood across Moash’s armor, then groaned as his friend stepped back, removing his fist. Kaladin collapsed to the cold stone floor, everything shaking. His eyes felt like they’d pop from his face, and he curled around his broken chest, trembling. “Storms.” Moash’s voice was distant. “That was a harder blow than I intended.” “You did what you had to.” Graves. Oh . . . Stormfather . . . the pain . . . “Now what?” Moash. “We end this. Kill the king with a Shardblade. It will still look like the assassin, hopefully. Those blood trails are frustrating. They might make people ask questions. Here, let me cut down these boards, so it looks like he came in through the wall, like last time.” Cold air. Rain. Yelling? Very distant? He knew that voice. . . . “Syl?” Kaladin whispered, blood on his lips. “Syl?” Nothing. “I ran until . . . until I couldn’t any longer,” Kaladin whispered. “End of . . . the race.” Life before death. “I will do it.” Graves. “I will bear this burden.” “It is my right!” Moash said. He blinked, eyes resting on the king’s unconscious body just beside him. Still breathing. I will protect those who cannot protect themselves. It made sense, now, why he’d had to make this choice. Kaladin rolled to his knees. Graves and Moash were arguing. “I have to protect him,” Kaladin whispered. Why? “If I protect . . .” He coughed. “If I protect . . . only the people I like, it means that I don’t care about doing what is right.” If he did that, he only cared
about what was convenient for himself. That wasn’t protecting. That was selfishness. Straining, agonized, Kaladin raised one foot. The good foot. Coughing blood, he shoved himself upward and stumbled to his feet between Elhokar and the assassins. Fingers trembling, he felt at his belt, and—after two tries—got his side knife out. He squeezed out tears of pain, and through blurry vision, saw the two Shardbearers looking at him. Moash slowly raised his faceplate, revealing a stunned expression. “Stormfather . . . Kal, how are you standing?” It made sense now. That was why he’d come back. It was about Tien, it was about Dalinar, and it was about what was right—but most of all, it was about protecting people. This was the man he wanted to be. Kaladin moved one foot back, touching his heel to the king, forming a battle stance. Then raised his hand before him, knife out. His hand shook like a roof rattling from thunder. He met Moash’s eyes. Strength before weakness. “You. Will. Not. Have. Him.” “Finish this, Moash,” Graves said. “Storms,” Moash said. “There’s no need. Look at him. He can’t fight back.” Kaladin felt exhausted. At least he’d stood up. It was the end. The journey had come and gone. Shouting. Kaladin heard it now, as if it were closer. He is mine! a feminine voice said. I claim him. HE BETRAYED HIS OATH. “He has seen too much,” Graves said to Moash. “If he lives this day, he’ll betray us. You know my words are true, Moash. Kill him.” The knife slipped from Kaladin’s fingers, clanging to the ground. He was too weak to hold it. His arm flopped back to his side, and he stared down at the knife, dazed. I don’t care. HE WILL KILL YOU. “I’m sorry, Kal,” Moash said, stepping forward. “I should have made it quick at the start.” The Words, Kaladin. That was Syl’s voice. You have to speak the Words! I FORBID THIS. YOUR WILL MATTERS NOT! Syl shouted. YOU CANNOT HOLD ME BACK IF HE SPEAKS THE WORDS! THE WORDS, KALADIN! SAY THEM! “I will protect even those I hate,” Kaladin whispered through bloody lips. “So long as it is right.” A Shardblade appeared in Moash’s hands. A distant rumbling. Thunder. THE WORDS ARE ACCEPTED, the Stormfather said reluctantly. “Kaladin!” Syl’s voice. “Stretch forth thy hand!” She zipped around him, suddenly visible as a ribbon of light. “I can’t . . .” Kaladin said, drained. “Stretch forth thy hand!” He reached out a trembling hand. Moash hesitated. Wind blew in the opening in the wall, and Syl’s ribbon of light became mist, a form she often took. Silver mist, which grew larger, coalesced before Kaladin, extending into his hand. Glowing, brilliant, a Shardblade emerged from the mist, vivid blue light shining from swirling patterns along its length. Kaladin gasped a deep breath as if coming fully awake for the first time. The entire hallway went black as the Stormlight in every lamp down the length of the hall winked out. For a moment, they stood in
darkness. Then Kaladin exploded with Light. It erupted from his body, making him shine like a blazing white sun in the darkness. Moash backed away, face pale in the white brilliance, throwing up a hand to shade his eyes. Pain evaporated like mist on a hot day. Kaladin’s grip firmed upon the glowing Shardblade, a weapon beside which those of Graves and Moash looked dull. One after another, shutters burst open up and down the hallway, wind screaming into the corridor. Behind Kaladin, frost crystalized on the ground, growing backward away from him. A glyph formed in the frost, almost in the shape of wings. Graves screamed, falling in his haste to get away. Moash backed up, staring at Kaladin. “The Knights Radiant,” Kaladin said softly, “have returned.” “Too late!” Graves shouted. Kaladin frowned, then glanced at the king. “The Diagram spoke of this,” Graves said, scuttling back along the corridor. “We missed it. We missed it completely! We focused on making certain you were separated from Dalinar, and not on what our actions might push you to become!” Moash looked from Graves back at Kaladin. Then he ran, Plate clinking as he turned and dashed down the corridor and disappeared. Kaladin, Syl’s voice spoke in his head. Something is still very wrong. I feel it on the winds. Graves laughed like a madman. “Separating me,” Kaladin whispered. “From Dalinar? Why would they care?” He turned, looking eastward. Oh no . . . “She didn’t say if she could even open the pathway?” Dalinar asked as he stalked toward the command tent. Rain pummeled the ground around him, so dense that it was no longer possible to distinguish separate windblown sheets in the glare of Navani’s fabrial floodlights. It was long past when he should have found cover. “No, Brightlord,” said Peet, the bridgeman. “But she was insistent that we couldn’t face what was coming at us. Two highstorms.” “How could there be two?” Navani asked. She wore a stout cloak but was soaked clear through anyway, her umbrella having blown away long ago. Roion walked on Dalinar’s other side, his beard and mustache limp with water. “I don’t know, Brightness,” Peet said. “But that’s what she said. A highstorm and something else. She called it an Everstorm. She expects they’re going to collide right here.” Dalinar considered, frowning. The command tent was just ahead. Inside, he’d talk to his field commanders, and— The command tent shuddered, then ripped free in a burst of wind. Trailing ropes and spikes, it blew right past Dalinar, almost close enough to touch. Dalinar cursed as the light of a dozen lanterns—once contained in the tent—spilled onto the plateau. Scribes and soldiers scrambled, trying to grab maps and sheets of paper as rain and wind claimed them. “Storm it!” Dalinar said, turning his back to the powerful wind. “I need an update!” “Sir!” Commander Cael, head of the field command, jogged over, his wife—Apara—following. Cael’s clothing was mostly dry, though that was quickly changing. “Aladar has won his plateau! Apara was just composing you a message.”
“Really?” Almighty bless that man. He’d done it. “Yes, sir,” Cael said. He had to shout against the wind and rain. “Highprince Aladar said the singing Parshendi went right down, letting him slaughter them. The rest broke and fled. Even with Roion’s plateau fallen, we’ve won the day!” “Doesn’t feel like it,” Dalinar shouted back. Just minutes ago, the rainfall had been light. The situation was degrading quickly. “Send orders immediately to Aladar, my son, and General Khal. There’s a plateau just to the southeast, perfectly round. I want all of our forces to move there to brace for an oncoming storm.” “Yes, sir!” Cael said with a salute, fist to coat. With the other hand, however, he pointed over Dalinar’s shoulder. “Sir, have you seen that?” He turned, looking back toward the west. Red light flashed, lightning coursing down in repeated blasts. The sky itself seemed to spasm as something built there, swirling in an enormous storm cell that was rapidly expanding outward. “Almighty above . . .” Navani whispered. Nearby another tent shook, its stakes coming undone. “Leave the tents, Cael,” Dalinar said. “Get everyone moving. Now. Navani, go to Brightness Shallan. Help her if you can.” The officer leaped away and began shouting orders. Navani went with him, vanishing into the night, and a squad of soldiers chased after her to provide protection. “And me, Dalinar?” Roion asked. “We’ll need you to take command of your men and lead them to safety,” Dalinar said. “If such a thing can be found.” That tent nearby shook again. Dalinar frowned. It didn’t seem to be moving along with the wind. And was that . . . shouting? Adolin crashed through the tent’s fabric and skidded along the stones on his back, his armor leaking Light. “Adolin!” Dalinar shouted, dashing to his son. The young man was missing several segments of his armor. He looked up with gritted teeth, blood streaming from his nose. He said something, but it was lost to the wind. No helm, no left vambrace, the breastplate cracked just short of shattering, his right leg exposed. Who could have done such a thing to a Shardbearer? Dalinar knew the answer immediately. He cradled Adolin, but looked up past the collapsed tent. It whipped in the storm and tore away as a man strode past it, glowing with spinning trails of Stormlight. Those foreign features, clothing all of white plastered to his body by the rain, a bowed, hairless head, shadows hiding eyes that glowed with Stormlight. Gavilar’s murderer. Szeth, the Assassin in White. * * * Shallan worked through the inscriptions on the wall of the round chamber, frantically searching for some way to make the Oathgate function. This had to work. It had to. “This is all in the Dawnchant,” Inadara said. “I can’t make sense of any of it.” The Knights Radiant are the key. Shouldn’t Renarin’s sword have been enough? “What’s the pattern?” she whispered. “Mmm . . .” Pattern said. “Perhaps you cannot see it because you are too close? Like the Shattered Plains?”
Shallan hesitated, then stood and walked to the center of the room, where the depictions of the Knights Radiant and their kingdoms met at a central point. “Brightlord Renarin?” Inadara asked. “Is something wrong?” The young prince had fallen to his knees and was huddled next to the wall. “I can see it,” Renarin answered feverishly, his voice echoing in the chamber. Ardents who had been studying part of the murals looked up at him. “I can see the future itself. Why? Why, Almighty? Why have you cursed me so?” He screamed a pleading cry, then stood and cracked something against the wall. A rock? Where had he gotten it? He gripped the thing in a gauntleted hand and began to write. Shocked, Shallan took a step toward him. A sequence of numbers? All zeros. “It’s come,” Renarin whispered. “It’s come, it’s come, it’s come. We’re dead. We’re dead. We’re dead. . . .” * * * Dalinar knelt beneath a fracturing sky, holding his son. Rainwater washed the blood from Adolin’s face, and the boy blinked, dazed from his thrashing. “Father . . .” Adolin said. The assassin stepped forward quietly, with no apparent urgency. The man seemed to glide through the rain. “When you take the princedom, son,” Dalinar said, “don’t let them corrupt you. Don’t play their games. Lead. Don’t follow.” “Father!” Adolin said, his eyes focusing. Dalinar stood up. Adolin lurched over onto all fours and tried to get to his feet, but the assassin had broken one of Adolin’s greaves, which made it almost impossible to rise. The boy slipped back into the pooling water. “You’ve been taught well, Adolin,” Dalinar said, eyes on that assassin. “You’re a better man than I am. I was always a tyrant who had to learn to be something else. But you, you’ve been a good man from the start. Lead them, Adolin. Unite them.” “Father!” Dalinar walked away from Adolin. Nearby, scribes and attendants, captains and enlisted men all shouted and scrambled, trying to find order in the chaos of the storm. They followed Dalinar’s order to evacuate, and most had yet to notice the figure in white. The assassin stopped ten paces from Dalinar. Roion, pale-faced and stammering, backed away from the two of them and began shouting. “Assassin! Assassin!” The rainfall was actually letting up a little. That didn’t bring Dalinar much hope; not with that red lightning on the horizon. Was that . . . a stormwall building at the front of the new storm? His efforts to disrupt the Parshendi had fallen short. The Shin man didn’t strike. He stood opposite Dalinar, motionless, expressionless, water dripping down his face. Unnaturally calm. Dalinar was far taller and broader. This small man in white, with his pale skin, seemed almost a youth, a stripling by comparison. Behind him, Roion’s cries were lost in the confusion. However, Bridge Four did run up to surround Dalinar, spears in hand. Dalinar waved them back. “There’s nothing you can do here, lads,” Dalinar said. “Let me face him.” Ten heartbeats. “Why?” Dalinar
asked the assassin, who still stood there in the rain. “Why kill my brother? Did they explain the reasoning behind your orders?” “I am Szeth-son-son-Vallano,” the man said. Harshly. “Truthless of Shinovar. I do as my masters demand, and I do not ask for explanations.” Dalinar revised his assessment. This man was not calm. He seemed that way, but when he spoke, he did it through clenched teeth, his eyes open too wide. He’s mad, Dalinar thought. Storms. “You don’t have to do this,” Dalinar said. “If it’s about pay . . .” “What I am owed,” the assassin shouted, rainwater spraying from his face and Stormlight rising from his lips, “will come to me eventually! Every bit of it. I will drown in it, stonewalker!” Szeth put his hand to the side, Shardblade appearing. Then, with a curt, deprecatory motion—like he was merely trimming a bit of gristle from his meat—he strode forward and swung at Dalinar. Dalinar caught the Blade with his own, which appeared in his hand as he raised it. The assassin spared a glance for Dalinar’s weapon, then smiled, lips drawn thin, showing only a hint of teeth. That eager smile matched with haunted eyes was one of the most evil things Dalinar had ever seen. “Thank you,” the assassin said, “for extending my agony by not dying easily.” He stepped back and burst afire with white light. He came at Dalinar again, inhumanly quick. * * * Adolin cursed, shaking out of his daze. Storms, his head hurt. He’d smacked it something good when the assassin tossed him to the ground. Father was fighting Szeth. Bless the man for listening to reason and bonding that madman’s Blade. Adolin gritted his teeth and struggled to get to his feet, something that was difficult with a broken greave. Though the rain was letting up, the sky remained dark. To the west, lightning plunged downward like red waterfalls, almost constant. At the same time, wind gusted from the east. Something was building out there too, from the Origin. This was very bad. Those things Father said to me . . . Adolin stumbled, almost falling to the ground, but hands appeared to assist him. He glanced to the side to find those two bridgemen from before, Skar and Drehy, helping him to his feet. “You two,” Adolin said, “are getting a storming raise. Help me get this armor off.” He frantically began removing sections of armor. The entire suit was so battered it was nearly useless. Metal clanged nearby as Dalinar fought. If he could hold a little longer, Adolin would be able to help. He would not let that creature get the better of him again. Not again! He spared a glance for what Dalinar was doing, and froze, hands on the straps for his breastplate. His father . . . his father moved beautifully. * * * Dalinar did not fight for his life. His life hadn’t been his own for years. He fought for Gavilar. He fought as he wished he had all those years ago,
for the chance he had missed. In that moment between storms—when the rain stilled and the winds drew in their breaths to blow—he danced with the slayer of kings, and somehow held his own. The assassin moved like a shadow. His step seemed too quick to be human. When he jumped, he soared into the air. He swung his Shardblade like flashes of lightning, and would occasionally stretch forward with his other hand, as if to grab Dalinar. Recalling their previous encounter, Dalinar recognized that as the more dangerous of Szeth’s weapons. Each time, Dalinar managed to bring his Blade around and force the assassin away. The man attacked from different directions, but Dalinar didn’t think. Thoughts could get jumbled, the mind disoriented. His instincts knew what to do. Duck when Szeth leaped over Dalinar’s head. Step backward, avoiding a strike that should have severed his spine. Lash out, forcing the assassin away. Three quick steps backward, sword up wardingly, strike for the assassin’s palm as it tried to touch him. It worked. For this brief time, he fought this creature. Bridge Four remained back, as he’d commanded. They’d only have interfered. He survived. But he did not win. Finally, Dalinar twisted away from a strike but was unable to move quickly enough. The assassin rounded on him and thrust a fist into his side. Dalinar’s ribs cracked. He grunted, stumbling, almost falling. He swung his Blade toward Szeth, warding the man back, but it didn’t matter. The damage was done. He sank to his knees, barely able to remain upright for the pain. In that instant he knew a truth he should always have known. If I’d been there, on that night, awake instead of drunk and asleep . . . Gavilar would still have died. I couldn’t have beaten this creature. I can’t do it now, and I couldn’t have done it then. I couldn’t have saved him. It brought peace, and Dalinar finally set down that boulder, the one he’d been carrying for over six years. The assassin stalked toward him, glowing with terrible Stormlight, but a figure lunged for him from behind. Dalinar expected it to be Adolin, perhaps one of the bridgemen. Instead, it was Roion. * * * Adolin tossed aside the last bit of armor and went running for his father. He wasn’t too late. Dalinar knelt before the assassin, defeated, but not dead. Adolin shouted, drawing close, and an unexpected figure leapt out of the wreckage of a tent. Highprince Roion—incongruously holding a side sword and leading a small force of soldiers—rushed the assassin. Rats had a better chance fighting a chasmfiend. Adolin barely had time to shout as the assassin—moving at blinding speed—spun and cut the blade from the hilt of Roion’s sword. Szeth’s hand shot out and slammed against Roion’s chest. Roion shot into the air, trailing a wisp of Stormlight. He screamed as the sky swallowed him. He lasted longer than his men. The assassin swept between them, deftly avoiding spears, moving with uncanny grace. A dozen soldiers fell in an
instant, eyes burning. Adolin jumped over one of the bodies as it collapsed. Storms. He could still hear Roion screaming up above somewhere. Adolin thrust at the assassin, but the creature twisted and slapped the Shardblade away. The assassin was grinning. He didn’t speak, though Stormlight leaked between his teeth. Adolin tried Smokestance, attacking with a quick sequence of jabs. The assassin silently battered them away, unfazed. Adolin focused, dueling the best he could, but he was a child before this thing. Roion, still screaming, plummeted from the sky and hit nearby with a sickening wet crunch. A quick glance at his corpse told Adolin that the highprince would never rise again. Adolin cursed and lunged for the assassin, but a fluttering tarp—brushed by the assassin in passing—leaped toward Adolin. The monster could command inanimate objects! Adolin sliced through the tarp and then jumped forward to swing for the assassin. He found nothing to fight. Duck. He threw himself to the ground as something passed over his head, the assassin flying through the air. Szeth’s hissing Shardblade missed Adolin’s head by inches. Adolin rolled and came to his knees, puffing. How . . . What could he do . . . ? You can’t beat it, Adolin thought. Nothing can beat it. The assassin landed lightly. Adolin climbed back to his feet, and found himself in company. A dozen of the bridgemen formed up around him. Skar, at their head, looked to Adolin and nodded. Good men. They’d seen Roion’s fall, and still they joined him. Adolin hefted his Shardblade and noticed that a short distance away, his father had managed to regain his feet. Another small group of bridgemen moved in around him, and he allowed it. He and Adolin had dueled and lost. Their only chance now was a mad rush. Nearby, shouts arose. General Khal and a large strike force of soldiers, judging by the banner approaching. There wasn’t time. The assassin stood on the wet plateau between Dalinar’s small troop and Adolin’s, head bowed. Fallen blue lanterns gave light. The sky had gone as black as night, except when broken by that red lightning. Charge and mob a Shardbearer. Hope for a lucky blow. It was the only way. Adolin nodded to Dalinar. His father nodded back, grim. He knew. He knew there was no beating this thing. Lead them, Adolin. Unite them. Adolin screamed, charging forward, sword out, men running with him. Dalinar advanced too, more slowly, one arm across his chest. Storms, the man could barely walk. Szeth snapped his head up, face devoid of all emotion. As they arrived, he leaped, shooting into the air. Adolin’s eyes followed him up. Surely they hadn’t chased him off . . . The assassin twisted in the air, then crashed back down to the ground, glowing like a comet. Adolin barely parried a blow from the Blade; the force of it was incredible. It tossed him backward. The assassin spun, and a pair of bridgemen fell with burning eyes. Others lost spearheads as they tried to stab at
him. The assassin ripped free from the press of bodies, trailing blood from a couple of wounds. Those wounds closed as Adolin watched, the blood stopping. It was as Kaladin had said. With a horrible sinking feeling, Adolin realized just how little a chance they’d ever had. The assassin dashed for Dalinar, who brought up the rear of the attack. The aging soldier raised his Blade, as if in respect, then thrust once. An attack. That was the way to go. “Father . . .” Adolin whispered. The assassin parried the thrust, then placed his hand against Dalinar’s chest. The highprince, suddenly glowing, lurched up into the dark sky. He didn’t scream. The plateau fell silent. Some bridgemen propped up wounded fellows. Others turned toward the assassin, pulling into a spear formation, looking frantic. The assassin lowered his Blade, then started to walk away. “Bastard!” Adolin spat, dashing after him. “Bastard!” He could barely see for the tears. The assassin stopped, then leveled his weapon toward Adolin. Adolin stumbled to a halt. Storms, his head hurt. “It is finished,” the assassin whispered. “I am done.” He turned from Adolin and continued to walk away. Like Damnation itself, you are! Adolin raised his Shardblade overhead. The assassin spun and slapped the weapon so hard with his own Blade that Adolin distinctly heard something snap in his wrist. His Blade tumbled from his fingers, vanishing. The assassin’s hand slapped out, knuckles striking Adolin in the chest, and he gasped, his breath suddenly gone from his throat. Stunned, he sank to his knees. “I suppose,” the assassin snarled, “I can kill one more, on my own time.” Then he grinned, a terrible smile with teeth clenched, eyes wide. As if he were in enormous pain. Gasping, Adolin awaited the blow. He looked toward the sky. Father, I’m sorry. I . . . I . . . What was that? He blinked as he made out something glowing in the air, drifting down, like a leaf. A figure. A man. Dalinar. The highprince fell slowly, as if he were no more weighty than a cloud. White Light streamed from his body in glowing wisps. Nearby bridgemen murmured, soldiers shouted, pointing. Adolin blinked, certain he was delusional. But no, that was Dalinar. Like . . . one of the Heralds themselves, coming down from the Tranquiline Halls. The assassin looked, then stumbled back, mouth open in horror. “No . . . No!” And then, like a falling star, a blazing fireball of light and motion shot down in front of Dalinar. It crashed into the ground, sending out a ring of Stormlight like white smoke. At the center, a figure in blue crouched with one hand on the stones, the other clutching a glowing Shardblade. His eyes afire with a light that somehow made the assassin’s seem dull by comparison, he wore the uniform of a bridgeman, and bore the glyphs of slavery on his forehead. The expanding ring of smoky light faded, save for a large glyph—a swordlike shape—which remained for a brief moment before puffing
away. “You sent him to the sky to die, assassin,” Kaladin said, Stormlight puffing from his lips, “but the sky and the winds are mine. I claim them, as I now claim your life.” Kaladin let the Stormlight evaporate before him. He was running low—his frantic flight across the Plains had drained him. How shocked he had been when the flare of light rising into the darkening sky above a lit plateau had turned out to be Dalinar himself. Lashed to the sky by Szeth. Kaladin had caught him quickly and sent him back to the ground with a careful Lashing of his own. Ahead, Szeth stumbled away from the princeling, holding out his sword wardingly toward Kaladin, eyes wide and lips trembling. Szeth looked horrified. Good. Dalinar finally landed on the plateau with a soft step, and Kaladin’s Lashing ran out. “Seek shelter,” Kaladin said, the tempest in his veins dampening further. “I flew over a storm on my way here . . . a big one. Coming from the west.” “We’re in the process of withdrawing.” “Hurry,” Kaladin said. “I will deal with our friend.” “Kaladin?” Kaladin turned, glancing at the highprince, who stood tall, despite cradling one arm against his chest. Dalinar met his eyes. “You are what I’ve been looking for.” “Yes. Finally.” Kaladin turned and strode toward the assassin. He passed Bridge Four in a tight formation, and the men—at a barked command from Teft—threw something down before Kaladin. Blue lanterns, lit by oversized gems that had lasted the Weeping. Bless them. Stormlight streamed up as he passed, filling him. With a sinking feeling, however, he noticed two corpses with burned-out eyes at their feet. Pedin and Mart. Eth clutched his brother’s body, weeping. Other bridgemen had lost limbs. Kaladin snarled. No more. He would lose no further men to this monster. “You ready?” he whispered. Of course, Syl said in his head. I’m not the one we’ve been waiting on. Burning with Stormlight, enraged and alight, Kaladin launched himself at the assassin and met him Blade against Blade. * * * “We’re dead . . .” Renarin muttered. “Someone shut him up,” Shallan snapped. “Gag him if you have to.” She pointedly turned around, ignoring the raving prince. She still stood in the center of the muraled chamber. The pattern. What was the pattern? A circular room. A thing on one side that adapted to fit different Shardblades. Depictions of Knights on the floor, glowing with Stormlight, pointing at a tower city, just as the myths described. Ten lamps on the walls. The lock hung over what she thought was a depiction of Natanatan, the kingdom of the Shattered Plains. It— Ten lamps. With gems in them. Latticework of metal enclosing each one. Shallan blinked, a shock running through her. “It’s a fabrial.” * * * The assassin hurtled into the air. Captain Kaladin flew upward, chasing him, trailing Light. “Status of the retreat!” Dalinar bellowed, crossing the plateau, his ribs smarting like nothing else, his wound from before little better. Storms. That one had faded
as he fought, but now it ached something fierce. “Someone get me information!” Scribes and ardents appeared from the nearby wreckage of tents. Shouts rose from around the plateau. The wind started to pick up—their period of reprieve, the short calm, was over. They needed to escape these plateaus. Now. Dalinar reached Adolin and helped the young man to his feet. He looked quite a bit worse for wear, bruised, battered, dizzy. He flexed his right hand and winced in pain, then gingerly let it relax. “Damnation,” Adolin said. “That bridgeboy is really one of them? The Knights Radiant?” “Yes.” Oddly, Adolin smiled, seeming satisfied. “Ha! I knew there was something wrong with that man.” “Go,” Dalinar said, pushing Adolin along. “We need to get the army to move two plateaus over, that direction, where Shallan waits. Get over there and organize what you can.” He looked westward as the wind whipped up further, with bursts of rain. “Time is short.” Adolin shouted for the bridgemen to join him, which they did, helping their wounded—though they were unfortunately forced to leave their dead. Several of them carried Adolin’s Shardplate as well, which was apparently spent. Dalinar limped eastward across the plateau as fast as he could manage in his condition, searching for . . . Yes. The place where he’d left Gallant. The horse snorted, shaking a wet mane. “Bless you, old friend,” Dalinar said, reaching the Ryshadium. Through the thunder and the chaos, the horse had not fled. Dalinar moved much more easily once in the saddle, and eventually found Roion’s army pouring southward toward Shallan’s plateau, in organized ranks. He allowed himself a sigh of relief at their orderly march; the majority of the army had already crossed to the southern plateau, only one away from Shallan’s round one. That was wonderful. He couldn’t remember where Captain Khal had been sent, but with Roion himself fallen, Dalinar had assumed he’d left this army in chaos. “Dalinar!” a voice called. He turned to find the utterly incongruous sight of Sebarial and his mistress sitting beneath a canopy, eating dried sellafruit off a plate held by an awkward-looking soldier. Sebarial raised a cup of wine toward Dalinar. “Hope you don’t mind,” Sebarial said. “We liberated your stores. They were blowing past at the time, headed for certain doom.” Dalinar stared at them. Palona even had a novel out and was reading. “You did this?” Dalinar asked, nodding toward Roion’s army. “They were making a racket,” Sebarial said. “Wandering around, shouting at one another, weeping and wailing. Very poetic. Figured someone should get them moving. My army is already off on that other plateau. It’s getting rather cramped there, you realize.” Palona flipped the page in her novel, barely paying attention. “Have you seen Aladar?” Dalinar asked. Sebarial gestured with his wine. “He should be about finished crossing as well. You’ll find him that direction. Downwind, happily.” “Don’t dally,” Dalinar said. “You remain here, and you’re a dead man.” “Like Roion?” Sebarial asked. “Unfortunately.” “So it is true,” Sebarial said, standing up, brushing
off his trousers—which were somehow still dry. “Who am I going to make fun of now?” He shook his head sadly. Dalinar rode off in the direction indicated. He noticed that, incredibly, a pair of bridgemen were still tailing him, only now catching up to where he’d found Sebarial. They saluted as Dalinar noticed them. He told them where he was going, then sped up. Storms. In terms of pain, riding with broken ribs wasn’t much better than walking with them. Worse, actually. He did find Aladar on the next plateau over, supervising his army as it seeped onto the perfectly round plateau that Shallan had indicated. Rust Elthal was there as well, wearing his Plate—one of the suits Adolin had won—and guiding one of Dalinar’s large, mechanical bridges. It settled down next to two others that spanned the chasm here, crossing in places the smaller bridges wouldn’t have been able to. The plateau everyone was crowding onto was relatively small, by the scale of the Shattered Plains—but it was still several hundred yards across. It would fit the armies, hopefully. “Dalinar?” Aladar asked, trotting his horse over. Lit by a large diamond—stolen from one of Navani’s fabrial lights, it seemed—hanging from his saddle, Aladar sported a soaked uniform and a bandage on his forehead, but appeared otherwise unharmed. “What in Kelek’s tongue is going on out here? I can’t get a straight answer from anyone.” “Roion is dead,” Dalinar said wearily, reining in Gallant. “He fell with honor, attacking the assassin. The assassin, hopefully, has been distracted for a time.” “We won the day,” Aladar said. “I scattered those Parshendi. We left well over half of them dead on that plateau, perhaps even three quarters. Adolin did even better on his plateau, and from reports, the ones on Roion’s plateau have fled. The Vengeance Pact is fulfilled! Gavilar is avenged, and the war is over!” So proud. Dalinar had difficulty finding the words to deflate him, so he just stared at the other man. Feeling numb. Can’t afford that, Dalinar thought, sagging in his saddle. Have to lead. “It doesn’t matter, does it?” Aladar asked more softly. “That we won?” “Of course it matters.” “But . . . shouldn’t it feel different?” “Exhaustion,” Dalinar said, “pain, suffering. This is what victory usually feels like, Aladar. We’ve won, yes, but now we have to survive with our victory. Your men are almost across?” He nodded. “Get everyone onto that plateau,” Dalinar said. “Force them up against one another if you have to. We need to be ready to move through the portal as quickly as possible, once it is opened.” If it opened. Dalinar urged Gallant forward, crossing one of the bridges to the packed ranks on the other side. From there, he forced his way—with difficulty—toward the center, where he hoped to find salvation. * * * Kaladin shot into the air after the assassin. The Shattered Plains fell away beneath him. Fallen gemstones twinkled across the plateau, abandoned where tents had blown down or soldiers had fallen. They illuminated not
only the central plateau, but three others around it and one more beyond, one that looked oddly circular from above. The armies gathered on that one. Small lumps dotted the others like freckles. Corpses. So many. Kaladin looked toward the sky. He was free once again. Winds surged beneath him, seeming to lift him, propel him. Carry him. His Shardblade shattered into mist and Syl zipped out, becoming a ribbon of light that spun around him as he flew. Syl lived. Syl lived. He still felt euphoric about that. Shouldn’t she be dead? When he’d asked on their flight out, her response had been simple. I was only as dead as your oaths, Kaladin. Kaladin continued upward, out of the path of the oncoming storms. He could see those distinctly from this vantage. Two of them, one rolling from the west and bursting with red lightning, the other approaching more quickly from the east with a dark grey stormwall. They were going to collide. “A highstorm,” Kaladin said, shooting up through the sky after Szeth. “The red storm is from the Parshendi, but why is there a highstorm coming? This isn’t the time for one.” “My father,” Syl said, voice growing solemn. “He brought the storm, rushing its pace. He’s . . . broken, Kaladin. He doesn’t think any of this should be happening. He wants to end it all, wash everyone away, and try to hide from the future.” Her father . . . did that mean the Stormfather wanted them dead? Great. The assassin disappeared above, vanishing into the dark clouds. Kaladin gritted his teeth, Lashing himself upward again for more acceleration. He shot into the clouds, and all around him became featureless grey. He kept watch for glimmers of light to announce the assassin coming for him. He might not have much warning. The area around him lightened. Was that the assassin? Kaladin extended his hand to the side, and Syl formed into the Blade immediately. “Not ten heartbeats?” he asked. Not when I’m here with you, ready. The delay is primarily something of the dead. They need to be revived each time. Kaladin burst out of the clouds and into sunlight. He gasped. He’d forgotten that it was still daytime. Here, far above the earthy darkness of war, the sunlight beat upon the cover of clouds, making them glow with pale beauty. The thin air was frigid, but raging Stormlight inside him made that easy to ignore. The assassin hovered nearby, toes pointed downward, head bowed, silvery Shardblade held to the side. Kaladin Lashed himself so that he stopped, then sank level with the assassin. “I am Szeth-son-son-Vallano,” the man said. “Truthless . . . Truthless.” He looked up, eyes wide, teeth clenched. “You have stolen Honorblades. It is the only explanation.” Storms. Kaladin had always imagined the Assassin in White as a calm, cold killer. This was something different. “I possess no such weapon,” Kaladin said. “And I don’t know why it would matter if I did.” “I hear your lies. I know them.” Szeth shot forward,
sword out. Kaladin Lashed himself to the side, jerking out of the way. He swiped with his Blade, but didn’t come close to connecting. “I should have practiced more with the sword,” he muttered. Oh. That’s right. You probably want me to be a spear, don’t you? The weapon fuzzed to mist, then elongated and grew into the shape of a silvery spear, with glowing, swirling glyphs along the sharpened sides of the spearhead. Szeth twisted in the air, Lashing himself back into a hovering position. He looked at the spear, then seemed to tremble. “No. Truthless. I am Truthless. No questions.” Stormlight streaming from his mouth, Szeth threw his head back and screamed; a futile, human sound that dissipated in the infinite expanse of sky. Beneath them, thunder rumbled and the clouds shivered with color. * * * Shallan dashed from lamp to lamp in the circular chamber, infusing each one with Stormlight. She glowed brightly, having drawn the Light from the ardents’ lanterns. There wasn’t time for explanation. So much for keeping her nature as a Surgebinder hidden. This room was a giant fabrial, powered by the Stormlight of those lamps. She should have seen it. She passed Inadara, who stared at her. “How . . . how are you doing this, Brightness?” Several of the scholars had settled onto the ground where they hurriedly sketched glyphward prayers onto cloths, using chalk because of the moisture. Shallan didn’t know if those prayers were a request for safety from the storms or from Shallan herself. She did hear the words “Lost Radiant” murmured by one. Two more lanterns. She infused a ruby with Stormlight, bringing it to life, but then ran out of Light. “Gemstones!” she said, spinning on the room. “I need more Stormlight.” The people inside looked to one another, all but Renarin, who continued to scratch identical glyphs on the rocks as he wept. Stormfather. She’d bled them all dry. One of the scholars had dug an oil lantern from her pack, and it paled beside the lamps on the walls. Shallan ducked out of the opening in the door, looking at the mass of soldiers who gathered there. Thousands upon thousands shuffled in the darkness. Fortunately, some of them carried lanterns. “I need your Stormlight!” she said. “It—” Was that Adolin? Shallan gasped, other thoughts fleeing for the moment as she spotted him in the front of the crowd, leaning on a bridgeman for support. Adolin was a mess, the left side of his face a patchwork of blood and bruises, his uniform ripped and bloodied. Shallan ran to him, pulling him close. “Good to see you too,” he said, burying his face in her hair. “I hear you’re going to get us out of this mess.” “Mess?” she asked. Thunder rumbled and cracked without pause as red lightning blasted down not in streaks but in sheets. Storms! She hadn’t realized it was so close! “Mmm . . .” Pattern said. She looked left. A stormwall was approaching. The storms were like two hands, closing in to
crush the armies between them. Shallan breathed in sharply, and Stormlight entered her, bringing her to life. Adolin had a gemstone or two on him, apparently. He pulled back, looking her over. “You too?” he said. “Um . . .” She bit her lip. “Yeah. Sorry.” “Sorry? Storms, woman! Can you fly like he does?” “Fly?” Thunder cracked. Impending doom. Right. “Make sure everyone is ready to move!” she said, dashing back into the chamber. * * * Storms crashed together beneath Kaladin. The clouds broke apart, black, red, and grey mingling in enormous swirls, lightning arcing among them. It seemed to be Aharietiam again, the ending of all things. Above all this, atop the world, Kaladin fought for his life. Szeth flew by in a sweeping flash of silvery metal. Kaladin deflected the blow, the spear in his hand vibrating with a plangent ding. Szeth continued on, passing him, and Kaladin Lashed himself in that direction. They fell westward, skimming the tops of the clouds—though to Kaladin’s eyes, that direction was down. He fell with his spear aimed, point straight toward the murderous Shin. Szeth jerked left, and Kaladin followed, quickly Lashing himself that way. Violent, churning, angry clouds mixed beneath him. The two storms seemed to be fighting; the lightning that lit them was like thrown punches. Crashes sounded, and not all of them thunder. Near Kaladin a large stone churned up through the clouds, spinning vapors across its length. It breached in the light like a leviathan, then sank back into the clouds. Stormfather . . . He was hundreds, perhaps thousands of feet in the air. What kind of violence was happening below if boulders were thrown this high? Kaladin Lashed himself toward Szeth, picking up speed, moving along the top surface of the storms. He drew close, then eased back, letting his acceleration match that of Szeth so they flew side by side. Kaladin drove his spear toward the assassin. Szeth parried deftly, Shardblade held in one hand while supporting the Blade from behind with the other, diverting Kaladin’s thrust to the side. “The Knights Radiant,” Szeth screamed, “cannot have returned.” “They have,” Kaladin said, yanking his spear back. “And they’re going to kill you.” He Lashed himself slightly to the side as he swung, twisting in the air and sweeping toward Szeth. Szeth jerked upward, however, passing over Kaladin’s spear. As they continued to fall through the air, clouds just beside them, Szeth dove inward and struck. Kaladin cursed, barely Lashing himself away in time. Szeth dove past him, disappearing into the clouds below, becoming just a shadow. Kaladin tried to trace that shadow, but failed. Szeth burst up beside Kaladin a second later, striking with three quick blows. One took Kaladin in the arm, and he dropped Syl. Damnation. He Lashed himself back away from Szeth, then forced Stormlight into his greying, lifeless hand. With an effort, he made the color return, but Szeth was already upon him with an airborne lunge. Mist formed in Kaladin’s left hand as he raised it to ward, and
a silvery shield appeared, glowing with a soft light. Szeth’s Blade deflected away, causing the man to grunt in surprise. Strength returned to Kaladin’s right hand, the severing healed, but forcing that much Stormlight through it left him feeling drained. He fell away from Szeth, trying to keep his distance, but the assassin kept on him, jerking each direction that Kaladin did as he tried to escape. “You are new at this,” Szeth called. “You cannot fight me. I will win.” Szeth zipped forward, and Syl formed into a spear in Kaladin’s hands again. She seemed to be able to anticipate the weapon he wanted. Szeth slammed his weapon against Syl. It brought them face-to-face and they tumbled, eye to eye, their Lashings pulling them along the clouds. “I always win,” Szeth said. He said it in a strange way, as if angry. “You’re wrong,” Kaladin said. “About me. I’m not new to this.” “You only just acquired your abilities.” “No. The wind is mine. The sky is mine. They have been mine since childhood. You are the trespasser here. Not me.” They broke apart, Kaladin throwing the assassin backward. He stopped thinking so much about his Lashings, about what he should be doing. Instead, he let himself be. He dove for Szeth, coat flapping, spear pointed for the man’s heart. Szeth got out of the way, but Kaladin dropped the spear and swung his hand in a great arc. Syl formed an axehead halberd. It came within inches of Szeth’s face. The assassin cursed, but responded with his Blade. A shield was in Kaladin’s hand a split second later, and he slammed away the attack. Syl shattered even as he did so, forming back into a sword as Kaladin thrust forward with empty hands. The sword appeared, and the weapon bit deeply into Szeth’s shoulder. The assassin’s eyes widened. Kaladin twisted his Blade, pulling it out of the assassin’s flesh, then tried a backhand to end the man permanently. Szeth was too fast. He Lashed himself backward, forcing Kaladin to follow, piling on Lashing after Lashing. Szeth’s hand still worked. Damnation. The strike to the shoulder hadn’t fully severed the soul leading to the arm. And Kaladin’s Stormlight was running out. Szeth’s looked even lower, fortunately. The assassin seemed to be using it up at a much faster rate than Kaladin, judging by the decreased glow around him. Indeed, he didn’t try to heal his shoulder—which would have required a lot of Light—but continued to flee, jerking back and forth, trying to outrun Kaladin. The shadowy battle continued below, a tangle of lightning, winds, and spinning clouds. As Kaladin chased Szeth, something gargantuan moved beneath the clouds, a shadow the size of a city. A second later, the top of an entire plateau broke through the dark clouds, twisting slowly, as if it had been thrown upward from below. Szeth almost ran into it. Instead, he Lashed upward enough to crest it, then landed on the surface. He ran along it as it turned lethargically in the air, its momentum running
out. Kaladin landed behind him, though he retained most of a Lashing upward, keeping himself light. He ran up the side of the plateau, heading almost directly upward toward the sky, dodging to the side as Szeth suddenly twisted and cut through a rock formation, sending boulders tumbling downward. Rocks clattered along the surface of the plateau, which itself began to tumble back down toward the ground. Szeth reached the peak and threw himself off, and Kaladin followed shortly thereafter, launching from the stone surface, which sank like a dying ship into the roiling clouds. They continued their chase, but Szeth did it falling backward along the stormtop, his eyes on Kaladin. Wild eyes. “You’re trying to convince me!” he shouted. “You can’t be one of them!” “You’ve seen that I am,” Kaladin shouted back. “The Voidbringers!” “Are back,” Kaladin shouted. “THEY CAN’T BE. I AM TRUTHLESS!” The assassin panted. “I need not fight you. You are not my target. I have . . . I have work to do. I obey!” He turned and Lashed himself downward. Into the clouds, down toward the plateau where Dalinar had gone. * * * Shallan rushed into the room as the storms crashed together outside. What was she doing? There wasn’t time. Even if she could open a portal, those storms were here. She wouldn’t have time to get people through. They were dead. All of them. Thousands had probably already been swept to their deaths by the stormwall. She ran to the last lamp anyway, infusing its spheres. The floor started to glow. Ardents jumped to their feet in surprise and Inadara yelped. Adolin stumbled in through the doorway, a crashing wind and a spray of angry rain trailing him. Beneath them, the intricate design shone from within. It looked almost like stained glass. Gesturing frantically for Adolin to join her, Shallan ran across to the lock on the wall. “Sword,” she shouted at Adolin over the sounds of storms outside. “In there!” Renarin had long since dismissed his. Adolin obeyed, scrambling forward, summoning his Shardblade. He rammed it into the slot, which again flowed to fit the weapon. Nothing happened. “It’s not working,” Adolin shouted. Only one answer. Shallan grabbed the hilt of his sword and whipped it out—ignoring the scream in her mind that came from touching it—then tossed it aside. Adolin’s sword vanished to mist. A deep truth. “There is something wrong with your Blade, and with all Blades.” She hesitated for just a second. “All but mine. Pattern!” He formed in her hands, the Blade she’d used to kill. The hidden soul. Shallan rammed it into the slot, and the weapon vibrated in her hands and glowed. Something deep within the plateau unlocked. Outside, lightning fell and men screamed. Now the mechanism’s operation became clear to her. Shallan threw her weight against the sword, pushing it before her like the spoke on a mill. The inner wall of the building was like a ring inside a tube—it could rotate, while the outer wall remained in place. The sword moved
the inner wall as she pushed on it, though it stuck at first, the fallen blocks of the cut doorway getting in the way. Adolin threw his weight against the sword with her, and together they pushed it around the circle until they were above the picture of Urithiru, half the circumference from Natanatan where she’d begun. She pulled her Blade free. The ten lamps faded like closing eyes. * * * Kaladin followed Szeth into the storm, diving into the blackness, falling amid the churning winds and the blasting lightning. Wind attacked him, tossing him about, and no Lashings could prevent this. He might be master of the winds, but storms were another thing. Take care, Syl sent. My father hates you. This is his domain. And it is mixed with something even more terrible, another storm. Their storm. Nevertheless, the highstorms were the source of Stormlight—and being in here energized Kaladin. His reserves of Stormlight burst alight, as they obviously did for Szeth. The assassin suddenly reappeared as a stark white explosion that zoomed through the maelstrom toward the plateaus. Kaladin growled, Lashing himself after Szeth. Lightning of a dozen colors flashed around him, red, violet, white, yellow. Rain soaked him. Rocks spun past him, some colliding, but the Stormlight healed him as quickly as the debris did damage. Szeth moved along the plateaus, coursing just above them, and Kaladin followed with difficulty. This churning wind was tough to navigate, and the darkness was near absolute. Flashes lit the Plains in fitful bursts. Fortunately, Szeth’s glow could not be hidden, and Kaladin kept his attention on that blazing beacon. Faster. Just as Zahel had taught weeks ago, Szeth didn’t need to defeat Kaladin to win. He just had to get to those Kaladin protected. Faster. A burst of lightning illuminated the battle plateaus. And beyond them, Kaladin caught a glimpse of the army. Thousands of men huddled on the large circular plateau. Many hunkered down. Others panicked. The lightning was gone in a moment, and the land became dark again, though Kaladin had seen enough to know this was a disaster. A cataclysm. Men being blown off the edge, others crushed by falling rocks. In minutes, the army would be gone. Storms, Kaladin wasn’t even certain if he could survive this nexus of destruction. Szeth crashed down among them, a glowing light amid the blackness. As Kaladin Lashed himself down in that direction, lightning struck again. Its light revealed Szeth standing on an empty plateau, baffled. The army was gone. * * * The sounds of the raging storm outside vanished. Shallan shivered, wet and cold. “Almighty above . . .” Adolin breathed. “I’m almost scared of what we’ll find.” Rotating the inside wall of the building had moved their doorway opposite hardened crem. Perhaps there had been a natural doorway here before; Adolin summoned his Blade to cut a hole. Pattern . . . her Shardblade . . . vanished back to mist, and the room’s mechanisms settled down. She didn’t hear anything outside, no crashing of winds, no
thunder. Emotions fought inside of her. She’d saved herself and Adolin, it appeared. But the rest of the army . . . Adolin cut a doorway; sunlight spilled through it. Shallan walked to the opening, nervous, passing Inadara, who sat in the corner, looking overwhelmed. At the doorway, Shallan looked out at the same plateau as before, only now it was sunlit and calm. Four armies’ worth of men and women crouched, soggy and wet, many holding their heads and hunkering down against wind that no longer blew. Nearby, two figures stood beside a massive Ryshadium stallion. Dalinar and Navani, who had apparently been on their way to the central building. Beyond them spread the peaks of an unfamiliar mountain range. It was the same plateau, and here was in a ring with nine others. To Shallan’s left, an enormous ribbed tower—shaped like cups of increasingly smaller sizes stacked atop one another—broke the peaks. Urithiru. The plateau hadn’t contained the portal. The plateau was the portal. * * * Szeth screamed words at Kaladin, but those were lost in the tempest. Rocks crashed down around them, ripped from somewhere distant. Kaladin was sure he heard terrible screams over the winds, as red spren he’d never seen before—like small meteors, trailing light behind them—zipped around him. Szeth screamed again. Kaladin caught the word this time. “How!” Kaladin’s answer was to strike with his Blade. Szeth parried violently, and they clashed, two glowing figures in the blackness. “I know this column!” Szeth screamed. “I have seen its like before! They went to the city, didn’t they!” The assassin launched himself into the air. Kaladin was all too eager to follow. He wanted out of this tempest. Szeth screamed away, heading westward, away from the storm with the red lightning—following the path of the common highstorm. That alone was dangerous enough. Kaladin gave chase, but that proved difficult in the buffeting winds. It wasn’t that they served Szeth more than Kaladin; the tempest was simply unpredictable. They’d shove him one way and Szeth another. What happened if Szeth lost him? He knows where Dalinar went, Kaladin thought, gritting his teeth as a flash of sudden whiteness blinded him from one side. I don’t. He couldn’t protect Dalinar if he couldn’t find the man. Unfortunately, a chase through this darkness favored the person who was trying to escape. Slowly, Szeth pulled ahead. Kaladin tried to follow, but a surge of wind drove him in the wrong direction. Lashings didn’t really let him fly. He couldn’t resist such unpredictable winds; they controlled him. No! Szeth’s glowing form dwindled. Kaladin shouted into the darkness, blinking eyes against the rain. He’d almost lost sight . . . Syl spun into the air in front of him. But he was still carrying the spear. What? Another one, then another. Ribbons of light, occasionally taking the shapes of young women or men, laughing. Windspren. A dozen or more spun around him, leaving trails of light, their laughter somehow strong over the sounds of the storm. There! Kaladin thought. Szeth was ahead.
Kaladin Lashed himself through the tempest toward him, jerking one way, then the other. Dodging blitzes of lightning, ducking under hurled boulders, blinking away the sheets of driven rain. A whirlwind of chaos. And ahead . . . light? The stormwall. Szeth burst free of the storm’s very front. Through the mess of water and debris, Kaladin could just barely make out the assassin turning around to look backward, his posture confident. He thinks he’s lost me. Kaladin exploded out of the stormwall, surrounded by windspren that spiraled away in a pattern of light. He shouted, driving his spear toward Szeth, who parried hastily, his eyes wide. “Impossible!” Kaladin spun around and slashed his spear—which became a sword—through Szeth’s foot. The assassin lurched away along the length of the stormwall. Both Szeth and Kaladin continued to fall westward, just in front of the wall of water and debris. Beneath them, the land passed in a blur. The two storms had finally separated, and the highstorm was moving along its normal path, east to west. The Shattered Plains were soon left behind, giving way to rolling hills. As Kaladin chased, Szeth spun and fell backward, attacking, though Syl became a shield to block. Kaladin swung down and a hammer appeared in his hand, crashing against Szeth’s shoulder, breaking bones. As Stormlight tried to heal the assassin, Kaladin pulled in close and slammed his hand against Szeth’s stomach, a knife appearing there and digging deeply into the skin. He sought the spine. Szeth gasped and frantically Lashed himself farther backward, pulling out of Kaladin’s grip. Kaladin followed. Boulders churned in the stormwall—which was now the ground from Kaladin’s perspective. He had to repeatedly adjust his Lashing to stay in the right place, just ahead of the storm. Kaladin leaped on churning boulders as they appeared, pursuing Szeth, who fell wildly, his clothing flapping. Windspren formed a halo around Kaladin, zipping in and out, spiraling, spinning around his arms and legs. The proximity of the storm kept his Stormlight stoked, never letting it grow dim. Szeth slowed, his wounds healing. He hung in front of the crashing stormwall, holding his sword before him. He took a breath, meeting Kaladin’s eyes. An ending, then. Kaladin drove forward, Syl forming a spear in his fingers, the most familiar weapon. Szeth attacked in a sequence, a relentless blur of strikes. Kaladin blocked each one. He ended with his spear against the hilt of Szeth’s Blade, pressing the two together, mere inches from the assassin’s face. “It is actually true,” Szeth whispered. “Yes.” Szeth nodded, and the edge of tension seemed to fade from him, replaced by an emptiness in his eyes. “Then I was right all along. I was never Truthless. I could have stopped the murders at any time.” “I don’t know what that means,” Kaladin said. “But you never had to kill.” “My orders—” “Excuses! If that was why you murdered, then you’re not the evil man I assumed. You’re a coward instead.” Szeth looked him in the eyes, then nodded. He pushed Kaladin back, then
moved to swing. Kaladin drove his hands forward, forming Syl into a sword. He expected a parry. The move was intended to draw Szeth out of his attack pattern. Szeth did not parry. He just closed his eyes. Kaladin drove his Blade into the assassin’s chest right below the neck, severing the spine. Smoke burned out from beneath his eyelids, and his Blade slipped from his fingers. It did not vanish. Get that! Syl sent him, a mental shout. Grab it, Kaladin. Don’t lose it! Kaladin dove after the Blade, dropping Szeth’s corpse, letting it fall backward into the stormwall. It vanished among the wind, the rain, and the lightning, trailing faint wisps of Stormlight. Kaladin grabbed the Blade just before the storm consumed it. Then he Lashed himself back upward, passing along the stormwall, the windspren he’d attracted spiraling about him and laughing with pure joy. As he crested the top of the storm, they burst around him and zipped away, moving off to dance in front of the still-advancing storm. That left him with only one. Syl—in the form of a young woman in a fluttering dress, full-sized this time—hovered before him. She smiled as the storm moved beneath them. “That was very nicely done,” she said. “Perhaps I’ll keep you around this time.” “Thank you.” “You almost killed me, you realize.” “I realize. I thought I had.” “And?” “And . . . um . . . you are intelligent and articulate?” “You forgot the compliment.” “But I just said—” “Those were simple statements of fact.” “You’re wonderful,” he said. “Truly, Syl. You are.” “Also a fact,” she said, grinning. “But I’ll let it slide so long as you’re willing to present me with a sufficiently sincere smile.” He did. And it felt very, very good. The Shattered Plains had been shattered again. Kaladin strolled across them with Szeth’s Shardblade on his shoulder. He passed heaps of rock and fresh cracks in the ground. Enormous puddles like small lakes shimmered amid huge chunks of broken stone. Just to his left, an entire plateau had crumbled into the chasms around it. The jagged, ripped-up base of the plateau had a black, charred cast to it. “This is going to happen again?” Kaladin said. “That other storm is still out there?” “Yes,” Syl said, sitting on his shoulder. “A new storm. It’s not of us, but of him.” “Will it be this bad every time it passes?” Kaladin asked, surveying the wreckage. Of the plateaus he could see, only the one had been destroyed completely. But if the storm could do that to pure rock, what would it do to a city? Particularly since it blew the wrong way. Stormfather . . . Laits would no longer be laits. Buildings that had been constructed to face away from the storms would suddenly be exposed. “I don’t know,” Syl said softly. “This is a new thing, Kaladin. Not from before. I don’t know how it happened or what it means. Hopefully, it won’t be this bad except when a highstorm and an everstorm
crash into each other.” Kaladin grunted, picking his way over to the edge of his current plateau. He breathed in a little Stormlight, then Lashed himself upward to offset the natural pull of the ground. He became weightless. He pushed off lightly with his foot and drifted across the chasm to the next plateau. “So how did the army vanish like that?” he asked, removing his Lashing and settling down on the rock. “Uh . . . how should I know?” Syl said. “I was kind of distracted.” He grunted. Well, this was the plateau where everyone had been. Perfectly round. Odd, that. On a nearby plateau, what had once been a large hill had been cracked wide open, exposing the remnants of a building inside. This perfectly circular one was far more flat, though it looked like there was a hill or something at the center. He strode in that direction. “So they’re all spren,” he said. “Shardblades.” Syl grew solemn. “Dead spren,” Kaladin added. “Dead,” Syl agreed. “Then they live again a little when someone summons them, syncing a heartbeat to their essence.” “How can something be ‘a little’ alive?” “We’re spren,” Syl said. “We’re forces. You can’t kill us completely. Just . . . sort of.” “That’s perfectly clear.” “It’s perfectly clear to us,” Syl said. “You’re the strange ones. Break a rock, and it’s still there. Break a spren, and she’s still there. Sort of. Break a person, and something leaves. Something changes. What’s left is just meat. You’re weird.” “I’m glad we established that,” he said, stopping. He couldn’t see any evidence of the Alethi. Had they really escaped? Or had a sudden surge of the storm swept them all into the chasms? It seemed unlikely such a disaster would have left nothing behind. Please let it not be so. He lifted Szeth’s sword off his shoulder and set it down, point first, in front of him. It sank a few inches into the rock. “What about this?” he asked, looking over the thin, silvery weapon. An unornamented Blade. That was supposed to be odd. “It doesn’t scream when I hold it.” “That’s because it’s not a spren,” Syl said softly. “What is it, then?” “Dangerous.” She stood up from his shoulder, then walked as if down a flight of steps toward the sword. She rarely flew when she had a human form. She flew as a ribbon of light, or as a group of leaves, or as a small cloud. He’d never noticed before how odd, yet normal, it was that she stuck to the nature of the form she used. She stopped just before the sword. “I think this is one of the Honorblades, the swords of the Heralds.” Kaladin grunted. He’d heard of those. “Any man who holds this weapon will become a Windrunner,” Syl explained, looking back at Kaladin. “The Honorblades are what we are based on, Kaladin. Honor gave these to men, and those men gained powers from them. Spren figured out what He’d done, and we imitated it. We’re bits of
His power, after all, like this sword. Be careful with it. It is a treasure.” “So the assassin wasn’t a Radiant.” “No. But Kaladin, you have to understand. With this sword, someone can do what you can, but without the . . . checks a spren requires.” She touched it, then shivered visibly, her form blurring for a second. “This sword gave the assassin power to use Lashings, but it also fed upon his Stormlight. A person who uses this will need far, far more Light than you will. Dangerous levels of it.” Kaladin reached out and took the sword by the hilt, and Syl flitted away, becoming a ribbon of light. He hefted the weapon and set it back on his shoulder before continuing on his way. Yes, there was a hill up ahead, probably a crem-covered building. As he drew closer, blessedly, he saw motion around it. “Hello?” he called. The figures near it stopped and turned. “Kaladin?” a familiar voice called. “Storms, is that you?” He grinned, the figures resolving into men in blue uniforms. Teft scrambled across the rock like a madman to meet him. Others came after, shouting and laughing. Drehy, Peet, Bisig, and Sigzil, Rock towering over them all. “Another one?” Rock asked, eyeing Kaladin’s Shardblade. “Or is he yours?” “No,” Kaladin said. “I took this from the assassin.” “He is dead, then?” Teft asked. “Yes.” “You slew the Assassin in White,” Bisig breathed. “It’s truly over then.” “I suspect that it is just beginning,” Kaladin said, nodding toward the building. “What is this place?” “Oh!” Bisig said. “Come on! We need to show you the tower—that Radiant girl taught us how to summon the plateau back, so long as we have you.” “Radiant girl?” Kaladin asked. “Shallan?” “You don’t sound surprised,” Teft said with a grunt. “She has a Shardblade,” Kaladin said. One that didn’t scream in his mind. Either she was a Radiant or she had another of these Honorblades. As he stepped up to the building, he noticed a bridge in the shadows nearby. “It’s not ours,” Kaladin said. “No,” Leyten said. “That belongs to Bridge Seventeen. We had to leave ours behind in the storm.” Rock nodded. “We were too busy stopping lighteyed heads from becoming too friendly with swords of enemies. Ha! But we needed bridge here. Way platform works, we had to get off him for Shallan Davar to transport herself back.” Kaladin poked his head into the chamber inside the hill, then paused at the beauty he found inside. Other members of Bridge Four waited here, including a tall man Kaladin didn’t immediately recognize. Was that one of Lopen’s cousins? The man turned around, and Kaladin realized what he’d mistaken for a cap was a reddish skullplate. Parshendi. Kaladin tensed as the Parshendi man saluted. He was wearing a Bridge Four uniform. And he had the tattoo. “Rlain?” Kaladin said. “Sir,” Rlain said. His features were no longer rounded and plump, but instead sharp, muscular, with a thick neck and a stronger jaw, now lined by a red and
black beard. “It appears you are more than you seemed,” Kaladin said. “Pardon, sir,” he said. “But I would suggest that applies to both of us.” When he spoke now, his voice had a certain musicality to it—an odd rhythm to his words. “Brightlord Dalinar has pardoned Rlain,” Sigzil explained, walking around Kaladin and entering the chamber. “For being Parshendi?” Kaladin asked. “For being a spy,” Rlain said. “A spy for a people who, it appears, no longer exist.” He said this to a different beat, and Kaladin thought he could sense pain in that voice. Rock walked over and put a hand on Rlain’s shoulder. “We can give you the story once we get back to the city,” Teft said. “We figured you’d come back here,” Sigzil added. “To this plateau, and so we needed to be here to greet you, for all Brightness Davar grumbled. Anyway, there’s a lot to tell—a lot is happening. I think that you’re kind of going to be at the center of it.” Kaladin took a deep breath, but nodded. What else did he expect? No more hiding. He had made his decision. What do I tell them about Moash? he wondered as the members of Bridge Four piled into the room around him, chattering about how he needed to infuse the spheres in the lanterns. A couple of the men bore wounds from the fighting, including Bisig, who kept his right hand in his coat pocket. Grey skin peeked out from the cuff. He’d lost the hand to the Assassin in White. Kaladin pulled Teft aside. “Did we lose anyone else?” Kaladin asked. “I saw Mart and Pedin.” “Rod,” Teft said with a grunt. “Dead to the Parshendi.” Kaladin closed his eyes, breathing out in a hiss. Rod had been one of Lopen’s cousins, a jovial Herdazian who hardly spoke Alethi. Kaladin had barely known him, but the man had still been Bridge Four. Kaladin’s responsibility. “You can’t protect us all, son,” Teft said. “You can’t stop people from feeling pain, can’t stop men from dying.” Kaladin opened his eyes, but did not challenge those statements. Not vocally, at least. “Kal,” Teft said, voice getting even softer. “At the end there, right before you arrived . . . Storms, son, I swear I saw a couple of the lads glowing. Faintly, with Stormlight.” “What?” “I’ve been listening to readings of those visions Brightlord Dalinar sees,” Teft continued. “I think you should do the same. From what I can guess, it seems that the orders of the Knights Radiant were made up of more than just the knights themselves.” Kaladin looked over the men of Bridge Four, and found himself smiling. He shoved down the pain at his losses, at least for the time being. “I wonder,” he said softly, “what it will do to Alethi social structure when an entire group of former slaves starts going about with glowing skin.” “Not to mention those eyes of yours,” Teft said with a grunt. “Eyes?” Kaladin said. “Haven’t you seen?” Teft said. “What am I saying?
Ain’t no mirrors out on the Plains. Your eyes, son. Pale blue, like glassy water. Lighter than that of any king.” Kaladin turned away. He’d hoped his eyes wouldn’t change. The truth, that they had, made him uncomfortable. It said worrisome things. He didn’t want to believe that lighteyes had any grounds upon which to build the oppression. They still don’t, he thought, infusing the gemstones in the lanterns as Sigzil instructed him. Perhaps the lighteyes rule because of the memory, buried deeply, of the Radiants. But just because they look a little like Radiants doesn’t mean they should have been able to oppress everyone. Storming lighteyes. He . . . He was one of them now. Storm it! He summoned Syl as a Blade, following Sigzil’s instructions, and used her as a key to work the fabrial. * * * Shallan stood at the front gates of Urithiru, looking up, trying to comprehend. Inside, voices echoed in the grand hall and lights bobbed as people explored. Adolin had taken command of that endeavor, while Navani set up a camp to see to the wounded and to measure supplies. Unfortunately, they’d left most of their food and gear behind on the Shattered Plains. In addition, the travel through the Oathgate had not been as cheap as Shallan had first assumed. Somehow, the trip had drained the majority of the gemstones held by the men and women on the plateau—including Navani’s fabrials, clutched in the hands of engineers and scholars. They had run a few tests. The more people you moved, the more Light was required. It seemed that Stormlight, and not just the gemstones that contained it, would become a valuable resource. Already, they had to ration their gemstones and lanterns to explore the building. Several scribes passed by, bringing paper to draw out maps of Adolin’s exploration. They bobbed quick, uncomfortable bows to Shallan and called her “Brightness Radiant.” She still hadn’t talked at length with Adolin about what had happened to her. “Is it true?” Shallan asked, tilting her head all the way back, looking up the side of the enormous tower toward the blue sky high above. “Am I one of them?” “Mmm . . .” Pattern said from her skirt. “Almost you are. Still a few Words to say.” “What kind of words? An oath?” “Lightweavers make no oaths beyond the first,” Pattern said. “You must speak truths.” Shallan stared up at the heights for a time longer, then turned and walked back down toward their improvised camp. It was not the Weeping here. She wasn’t certain if that was because they were actually above the rainclouds, or if the weather patterns had simply been thrown off by the arrival of the strange highstorms. In camp, men sat on the stone, divided by ranks, shivering in their wet coats. Shallan’s breath puffed before her, though she had taken in Stormlight—just a dash—to keep herself from noticing the cold. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much to use for fires. The large stone field in front of the tower city bore very
few rockbuds, and the ones that did grow were tiny, smaller than a fist. They would provide little wood for fires. The field was ringed by ten columnar plateaus, with steps winding around their bases. The Oathgates. Beyond that extended the mountain range. Crem did cover some of the steps here, and dripped over the sides of the open field. There wasn’t nearly as much as there had been on the Shattered Plains. Less rain must fall up here. Shallan stepped up to one edge of the stone field. A sheer drop. If Nohadon really had walked to this city, as The Way of Kings claimed, then his path would have included scaling cliff faces. So far, they had found no way down other than through the Oathgates—and even if there were such a way, one would still be stranded in the middle of the mountains, weeks from civilization. Judging from the sun height, the scholars placed them near the center of Roshar, somewhere in the mountains near Tu Bayla or maybe Emul. The remote location made the city incredibly defensible, or so Dalinar said. It also left them isolated, potentially cut off. And that, in turn, explained why everyone looked at Shallan as they did. They’d tried other Shardblades; none were effective at making the ancient fabrial work. Shallan was literally their only way out of these mountains. One of the soldiers nearby cleared his throat. “You certain you should be that close to the edge, Brightness Radiant?” She gave the man a droll look. “I could survive that drop and stroll away, soldier.” “Um, yes, Brightness,” he said, blushing. She left the edge and continued on to find Dalinar. Eyes followed her as she walked: soldiers, scribes, lighteyes, and highlords alike. Well, let them see Shallan the Radiant. She could always find freedom later, wearing another face. Dalinar and Navani supervised a group of women near the center of the army. “Any luck?” Shallan asked, approaching. Dalinar glanced at her. The scribes wrote letters using every spanreed they had, delivering messages of warning to the warcamps and to the relay room in Tashikk. A new storm might come, blowing in from the west, not the east. Prepare. New Natanan, on the very eastern coast of Roshar, would be struck today after the everstorm left the Shattered Plains. Then it would enter the eastern ocean and move toward the Origin. None of them knew what would happen next. Would it round the world and come crashing into the western coast? Were the highstorms all one storm that rounded the planet, or did a new one start at the Origin each time, as mythology claimed? Scholars and stormwardens thought the former, these days. Their calculations said that, assuming the everstorm moved at the same speed as a highstorm this time of year, they’d have a few days before it returned and hit Shinovar and Iri, then blew across the continent, laying waste to cities thought protected. “No news,” Dalinar said, voice tense. “The king seems to have vanished. What’s more, Kholinar appears
to be in a state of riot. I haven’t been able to get straight answers on either question.” “I’m sure the king is somewhere safe,” Shallan said, glancing at Navani. The woman maintained a composed face, but as she gave instructions to a scribe, her voice was terse and clipped. One of the pillarlike plateaus nearby flashed. It happened with a wall of light revolving around its perimeter, leaving streaks of blurred afterimage to fade. Someone had activated the Oathgate. Dalinar stepped up beside her and they waited tensely, until a group of figures in blue appeared at the plateau edge and started down the steps. Bridge Four. “Oh, thank the Almighty,” Shallan whispered. It was him, not the assassin. One of the figures pointed down toward where Dalinar and the rest of them stood. Kaladin separated from his men, dropping off the steps and floating over the army. He landed on the stones in stride, carrying a Shardblade on his shoulder, his long officer’s coat unbuttoned and coming down to his knees. He still has the slave brands, she thought, though his long hair obscured them. His eyes had become a pale blue. They glowed softly. “Stormblessed,” Dalinar called. “Highprince,” Kaladin said. “The assassin?” “Dead,” Kaladin said, hefting the Blade and sticking it down into the rock before Dalinar. “We need to talk. This—” “My son, bridgeman,” Navani asked from behind. She stepped up and took Kaladin by the arm, as if completely unconcerned by the Stormlight that drifted from his skin like smoke. “What happened to my son?” “There was an assassination attempt,” Kaladin said. “I stopped it, but the king was wounded. I put him someplace safe before coming to help Dalinar.” “Where?” Navani demanded. “We’ve had our people in the warcamps search monasteries, mansions, the barracks . . .” “Those places were too obvious,” Kaladin said. “If you could think to look there, so might the assassins. I needed someplace nobody would think of.” “Where, then?” Dalinar asked. Kaladin smiled. * * * The Lopen made a fist with his hand, clutching the sphere inside. In the next room over, his mother scolded a king. “No, no, Your Majesty,” she said, words thickly accented, using the same stern tone she used with the axehounds. “You roll the whole thing up and eat it. You can’t pick it apart like that.” “I don’t feel so hungry, nanha,” Elhokar said. His voice was weak, but he’d awoken from his drunken stupor, which was a good sign. “You’ll eat anyway!” Mother said. “I know what to do when I see a man that pale in the face, and pardon, Your Majesty, but you are pale as a sheet hung out for the sun to bleach! And that’s the truth of it. You’re going to eat. No complaints.” “I’m the king. I don’t take orders from—” “You’re in my home now!” she said, and Lopen mouthed along with the words. “In a Herdazian woman’s home, nobody’s station means nothing beside her own. I’m not going to have them come and get you
and find you not properly fed! I’ll not have people saying that, Your Brightship, no I won’t! Eat up. I’ve got soup cooking.” The Lopen smiled, and though he heard the king grumble, he also heard the sound of spoon against plate. Two of Lopen’s strongest cousins sat out front of the hovel in Little Herdaz—which was technically in Highprince Sebarial’s warcamp, though the Herdazians didn’t pay much attention to that. Four more cousins sat at the end of the street, idly sewing some boots, watching for anything suspicious. “All right,” Lopen whispered, “you really need to work this time.” He focused on that sphere in his hand. Just like he did every day, and had done every day since Captain Kaladin had started glowing. He’d figure it out sooner or later. He was as sure of it as he was sure of his name. “Lopen.” A wide face ducked in one of the windows, distracting him. Chilinko, his uncle. “Get the king man dressed up like a Herdazian again. We might need to move.” “Move?” Lopen said, standing. “Word has come in to all the warcamps from Highprince Sebarial,” Chilinko said in Herdazian. “They found something out there, on the Plains. Be ready. Just in case. Everyone’s talking. I can’t make sense of it.” He shook his head. “First that highstorm nobody knew about, then the rains stop early, then the storming king man of Alethkar on my doorstep. Now this. I think we might be abandoning camp, even though nightfall’s around the corner. Makes no sense to me, but get the king man taken care of.” The Lopen nodded. “I’ll get to it. Just a sec.” Chilinko ducked away. Lopen opened his palm and stared at the sphere. He didn’t want to miss a day practicing with his sphere, just in case. After all, sooner or later, he was going to look at one of these and— The Lopen sucked in Light. It happened in an eyeblink, and then there he sat, Stormlight streaming from his skin. “Ha!” he shouted, leaping to his feet. “Ha! Hey, Chilinko, come back here. I need to stick you to the wall!” The Light winked out. The Lopen stopped, frowning, and held his hand up in front of him. Gone so fast? What had happened? He hesitated. That tingling . . . He felt at his shoulder, the one where he’d lost his arm so long ago. There, his fingers prodded a new nub of flesh that had begun sprouting from his scar. “Oh, storms yes! Everybody, give the Lopen your spheres! I have glowing that needs to be done.” * * * Moash sat on the back of the cart as it rattled and wound its way out of the warcamps. He could have ridden in front, but he didn’t want to be far from his armor, which they’d wrapped up in packages and stacked back here. Hidden. The Blade and Plate might be his in name, but he had no illusions as to what would happen if the Alethi elite noticed him
trying to flee with it. His wagon crested the rise just outside of the warcamps. Behind them, enormous lines of people snaked out onto the Shattered Plains. Highprince Dalinar’s orders had been clear, though baffling. The warcamps were being abandoned. All parshmen were to be left behind, and everyone was to make their way toward the center of the Shattered Plains. Some of the highprinces obeyed. Others did not. Curiously, Sadeas was one of those who obeyed, his warcamp emptying almost as quickly as those of Sebarial, Roion, and Aladar. It seemed like everyone was going, even the children. Moash’s cart rolled to a stop. Graves stepped up beside the back a few moments later. “We needn’t have worried about hiding,” he mumbled, looking over the exodus. “They’re too busy to pay attention to us. Look there.” Some groups of merchants gathered outside of Dalinar’s warcamps. They pretended to be packing to leave, but weren’t making any obvious progress. “Scavengers,” Graves said. “They’ll head into the abandoned warcamps to loot. Storming fools. They deserve what is coming.” “What is coming?” Moash said. He felt as if he had been tossed into a roiling river, one that had burst its banks following a highstorm. He swam with the current, but could barely keep his head above water. He’d tried to kill Kaladin. Kaladin. It had all fallen apart. The king survived, Kaladin’s powers were back, and Moash . . . Moash was a traitor. Twice over. “Everstorm,” Graves said. He didn’t look nearly so refined, now that he wore the patchwork overalls and shirt of a poor darkeyes. He’d used some strange eyedrops to change his eyes dark, then had instructed Moash to do the same. “And that is?” “The Diagram is vague,” Graves said. “We only knew the term because of old Gavilar’s visions. The Diagram says this will probably return the Voidbringers, though. Those have turned out to be the parshmen, it seems.” He shook his head. “Damnation. That woman was right.” “Woman?” “Jasnah Kholin.” Moash shook his head. He didn’t understand any of what was happening. Graves’s sentences felt like strings of words that shouldn’t go together. Parshmen, Voidbringers? Jasnah Kholin? That was the king’s sister. Hadn’t she died at sea? What did Graves know of her? “Who are you really?” Moash asked. “A patriot,” Graves said. “Just like I told you. We’re allowed to pursue our own interests and goals until we’re called up.” He shook his head. “I thought for sure my interpretation was correct, that if we removed Elhokar, Dalinar would become our ally in what is to come. . . . Well, it appears I was wrong. Either that, or I was too slow.” Moash felt sick. Graves gripped him on the arm. “Head up, Moash. Bringing a Shardbearer back with me will mean that my mission wasn’t a complete loss. Besides, you can tell us about this new Radiant. I’ll introduce you to the Diagram. We have an important work.” “Which is?” “The salvation of the entire world, my friend.” Graves patted him, then walked
toward the front of the cart, where the others rode. The salvation of the entire world. I’ve been played for one of the ten fools, Moash thought, chin to his chest. And I don’t even know how. The wagon started rolling again. They soon began to move into the tower. There was nothing else they could do, though Adolin’s explorations were far from finished. Night was approaching, and the temperature was dropping outside. Beyond that, the highstorm that had hit the Shattered Plains would be raging across the land currently, and would eventually hit these mountains. It took over a day for one to cross the entire continent, and they were probably somewhere near the center, so it would be growing close. An unscheduled highstorm, Shallan thought, walking through the dark hallways with her guards. And something else coming from the other direction. She could tell that this tower—its contents, every hallway—was a majestic wonder. It spoke worlds about how tired she was that she didn’t want to draw any of it. She just wanted to sleep. Their spherelight revealed something odd on the wall ahead. Shallan frowned, shaking off her fatigue and stepping up to it. A small folded piece of paper, like a card. She glanced back at her guards, who looked equally confused. She pulled the card off the wall; it had been stuck in place with some weevilwax on the back. Inside was the triangle symbol of the Ghostbloods. Beneath it, Shallan’s name. Not Veil’s name. Shallan’s. Panic. Alertness. In a moment, she had sucked in the Light of their lantern, plunging the corridor into darkness. Light shone from a doorway nearby, however. She stared at it. Gaz moved to investigate, but Shallan stopped him with a gesture. Run or fight? Run where? she thought. Hesitant, she stepped up to the doorway, again motioning her guards back. Mraize stood inside, gazing out a large, glassless window that overlooked another section of the innards of this tower. He turned toward her, twisted and scarred, yet somehow refined in his gentleman’s clothing. So. She had been found out. I am no longer a child who hides in her room when the shouting comes, she thought firmly to herself, walking into the room. If I run from this man, he will see me as something to be hunted. She stepped right up to him, ready to summon Pattern. He wasn’t like other Shardblades; she acknowledged that now. He could come more quickly than the ten requisite heartbeats. He’d done that before. She hadn’t been willing to admit that he was capable of it. Admitting that would have meant too much. How many more of my lies, she thought, hold me back from things I could accomplish? But she needed those lies. Needed them. “You led me on a grand hunt, Veil,” Mraize said. “If your abilities had not been manifest during the course of saving the army, I perhaps never would have located your false identity.” “Veil is the false identity, Mraize,” Shallan said. “I am me.” He inspected her. “I
think not.” She met that gaze, but shivered inside. “A curious position you are in,” Mraize said. “Will you hide the true nature of your powers? I was able to guess what they are, but others will not be so knowledgeable. They might see only the Blade, and not ask what else you can do.” “I don’t see how it’s a concern of yours.” “You are one of us,” Mraize said. “We look after our own.” Shallan frowned. “But you’ve seen through the lie.” “Are you saying you don’t want to be one of the Ghostbloods?” His tone was not threatening, but those eyes . . . storms, those eyes could have drilled through stone. “We do not offer the invitation to just anyone.” “You killed Jasnah,” Shallan hissed. “Yes. After she, in turn, had assassinated a number of our members. You didn’t think her hands were clean of blood, did you, Veil?” She looked away, breaking his gaze. “I should have guessed that you would turn out to be Shallan Davar,” Mraize continued. “I feel a fool for not seeing it earlier. Your family has a long history of involvement in these events.” “I will not help you,” Shallan said. “Curious. You should know that I have your brothers.” She looked to him sharply. “Your house is no more,” Mraize said. “Your family’s grounds seized by a passing army. I rescued your brothers from the chaos of the succession war, and am bringing them here. Your family, however, does owe me a debt. One Soulcaster. Broken.” He met her eyes. “How convenient that you, by my estimations, are one, little knife.” She summoned Pattern. “I will kill you before I let you use them as blackmail—” “No blackmail,” Mraize said. “They will arrive safe. A gift to you. You may wait upon my words and see. I mention your debt only so that it has a chance to find . . . purchase in your mind.” She frowned, holding her Shardblade, wavering. “Why?” she finally asked. “Because, you are ignorant.” Mraize stepped closer to her, towering over her. “You don’t know who we are. You don’t know what we’re trying to accomplish. You don’t know much of anything at all, Veil. Why did your father join us? Why did your brother seek out the Skybreakers? I have done some research, you see. I have answers for you.” Surprisingly, he turned from her and walked toward the doorway. “I will give you time to consider. You seem to think that your newfound place among the Radiants makes you unfit for our numbers, but I see it differently, as does my babsk. Let Shallan Davar be a Radiant, conformist and noble. Let Veil come to us.” He stopped by the doorway. “And let her find truth.” He disappeared into the hallway. Shallan found herself feeling even more drained than before. She dismissed Pattern and leaned back against the wall. Of course Mraize would have found his way here—he’d likely been among the armies, somewhere. Getting to Urithiru had been one of the Ghostbloods’
primary goals. Despite her determination not to help them, she’d transported them—along with the army—right where they wanted to go. Her brothers? Would they actually be safe? What of her family servants, her brother’s betrothed? She sighed, walking to the doorway and collecting her guards. Let her find truth. What if she didn’t want to find the truth? Pattern hummed softly. After walking through the tower’s ground floor—using her own glow for light—she found Adolin in the hallway beside a room, where he’d said he’d be. He had his wrist wrapped, and the bruises on his face were starting to purple. They made him look slightly less intoxicatingly handsome, though there was a rugged “I punched a lot of people today” quality to that, which was fetching in its own right. “You look exhausted,” he said, giving her a peck of a kiss. “And you look like you let someone play sticks with your face,” she said, but smiled at him. “You should get some sleep too.” “I will,” he said. “Soon.” He touched her face. “You’re amazing, you realize. You saved everything. Everyone.” “No need to treat me like I’m glass, Adolin.” “You’re a Radiant,” he said. “I mean . . .” He ran his hand through his persistently messy hair. “Shallan. You’re something greater than even a lighteyes.” “Was that a wisecrack about my girth?” “What? No. I mean . . .” He blushed. “I will not let this be awkward, Adolin.” “But—” She grabbed him in an embrace and forced him into a kiss, a deep and passionate one. He tried to mumble something, but she kept on kissing, pressing her lips against his, letting him feel her desire. He melted into the kiss, then grabbed her by the torso and pulled her close. After a moment, he pulled back. “Storms, that smarts!” “Oh!” Shallan raised a hand to her mouth, remembering the bruises on his face. “Sorry.” He grinned, then winced again, as apparently that hurt too. “Worth it. Anyway, I’ll promise to avoid being awkward if you avoid being too irresistible. At least until I’m healed up. Deal?” “Deal.” He looked to her guards. “Nobody disturbs the Lady Radiant, understand?” They nodded. “Sleep well,” he said, pushing open a door into the room. Many of the rooms still had wooden doors, despite their long abandonment. “Hopefully, the room is suitable. Your spren chose it.” Her spren? Shallan frowned, then stepped into the room. Adolin closed the door. Shallan studied the windowless stone chamber. Why had Pattern chosen this particular place for her? The room didn’t seem distinctive. Adolin had left a Stormlight lantern for her that was extravagant, considering how few lit gemstones they had—and it showed a small square chamber with a stone bench in the corner. There were a few blankets on it. Where had Adolin found blankets? She frowned at the wall. The rock here was faded in a square, as if someone had once hung a picture there. Actually, that looked oddly familiar. Not that she’d been here before, but the place that
square hung on the wall . . . It was exactly in the same place where the picture had hung on her father’s wall back in Jah Keved. Her mind started to fuzz. “Mmm . . .” Pattern said from the floor beside her. “It is time.” “No.” “It is time,” he repeated. “The Ghostbloods circle you. The people need a Radiant.” “They have one. The bridgeboy.” “Not enough. They need you.” Shallan blinked out tears. Against her will, the room started to change. White carpet appeared. A picture on the wall. Furniture. Walls painted light blue. Two corpses. Shallan stepped over one, though it was just an illusion, and walked to the wall. A painting had appeared, part of the illusion, and it was outlined with a white glow. Something was hidden behind it. She pulled aside the picture, or tried to. Her fingers only made the illusion blur. This was nothing. Just a re-creation of a memory she wished she didn’t have. “Mmm . . . A better lie, Shallan.” She blinked away tears. Her fingers lifted, and she pressed them against the wall again. This time, she could feel the painting’s frame. It wasn’t real. For the moment, she pretended that it was, and let the image capture her. “Can’t I just keep pretending?” “No.” She was there, in her father’s room. Trembling, she pulled aside the picture, revealing the strongbox in the wall beyond. She raised the key, and hesitated. “Mother’s soul is inside.” “Mmm . . . No. Not her soul. That which took her soul.” Shallan unlocked the safe, then tugged it open, revealing the contents. A small Shardblade. Thrust into the strongbox hastily, tip piercing through the back, hilt toward her. “This was you,” she whispered. “Mmm . . . Yes.” “Father took you from me,” Shallan said, “and tried to hide you in here. Of course, that was useless. You vanished as soon as he closed the strongbox. Faded to mist. He wasn’t thinking clearly. Neither of us were.” She turned. Red carpet. Once white. Her mother’s friend lay on the floor, bleeding from the arm, though that wound hadn’t killed him. Shallan walked to the other corpse, the one facedown in the beautiful dress of blue and gold. Red hair spilled out in a pattern around the head. Shallan knelt and rolled over her mother’s corpse, confronting a skull with burned-out eyes. “Why did she try to kill me, Pattern?” Shallan whispered. “Mmm . . .” “It started when she found out what I could do.” She remembered it now. Her mother’s arrival, with a friend Shallan didn’t recognize, to confront her father. Her mother’s shouts, arguing with her father. Mother calling Shallan one of them. Her father barging in. Mother’s friend with a knife, the two struggling, the friend getting cut in the arm. Blood spilled on the carpet. The friend had won that fight, eventually holding Father down, pinned on the ground. Mother took the knife and came for Shallan. And then . . . And then a sword in Shallan’s
hands. “He let everyone believe that he’d killed her,” Shallan whispered. “That he’d murdered his wife and her lover in a rage, when I was the one who had actually killed them. He lied to protect me.” “I know.” “That secret destroyed him. It destroyed our entire family.” “I know.” “I hate you,” she whispered, staring into her mother’s dead eyes. “I know.” Pattern buzzed softly. “Eventually, you will kill me, and you will have your revenge.” “I don’t want revenge. I want my family.” Shallan wrapped her arms around herself and buried her head in them, weeping as the illusion bled white smoke, then vanished, leaving her in an empty room. * * * I can only conclude, Amaram wrote hurriedly, the glyphs a mess of sloppy ink, that we have been successful, Restares. The reports from Dalinar’s army indicate that Voidbringers were not only spotted, but fought. Red eyes, ancient powers. They have apparently unleashed a new storm upon this world. He looked up from his pad and peeked out the window. His carriage rattled down the roadway in Dalinar’s warcamp. All of his soldiers were away, and his remaining guards had gone to oversee the exodus. Even with Amaram’s reputation, he’d been able to pass into the camp with ease. He turned back to his paper. I do not exult in this success, he wrote. Lives will be lost. It has ever been our burden as the Sons of Honor. To return the Heralds, to return the dominance of the Church, we had to put the world into a crisis. That crisis we now have, a terrible one. The Heralds will return. How can they not, with the problems we now face? But many will die. So very many. Nalan send that it is worth the loss. Regardless, I will have more information soon. When I next write you, I hope to do so from Urithiru. The coach pulled to a stop and Amaram pushed open the door. He handed the letter to the carriage driver, Pama. She took it and began digging in her satchel for the spanreed to send the communication to Restares. He would have done it himself, but you could not use a spanreed while moving. She would destroy the papers when done. Amaram spared a glance for the trunks on the back of the coach; they contained a precious cargo, including all of his maps, notes, and theories. Should he have left those with his soldiers? Bringing the force of fifty into Dalinar’s warcamp would have drawn attention for certain, even with the chaos here, so he’d ordered them to meet him on the Plains. He needed to keep moving. He strode away from the coach, pulling up the hood on his cloak. The grounds of Dalinar’s temple complex were even more frenzied than most of the warcamps, as many people had come to the ardents in this time of stress. He passed a mother begging for one of them to burn a prayer for her husband, who fought with Dalinar’s army. The ardent
kept repeating that she should gather her things and join the caravans heading out across the Plains. It was happening. It was really happening. The Sons of Honor had, at long last, achieved their goal. Gavilar would be proud. Amaram hastened his pace, turning as another ardent bustled up to him, to ask if he needed anything. Before she could look in his hood and recognize him, however, her attention was drawn by a pair of frightened youths who complained that their father was too old to make the trip, and begged for the ardents to help them carry him somehow. He made it to the corner of the monastery building where they kept the insane and rounded to the back wall, out of sight, near the rim of the warcamp itself. He looked about, then summoned his Blade. A few swift slices would— What was that? He spun, certain he’d seen someone approach. But it was nothing. Shadows playing tricks on him. He made his slices in the wall and then carefully pushed open the hole he’d made. The Great One—Talenelat’Elin, Herald of War himself—sat in the dark room, in much the same posture he’d borne before. Perched on the end of his bed, slumped forward, head bowed. “Why must they keep you in such darkness?” Amaram said, dismissing his Blade. “This is not fit for the lowliest of men, let alone one such as yourself. I will have words with Dalinar about the way the insane are—” No, he would not. Dalinar thought him a murderer. Amaram drew in a long, deep breath. Prices would need to be paid to see the Heralds return, but by Jezerezeh himself, the loss of Dalinar’s friendship would be a stiff one indeed. Would that mercy had not stayed his hand, all those months ago, when he could have executed that spearman. He hastened to the Herald’s side. “Great Prince,” Amaram whispered. “We must go.” Talenelat did not move. He was whispering again, though. The same things as before. Amaram could not help being reminded of the last time he had visited this place, in the company of someone who had been playing him for one of the ten fools all along. Who knew that Dalinar had grown so crafty in his old age? Time had changed both of them. “Please, Great Prince,” Amaram said, getting the Herald to his feet with some difficulty. The man was enormous, as tall as Amaram but built like a wall. The dark brown skin had surprised him the first time he’d seen the man—Amaram had, somewhat foolishly, expected that all of the Heralds would look Alethi. The Herald’s dark eyes were, of course, some kind of disguise. “The Desolation . . .” Talenelat whispered. “Yes. It comes. And with it, your return to glory.” Amaram began to walk the Herald toward his opening. “We must get you to—” The Herald’s hand snapped up in front of him. Amaram started, freezing in place, as he saw something in the Herald’s fingers. A small dart, the tip dripping with

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