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getting sorted into new squads and sent back out onto the field. Kaladin moved through them, searching for the squad that had been created out of the messenger boys. He found Dalar first. The lanky, three-fingered sergeant of the reserves stood beside a tall post bearing a pair of flapping triangular banners. He was assigning newly made squads to fill out losses in the companies fighting below. Kaladin could still hear the yells. “You,” Dalar said, pointing at Kaladin. “Squad reassignment is in that direction. Get moving!” “I need to find the squad made from messenger boys,” Kaladin said. “Why in Damnation do you want to know that?” “How should I know?” Kaladin said, shrugging, trying to remain calm. “I just follow orders.” Dalar grunted. “Brightlord Sheler’s company. Southeast side. You can—” Kaladin was already running. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Tien was supposed to stay safe. Stormfather. It hadn’t even been four months yet! He made his way to the southeast side of the hill and searched out a banner flapping a quarter of the way down the incline. The stark black glyphpair read shesh lerel—Sheler’s company. Surprised at his own determination, Kaladin brushed past the soldiers guarding the hilltop and found himself on the battlefield again. Things looked better over here. Sheler’s company was holding its ground, although assaulted by a wave of enemies. Kaladin dashed down the incline, skidding in places, sliding on blood. His fear had vanished. It had been replaced by worry for his brother. He arrived at the company line just as enemy squads were assaulting. He tried to scramble farther behind the lines to search for Tien, but he was caught in the wave of attacks. He stumbled to the side, joining a squad of spearmen. The enemy was on them in a second. Kaladin held his spear in two hands, standing at the edge of the other spearmen and trying not to get in their way. He didn’t really know what he was doing. He barely knew enough to use his shieldmate for protection. The exchange happened quickly, and Kaladin made only a single thrust. The enemy was rebuffed, and he managed to avoid taking a wound. He stood, panting, gripping his spear. “You,” an authoritative voice said. A man was pointing at Kaladin, knots at his shoulders. The squadleader. “About time my team got some of those reinforcements. For a time there, I thought Varth was going to get every man. Where’s your shield?” Kaladin scrambled to grab one off a fallen soldier nearby. As he was working, the squadleader swore behind him. “Damnation. They’re coming again. Two prongs this time. We can’t hold like this.” A man in a green messenger’s vest scrambled over a nearby rock formation. “Hold against the east assault, Mesh!” “What about that wave to the south?” the squadleader—Mesh—bellowed. “It’s handled for now. Hold east! Those are your orders!” The messenger scrambled on, delivering a similar message to the next squad in line. “Varth. Your squad is to hold east!” Kaladin got up with his shield. He needed
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to go find Tien. He couldn’t— He stumbled to a stop. There, in the next squad down the line, stood three figures. Younger boys, looking small in their armor and holding their spears uncertainly. One was Tien. His team of reserves had obviously been split apart to fill holes in other squads. “Tien!” Kaladin screamed, falling out of line as the enemy troops came upon them. Why were Tien and the other two positioned in the middle front of the squad formation? They barely knew how to hold a spear! Mesh yelled after Kaladin, but Kaladin ignored him. The enemy was upon them in a moment, and Mesh’s squad broke, losing their discipline and turning to a more frenzied, unorganized resistance. Kaladin felt something like a thump against his leg. He stumbled, hitting the ground, and realized with shock that he’d been stabbed with a spear. He felt no pain. Odd. Tien! he thought, forcing himself up. Someone loomed above him, and Kaladin reacted immediately, rolling as a spear came down for his heart. His own spear was back in his hands before he realized he’d grabbed it, and he whipped it upward. Then he froze. He’d just driven his spear through the enemy soldier’s neck. It had happened so quickly. I just killed a man. He rolled over, letting the enemy drop to his knees as Kaladin yanked his spear free. Varth’s squad was back a little farther. The enemy hit it a little while after attacking where Kaladin had been. Tien and the other two were still in the front. “Tien!” Kaladin yelled. The boy looked toward him, eyes opening wide. He actually smiled. Behind him, the rest of the squad pulled back. Leaving the three untrained boys exposed. And, sensing weakness, the enemy soldiers descended on Tien and the others. There was an armored lighteyes at their front, in gleaming steel. He swung a sword. Kaladin’s brother fell just like that. One eyeblink and he was standing there, looking terrified. The next he was on the ground. “No!” Kaladin screamed. He tried to get to his feet, but slipped to his knees. His leg didn’t work right. Varth’s squad hurried forward, attacking the enemies—who had been distracted with Tien and the other two. They’d placed the untrained at the front to stop the momentum of the enemy attack. “No, no, no!” Kaladin screamed. He used his spear to hoist himself to his feet, then stumbled forward. It couldn’t be what he thought. It couldn’t be over that quickly. It was a miracle that nobody struck Kaladin down as he stumbled the rest of the distance. He barely thought about it. He just watched where Tien had fallen. There was thunder. No. Hooves. Amaram had arrived with his cavalry, and they were sweeping through the enemy lines. Kaladin didn’t care. He finally reached the spot. There, he found three corpses: young, small, lying in a hollow in the stone. Horrified, numb, Kaladin reached out his hand and rolled over the one that was face-down. Tien’s dead eyes stared upward. Kaladin
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continued to kneel beside the body. He should have bound his wound, should have moved back to safety, but he was too numb. He just knelt. “About time he rode down here,” a voice said. Kaladin looked up, noting a group of spearmen gathering nearby, watching the cavalry. “He wanted them to bunch up against us,” one the spearmen said. He had knots on the shoulders. Varth, their squadleader. Such keen eyes the man had. Not a brutish lout. Lean, thoughtful. I should feel anger, Kaladin thought. I should feel… something. Varth looked down at him, then at the bodies of the three dead messenger boys. “You bastard,” Kaladin hissed. “You put them in front.” “You work with what you have,” Varth said, nodding to his team, then pointing at a fortified position. “If they give me men who can’t fight, I’ll find another use for them.” He hesitated as his team marched away. He seemed regretful. “Gotta do what you can to stay alive, son. Turn a liability into an advantage whenever you can. Remember that, if you live.” With that, he jogged off. Kaladin looked down. Why couldn’t I protect him? he thought, looking at Tien, remembering his brother’s laugh. His innocence, his smile, his excitement at exploring the hills outside Hearthstone. Please. Please let me protect him. Make me strong enough. He felt so weak. Blood loss. He found himself slumping to the side, and with tired hands, he tied off his wound. And then, feeling terribly vacant inside, he lay down beside Tien and pulled the body close. “Don’t worry,” Kaladin whispered. When had he started to cry? “I’ll bring you home. I’ll protect you, Tien. I’ll bring you back….” He held the body into the evening, long past the end of the battle, clinging to it as it slowly grew cold. Kaladin blinked. He wasn’t in that hollow with Tien. He was on the plateau. He could hear men dying in the distance. He hated thinking of that day. He almost wished he’d never gone looking for Tien. Then he wouldn’t have had to watch. Wouldn’t have had to kneel there, powerless, as his brother was slaughtered. It was happening again. Rock, Moash, Teft. They were all going to die. And here he lay, powerless again. He could barely move. He felt so drained. “Kaladin,” a voice whispered. He blinked. Syl was hovering in front of him. “Do you know the Words?” “All I wanted to do was protect them,” he whispered. “That’s why I’ve come. The Words, Kaladin.” “They’re going to die. I can’t save them. I—” Amaram slaughtered his men in front of him. A nameless Shardbearer killed Dallet. A lighteyes killed Tien. No. Kaladin rolled over and forced himself to his feet, wavering on weak legs. No! Bridge Four hadn’t set its bridge yet. That surprised him. They were still pushing it across the chasm, the Parshendi crowding up on the other side, eager, their song becoming more frantic. His delusions had seemed like hours, but had passed in just a few heartbeats. NO!
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Lopen’s litter was in front of Kaladin. A spear rested amid the drained water bottles and ragged bandages, steel head reflecting sunlight. It whispered to him. It terrified him, and he loved it. When the time comes, I hope you’re ready. Because this lot will need you. He seized the spear, the first real weapon he had held since his display in the chasm so many weeks ago. Then he started to run. Slowly at first. Picking up speed. Reckless, his body exhausted. But he did not stop. He pushed forward, harder, charging toward the bridge. It was only halfway across the chasm. Syl shot out in front of him, looking back, worried. “The Words, Kaladin!” Rock cried out as Kaladin ran onto the bridge as it was moving. The wood wobbled beneath him. It was out over the chasm, but hadn’t reached the other side. “Kaladin!” Teft yelled. “What are you doing?” Kaladin screamed, reaching the end of the bridge. Finding a tiny surge of strength somewhere, he raised his spear and threw himself off the end of the wooden platform, launching into the air above the cavernous void. Bridgemen cried out in dismay. Syl zipped about him with worry. Parshendi looked up with amazement as a lone bridgeman sailed through the air toward them. His drained, worn-out body barely had any strength left. In that moment of crystallized time, he looked down on his enemies. Parshendi with their marbled red and black skin. Soldiers raising finely crafted weapons, as if to cut him from the sky. Strangers, oddities in carapace breastplates and skullcaps. Many of them wearing beards. Beards woven with glowing gemstones. Kaladin breathed in. Like the power of salvation itself—like rays of sunlight from the eyes of the Almighty—Stormlight exploded from those gemstones. It streamed through the air, pulled in visible streams, like glowing columns of luminescent smoke. Twisting and turning and spiraling like tiny funnel clouds until they slammed into him. And the storm came to life again. Kaladin hit the rocky ledge, legs suddenly strong, mind, body, and blood alive with energy. He fell into a crouch, spear under his arm, a small ring of Stormlight expanding from him in a wave, pushed down to the stones by his fall. Stunned, the Parshendi shied away, eyes widening, song faltering. A trickle of Stormlight closed the wounds on his arm. He smiled, spear held before him. It was as familiar as the body of a lover long lost. The Words, a voice said, urgent, as if directly into his mind. In that moment, Kaladin was amazed to realize that he knew them, though they’d never been told to him. “I will protect those who cannot protect themselves,” he whispered. The Second Ideal of the Knights Radiant. A crack shook the air, like an enormous clap of thunder, though the sky was completely clear. Teft stumbled back—having just set the bridge in place—and found himself gaping with the rest of Bridge Four. Kaladin exploded with energy. A burst of whiteness washed out from him, a wave of white
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smoke. Stormlight. The force of it slammed into the first rank of Parshendi, tossing them backward, and Teft had to hold his hand up against the vibrancy of the light. “Something just changed,” Moash whispered, hand up. “Something important.” Kaladin raised his spear. The powerful light began to subside, retreating. A more subdued glow began to steam off his body. Radiant, like smoke from an ethereal fire. Nearby, some of the Parshendi fled, though others stepped up, raising weapons in challenge. Kaladin spun into them, a living storm of steel, wood, and determination. Soldiers in blue yelled, screaming war cries to encourage themselves. The sounds were like a roaring avalanche behind Adolin as he swung his Blade in wild swings. There was no room for a proper stance. He had to keep moving, punching through the Parshendi, leading his men toward the western chasm. His father’s horse and his own were still safe, carrying some wounded through the back ranks. The Shardbearers didn’t dare mount, though. In these close quarters, the Ryshadium would be chopped down and their riders dropped. This was the type of battlefield maneuver that would have been impossible without Shardbearers. A rush against superior numbers? Made by wounded, exhausted men? They should have been stopped cold and crushed. But Shardbearers could not be stopped so easily. Their armor leaking Stormlight, their six-foot Blades flashing in wide swaths, Adolin and Dalinar shattered the Parshendi defenses, creating an opening, a rift. Their men—the best-trained in the Alethi warcamps—knew how to use it. They formed a wedge behind their Shardbearers, prying the Parshendi armies open, using spearman formations to cut through and keep going forward. Adolin moved at almost a jog. The incline of the hill worked in their favor, giving them better footing, letting them rumble down the slope like charging chulls. The chance to survive when all had been thought lost gave the men a surge of energy for one last dash toward freedom. They took enormous casualties. Already, Dalinar’s force had lost another thousand of his four, probably more. But it didn’t matter. The Parshendi fought to kill, but the Alethi—this time—fought to live. Living Heralds above, Teft thought, watching Kaladin fight. Just moments ago, the lad had looked near death, skin a dull grey, hands shaking. Now he was a shining whirlwind, a storm wielding a spear. Teft had known many a battlefield, but he had never seen anything remotely like this. Kaladin held the ground before the bridge by himself. White Stormlight streamed from him like a blazing fire. His speed was incredible, nearly inhuman, and his precision—each thrust of the spear hit a neck, side, or other unarmored target of Parshendi flesh. It was more than the Stormlight. Teft had only a fragmentary recollection of the things his family had tried to teach him, but those memories all agreed. Stormlight did not grant skill. It could not make a man into something he was not. It enhanced, it strengthened, it invigorated. It perfected. Kaladin ducked low, slamming the butt against the leg of a Parshendi,
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dropping him to the ground, and came up to block an axe swing by catching the haft with that of his spear. He let go with one hand, sweeping the tip of the spear up under the arm of the Parshendi and ramming it into his armpit. As that Parshendi fell, Kaladin pulled his spear free and slammed the end into a Parshendi head that had gotten too close. The butt of the spear shattered with a spray of wood, and the Parshendi’s carapace helm exploded. No, this wasn’t just Stormlight. This was a master of the spear with his capacity enhanced to astonishing levels. The bridgemen gathered around Teft, amazed. His wounded arm didn’t seem to hurt as much as it should. “He’s like a part of the wind itself,” Drehy said. “Pulled down and given life. Not a man at all. A spren.” “Sigzil?” Skar asked, eyes wide. “You ever seen anything like this?” The dark-skinned man shook his head. “Stormfather,” Peet whispered. “What… what is he?” “He’s our bridgeleader,” Teft said, snapping out of his reverie. On the other side of the chasm, Kaladin barely dodged a blow from a Parshendi mace. “And he needs our help! First and second teams, you take the left side. Don’t let the Parshendi get around him. Third and fourth teams, you’re with me on the right! Rock and Lopen, you be ready to pull back any wounded. The rest of you, wrinkled wall formation. Don’t attack, just stay alive and keep them back. And Lopen, toss him a spear that isn’t broken!” Dalinar roared, striking down a group of Parshendi swordsmen. He charged over their bodies, running up a short incline and throwing himself in a leap, dropping several feet into the Parshendi below, sweeping out with his Blade. His armor was an enormous weight upon his back, but the energy of his struggle kept him going. The Cobalt Guard—the straggling members who were left—roared and leaped off the incline behind him. They were doomed. Those bridgemen would be dead by now. But Dalinar blessed them for their sacrifice. It might have been meaningless as an end, but it had changed the journey. This was how his soldiers should fall—not cornered and frightened, but fighting with passion. He would not slide quietly into the dark. No indeed. He shouted his defiance again as he smashed into a group of Parshendi, whirling and hauling his Shardblade in a circling sweep. He stumbled through the patch of dead Parshendi, their eyes burning as they fell. And Dalinar burst out onto open stone. He blinked, stunned. We did it, he thought in disbelief. We cut all the way through. Behind him, soldiers roared, their tired voices sounding nearly as amazed as he felt. Just ahead of him, a final group of Parshendi lay between Dalinar and the chasm. But their backs were turned to him. Why were they— The bridgemen. The bridgemen were fighting. Dalinar gaped, lowering Oathbringer with numb arms. That little force of bridgemen held the bridgehead, fighting desperately against the Parshendi who
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were trying to force them back. It was the most amazing, most glorious thing Dalinar had ever seen. Adolin let out a whoop, breaking through the Parshendi to Dalinar’s left. The younger man’s armor was scratched, cracked, and scored, and his helm had shattered, leaving his head dangerously exposed. But his face was exultant. “Go, go,” Dalinar bellowed, pointing. “Give them support, storm it! If those bridgemen fall, we’re all dead!” Adolin and the Cobalt Guard dashed forward. Gallant and Sureblood, Adolin’s Ryshadium, galloped past, carrying three wounded each. Dalinar hated to have left so many wounded on the slopes, but the Codes were clear. In this case, protecting the men he could save was more important. Dalinar turned to strike at the main body of Parshendi to his left, making certain the corridor remained open for his troops. Many of the soldiers scrambled toward safety, though several squads proved their mettle by forming up at the sides to keep fighting, opening the gap wider. Sweat had soaked through the brow rag attached to Dalinar’s helm, and drops of it fell, overwhelming his eyebrows and falling into his left eye. He cursed, reaching to open his visor—then froze. The enemy troops were parting. There, standing among them, was a seven-foot-tall giant of a Parshendi in gleaming silver Shardplate. It fit as only Plate could, having molded to his large stature. His Shardblade was wicked and barbed, like flames frozen into metal. He raised it to Dalinar in a salute. “Now?” Dalinar bellowed incredulously. “Now you come?” The Shardbearer stepped forward, steel boots clanking on stone. The other Parshendi backed away. “Why not earlier?” Dalinar demanded, hurriedly setting himself into Windstance, blinking his left eye against the sweat. He stood near the shadow of a large, oblong rock formation shaped like a book on its side. “Why wait out the entire battle only to attack now? When…” When Dalinar was about to get away. Apparently the Parshendi Shardbearer had been willing to let his fellows throw themselves at Dalinar when it seemed obvious he would fall. Perhaps they let the regular soldiers try to win Shards, as was done in human armies. Now that Dalinar might escape, the potential loss of a Plate and Blade was too great, and so the Shardbearer had been sent to fight him. The Shardbearer stepped up, speaking in the thick Parshendi language. Dalinar didn’t understand a word of it. He raised his Blade and fell into stance. The Parshendi said something further, then grunted and stepped forward, swinging. Dalinar cursed to himself, still blinded in his left eye. He dodged back, swinging his Blade and slapping the enemy’s weapon. The parry shook Dalinar inside his armor. His muscles responded sluggishly. Stormlight still leaked from cracks in his armor, but it was abating. It wouldn’t be much longer before the Plate stopped responding. The Parshendi Shardbearer attacked again. His stance was unfamiliar to Dalinar, but there was something practiced about it. This wasn’t a savage playing with a powerful weapon. He was a trained Shardbearer. Dalinar was once
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again forced to parry, something Windstance wasn’t intended do to. His weight-laden muscles were too sluggish to dodge, and his Plate was too cracked to risk letting himself get hit. The blow nearly threw him out of stance. He clenched his teeth, throwing weight behind his weapon and intentionally overcorrecting as the Parshendi’s next blow came. The Blades met with a furious clang, throwing off a shower of sparks like a bucket of molten metal dashed into the air. Dalinar recovered quickly and threw himself forward, trying to slam his shoulder into his enemy’s chest. The Parshendi was still full of power, however, his Plate uncracked. He got out of the way and quite nearly hit Dalinar on the back. Dalinar twisted just in time. Then he turned and leaped onto a small rock formation, then stepped to a higher ledge and managed to reach the top. The Parshendi followed, as Dalinar had hoped. The precarious footing raised the stakes—which was just fine with him. A single blow could ruin Dalinar. That meant taking risks. As the Parshendi neared the top of the formation, Dalinar attacked, using the advantage of surer footing and high ground. The Parshendi didn’t bother dodging. He took a hit to the helm, which cracked, but gained a chance to swing at Dalinar’s legs. Dalinar leaped backward, feeling painfully sluggish. He barely got out of the way, and wasn’t able to get in a second strike as the Parshendi climbed atop the formation. The Parshendi man made an aggressive thrust. Setting his jaw, Dalinar raised his forearm to block and stepped into the attack, praying to the Heralds that his forearm plate would deflect the blow. The Parshendi blade connected, shattering the Plate, sending a shock up Dalinar’s arm. The gauntlet on his fist suddenly felt like a lead weight, but Dalinar kept moving, swinging his blade for his own attack. Not at the Parshendi’s armor, but at the stone beneath him. Even as the molten shards of Dalinar’s forearm plate sprayed in the air, he sheared through the rock shelf under his opponent’s feet. The entire section broke free, sending the Shardbearer tumbling backward toward the ground. He hit with a crash. Dalinar slammed his fist—the one with the broken armguard—into the ground and released the gauntlet. It unlatched and he pulled his hand free into the air, sweat making it feel cold. He left the gauntlet—it wouldn’t work properly now that the forearm piece was gone—and roared as he swung his Blade single-handed. He sliced through another chunk of the rock and sent it falling down toward the Shardbearer. The Parshendi stumbled to his feet, but the rock smashed down on top of him, sending out a splash of Stormlight and a deep cracking sound. Dalinar climbed down, trying to get to the Parshendi while he was still. Unfortunately, Dalinar’s right leg was dragging, and when he reached the ground, he walked in a limp. If he took the boot off, he wouldn’t be able to hold up the rest of the Shardplate. He gritted his
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teeth, stopping as the Parshendi stood up. He’d been too slow. The Parshendi’s armor, though cracked in several places, was nowhere near as strained as Dalinar’s. Impressively, he’d managed to retain his Shardblade. He leveled his armored head at Dalinar, eyes hidden behind the slit in the helm. Around them, the other Parshendi watched silently, forming a ring, but not interfering. Dalinar raised his Blade, holding it in one gauntleted hand and one bare one. The breeze was cold on his clammy, exposed hand. There was no use running. He fought here. For the first time in many, many months, Kaladin felt fully awake and alive. The beauty of the spear, whistling in the air. The unity of body and mind, hands and feet reacting instantly, faster than thoughts could be formed. The clarity and familiarity of the old spear forms, learned during the most terrible time in his life. His weapon was an extension of himself; he moved it as easily and instinctively as he did his fingers. Spinning, he cut through the Parshendi, bringing retribution to those who had slaughtered so many of his friends. Repayment for each and every arrow loosed at his flesh. With Stormlight making an ecstatic pulse within him, he felt a rhythm to the battle. Almost like the beat of the Parshendi song. And they did sing. They’d recovered from seeing him drink in the Stormlight and speak the Words of the Second Ideal. They now attacked in waves, fervently trying to get to the bridge and knock it free. Some had leaped to the other side to attack from that direction, but Moash had led bridgemen to respond there. Amazingly, they held. Syl twirled around Kaladin in a blur, riding the waves of Stormlight that rose from his skin, moving like a leaf on the winds of a storm. Enraptured. He’d never seen her like this before. He didn’t break his attacks—in a way, there was only one attack, as each strike flowed directly into the next. His spear never stopped, and together with his men, he pushed the Parshendi back, accepting each challenge as they stepped forward in pairs. Killing. Slaughtering. Blood flew in the air and the dying groaned at his feet. He tried not to pay too much attention to that. They were the enemy. Yet the sheer glory of what he did seemed at odds with the desolation he caused. He was protecting. He was saving. Yet he was killing. How could something so terrible be so beautiful at the same time? He ducked the swing of a fine silvery sword, then brought his spear around to the side, crushing ribs. He spun the spear, shattering its already fractured length against the side of the Parshendi’s comrade. He threw the remains at a third man, then caught a new spear as Lopen tossed it to him. The Herdazian was collecting them from the fallen Alethi nearby to give to Kaladin when needed. When you engaged a man, you learned something about him. Were your enemies careful and precise? Did they
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bully their way forward, aggressive and domineering? Did they spout curses to make you enraged? Were they ruthless, or did they leave an obviously incapacitated man to live? He was impressed by the Parshendi. He fought dozens of them, each with a slightly different style of combat. It seemed they were sending only two or four at him at a time. Their attacks were careful and controlled, and each pair fought as a team. They seemed to respect him for his skill. Most telling, they seemed to back away from fighting Skar or Teft, who were wounded, instead focusing on Kaladin, Moash, and the other spearmen who showed the most skill. These were not the wild, uncultured savages he had been led to expect. These were professional soldiers who held to an honorable battlefield ethic he had found absent in most of the Alethi. In them, he found what he’d always hoped he would find in the soldiers of the Shattered Plains. That realization rocked him. He found himself respecting the Parshendi as he killed them. In the end, the storm within drove him forward. He had chosen a course, and these Parshendi would slaughter Dalinar Kholin’s army without a moment’s regret. Kaladin had committed himself. He would see himself and his men through it. He wasn’t certain how long he fought. Bridge Four held out remarkably well. Surely they didn’t fight for very long, otherwise they would have been overwhelmed. Yet the multitude of wounded and dying Parshendi around Kaladin seemed to indicate hours. He was both relieved and oddly disappointed when a figure in Plate broke through the Parshendi ranks, releasing a flood of soldiers in blue. Kaladin reluctantly stepped back, heart thumping, the storm within dampened. The light had stopped streaming off his skin noticeably. The continual supply of Parshendi with gems in their braids had kept him fueled during the early part of the fight, but the later ones had come to him without gemstones. Another indication that they weren’t the simpleminded subhumans the lighteyes claimed they were. They’d seen what he was doing, and even if they hadn’t understood it, they’d countered it. He had enough Light to keep him from collapsing. But as the Alethi pushed back the Parshendi, Kaladin realized how timely their arrival had been. I need to be very careful with this, he thought. The storm within made him thirst for motion and attack, but using it drained his body. The more of it he used, and the faster he used it, the worse it was when he ran out. Alethi soldiers took up perimeter defense on both sides of the bridge, and the exhausted bridgemen fell back, many sitting down and holding wounds. Kaladin hurried over to them. “Report!” “Three dead,” Rock said grimly, kneeling beside bodies he’d laid out. Malop, Earless Jaks, and Narm. Kaladin frowned in sorrow. Be glad the rest live, he told himself. It was easy to think. Hard to accept. “How are the rest of you?” Five more had serious wounds, but Rock and Lopen had seen
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to them. Those two were learning quite well from Kaladin’s instruction. There was little more Kaladin could do for the wounded. He glanced at Malop’s body. The man had taken an axe cut to the arm, severing it and splintering the bone. He’d died from blood loss. If Kaladin hadn’t been fighting, he might have been able to— No. No regrets for the moment. “Pull back across,” he said to the bridgemen, pointing. “Teft, you’re in command. Moash, you strong enough to stay with me?” “Sure am,” Moash said, a grin on his bloody face. He looked excited, not exhausted. All three of the dead had been on his side, but he and the others had fought remarkably well. The other bridgemen retreated. Kaladin turned to inspect the Alethi soldiers. It was like looking into a triage tent. Every man had a wound of some sort. The ones at the center stumbled and limped. Those at the outsides still fought, their uniforms bloodied and torn. The retreat had dissolved into chaos. He made his way through the wounded, waving for them to cross the bridge. Some did as he said. Others stood about, looking dazed. Kaladin rushed up to one group that seemed better off than most. “Who’s in command here?” “It…” The soldier’s face had been cut across the cheek. “Brightlord Dalinar.” “Immediate command. Who’s your captain?” “Dead,” the man said. “And my companylord. And his second.” Stormfather, Kaladin thought. “Across the bridge with you,” he said, then moved on. “I need an officer! Who’s in command of the retreat?” Ahead, he could make out a figure in scratched blue Shardplate, fighting at the front of group. That would be Dalinar’s son Adolin. He was busy holding the Parshendi off; bothering him would not be wise. “Over here,” a man called. “I’ve found Brightlord Havar! He’s commander of the rear guard!” Finally, Kaladin thought, rushing through the chaos to find a bearded lighteyed man lying on the ground, coughing blood. Kaladin looked him over, noting the enormous gut wound. “Who’s his second?” “Dead,” said the man beside the commander. He was lighteyed. “And you are?” Kaladin asked. “Nacomb Gaval.” He looked young, younger than Kaladin. “You’re promoted,” Kaladin said. “Get these men across the bridge as quickly as possible. If anyone asks, you’ve been given a field commission as commander of the rear guard. If anyone claims to outrank you, send them to me.” The man started. “Promoted… Who are you? Can you do that?” “Someone needs to,” Kaladin snapped. “Go. Get to work.” “I—” “Go!” Kaladin bellowed. Remarkably, the lighteyed man saluted him and began yelling for his squad. Kholin’s men were wounded, battered, and dazed, but they were well trained. Once someone took command, orders passed quickly. Squads crossed the bridge, falling into marching formations. Likely, in the confusion, they clung to these familiar patterns. Within minutes, the central mass of Kholin’s army was flowing across the bridge like sand in an hourglass. The ring of fighting contracted. Still, men screamed and died in the anarchic tumult of sword
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against shield and spear against metal. Kaladin hurriedly pulled the carapace off his armor—enraging the Parshendi didn’t feel wise at the moment—then moved among the wounded, looking for more officers. He found a couple, though they were dazed, wounded, and out of breath. Apparently, those who were still battleworthy were leading the two flanks who held back the Parshendi. Trailed by Moash, Kaladin hurried to the central front line, where the Alethi seemed to be holding the best. Here, finally, he found someone in command: a tall, stately lighteyes with a steel breastplate and matching helm, his uniform a darker shade of blue than the others. He directed the fighting from just behind the front lines. The man nodded to Kaladin, yelling to be heard over the sounds of battle. “You command the bridgemen?” “I do,” Kaladin said. “Why aren’t your men moving across the bridge?” “We are the Cobalt Guard,” the man said. “Our duty is to protect Brightlord Adolin.” The man pointed toward Adolin in his blue Shardplate just ahead. The Shardbearer seemed to be pushing toward something. “Where’s the highprince?” Kaladin yelled. “We’re not sure.” The man grimaced. “His guardsmen have vanished.” “You have to pull back. The bulk of the army is across. If you remain here, you’ll be surrounded!” “We will not leave Brightlord Adolin. I’m sorry.” Kaladin looked around. The groups of Alethi fighting at the flanks were barely holding their ground, but they wouldn’t fall back until ordered. “Fine,” Kaladin said, raising his spear and pushing his way through to the front line. Here, the Parshendi fought with vigor. Kaladin cut down one by the neck, spinning into the middle of a group, flashing out with his spear. His Stormlight was nearly gone, but these Parshendi had gemstones in their beards. Kaladin breathed in—just a little, so as to not reveal himself to the Alethi soldiers—and launched into a full attack. The Parshendi fell back before his furious assault, and the few members of the Cobalt Guard around him stumbled away, looking stunned. In seconds, Kaladin had a dozen Parshendi on the ground around him, wounded or dead. That opened a gap, and he tore through, Moash on his heels. A lot of the Parshendi were focused on Adolin, whose blue Shardplate was scraped and cracked. Kaladin had never seen a suit of Shardplate in such a terrible state. Stormlight rose from those cracks in much the way it steamed from Kaladin’s skin when he held—or used—a lot of it. The fury of a Shardbearer at war gave Kaladin pause. He and Moash stopped just outside of the man’s fighting range, and the Parshendi ignored the bridgemen, trying with obvious desperation to take down the Shardbearer. Adolin cut down through multiple men at once—but, as Kaladin had seen only once before, his Blade did not slice flesh. Parshendi eyes burned and blackened, and dozens fell dead, Adolin collecting corpses around him like ripened fruit falling from a tree. And yet, Adolin was obviously struggling. His Shardplate was more than just cracked—there were holes in parts.
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His helm was gone, though he’d replaced it with a regular spearman’s cap. His left leg limped, nearly dragging. That Blade of his was deadly, but the Parshendi drew closer and closer. Kaladin didn’t dare step into range. “Adolin Kholin!” he bellowed. The man kept fighting. “Adolin Kholin!” Kaladin yelled again, feeling a little puff of Stormlight leave him, his voice booming. The Shardbearer paused, then looked back at Kaladin. Reluctantly, the Shardbearer pulled back, letting the Cobalt Guard—using the path opened by Kaladin—rush forward and hold back the Parshendi. “Who are you?” Adolin demanded, reaching Kaladin. His proud, youthful face was slick with sweat, his hair a matted mess of blond mixed with black. “I’m the man who saved your life,” Kaladin said. “I need you to order the retreat. Your troops can’t fight any longer.” “My father is out there, bridgeman,” Adolin said, pointing with his overly large Blade. “I saw him just moments ago. His Ryshadium went for him, but neither horse nor man has returned. I’m going to lead a squad to—” “You are going to retreat!” Kaladin said, exasperated. “Look at your men, Kholin! They can barely keep their feet, let alone fight. You’re losing dozens by the minute. You need to get them out.” “I won’t abandon my father,” Adolin said stubbornly. “For the peace of… If you fall, Adolin Kholin, these men have nothing. Their commanders are wounded or dead. You can’t go to your father; you can barely walk! I repeat, get your men to safety!” The young Shardbearer stepped back, blinking at Kaladin’s tone. He looked northeastward, toward where a figure in slate grey suddenly appeared on a rock outcropping, fighting against another figure in Shardplate. “He’s so close….” Kaladin took a deep breath. “I’ll go for him. You lead the retreat. Hold the bridge, but only the bridge.” Adolin glared at Kaladin. He took a step, but something in his armor gave out, and he stumbled, going to one knee. Teeth gritted, he managed to rise. “Captainlord Malan,” Adolin bellowed. “Take your soldiers, go with this man. Get my father out!” The man Kaladin had spoken to earlier saluted crisply. Adolin glared at Kaladin again, then hefted his Shardblade and stalked with difficulty toward the bridge. “Moash, go with him,” Kaladin said. “But—” “Do it, Moash,” Kaladin said grimly, glancing toward the outcropping where Dalinar fought. Kaladin took a deep breath, tucked his spear under his arm, and dashed off at a dead run. The Cobalt Guard yelled at him, trying to keep up, but he didn’t look back. He hit the line of Parshendi attackers, turned and tripped two with his spear, then leaped over the bodies and kept going. Most Parshendi in this patch were distracted by Dalinar’s fight or the battle to get to the bridge; the ranks were thin here between the two fronts. Kaladin moved quickly, drawing in more Light as he ran, dodging and scrambling around Parshendi who tried to engage him. Within moments, he’d reached the place where Dalinar had been fighting. Though the rock
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shelf was now empty, a large group of Parshendi were gathered around its base. There, he thought, leaping forward. A horse whinnied. Dalinar looked up in shock as Gallant charged into the open ring of ground the watching Parshendi had made. The Ryshadium had come to him. How… where…? The horse should have been free and safe on the staging plateau. It was too late. Dalinar was on one knee, beaten down by the enemy Shardbearer. The Parshendi kicked, smashing his foot into Dalinar’s chest, throwing him backward. A hit to the helm followed. Another. Another. The helm exploded, and the force of the hits left Dalinar dazed. Where was he? What was happening? Why was he pinned by something so heavy? Shardplate, he thought, struggling to rise. I’m wearing… my Shardplate…. A breeze blew across his face. Head blows; you had to be careful of head blows, even when wearing Plate. His enemy stood over him, looming, and seemed to inspect him. As if searching for something. Dalinar had dropped his Blade. The common Parshendi soldiers surrounded the duel. They forced Gallant back, making the horse whinny. He reared. Dalinar watched him, vision swimming. Why didn’t the Shardbearer just finish him? The Parshendi giant leaned down, then spoke. The words were thick with accent, and Dalinar’s mind nearly dismissed them. But here, up close, Dalinar realized something. He understood what was being said. The accent was nearly impenetrable, but the words were in Alethi. “It is you,” the Parshendi Shardbearer said. “I have found you at last.” Dalinar blinked in surprise. Something disturbed the back ranks of the watching Parshendi soldiers. There was something familiar about this scene, Parshendi all around, Shardbearer in danger. Dalinar had lived it before, but from the other side. That Shardbearer couldn’t be talking to him. Dalinar had been hit too hard on the head. He must be delusional. What was that disturbance in the ring of Parshendi watchers? Sadeas, Dalinar found himself thinking, his mind confused. He’s come to rescue me, as I rescued him. Unite them…. He’ll come, Dalinar thought. I know he will. I will gather them…. The Parshendi were yelling, moving, twisting. Suddenly, a figure exploded through them. Not Sadeas at all. A young man with a strong face and long, curling black hair. He carried a spear. And he was glowing. What? Dalinar thought, dazed. Kaladin landed in the open circle. The two Shardbearers were at the center, one on the ground, Stormlight trailing faintly from his body. Too faintly. Considering the number of cracks, his gemstones must be almost spent. The other—a Parshendi, judging by the size and shape of the limbs—was standing over the fallen one. Great, Kaladin thought, dashing forward before the Parshendi soldiers could collect their wits and attack him. The Parshendi Shardbearer was bent down, focused on Dalinar. The Parshendi’s Plate was leaking Stormlight through a large fissure in the leg. So—memory flashing back to the time he rescued Amaram—Kaladin got in close and slammed his spear into the crack. The Shardbearer screamed and dropped his
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Blade in surprise. It puffed to mist. Kaladin whipped his spear free and dodged backward. The Shardbearer swung toward him with a gauntleted fist, but missed. Kaladin jumped in and—throwing his full strength behind the blow—rammed his spear into the cracked leg armor again. The Shardbearer screamed even louder, stumbling, then fell to his knees. Kaladin tried to pull his spear free, but the man crumpled on top of it, snapping the shaft. Kaladin dodged back, now facing a ring of Parshendi, empty-handed, Stormlight streaming from his body. Silence. And then, they began speaking again, the words they’d said before. “Neshua Kadal!” They passed it among themselves, whispering, looking confused. Then they began to chant a song he’d never heard before. Good enough, Kaladin thought. So long as they weren’t attacking him. Dalinar Kholin was moving, sitting up. Kaladin knelt down, commanding most of his Stormlight into the stony ground, retaining just enough to keep him going, but not enough to make him glow. Then he hurried over to the armored horse at the side of the ring of Parshendi. The Parshendi shied away from him, looking terrified. He took the reins and quickly returned to the highprince. Dalinar shook his head, trying to clear his mind. His vision still swam, but his thoughts were reforming. What had happened? He’d been hit on the head, and… and now the Shardbearer was down. Down? What had caused the Shardbearer to fall? Had the creature really talked to him? No, he must have imagined that. That, and the young spearman glowing. He wasn’t doing so now. Holding Gallant’s reins, the young man waved at Dalinar urgently. Dalinar forced himself to his feet. Around them, the Parshendi were muttering something unintelligible. That Shardplate, Dalinar thought, looking at the kneeling Parshendi. A Shardblade… I could fulfill my promise to Renarin. I could… The Shardbearer groaned, holding his leg with a gauntleted hand. Dalinar itched to finish the kill. He took a step forward, dragging his unresponsive foot. Around them, the Parshendi troops watched silently. Why didn’t they attack? The tall spearman ran up to Dalinar, pulling Gallant’s reins. “On your horse, lighteyes.” “We should finish him. We could—” “On your horse!” the youth commanded, tossing the reins at him as the Parshendi troops turned to engage a contingent of approaching Alethi soldiers. “You’re supposed to be an honorable one,” the spearman snarled. Dalinar had rarely been spoken to in such a way, particularly by a darkeyed man. “Well, your men won’t leave without you, and my men won’t leave without them. So you will get on your horse and we will escape this death-trap. Do you understand?” Dalinar met the young man’s eyes. Then nodded. Of course. He was right; they had to leave the enemy Shardbearer. How would they get the armor out, anyway? Tow the corpse all the way? “Retreat!” Dalinar bellowed to his soldiers, pulling himself into Gallant’s saddle. He barely made it, his armor had so little Stormlight left. Steady, loyal Gallant sprang into a gallop down the corridor of escape his
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men had bought for him with their blood. The nameless spearman dashed behind him, and the Cobalt Guard fell in around them. A larger force of his troops was ahead, on the escape plateau. The bridge still stood, Adolin waiting anxiously at its head, holding it for Dalinar’s retreat. With a rush of relief, Dalinar galloped across the wooden deck, reaching the adjoining plateau. Adolin and last of his troops filed along behind him. He turned Gallant, looking eastward. The Parshendi crowded up to the chasm, but did not give chase. A group of them worked on the chrysalis atop the plateau. It had been forgotten by all sides in the fervor. They had never followed before, but if they changed their mind now, they could harry Dalinar’s force all the way back to the permanent bridges. But they didn’t. They formed ranks and began to chant another of their songs, the same one they sang every time the Alethi forces retreated. As Dalinar watched, a figure in cracked, silvery Shardplate and a red cape stumbled to their forefront. The helm had been removed, but it was too distant to make out any features on the black and red marbled skin. Dalinar’s erstwhile foe raised his Shardblade in a motion that was unmistakable. A salute, a gesture of respect. Instinctively, Dalinar summoned his Blade, and ten heartbeats later raised it to salute in return. The bridgemen pulled the bridge across the chasm, separating the armies. “Set up triage,” Dalinar bellowed. “We don’t leave anyone behind who has a chance at living. The Parshendi will not attack us here!” His men let out a shout. Somehow, escaping felt like more of a victory than any gemheart they’d won. The tired Alethi troops divided into battalions. Eight had marched to battle, and they became eight again—though several had only a few hundred members remaining. Those men trained for field surgery looked through the ranks while the remaining officers got survivor counts. The men began to sit down among the painspren and exhaustionspren, bloodied, some weaponless, many with torn uniforms. On the other plateau, the Parshendi continued their odd song. Dalinar found himself focusing on the bridge crew. The youth who had saved him was apparently their leader. Had he fought down a Shardbearer? Dalinar hazily remembered a quick, sharp encounter, a spear to the leg. Clearly the young man was both skilled and lucky. The bridgeman’s team acted with far more coordination and discipline than Dalinar would have expected of such lowly men. He could wait no longer. Dalinar nudged Gallant forward, crossing the stones and passing wounded, exhausted soldiers. That reminded him of his own fatigue, but now that he had a chance to sit, he was recovering, his head no longer ringing. The leader of the bridge crew was seeing to a man’s wound, and his fingers worked with expertise. A man trained in field medicine, among bridgemen? Well, why not? Dalinar thought. It’s no odder than their being able to fight so well. Sadeas had been holding out on him. The
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young man looked up. And, for the first time, Dalinar noticed the slave brands on the youth’s forehead, hidden by the long hair. The youth stood, posture hostile, folding his arms. “You are to be commended,” Dalinar said. “All of you. Why did your highprince retreat, only to send you back for us?” Several of the bridgemen chuckled. “He didn’t send us back,” their leader said. “We came on our own. Against his wishes.” Dalinar found himself nodding, and he realized that this was the only answer that made sense. “Why?” Dalinar asked. “Why come for us?” The youth shrugged. “You allowed yourself to get trapped in there quite spectacularly.” Dalinar nodded tiredly. Perhaps he should have been annoyed at the young man’s tone, but it was only the truth. “Yes, but why did you come? And how did you learn to fight so well?” “By accident,” the young man said. He turned back to his wounded. “What can I do to repay you?” Dalinar asked. The bridgeman looked back at him. “I don’t know. We were going to flee from Sadeas, disappear in the confusion. We might still, but he’ll certainly hunt us down and kill us.” “I could take your men to my camp, make Sadeas free you from your bondage.” “I worry that he wouldn’t let us go,” the bridgeman said, eyes haunted. “And I worry that your camp would offer no safety at all. This move today by Sadeas. It will mean war between you two, will it not?” Would it? Dalinar had avoided thinking of Sadeas—survival had taken his focus—but his anger at the man was a seething pit deep within. He would exact revenge on Sadeas for this. But could he allow war between the princedoms? It would shatter Alethkar. More than that, it would destroy the Kholin house. Dalinar didn’t have the troops or the allies to stand against Sadeas, not after this disaster. How would Sadeas respond when Dalinar returned? Would he try to finish the job, attacking? No, Dalinar thought. No, he did it this way for a purpose. Sadeas had not engaged him personally. He had abandoned Dalinar, but by Alethi standards, that was another thing entirely. He didn’t want to risk the kingdom either. Sadeas wouldn’t want outright war, and Dalinar couldn’t afford outright war, despite his seething anger. He formed a fist, turning to look at the spearman. “It will not turn to war,” Dalinar said. “Not yet, at least.” “Well, if that’s the case,” the spearman said, “then by taking us into your camp, you commit robbery. The king’s law, the Codes my men always claim you uphold, would demand that you return us to Sadeas. He won’t let us go easily.” “I will take care of Sadeas,” Dalinar said. “Return with me. I vow that you will be safe. I promise it with every shred of honor I have.” The young bridgeman met his eyes, searching for something. Such a hard man he was for one so young. “All right,” the spearman said. “We’ll return. I can’t leave
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my men back at camp and—with so many men now wounded—we don’t have the proper supplies to run.” The young man turned back to his work, and Dalinar rode Gallant in search of a casualty report. He forced himself to contain his rage at Sadeas. It was difficult. No, Dalinar could not let this turn to war—but neither could he let things go back to the way they had been. Sadeas had upset the balance, and it could never be regained. Not in the same way. Navani pushed her way past the guards, ignoring their protests and the calls of her attending ladies. She forced herself to remain calm. She would remain calm! What she had heard was just rumor. It had to be. Unfortunately, the older she grew, the worse she became at maintaining a brightlady’s proper tranquility. She hastened her step through Sadeas’s warcamp. Soldiers raised hands toward her as she passed, either to offer her aid or to demand she halt. She ignored both; they’d never dare lay a finger on her. Being the king’s mother gained one a few privileges. The camp was messy and poorly laid out. Pockets of merchants, whores, and workers made their homes in shanties built on the leeward sides of barracks. Drippings of hardened crem hung from most leeward eaves, like trails of wax left to pour over the side of a table. It was a distinct contrast to the neat lines and scrubbed buildings of Dalinar’s warcamp. He will be fine, she told herself. He’d better be fine! It was a testament to her disordered state that she barely considered constructing a new street pattern for Sadeas in her head. She made her way directly to the staging area, and arrived to find an army that hardly looked as if it had been to battle. Soldiers without any blood on their uniforms, men chatting and laughing, officers walking down lines and dismissing the men squad by squad. That should have relieved her. This didn’t look like a force that had just suffered a disaster. Instead, it made her even more anxious. Sadeas, in unmarred red Shardplate, was speaking with a group of officers in the shade of a nearby canopy. She stalked up to the canopy, but here a group of guards managed to bar her way, forming up shoulder to shoulder while one went to inform Sadeas of her arrival. Navani folded her arms impatiently. Perhaps she should have taken a palanquin, as her attending ladies had suggested. Several of them, looking beleaguered, were just arriving at the staging area. A palanquin would be faster in the long run, they had explained, as it would leave time for messengers to be sent so Sadeas could receive her. Once, she had obeyed such proprieties. She could remember being a young woman, playing the games expertly, delighting in ways to manipulate the system. What had that gotten her? A dead husband whom she’d never loved and a “privileged” position in court that amounted to being put out to pasture. What would Sadeas do
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if she just started screaming? The king’s own mother, bellowing like an axehound whose antenna had been twisted? She considered it as the soldier waited for a chance to announce her to Sadeas. From the corner of her eye, she noticed a youth in a blue uniform arriving in the staging area, accompanied by a small honor guard of three men. It was Renarin, for once bearing an expression other than calm curiosity. Wide-eyed and frantic, he hurried up to Navani. “Mashala,” he pled in his quiet voice. “Please. What have you heard?” “Sadeas’s army returned without your father’s army,” Navani said. “There is talk of a rout, though it doesn’t look as if these men have been through one.” She glared at Sadeas, giving serious contemplation to throwing a fit. Fortunately, he finally spoke with the soldier and then sent him back. “You may approach, Brightness,” the man said, bowing to her. “About time,” she growled, shoving past and passing underneath the canopy. Renarin joined her, walking more hesitantly. “Brightness Navani,” Sadeas said, clasping his hands behind his back, imposing in his crimson Plate. “I had hoped to bring you the news at your son’s palace. I suppose that a disaster like this is too large to contain. I express my condolences at the loss of your brother.” Renarin gasped softly. Navani steeled herself, folding her arms, trying to quiet the screams of denial and pain that came from the back of her mind. This was a pattern. She often saw patterns in things. In this case, the pattern was that she could never possess anything of value for long. It was always snatched from her just when it began to look promising. Quiet, she scolded herself. “You will explain,” she said to Sadeas, meeting his gaze. She’d practiced that look over the de cades, and was pleased to see that it discomfited him. “I’m sorry, Brightness,” Sadeas repeated, stammering. “The Parshendi overwhelmed your brother’s army. It was folly to work together. Our change in tactics was so threatening to the savages that they brought every soldier they could to this battle, surrounding us.” “And so you left Dalinar?” “We fought hard to reach him, but the numbers were simply overpowering. We had to retreat lest we lose ourselves as well! I would have continued fighting, save for the fact that I saw your brother fall with my own eyes, swarmed by Parshendi with hammers.” He grimaced. “They began carrying away chunks of bloodied Shardplate as prizes. Barbaric monsters.” Navani felt cold. Cold, numb. How could this happen? After finally— finally—making that stone-headed man see her as a woman, rather than as a sister. And now… And now… She set her jaw against the tears. “I don’t believe it.” “I understand that the news is difficult.” Sadeas waved for an attendant to fetch her a chair. “I wish I had not been forced to bring it to you. Dalinar and I… well, I have known him for many years, and while we did not always see the same sunrise, I considered
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him an ally. And a friend.” He cursed softly, looking eastward. “They will pay for this. I will see that they pay.” He seemed so earnest that Navani found herself wavering. Poor Renarin, pale-faced and wide-eyed, seemed stunned beyond the means to speak. When the chair arrived, Navani refused it, so Renarin sat, earning a glance of disapproval from Sadeas. Renarin grasped his head in his hands, staring at the ground. He was trembling. He’s highprince now, Navani realized. No. No. He was only highprince if she accepted the idea that Dalinar was dead. And he wasn’t. He couldn’t be. Sadeas had all of the bridges, she thought, looking down at the lumberyard. Navani stepped out into the late-afternoon sunlight, feeling its heat on her skin. She walked up to her attendants. “Brushpen,” she said to Makal, who carried a satchel with Navani’s possessions. “The thickest one. And my burn ink.” The short, plump woman opened the satchel, taking out a long brushpen with a knob of hog bristles on the end as wide as a man’s thumb. Navani took it. The ink followed. Around her, the guards stared as Navani took the pen and dipped it into the blood-colored ink. She knelt, and began to paint on the stone ground. Art was about creation. That was its soul, its essence. Creation and order. You took something disorganized—a splash of ink, an empty page—and you built something from it. Something from nothing. The soul of creation. She felt the tears on her cheeks as she painted. Dalinar had no wife and no daughters; he had nobody to pray for him. And so, Navani painted a prayer onto the stones themselves, sending her attendants for more ink. She paced off the size of the glyph as she continued its border, making it enormous, spreading her ink onto the tan rocks. Soldiers gathered around, Sadeas stepping from his canopy, watching her paint, her back to the sun as she crawled on the ground and furiously dipped her brushpen into the ink jars. What was a prayer, if not creation? Making something where nothing existed. Creating a wish out of despair, a plea out of anguish. Bowing one’s back before the Almighty, and forming humility from the empty pride of a human life. Something from nothing. True creation. Her tears mixed with the ink. She went through four jars. She crawled, holding her safehand to the ground, brushing the stones and smearing ink on her cheeks when she wiped the tears. When she finally finished, she knelt back on her knees before a glyph twenty paces long, emblazoned as if in blood. The wet ink reflected sunlight, and she fired it with a candle; the ink was made to burn whether wet or dry. The flames burned across the length of the prayer, killing it and sending its soul to the Almighty. She bowed her head before the prayer. It was only a single character, but a complex one. Thath. Justice. Men watched quietly, as if afraid of spoiling her solemn wish. A cold breeze
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began blowing, whipping at pennants and cloaks. The prayer went out, but that was fine. It wasn’t meant to burn long. “Brightlord Sadeas!” an anxious voice called. Navani looked up. Soldiers parted, making way for a runner in green. He hurried up to Sadeas, beginning to speak, but the highprince grabbed the man by the shoulder in a Shardplate grip and pointed, gesturing for his guards to make a perimeter. He pulled the messenger beneath the canopy. Navani continued to kneel beside her prayer. The flames left a black scar in the shape of the glyph on the ground. Someone stepped up beside her— Renarin. He went to one knee, resting a hand on her shoulder. “Thank you, Mashala.” She nodded, standing, her freehand sprinkled with drops of red pigment. Her cheeks were still wet with tears, but she narrowed her eyes, looking through the press of soldiers toward Sadeas. His expression was thunderous, face growing red, eyes wide with anger. She turned and pushed her way through the press of soldiers, scrambling up to the rim of the staging field. Renarin and some of Sadeas’s officers joined her in staring out over the Shattered Plains. And there they saw a creeping line of men limping back toward the warcamps, led by a mounted man in slate-grey armor. Dalinar rode Gallant at the head of two thousand six hundred and fifty-three men. That was all that remained of his assault force of eight thousand. The long trek back across the plateaus had given him time to think. His insides were still a tempest of emotions. He flexed his left hand as he rode; it was now encased by a blue-painted Shardplate gauntlet borrowed from Adolin. It would take days to regrow Dalinar’s own gauntlet. Longer, if the Parshendi tried to grow a full suit from the one he had left. They would fail, so long as Dalinar’s armorers fed Stormlight to his suit. The abandoned gauntlet would degrade and crumble to dust, a new one growing for Dalinar. For now, he wore Adolin’s. They had collected all of the infused gemstones among his twenty-six hundred men and used that Stormlight to recharge and reinforce his armor. It was still scarred with cracks. Healing as much damage as it had sustained would take days, but the Plate was in fighting shape again, if it came to that. He needed to make certain it didn’t. He intended to confront Sadeas, and he wanted to be armored when he did. In fact, he wanted to storm up the incline to Sadeas’s warcamp and declare formal war on his “old friend.” Perhaps summon his Blade and see Sadeas dead. But he wouldn’t. His soldiers were too weak, his position too tenuous. Formal war would destroy him and the kingdom. He had to do something else. Something that protected the kingdom. Revenge would come. Eventually. Alethkar came first. He lowered his blue-gauntleted fist, gripping Gallant’s reins. Adolin rode a short distance away. They’d repaired his armor as well, though he now lacked a gauntlet. Dalinar had refused
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the gift of his son’s gauntlet at first, but had given in to Adolin’s logic. If one of them was going to go without, it should be the younger man. Inside Shardplate, their differences in age didn’t matter—but outside of it, Adolin was a young man in his twenties and Dalinar an aging man in his fifties. He still didn’t know what to think of the visions, and their apparent failure in telling him to trust Sadeas. He’d confront that later. One step at a time. “Elthal,” Dalinar called. The highest-ranked officer who had survived the disaster, Elthal was a limber man with a distinguished face and a thin mustache. His arm was in a sling. He’d been one of those to hold the gap alongside Dalinar during the last part of the fight. “Yes, Brightlord?” Elthal asked, jogging over to Dalinar. All of the horses save the two Ryshadium were carrying wounded. “Take the wounded to my warcamp,” Dalinar said. “Then tell Teleb to bring the entire camp to alert. Mobilize the remaining companies.” “Yes, Brightlord,” the man said, saluting. “Brightlord, what should I tell them to prepare for?” “Anything. But hopefully nothing.” “I understand, Brightlord,” Elthal said, leaving to follow the orders. Dalinar turned Gallant to march over to the group of bridgemen, still following their somber leader, a man named Kaladin. They’d left their bridge as soon as they’d reached the permanent bridges; Sadeas could send for it eventually. The bridgemen stopped as he approached, looking as tired as he felt, then arranged themselves in a subtly hostile formation. They clung to their spears, as if certain he’d try to take them away. They had saved him, yet they obviously didn’t trust him. “I’m sending my wounded back to my camp,” Dalinar said. “You should go with them.” “You’re confronting Sadeas?” Kaladin asked. “I must.” I have to know why he did what he did. “I will buy your freedom when I do.” “Then I’m staying with you,” Kaladin said. “Me too,” said a hawk-faced man at the side. Soon all of the bridgemen were demanding to stay. Kaladin turned to them. “I should send you back.” “What?” asked an older bridgeman with a short grey beard. “You can risk yourself, but we can’t? We have men back in Sadeas’s camp. We need to get them out. At the very least, we need to stay together. See this through.” The others nodded. Again, Dalinar was struck by their discipline. More and more, he was certain Sadeas had nothing to do with that. It was this man at their head. Though his eyes were dark brown, he held himself like a brightlord. Well, if they wouldn’t go, Dalinar wouldn’t force them. He continued to ride, and soon close to a thousand of Dalinar’s soldiers broke off and marched south, toward his warcamp. The rest of them continued, toward Sadeas’s camp. As they drew closer, Dalinar noticed a small crowd gathering at the final chasm. Two figures in particular stood at their forefront. Renarin and Navani. “What are they doing in
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Sadeas’s warcamp?” Adolin asked, smiling through his fatigue, edging Sureblood up beside Dalinar. “I don’t know,” Dalinar said. “But the Stormfather bless them for coming.” Seeing their welcome faces, he began to feel it sink in—finally—that he had survived the day. Gallant crossed the last bridge. Renarin was there waiting, and Dalinar rejoiced. For once, the boy was displaying outright joy. Dalinar swung free from the saddle and embraced his son. “Father,” Renarin said, “you live!” Adolin laughed, swinging out of his own saddle, armor clanking. Renarin pulled out of the embrace and grabbed Adolin on the shoulder, pounding the Shardplate lightly with his other hand, grinning widely. Dalinar smiled as well, turning from the brothers to look at Navani. She stood with hands clasped before her, one eyebrow raised. Her face, oddly, bore a few small smears of red paint. “You weren’t even worried, were you?” he said to her. “Worried?” she asked. Her eyes met his, and for the first time, he noticed their redness. “I was terrified.” And then Dalinar found himself grabbing her in an embrace. He had to be careful as he was in Shardplate, but the gauntlets let him feel the silk of her dress, and his missing helm let him smell the sweet floral scent of her perfumed soap. He held her as tightly as he dared, bowing his head and pressing his nose into her hair. “Hmm,” she noted warmly, “it appears that I was missed. The others are watching. They’ll talk.” “I don’t care.” “Hmm… It appears I was very much missed.” “On the battlefield,” he said gruffly, “I thought I would die. And I realized it was all right.” She pulled her head back, looking confused. “I have spent too much of my time worrying about what people think, Navani. When I thought my time had arrived, I realized that all my worrying had been wasted. In the end, I was pleased with how I had lived my life.” He looked down at her, then mentally unlatched his right gauntlet, letting it drop to the ground with a clank. He reached up with that callused hand, cupping her chin. “I had only two regrets. One for you, and one for Renarin.” “So, you’re saying you can just die, and it would be all right?” “No,” he said. “What I’m saying is that I faced eternity, and I saw peace there. That will change how I live.” “Without all of the guilt?” He hesitated. “Being me, I doubt I’ll banish it entirely. The end was peace, but living… that is a tempest. Still, I see things differently now. It is time to stop letting myself be shoved around by lying men.” He looked up, toward the ridge above, where more soldiers in green were gathering. “I keep thinking of one of the visions,” he said softly, “the latest one, where I met Nohadon. He rejected my suggestion that he write down his wisdom. There’s something there. Something I need to learn.” “What?” Navani asked. “I don’t know yet. But I’m close to figuring
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it out.” He held her close again, hand on the back of her head, feeling her hair. He wished for the Plate to be gone, to not be separated from her by the metal. But the time for that had not yet come. Reluctantly, he released her, turning to the side, where Renarin and Adolin were watching them uncomfortably. His soldiers were looking up at Sadeas’s army, gathering on the ridge. I can’t let this come to bloodshed, Dalinar thought, reaching down and putting his hand into the fallen gauntlet. The straps tightened, connecting to the rest of the armor. But I’m also not going to slink back to my camp without confronting him. He at least had to know the purpose of the betrayal. All had been going so well. Besides, there was the matter of his promise to the bridgemen. Dalinar walked up the slope, bloodstained blue cloak flapping behind him. Adolin clanked up next to him on one side, Navani keeping pace on the other. Renarin followed, Dalinar’s remaining sixteen hundred troops marching up as well. “Father…” Adolin said, looking at the hostile troops. “Don’t summon your Blade. This will not come to blows.” “Sadeas abandoned you, didn’t he?” Navani asked quietly, eyes alight with anger. “He didn’t just abandon us,” Adolin spat. “He set us up, then betrayed us.” “We survived,” Dalinar said firmly. The way ahead was becoming clearer. He knew what he needed to do. “He won’t attack us here, but he might try to provoke us. Keep your sword as mist, Adolin, and don’t let our troops make any mistakes.” The soldiers in green parted reluctantly, holding spears. Hostile. To the side, Kaladin and his bridgemen walked near the front of Dalinar’s force. Adolin didn’t summon his Blade, though he regarded Sadeas’s troops around them with contempt. Dalinar’s soldiers couldn’t have felt easy about being surrounded by enemies once again, but they followed him onto the staging field. Sadeas stood ahead. The treacherous highprince waited with arms folded, still wearing his Shardplate, curly black hair blowing in the breeze. Someone had burned an enormous thath glyph on the stones here, and Sadeas stood at its center. Justice. There was something magnificently appropriate about Sadeas standing there, treading upon justice. “Dalinar,” Sadeas exclaimed, “old friend! It appears that I overestimated the odds against you. I apologize for retreating when you were still in danger, but the safety of my men came first. I’m certain you understand.” Dalinar stopped a short distance from Sadeas. The two faced each other, collected armies tense. A cold breeze whipped at a canopy behind Sadeas. “Of course,” Dalinar said, his voice even. “You did what you had to do.” Sadeas relaxed visibly, though several of Dalinar’s soldiers muttered at that. Adolin silenced them with pointed glances. Dalinar turned, waving Adolin and his men backward. Navani gave him a raised eyebrow, but retreated with the others when he urged her. Dalinar looked back at Sadeas, and the man—looking curious—waved his own attendants back. Dalinar walked up to the edge of the thath
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glyph, and Sadeas stepped forward until only inches separated them. They were matched in height. Standing this close, Dalinar thought he could see tension—and anger—in Sadeas’s eyes. Dalinar’s survival had ruined months of planning. “I need to know why,” Dalinar asked, too quietly for any but Sadeas to hear. “Because of my oath, old friend.” “What?” Dalinar asked, hands forming fists. “We swore something together, years ago.” Sadeas sighed, losing his flippancy and speaking openly. “Protect Elhokar. Protect this kingdom.” “That’s what I was doing! We had the same purpose. And we were fighting together, Sadeas. It was working.” “Yes,” Sadeas said. “But I’m confident I can beat the Parshendi on my own now. Everything we’ve done together, I can manage by splitting my army into two—one to race on ahead, a larger force to follow. I had to take this chance to remove you. Dalinar, can’t you see? Gavilar died because of his weakness. I wanted to attack the Parshendi from the start, conquer them. He insisted on a treaty, which led to his death. Now you’re starting to act just like him. Those same ideas, the same ways of speaking. Through you they begin to infect Elhokar. He dresses like you. He talks of the Codes to me, and of how perhaps we should enforce them through all the warcamps. He’s beginning to think of retreating.” “And so you’d have me think this an act of honor?” Dalinar growled. “Not at all,” Sadeas said, chuckling. “I have struggled for years to become Elhokar’s most trusted advisor—but there was always you, distracting him, holding his ear despite my every eff ort. I won’t pretend this was only about honor, though there was an element of that to it. In the end, I just wanted you gone.” Sadeas’s voice grew cold. “But you are going insane, old friend. You may name me a liar, but I did what I did today as a mercy. A way of letting you die in glory, rather than watching you descend further and further. By letting the Parshendi kill you, I could protect Elhokar from you and turn you into a symbol to remind the others what we’re really doing here. Your death might have become what finally united us. Ironic, if you consider it.” Dalinar breathed in and out. It was hard not to let his anger, his indignation, consume him. “Then tell me one thing. Why not pin the assassination attempt on me? Why clear me, if you were only looking to betray me later on?” Sadeas snorted softly. “Bah. Nobody would really believe that you tried to kill the king. They’d gossip, but they wouldn’t believe it. Blaming you too quickly would have risked implicating myself.” He shook his head. “I think Elhokar knows who tried to kill him. He’s admitted as much to me, though he won’t give me the name.” What? Dalinar thought. He knows? But… how? Why not tell us who? Dalinar adjusted his plans. He wasn’t certain if Sadeas was telling the truth, but if he was, he could
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use this. “He knows it wasn’t you,” Sadeas continued. “I can read that much in him, though he doesn’t realize how transparent he is. Blaming you would have been pointless. Elhokar would have defended you, and I might very well have lost the position of Highprince of Information. But it did give me a wonderful opportunity to make you trust me again.” Unite them…. The visions. But the man who spoke to Dalinar in them had been dead wrong. Acting with honor hadn’t won Sadeas’s loyalty. It had just opened Dalinar up to betrayal. “If it means anything,” Sadeas said idly, “I’m fond of you. I really am. But you are a boulder in my path, and a force working—against its own knowledge— to destroy Gavilar’s kingdom. When the chance came along, I took it.” “It wasn’t simply a convenient opportunity,” Dalinar said. “You set this up, Sadeas.” “I planned, but I’m often planning. I don’t always act on my options. Today I did.” Dalinar snorted. “Well, you’ve shown me something today, Sadeas— shown it to me by the very act of trying to remove me.” “And what was that?” Sadeas asked, amused. “You’ve shown me that I’m still a threat.” The highprinces continued their low-pitched conversation. Kaladin stood to the side of Dalinar’s soldiers, exhausted, with the members of Bridge Four. Sadeas spared a glance for them. Matal stood in the crowd, and had been watching Kaladin’s team the entire time, red-faced. Matal probably knew that he would be punished as Lamaril had been. They should have learned. They should have killed Kaladin at the start. They tried, he thought. They failed. He didn’t know what had happened to him, what had gone on with Syl and the words in his head. It seemed that Stormlight worked better for him now. It had been more potent, more powerful. But now it was gone, and he was so tired. Drained. He’d pushed himself, and Bridge Four, too far. Too hard. Perhaps he and the others should have gone to Kholin’s camp. But Teft was right; they needed to see this through. He promised, Kaladin thought. He promised he would free us from Sadeas. And yet, where had the promises of lighteyes gotten him in the past? The highprinces broke off their conference, separating, stepping back from one another. “Well,” Sadeas said loudly, “your men are obviously tired, Dalinar. We can speak later about what went wrong, though I think it is safe to assume that our alliance has proven unfeasible.” “Unfeasible,” Dalinar said. “A kind way of putting it.” He nodded toward the bridgemen. “I will take these bridgemen with me to my camp.” “I’m afraid I cannot part with them.” Kaladin’s heart sank. “Surely they aren’t worth much to you,” Dalinar said. “Name your price.” “I’m not looking to sell.” “I will pay sixty emerald broams per man,” Dalinar said. That drew gasps from the watching soldiers on both sides. It was easily twenty times the price of a good slave. “Not for a thousand each, Dalinar,” Sadeas said. Kaladin could
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see the deaths of his bridgemen in those eyes. “Take your soldiers and go. Leave my property here.” “Do not press me on this, Sadeas,” Dalinar said. Suddenly, the tension was back. Dalinar’s officers lowered hands to swords, and his spearmen perked up, gripping the hafts of their weapons. “Do not press you?” Sadeas asked. “What kind of threat is that? Leave my camp. It’s obvious that there is nothing more between us. If you try to steal my property, I will have every justification in attacking you.” Dalinar stood in place. He looked confident, though Kaladin saw no reason why. And another promise dies, Kaladin thought, turning away. In the end, for all his good intentions, this Dalinar Kholin was the same as the others. Behind Kaladin, men gasped in surprise. Kaladin froze, then spun around. Dalinar Kholin had summoned his massive Shardblade; it dripped beads of water from having just been summoned. His armor steamed faintly, Stormlight rising from the cracks. Sadeas stumbled back, eyes wide. His honor guard drew their swords. Adolin Kholin reached his hand to the side, apparently beginning to summon his own weapon. Dalinar took one step forward, then drove his Blade point-first into the middle of the blackened glyph on the stone. He took a step back. “For the bridgemen,” he said. Sadeas blinked. Muttering voices fell silent, and the people on the field seemed too stunned, even, to breathe. “What?” Sadeas asked. “The Blade,” Dalinar said, firm voice carrying in the air. “In exchange for your bridgemen. All of them. Every one you have in camp. They become mine, to do with as I please, never to be touched by you again. In exchange, you get the sword.” Sadeas looked down at the Blade, incredulous. “This weapon is worth fortunes. Cities, palaces, kingdoms.” “Do we have a deal?” Dalinar asked. “Father, no!” Adolin Kholin said, his own Blade appearing in his hand. “You—” Dalinar raised a hand, silencing the younger man. He kept his eyes on Sadeas. “Do we have a deal?” he asked, each word sharp. Kaladin stared, unable to move, unable to think. Sadeas looked at the Shardblade, eyes full of lust. He glanced at Kaladin, hesitated just briefly, then reached and grabbed the Blade by the hilt. “Take the storming creatures.” Dalinar nodded curtly, turning away from Sadeas. “Let’s go,” he said to his entourage. “They’re worthless, you know,” Sadeas said. “You’re of the ten fools, Dalinar Kholin! Don’t you see how mad you are? This will be remembered as the most ridiculous decision ever made by an Alethi highprince!” Dalinar didn’t look back. He walked up to Kaladin and the other members of Bridge Four. “Go,” Dalinar said to them, voice kindly. “Gather your things and the men you left behind. I will send troops with you to act as guards. Leave the bridges and come swiftly to my camp. You will be safe there. You have my word of honor on it.” He began to walk away. Kaladin shook off his numbness. He scrambled after the highprince, grabbing his
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armored arm. “Wait. You— That— What just happened?” Dalinar turned to him. Then, the highprince laid a hand on Kaladin’s shoulder, the gauntlet gleaming blue, mismatched with the rest of his slate-grey armor. “I don’t know what has been done to you. I can only guess what your life has been like. But know this. You will not be bridgemen in my camp, nor will you be slaves.” “But…” “What is a man’s life worth?” Dalinar asked softly. “The slavemasters say one is worth about two emerald broams,” Kaladin said, frowning. “And what do you say?” “A life is priceless,” he said immediately, quoting his father. Dalinar smiled, wrinkle lines extending from the corners of his eyes. “Coincidentally, that is the exact value of a Shardblade. So today, you and your men sacrificed to buy me twenty-six hundred priceless lives. And all I had to repay you with was a single priceless sword. I call that a bargain.” “You really think it was a good trade, don’t you?” Kaladin said, amazed. Dalinar smiled in a way that seemed strikingly paternal. “For my honor? Unquestionably. Go and lead your men to safety, soldier. Later tonight, I will have some questions for you.” Kaladin glanced at Sadeas, who held his new Blade with awe. “You said you’d take care of Sadeas. This was what you intended?” “This wasn’t taking care of Sadeas,” Dalinar said. “This was taking care of you and your men. I still have work to do today.” Dalinar found King Elhokar in his palace sitting room. Dalinar nodded once more to the guards outside, then closed the door. They seemed troubled. As well they should; his orders had been irregular. But they would do as told. They wore the king’s colors, blue and gold, but they were Dalinar’s men, chosen specifically for their loyalty. The door shut with a snap. The king was staring at one of his maps, wearing his Shardplate. “Ah, Uncle,” he said, turning to Dalinar. “Good. I had wanted to speak with you. Do you know of these rumors about you and my mother? I realize that nothing untoward could be happening, but I do worry about what people think.” Dalinar crossed the room, booted feet thumping on the rich rug. Infused diamonds hung in the corners of the room, and the carved walls had been set with tiny chips of quartz to sparkle and reflect the light. “Honestly, Uncle,” Elhokar said, shaking his head. “I’m growing very intolerant of your reputation in camp. What they are saying reflects poorly on me, you see, and…” He trailed off as Dalinar stopped about a pace from him. “Uncle? Is everything all right? My door guards reported some kind of mishap with your plateau assault today, but my mind was full of thoughts. Did I miss anything vital?” “Yes,” Dalinar said. Then he raised his leg and kicked the king in the chest. The strength of the blow tossed the king backward against his desk. The fine wood shattered as the heavy Shardbearer crashed through it. Elhokar hit the
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floor, his breastplate cracked just faintly. Dalinar stepped up to him, then delivered another kick to the king’s side, cracking the breastplate again. Elhokar began shouting in panic. “Guards! To me! Guards!” Nobody came. Dalinar kicked again, and Elhokar cursed, catching his boot. Dalinar grunted, but bent down and grabbed Elhokar by the arm, then yanked him to his feet, tossing him toward the side of the room. The king stumbled on the rug, crashing through a chair. Round lengths of wood scattered, splinters spraying out. Wide-eyed, Elhokar scrambled to his feet. Dalinar advanced on him. “What has gone wrong with you, Uncle?” Elhokar yelled. “You’re mad! Guards! Assassin in the king’s chamber! Guards!” Elhokar tried to run for the door, but Dalinar threw his shoulder against the king, tossing the younger man to the ground again. Elhokar rolled, but got a hand under himself and climbed to his knees, the other hand to the side. A puff of mist appeared in it as he summoned his Blade. Dalinar kicked the king’s hand just as the Shardblade dropped into it. The blow knocked the Blade free, and it dissolved back to mist immediately. Elhokar frantically swung a fist at Dalinar, but Dalinar caught it, then reached down and hauled the king to his feet. He pulled Elhokar forward and slammed his fist into the king’s breastplate. Elhokar struggled, but Dalinar repeated the move, smashing his gauntlet against the Plate, cracking the steel casings around his fingers, making the king grunt. The next blow shattered Elhokar’s breastplate in an explosion of molten shards. Dalinar dropped the king to the floor. Elhokar struggled to rise again, but the breastplate was a focus for the Shardplate’s power. Missing it left arms and legs heavy. He went to one knee beside the squirming king. Elhokar’s Shardblade formed again, but Dalinar grabbed the king’s wrist and smashed it against the stone floor, knocking the Blade free yet again. It vanished into mist. “Guards!” Elhokar squealed. “Guards, guards, guards!” “They won’t come, Elhokar,” Dalinar said softly. “They’re my men, and I left them with orders not to enter—or let anyone else enter—no matter what they heard. Even if that included pleas for help from you.” Elhokar fell silent. “They are my men, Elhokar,” Dalinar repeated. “I trained them. I placed them there. They’ve always been loyal to me.” “Why, Uncle? What are you doing? Please, tell me.” He was nearly weeping. Dalinar leaned down, getting close enough to smell the king’s breath. “The girth on your horse during the hunt,” Dalinar said quietly. “You cut it yourself, didn’t you?” Elhokar’s eyes grew wider. “The saddles were switched before you came to my camp,” Dalinar said. “You did that because you didn’t want to ruin your favorite saddle when it flew free of the horse. You were planning for it to happen, you made it happen. That’s why you’ve been so certain that the girth was cut.” Cringing, Elhokar nodded. “Someone was trying to kill me, but you wouldn’t believe! I… I worried it might be you! So I
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decided… I…” “You cut your own strap,” Dalinar said, “to create a visible, obvious-seeming attempt on your life. Something that would get me or Sadeas to investigate.” Elhokar hesitated, then nodded again. Dalinar closed his eyes, breathing out slowly. “Don’t you realize what you did, Elhokar? You brought suspicion on me from across the camps! You gave Sadeas an opportunity to destroy me.” He opened his eyes, looking down at the king. “I had to know,” Elhokar whispered. “I couldn’t trust anyone.” He groaned beneath Dalinar’s weight. “What of the cracked gemstones in your Shardplate? Did you place those too?” “No.” “Then maybe you did uncover something,” Dalinar said with a grunt. “I guess you can’t be completely blamed.” “Then you’ll let me up?” “No.” Dalinar leaned down farther. He laid a hand against the king’s chest. Elhokar stopped struggling, looking up in terror. “If I push,” Dalinar said, “you die. Your ribs crack like twigs, your heart is smashed like a grape. Nobody would blame me. They all whisper that the Blackthorn should have taken the throne for himself years ago. Your guard is loyal to me. There would be nobody to avenge you. Nobody would care.” Elhokar breathed out as Dalinar pressed his hand down just slightly. “Do you understand?” Dalinar asked quietly. “No!” Dalinar sighed, then released the younger man and stood up. Elhokar inhaled with a gasp. “Your paranoia may be unfounded,” Dalinar said, “or it may be well founded. Either way, you need to understand something. I am not your enemy.” Elhokar frowned. “So you’re not going to kill me?” “Storms, no! I love you like a son, boy.” Elhokar rubbed his chest. “You… have very odd paternal instincts.” “I spent years following you,” Dalinar said. “I gave you my loyalty, my devotion, and my counsel. I swore myself to you—promising myself, vowing to myself, that I would never covet Gavilar’s throne. All to keep my heart loyal. Despite this, you don’t trust me. You pull a stunt like that one with the girth, implicating me, giving your own enemies position against you without knowing it.” Dalinar stepped toward the king. Elhokar cringed. “Well, now you know,” Dalinar said, voice hard. “If I’d wanted to kill you, Elhokar, I could have done it a dozen times over. A hundred times over. It appears you won’t accept loyalty and devotion as proof of my honesty. Well, if you act like a child, you get treated like one. You know now, for a fact, that I don’t want you dead. For if I did, I would have crushed your chest and been done with it!” He locked eyes with the king. “Now,” Dalinar said, “do you understand?” Slowly, Elhokar nodded. “Good,” Dalinar said. “Tomorrow, you’re going to name me Highprince of War.” “What?” “Sadeas betrayed me today,” Dalinar said. He walked over to the broken desk, kicking at the pieces. The king’s seal rolled out of its customary drawer. He picked it up. “Nearly six thousand of my men were slaughtered. Adolin and I barely survived.” “What?” Elhokar said,
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forcing himself up to a sitting position. “That’s impossible!” “Far from it,” Dalinar said, looking at his nephew. “He saw a chance to pull out, letting the Parshendi destroy us. So he did it. A very Alethi thing to do. Ruthless, yet still allowing him to feign a sense of honor or morality.” “So… you expect me to bring him to trial?” “No. Sadeas is no worse, and no better, than the others. Any of the highprinces would betray their fellows, if they saw a chance to do it without risking themselves. I intend to find a way to unite them in more than just name. Somehow. Tomorrow, once you name me Highprince of War, I will give my Plate to Renarin to fulfill a promise. I’ve already given away my Blade to fulfill a different one.” He walked closer, meeting Elhokar’s eyes again, then gripped the king’s seal in his hand. “As Highprince of War, I will enforce the Codes in all ten camps. Then I’ll coordinate the war eff ort directly, determining which armies get to go on which plateau assaults. All gemhearts will be won by the Throne, then distributed as spoils by you. We’ll change this from a competition to a real war, and I’ll use it to turn these ten armies of ours— and their leaders—into real soldiers.” “Stormfather! They’ll kill us! The highprinces will revolt! I won’t last a week!” “They won’t be pleased, that’s for certain,” Dalinar said. “And yes, this will involve a great deal of danger. We’ll have to be much more careful with our guard. If you’re right, someone is already trying to kill you, so we should be doing that anyway.” Elhokar stared at him, then looked at the broken furniture, rubbing his chest. “You’re serious, aren’t you?” “Yes.” He tossed the seal to Elhokar. “You’re going to have your scribes draw up my appointment right after I leave.” “But I thought you said it was wrong to force men to follow the Codes,” Elhokar said. “You said that the best way to change people was to live right, and then let them be influenced by your example!” “That was before the Almighty lied to me,” Dalinar said. He still didn’t know what to think of that. “Much of what I told you, I learned from The Way of Kings. But I didn’t understand something. Nohadon wrote the book at the end of his life, after creating order—after forcing the kingdoms to unite, after rebuilding lands that had fallen in the Desolation. “The book was written to embody an ideal. It was given to people who already had momentum in doing what was right. That was my mistake. Before any of this can work, our people need to have a minimum level of honor and dignity. Adolin said something to me a few weeks back, something profound. He asked me why I forced my sons to live up to such high expectations, but let others go about their errant ways without condemnation. “I have been treating the other highprinces and their
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lighteyes like adults. An adult can take a principle and adapt it to his needs. But we’re not ready for that yet. We’re children. And when you’re teaching a child, you require him to do what is right until he grows old enough to make his own choices. The Silver Kingdoms didn’t begin as unified, glorious bastions of honor. They were trained that way, raised up, like youths nurtured to maturity.” He strode forward, kneeling down beside Elhokar. The king continued to rub his chest, his Shardplate looking strange with the central piece missing. “We’re going to make something of Alethkar, nephew,” Dalinar said softly. “The highprinces gave their oaths to Gavilar, but now ignore those oaths. Well, it’s time to stop letting them. We’re going to win this war, and we’re going to turn Alethkar into a place that men will envy again. Not because of our military prowess, but because people here are safe and because justice reigns. We’re going to do it—or you and I are going to die in the attempt.” “You say that with eagerness.” “Because I finally know exactly what to do,” Dalinar said, standing up straight. “I was trying to be Nohadon the peacemaker. But I’m not. I’m the Blackthorn, a general and a warlord. I have no talent for back-room politicking, but I am very good at training troops. Starting tomorrow, every man in each of these camps will be mine. As far as I’m concerned, they’re all raw recruits. Even the highprinces.” “Assuming I make the proclamation.” “You will,” Dalinar said. “And in return, I promise to find out who is trying to kill you.” Elhokar snorted, beginning to remove his Shardplate piece by piece. “After that announcement goes out, discovering who’s trying to kill me will become easy. You can put every name in the warcamps on the list!” Dalinar’s smile widened. “At least we won’t have to guess, then. Don’t be so glum, nephew. You learned something today. Your uncle doesn’t want to kill you.” “He just wants to make me a target.” “For your own good, son,” Dalinar said, walking to the door. “Don’t fret too much. I’ve got some plans on how, exactly, to keep you alive.” He opened the door, revealing a nervous group of guards keeping at bay a nervous group of servants and attendants. “He’s just fine,” Dalinar said to them. “See?” He stepped aside, letting the guards and servants in to attend their king. Dalinar turned to go. Then he hesitated. “Oh, and Elhokar? Your mother and I are now courting. You’ll want to start growing accustomed to that.” Despite everything else that had happened in the last few minutes, this got a look of pure astonishment from the king. Dalinar smiled and pulled the door closed, walking away with a firm step. Most everything was still wrong. He was still furious at Sadeas, pained by the loss of so many of his men, confused at what to do with Navani, dumbfounded by his visions, and daunted by the idea of bringing the warcamps to
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unity. But at least now he had something to work with. Shallan lay quietly in the bed of her little hospital room. She’d cried herself dry, then had actually retched into the bedpan, over what she had done. She felt miserable. She’d betrayed Jasnah. And Jasnah knew. Somehow, disappointing the princess felt worse than the theft itself. This entire plan had been foolish from the start. Beyond that, Kabsal was dead. Why did she feel so sick about that? He’d been an assassin, trying to kill Jasnah, willing to risk Shallan’s life to achieve his goals. And yet, she missed him. Jasnah hadn’t seemed surprised that someone would want to kill her; perhaps assassins were a common part of her life. She likely thought Kabsal a hardened killer, but he’d been sweet with Shallan. Could that all really have been a lie? He had to be somewhat sincere, she told herself, curled up on her bed. If he didn’t care for me, why did he work so hard to get me to take the jam? He had handed Shallan the antidote first, rather than taking it himself. And yet, he did take it eventually, she thought. He put that fingerful of jam into his mouth. Why didn’t the antidote save him? This question began to haunt her. As it did, something else struck her, something she would have noticed earlier, had she not been distracted by her own betrayal. Jasnah had eaten the bread. Arms wrapped around herself, Shallan sat up, pulling back to the bed’s headboard. She ate it, but she wasn’t poisoned, she thought. My life makes no sense lately. The creatures with the twisted heads, the place with the dark sky, the Soulcasting… and now this. How had Jasnah survived? How? With trembling fingers, Shallan reached to the pouch on the stand beside her bed. Inside, she found the garnet sphere that Jasnah had used to save her. It gave off weak light; most had been used in the Soulcasting. It was enough light to illuminate her sketchpad sitting beside the bed. Jasnah probably hadn’t even bothered to look through it. She was so dismissive of the visual arts. Next to the sketchpad was the book Jasnah had given her. The Book of Endless Pages. Why had she left that? Shallan picked up the charcoal pencil and flipped through to a blank page in her sketchbook. She passed several pictures of the symbol-headed creatures, some set in this very room. They lurked around her, always. At some times, she thought she saw them in the corners of her eyes. At others, she could hear them whispering. She hadn’t dared speak back to them again. She began to draw, fingers unsteady, sketching Jasnah on that day in the hospital. Sitting beside Shallan’s bed, holding the jam. Shallan hadn’t taken a distinct Memory, and wasn’t as accurate as if she had, but she remembered well enough to draw Jasnah with her finger stuck into the jam. She had raised that finger to smell the strawberries. Why? Why put her finger into
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the jam? Wouldn’t raising the jar to her nose have been enough? Jasnah hadn’t made any faces at the scent. In fact, Jasnah hadn’t mentioned that the jam had spoiled. She’d just replaced the lid and handed back the jar. Shallan flipped to another blank page and drew Jasnah with a piece of bread raised to her lips. After eating it, she’d grimaced. Odd. Shallan lowered her pen, looking at that sketch of Jasnah, piece of bread pinched between her fingers. It wasn’t a perfect reproduction, but it was close enough. In the sketch, it looked like the piece of bread was melting. As if it were squished unnaturally between Jasnah’s fingers as she put it into her mouth. Could it… could it be? Shallan slid out of the bed, gathering the sphere and carrying it in her hand, sketchpad tucked under her arm. The guard was gone. Nobody seemed to care what happened to her; she was being shipped off in the morning anyway. The stone floor was cold beneath her bare feet. She wore only the white robe, and felt almost naked. At least her safehand was covered. There was a door to the city outside at the end of the hallway, and she stepped through it. She crossed quietly through the city, making her way to the Ralinsa, avoiding dark alleyways. She walked up toward the Conclave, long red hair blowing free behind her, drawing more than a few strange looks and stares. It was so late at night that nobody on the roadway cared enough to ask if she wanted help. The master-servants at the entrance to the Conclave let her pass. They recognized her, and more than a few asked if she needed help. She declined, walking alone down to the Veil. She passed inside, then looked up at the walls full of balconies, some of them lit with spheres. Jasnah’s alcove was occupied. Of course it was. Always working, Jasnah was. She’d be particularly bothered by having lost so much time over Shallan’s presumed suicide attempt. The lift felt rickety beneath Shallan’s feet as the parshmen lifted her up to Jasnah’s level. She rode in silence, feeling disconnected from the world around her. Walking around through the palace—through the city—in only a robe? Confronting Jasnah Kholin again? Hadn’t she learned? But what did she have to lose? She walked down the familiar stone hallway to the alcove, weak blue sphere held before her. Jasnah sat at her desk. Her eyes looked uncharacteristically fatigued, dark circles underneath, her face stressed. She looked up and stiffened as she saw Shallan. “You are not welcome here.” Shallan walked in anyway, surprised by how calm she felt. Her hands should be shaking. “Don’t make me call the soldiers to get rid of you,” Jasnah said. “I could have you thrown in prison for a hundred years for what you did. Do you have any idea what—” “The Soulcaster you wear is a fake,” Shallan said quietly. “It was a fake the whole time, even before I made the swap.” Jasnah
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froze. “I wondered why you didn’t notice the switch,” Shallan said, sitting in the room’s other chair. “I spent weeks confused. Had you noticed, but decided to keep quiet in order to catch the thief? Hadn’t you Soulcast in all that time? It didn’t make any sense. Unless the Soulcaster I stole was a decoy.” Jasnah relaxed. “Yes. Very clever of you to realize that. I keep several decoys. You’re not the first to try to steal the fabrial, you see. I keep the real one carefully hidden, of course.” Shallan took out her sketchpad and searched through for a specific picture. It was the image she’d drawn of the strange place with the sea of beads, the floating flames, the distant sun in a black, black sky. Shallan regarded it for a moment. Then she turned it and held it up for Jasnah. The look of utter shock Jasnah displayed was nearly worth the night spent feeling sick and guilty. Jasnah’s eyes bulged and she sputtered for a moment, trying to find words. Shallan blinked, taking a Memory of that. She couldn’t help herself. “Where did you find that?” Jasnah demanded. “What book described that scene to you?” “No book, Jasnah,” Shallan said, lowering the picture. “I visited that place. The night when I accidentally Soulcast the goblet in my room to blood, then covered it up by faking a suicide attempt.” “Impossible. You think I’d believe—” “There is no fabrial, is there, Jasnah? There’s no Soulcaster. There never has been. You use the fake ‘fabrial’ to distract people from the fact that you have the power to Soulcast on your own.” Jasnah fell silent. “I did it too,” Shallan said. “The Soulcaster was tucked away in my safepouch. I wasn’t touching it—but that didn’t matter. It was a fake. What I did, I did without it. Perhaps being near you has changed me, somehow. It has something to do with that place and those creatures.” Again, no reply. “You suspected Kabsal of being an assassin,” Shallan said. “You knew immediately what had happened when I fell; you were expecting poison, or at least were aware that it was possible. But you thought the poison was in the jam. You Soulcast it when you opened the lid and pretended to smell it. You didn’t know how to re-create strawberry jam, and when you tried, you made that vile concoction. You thought to get rid of poison. But you inadvertently Soulcast away the antidote. “You didn’t want to eat the bread either, just in case there was something in it. You always refused it. When I convinced you to take a bite, you Soulcast it into something else as you put it in your mouth. You said you’re terrible at making organic things, and what you created was revolting. But you got rid of the poison, which is why you didn’t succumb to it.” Shallan met her former mistress’s eyes. Was it the fatigue that made her so indifferent to the consequences of confronting this woman? Or was it her knowledge of
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the truth? “You did all that, Jasnah,” Shallan finished, “with a fake Soulcaster. You hadn’t spotted my swap yet. Don’t try to tell me otherwise. I took it on the night when you killed those three thugs.” Jasnah’s violet eyes showed a glimmer of surprise. “Yes,” Shallan said, “that long ago. You didn’t replace it with a decoy. You didn’t know you’d been tricked until I got out the fabrial and let you save me with it. It’s all a lie, Jasnah.” “No,” Jasnah said. “You’re just delusional from your fatigue and the stress.” “Very well,” Shallan said. She stood up, clutching the dim sphere. “I guess I’ll have to show you. If I can.” Creatures, she said in her head. Can you hear me? Yes, always, a whisper came in response. Though she’d hoped to hear it, she still jumped. Can you return me to that place? she asked. You need to tell me something true, it replied. The more true, the stronger our bond. Jasnah is using a fake Soulcaster, Shallan thought. I’m sure that’s a truth. That’s not enough, the voice whispered. I must know something true about you. Tell me. The stronger the truth, the more hidden it is, the more powerful the bond. Tell me. Tell me. What are you? “What am I?” Shallan whispered. “Truthfully?” It was a day for confrontation. She felt strangely strong, steady. Time to speak it. “I’m a murderer. I killed my father.” Ah, the voice whispered. A powerful truth indeed…. And the alcove vanished. Shallan fell, dropping into that sea of dark glass beads. She struggled, trying to stay at the surface. She managed it for a moment. Then something tugged on her leg, pulling her down. She screamed, slipping beneath the surface, tiny beads of glass filling her mouth. She panicked. She was going to— The beads above her parted. Those beneath her surged, bearing her upward, out to where someone stood, hand outstretched. Jasnah, back to the black sky, face lit by nearby hovering flames. Jasnah grasped Shallan’s hand, pulling her upward, onto something. A raft. Made from the beads of glass. They seemed to obey Jasnah’s will. “Idiot girl,” Jasnah said, waving. The oceanlike beads to the left split, and the raft lurched, bearing them sideways toward a few flames of light. Jasnah shoved Shallan into one of the small flames, and she fell backward off the raft. And hit the floor of the alcove. Jasnah sat where she had been, eyes closed. A moment later, she opened them, giving Shallan an angry look. “Idiot girl!” Jasnah repeated. “You have no idea how dangerous that was. Visiting Shadesmar with only a single dim sphere? Idiot!” Shallan coughed, feeling as if she still had beads in her throat. She stumbled to her feet, meeting Jasnah’s gaze. The other woman still looked angry, but said nothing. She knows that I have her, Shallan realized. If I spread the truth… What would it mean? She had strange powers. Did that make Jasnah some kind of Voidbringer? What would people say? No
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wonder she’d created the decoy. “I want to be part of it,” Shallan found herself saying. “Excuse me?” “Whatever you’re doing. Whatever it is you’re researching. I want to be part of it.” “You have no idea what you’re saying.” “I know,” Shallan said. “I’m ignorant. There’s a simple cure for that.” She stepped forward. “I want to know, Jasnah. I want to be your ward in truth. Whatever the source of this thing you can do, I can do it too. I want you to train me and let me be part of your work.” “You stole from me.” “I know,” Shallan said. “And I’m sorry.” Jasnah raised an eyebrow. “I won’t excuse myself,” Shallan said. “But Jasnah, I came here intending to steal from you. I was planning it from the beginning.” “That’s supposed to make me feel better?” “I planned to steal from Jasnah the bitter heretic,” Shallan said. “I didn’t realize I’d come to regret the need for that theft. Not just because of you, but because it meant leaving this. What I’ve come to love. Please. I made a mistake.” “A large one. Insurmountable.” “Don’t make a larger one by sending me away. I can be someone you don’t have to lie to. Someone who knows.” Jasnah sat back. “I stole the fabrial on the night you killed those men, Jasnah,” Shallan said. “I’d decided I couldn’t do it, but you convinced me that truth was not as simple as I thought it. You’ve opened a box full of storms in me. I made a mistake. I’ll make more. I need you.” Jasnah took a deep breath. “Sit down.” Shallan sat. “You will never lie to me again,” Jasnah said, raising a finger. “And you will never steal from me, or anyone, again.” “I promise.” Jasnah sat for a moment, then sighed. “Scoot over here,” she said, pulling open a book. Shallan obeyed as Jasnah took out several sheets filled with notes. “What is this?” Shallan asked. “You wanted to be part of what I’m doing? Well, you’ll need to read this.” Jasnah looked down at the notes. “It’s about the Voidbringers.” Szeth-son-son-Vallano, Truthless of Shinovar, walked with bowed back, carrying a sack of grain down off the ship and onto the docks of Kharbranth. The City of Bells smelled of a fresh ocean morning, peaceful yet excited, fishermen calling to friends as they prepared their nets. Szeth joined the other porters, carrying his sack through the twisting streets. Perhaps another merchant might have used a chull cart, but Kharbranth was infamous for its crowds and its steep walkways. A line of porters was an efficient option. Szeth kept his eyes down. Partially to imitate the look of a worker. Partially to lower his gaze from the blazing sun above, the god of gods, who watched him and saw his shame. Szeth should not have been out during the day. He should have hidden his terrible face. He felt his every step should leave a bloody footprint. The massacres he’d committed these months, working for his hidden
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master… He could hear the dead scream every time he closed his eyes. They grated against his soul, rubbing it to nothing, haunting him, consuming him. So many dead. So very many dead. Was he losing his mind? Each time he went on an assassination, he found himself blaming the victims. He cursed them for not being strong enough to fight back and kill him. During each of his slaughters, he wore white, just as he had been commanded. One foot in front of the other. Don’t think. Don’t focus on what you’ve done. On what you’re… going to do. He had reached the last name on the list: Taravangian, the king of Kharbranth. A beloved monarch, known for building and maintaining hospitals in his city. It was known as far away as Azir that if you were sick, Taravangian would take you in. Come to Kharbranth and be healed. The king loved all. And Szeth was going to kill him. At the top of the steep city, Szeth lugged his sack with the other porters around to the back of the palace structure, entering a dim stone corridor. Taravangian was a simpleminded man. That should have made Szeth feel more guilty, but he found himself consumed by loathing. Taravangian would not be smart enough to prepare for Szeth. Fool. Idiot. Would Szeth never face a foe strong enough to kill him? Szeth had come to the city early and taken the job as a porter. He had needed to research and study, for the instructions commanded him—for once—not to kill anyone else in performing this assassination. Taravangian’s murder was to be done quietly. Why the difference? The instructions stated that he was to deliver a message. “The others are dead. I’ve come to finish the job.” The instructions were explicit: Make certain Taravangian heard and acknowledged the words before harming him. This was looking like a work of vengeance. Someone had sent Szeth to hunt down and destroy the men who had wronged him. Szeth laid his sack down in the palace larder. He turned automatically, following the shuffling line of porters back down the hallway. He nodded toward the servants’ privy, and the portermaster waved for him to go ahead. Szeth had made this same haul on several occasions, and could be trusted—presumably—to do his business and catch up. The privy didn’t smell half as foul as he had anticipated. It was a dark room, cut into the underground cavern, but a candle burned beside a man standing at the pissing trough. He nodded to Szeth, tying up the front of his trousers and wiping his fingers on the sides as he walked to the door. He took his candle, but kindly lit a leftover stub before withdrawing. As soon as he was gone, Szeth infused himself with Stormlight from his pouch and laid his hand on the door, performing a Full Lashing between it and the frame, locking it closed. His Shardblade came out next. In the palace, everything was built downward. Trusting the maps he’d purchased, he knelt
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and carved a square of rock from the floor, wider at the bottom. As it began to slide down, Szeth infused it with Stormlight, performing half a Basic Lashing upward, making the rock weightless. Next, he Lashed himself upward with a subtle Lashing that left him weighing only a tenth his normal weight. He leapt onto the rock, and his lessened weight pushed the rock down slowly. He rode it down into the room below. Three couches with plush violet cushions lined the walls, sitting beneath fine silver mirrors. The lighteyes’ privy. A lamp burned with a small flame in the sconce, but Szeth was alone. The stone thumped softly to the floor, and Szeth leaped off. He shed his clothing, revealing a black and white master-servant’s outfit underneath. He took a matching cap from the pocket and slipped it on, reluctantly dismissed his Blade, then slipped into the hallway and quickly Lashed the door shut. These days, he rarely gave a thought to the fact that he walked on stone. Once, he would have revered a corridor of rock like this. Had that man once been him? Had he ever revered anything? Szeth hurried onward. His time was short. Fortunately, King Taravangian kept a strict schedule. Seventh bell: private reflection in his study. Szeth could see the doorway into the study ahead, guarded by two soldiers. Szeth bowed his head, hiding his Shin eyes and hurrying up to them. One of the men held out his hand wardingly, so Szeth grabbed it, twisting, shattering the wrist. He smashed his elbow into the man’s face, throwing him back against the wall. The man’s stunned companion opened his mouth to yell, but Szeth kicked him in the stomach. Even without a Shardblade, he was dangerous, infused with Stormlight and trained in kammar. He grabbed the second guard by the hair and slammed his forehead against the rock floor. Then he rose and kicked open the door. He walked into a room well illuminated by a double row of lamps on the left. Crammed bookcases covered the right wall from floor to ceiling. A man sat cross-legged on a small rug directly ahead of Szeth. The man looked out an enormous window cut through the rock, staring at the ocean beyond. Szeth strode forward. “I have been instructed to tell you that the others are dead. I’ve come to finish the job.” He raised his hands, Shardblade forming. The king did not turn. Szeth hesitated. He had to make certain the man acknowledged what had been said. “Did you hear me?” Szeth demanded, striding forward. “Did you kill my guards, Szeth-son-son-Vallano?” the king asked quietly. Szeth froze. He cursed and stepped backward, raising his Blade in a defensive stance. Another trap? “You have done your work well,” the king said, still not facing him. “Leaders dead, lives lost. Panic and chaos. Was this your destiny? Do you wonder? Given that monstrosity of a Shardblade by your people, cast out and absolved of any sin your masters might require of you?” “I am not absolved,”
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Szeth said, still wary. “It is a common mistake stone-walkers make. Each life I take weighs me down, eating away at my soul.” The voices… the screams… spirits below, I can hear them howling…. “Yet you kill.” “It is my punishment,” Szeth said. “To kill, to have no choice, but to bear the sins nonetheless. I am Truthless.” “Truthless,” the king mused. “I would say that you know much truth. More than your countrymen, now.” He finally turned to face Szeth, and Szeth saw that he had been wrong about this man. King Taravangian was no simpleton. He had keen eyes and a wise, knowing face, rimmed with a full white beard, the mustaches drooping like arrow points. “You have seen what death and murder do to a man. You could say, Szeth-son-son-Vallano, that you bear great sins for your people. You understand what they cannot. And so you have truth.” Szeth frowned. And then it began to make sense. He knew what would happen next, even as the king reached into his voluminous sleeve and withdrew a small rock that glittered in the light of two dozen lamps. “You were always him,” Szeth said. “My unseen master.” The king set the rock on the ground between them. Szeth’s Oathstone. “You put your own name on the list,” Szeth said. “In case you were captured,” Taravangian said. “The best defense against suspicion is to be grouped with the victims.” “And if I’d killed you?” “The instructions were explicit,” Taravangian said. “And, as we have determined, you are quite good at following them. I probably needn’t say it, but I order you not to harm me. Now, did you kill my guards?” “I do not know,” Szeth said, forcing himself to drop to one knee and dismissing his Blade. He spoke loudly, trying to drown out the screams that he thought—for certain—must be coming from the upper eaves of the room. “I knocked them both unconscious. I believe I cracked one man’s skull.” Taravangian breathed out, sighing. He rose, stepping to the doorway. Szeth glanced over his shoulder to note the aged king inspecting the guards and seeing to their wounds. Taravangian called for help, and other guards arrived to see to the men. Szeth was left with a terrible storm of emotions. This kindly, contemplative man had sent him to kill and murder? He had caused the screams? Taravangian returned. “Why?” Szeth asked, voice hoarse. “Vengeance?” “No.” Taravangian sounded very tired. “Some of those men you killed were my dear friends, Szeth-son-son-Vallano.” “More insurance?” Szeth spat. “To keep yourself from suspicion?” “In part. And in part because their deaths were necessary.” “Why?” Szeth asked. “What could it possibly have served?” “Stability. Those you killed were among the most powerful and influential men in Roshar.” “How does that help stability?” “Sometimes,” Taravangian said, “you must tear down a structure to build a new one with stronger walls.” He turned around, looking out over the ocean. “And we are going to need strong walls in the coming years. Very, very strong walls.” “Your words
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are like the hundred doves.” “Easy to release, difficult to keep,” Taravangian said, speaking the words in Shin. Szeth looked up sharply. This man spoke the Shin language and knew his people’s proverbs? Odd to find in a stonewalker. Odder to find in a murderer. “Yes, I speak your language. Sometimes I wonder if the Lifebrother himself sent you to me.” “To bloody myself so that you wouldn’t have to,” Szeth said. “Yes, that sounds like something one of your Vorin gods would do.” Taravangian fell quiet. “Get up,” he finally said. Szeth obeyed. He would always obey his master. Taravangian led him to a door set into the side of the study. The aged man pulled a sphere lamp off the wall, lighting a winding stairwell of deep, narrow steps. They followed it and eventually came to a landing. Taravangian pushed open another door and entered a large room that wasn’t on any of the palace maps that Szeth had purchased or bribed a look at. It was long, with wide railings on the sides, giving it a terraced look. Everything was painted white. It was filled with beds. Hundreds and hundreds of them. Many were occupied. Szeth followed the king, frowning. An enormous hidden room, cut into the stone of the Conclave? People bustled about wearing coats of white. “A hospital?” Szeth said. “You expect me to find your humanitarian eff orts a redemption for what you have commanded of me?” “This is not humanitarian work,” Taravangian said, walking forward slowly, white-and-orange robes rustling. Those they passed bowed to him with reverence. Taravangian led Szeth to an alcove of beds, each with a sickly person in it. There were healers working on them. Doing something to their arms. Draining their blood. A woman with a writing clipboard stood near the beds, pen held, waiting for something. What? “I don’t understand,” Szeth said, watching in horror as the four patients grew pale. “You’re killing them, aren’t you?” “Yes. We don’t need the blood; it is merely a way to kill slowly and easily.” “Every one of them? The people in this room?” “We try to select only the worst cases to move here, for once they are brought to this place, we cannot let them leave if they begin to recover.” He turned to Szeth, eyes sorrowful. “Sometimes we need more bodies than the terminally sick can provide. And so we must bring the forgotten and the lowly. Those who will not be missed.” Szeth couldn’t speak. He couldn’t voice his horror and revulsion. In front of him, one of the victims—a man in his younger years—expired. Two of those remaining were children. Szeth stepped forward. He had to stop this. He had to— “You will still yourself,” Taravangian said. “And you will return to my side.” Szeth did as his master commanded. What were a few more deaths? Just another set of screams to haunt him. He could hear them now, coming from beneath beds, behind furniture. Or I could kill him, Szeth thought. I could stop this. He nearly
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did it. But honor prevailed, for the moment. “You see, Szeth-son-son-Vallano,” Taravangian said. “I did not send you to do my bloody work for me. I do it here, myself. I have personally held the knife and released the blood from the veins of many. Much like you, I know I cannot escape my sins. We are two men of one heart. This is one reason why I sought you out.” “But why?” Szeth said. On the beds, a dying youth started speaking. One of the women with the clipboards stepped forward quickly, recording the words. “The day was ours, but they took it,” the boy cried. “Stormfather! You cannot have it. The day is ours. They come, rasping, and the lights fail. Oh, Stormfather!” The boy arched his back, then fell still suddenly, eyes dead. The king turned to Szeth. “It is better for one man to sin than for a people to be destroyed, wouldn’t you say, Szeth-son-son-Vallano?” “I…” “We do not know why some speak when others do not,” Taravangian said. “But the dying see something. It began seven years ago, about the time when King Gavilar was investigating the Shattered Plains for the first time.” His eyes grew distant. “It is coming, and these people see it. On that bridge between life and the endless ocean of death, they view something. Their words might save us.” “You are a monster.” “Yes,” Taravangian said. “But I am the monster who will save this world.” He looked at Szeth. “I have a name to add to your list. I had hoped to avoid doing this, but recent events have made it inevitable. I cannot let him seize control. It will undermine everything.” “Who?” Szeth asked, wondering if anything at all could horrify him further. “Dalinar Kholin,” Taravangian said. “I’m afraid it must be done quickly, before he can unite the Alethi highprinces. You will go to the Shattered Plains and end him.” He hesitated. “It must be done brutally, I’m afraid.” “I have rarely had the luxury of working otherwise,” Szeth said, closing his eyes. The screams greeted him. “Before I read,” Shallan said, “I need to understand something. You Soulcast my blood, didn’t you?” “To remove the poison,” Jasnah said. “Yes. It acted extremely quickly; as I said, it must have been a very concentrated form of the powder. I had to Soulcast your blood several times as we got you to vomit. Your body continued to absorb the poison.” “But you said you aren’t good with organics,” Shallan said. “You turned the strawberry jam into something inedible.” “Blood isn’t the same,” Jasnah said, waving her hand. “It’s one of the Essences. You’ll learn this, should I actually decide to teach you Soulcasting. For now, know that the pure form of an Essence is quite easy to make; the eight kinds of blood are easier to create than water, for instance. Creating something as complex as strawberry jam, however—a mush made from a fruit I’d never before tasted or smelled—was well beyond my abilities.” “And the ardents,” Shallan said.
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“Those who Soulcast? Do they actually use fabrials, or is it all a hoax?” “No, Soulcasting fabrials are real. Quite real. So far as I know, everyone else who does what I—what we—can do uses a fabrial to accomplish it.” “What of the creatures with the symbol heads?” Shallan asked. She flipped through her sketches, then held up an image of them. “Do you see them too? How are they related?” Jasnah frowned, taking the image. “You see beings like this? In Shadesmar?” “They appear in my drawings,” Shallan said. “They’re around me, Jasnah. You don’t see them? Am I—” Jasnah held up a hand. “These are a type of spren, Shallan. They are related to what you do.” She tapped the desk softly. “Two orders of the Knights Radiant possessed inherent Soulcasting ability; it was based on their powers that the original fabrials were designed, I believe. I had assumed that you… But no, that obviously wouldn’t make sense. I see now.” “What?” “I will explain as I train you,” Jasnah said, handing back the sheet. “You will need a greater foundation before you can grasp it. Suffice it to say that each Radiant’s abilities were tied to the spren.” “Wait, Radiants? But—” “I will explain,” Jasnah said. “But first, we must speak of the Voidbringers.” Shallan nodded. “You think they’ll return, don’t you?” Jasnah studied her. “What makes you say that?” “The legends say the Voidbringers came a hundred times to try to destroy mankind,” Shallan continued. “I… read some of your notes.” “You what?” “I was looking for information on Soulcasting,” Shallan confessed. Jasnah sighed. “Well, I suppose it is the least of your crimes.” “I can’t understand,” Shallan said. “Why are you bothering with these stories of myths and shadows? Other scholars—scholars I know you respect—consider the Voidbringers to be a fabrication. Yet you chase stories from rural farmers and write them down in your notebook. Why, Jasnah? Why do you have faith in this when you reject things that are so much more plausible?” Jasnah looked over her sheets of paper. “Do you know the real difference between me and a believer, Shallan?” Shallan shook her head. “It strikes me that religion—in its essence—seeks to take natural events and ascribe supernatural causes to them. I, however, seek to take supernatural events and find the natural meanings behind them. Perhaps that is the final dividing line between science and religion. Opposite sides of a card.” “So… you think…” “The Voidbringers had a natural, real-world correlate,” Jasnah said firmly. “I’m certain of it. Something caused the legends.” “What was it?” Jasnah handed Shallan a page of notes. “These are the best I’ve been able to find. Read them. Tell me what you think.” Shallan scanned the page. Some of the quotes—or at least the concepts—were familiar to her from what she’d read already. Suddenly dangerous. Like a calm day that became a tempest. “They were real,” Jasnah repeated. Beings of ash and fire. “We fought with them,” Jasnah said. “We fought so often that men began to speak of
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the creatures in metaphor. A hundred battles—ten tenfolds…” Flame and char. Skin so terrible. Eyes like pits of blackness. Music when they kill. “We defeated them…” Jasnah said. Shallan felt a chill. “…but the legends lie about one thing,” Jasnah continued. “They claim we chased the Voidbringers off the face of Roshar or destroyed them. But that’s not how humans work. We don’t throw away something we can use.” Shallan rose, walking to the edge of the balcony, looking out at the lift, which was slowly being lowered by its two porters. Parshmen. With skin of black and red. Ash and fire. “Stormfather…” Shallan whispered, horrified. “We didn’t destroy the Voidbringers,” Jasnah said from behind, her voice haunted. “We enslaved them.” The chill spring weather might finally have slipped back into summer. It was still cool at night, but not uncomfortably so. Kaladin stood on Dalinar Kholin’s staging ground, looking eastward over the Shattered Plains. Ever since the failed betrayal and subsequent rescue earlier, Kaladin had found himself nervous. Freedom. Bought with a Shardblade. It seemed impossible. His every life experience taught him to expect a trap. He clasped his hands behind him; Syl sat on his shoulder. “Dare I trust him?” he asked softly. “He’s a good man,” Syl said. “I’ve watched him. Despite that thing he carried.” “That thing?” “The Shardblade.” “What do you care about it?” “I don’t know,” she said, wrapping her arms around herself. “It just feels wrong to me. I hate it. I’m glad he got rid of it. Makes him a better man.” Nomon, the middle moon, began to rise. Bright and pale blue, bathing the horizon in light. Somewhere, out across the Plains, was the Parshendi Shardbearer that Kaladin had fought. He’d stabbed the man in the leg from behind. The watching Parshendi had not interfered with the duel and had avoided attacking Kaladin’s wounded bridgemen, but Kaladin had attacked one of their champions from the most cowardly position possible, interfering with a fight. He was bothered by what he’d done, and that frustrated him. A warrior couldn’t worry about who he attacked or how. Survival was the only rule of the battlefield. Well, survival and loyalty. And he sometimes let wounded enemies live if they weren’t a threat. And he saved young soldiers who needed protection. And… And he’d never been good at doing what a warrior should. Today, he’d saved a highprince—another lighteyes—and along with him thousands of soldiers. Saved them by killing Parshendi. “Can you kill to protect?” Kaladin asked out loud. “Is that a self-contradiction?” “I… I don’t know.” “You acted strangely in the battle,” Kaladin said. “Swirling around me. After that, you left. I didn’t see much of you.” “The killing,” she said softly. “It hurt me. I had to go.” “Yet you’re the one who prompted me to go and save Dalinar. You wanted me to return and kill.” “I know.” “Teft said that the Radiants held to a standard,” Kaladin said. “He said that by their rules, you shouldn’t do terrible things to accomplish great ones. Yet
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what did I do today? Slaughter Parshendi in order to save Alethi. What of that? They aren’t innocent, but neither are we. Not by a faint breeze or a stormwind.” Syl didn’t reply. “If I hadn’t gone to save Dalinar’s men,” Kaladin said, “I would have allowed Sadeas to commit a terrible betrayal. I’d have let men die who I could have saved. I’d have been sick and disgusted with myself. I also lost three good men, bridgemen who were mere breaths away from freedom. Are the lives of the others worth that?” “I don’t have the answers, Kaladin.” “Does anyone?” Footsteps came from behind. Syl turned. “It’s him.” The moon had just risen. Dalinar Kholin, it appeared, was a punctual man. He stepped up beside Kaladin. He carried a bundle under his arm, and he had a military air about him, even without his Shardplate on. In fact, he was more impressive without it. His muscular build indicated that he did not rely on his Plate to give him strength, and the neatly pressed uniform indicated a man who understood that others were inspired when their leader looked the part. Others have looked just as noble, Kaladin thought. But would any man trade a Shardblade just to keep up appearances? And if they would, at what point did the appearance become reality? “I’m sorry to make you meet me so late,” Dalinar said. “I know it has been a long day.” “I doubt I could have slept anyway.” Dalinar grunted softly, as if he understood. “Your men are seen to?” “Yes,” Kaladin said. “Quite well, actually. Thank you.” Kaladin had been given empty barracks for the bridgemen and they had received medical attention from Dalinar’s best surgeons—they’d gotten it before the wounded lighteyed officers had. The other bridgemen, the ones who weren’t from Bridge Four, had accepted Kaladin immediately, without any deliberation on the matter, as their leader. Dalinar nodded. “How many, do you suspect, will take my offer of a purse and freedom?” “A fair number of the men from other crews will. But I’ll wager an even larger number won’t. Bridgemen don’t think of escape or freedom. They wouldn’t know what to do with themselves. As for my own crew… Well, I have a feeling that they’ll insist on doing whatever I do. If I stay, they’ll stay. If I go, they’ll go.” Dalinar nodded. “And what will you do?” “I haven’t decided yet.” “I spoke to my officers.” Dalinar grimaced. “The ones who survived. They said that you gave orders to them, took charge like a lighteyes. My son still feels bitter about the way your… conversation with him went.” “Even a fool could see he wasn’t going to be able to get to you. As for the officers, most were in shock or run ragged. I merely nudged them.” “I owe you my life twice over,” Dalinar said. “And that of my son and my men.” “You paid that debt.” “No,” Dalinar said. “But I’ve done what I can.” He eyed Kaladin, as if sizing him up,
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judging him. “Why did your bridge crew come for us? Why, really?” “Why did you give up your Shardblade?” Dalinar held his eyes, then nodded. “Fair enough. I have an offer for you. The king and I are about to do something very, very dangerous. Something that will upset all the warcamps.” “Congratulations.” Dalinar smiled faintly. “My honor guard has nearly been wiped out, and the men I do have are needed to augment the King’s Guard. My trust is stretched thin these days. I need someone to protect me and my family. I want you and your men for that job.” “You want a bunch of bridgemen as bodyguards?” “The elite ones as bodyguards,” Dalinar said. “Those in your crew, the ones you trained. I want the rest as soldiers for my army. I have heard how well your men fought. You trained them without Sadeas’s knowing, all while running bridges. I’m curious to see what you could do with the right resources.” Dalinar turned away, glancing northward. Toward Sadeas’s camp. “My army is depleted. I’m going to need every man I can get, but everyone I recruit is going to be suspect. Sadeas will try to send spies into our camp. And traitors. And assassins. Elhokar thinks we won’t last a week.” “Stormfather,” Kaladin said. “What are you planning?” “I’m going to take away their games, fully expecting them to react like children losing their favored toy.” “These children have armies and Shardblades.” “Unfortunately.” “And this is what you want me to protect you from?” “Yes.” No quibbling. Straightforward. There was much to respect about that. “I’ll augment Bridge Four to become the honor guard,” Kaladin said. “And train the rest as a spearman company. Those in the honor guard get paid like it.” Generally, a lighteyes’s personal guard got triple a standard spearman’s wage. “Of course.” “And I want space to train,” Kaladin said. “Full right of requisition from the quartermasters. I get to set my men’s schedule, and we appoint our own sergeants and squadleaders. We don’t answer to any lighteyes but yourself, your sons, and the king.” Dalinar raised an eyebrow. “That last one is a little… irregular.” “You want me to guard you and your family?” Kaladin said. “Against the other highprinces and their assassins, who might infiltrate your army and your officers? Well, I can’t be in a position where any lighteyes in the camp can order me around, now can I?” “You have a point,” Dalinar said. “You realize, however, that in doing this I would essentially be giving you the same authority as a lighteyes of fourth dahn. You’d be in charge of a thousand former bridgemen. A full battalion.” “Yes.” Dalinar thought for a moment. “Very well. Consider yourself appointed to the rank of captain—that’s as high as I dare appoint a darkeyes. If I named you battalionlord, it would cause a whole mess of problems. I’ll let it be known, however, that you’re outside the chain of command. You don’t order around lighteyes of lesser rank than you, and lighteyes of
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higher rank have no authority over you.” “All right,” Kaladin said. “But these soldiers I train, I want them assigned to patrolling, not plateau runs. I hear you’ve had several full battalions hunting bandits, keeping the peace in the Outer Market, that sort of thing. That’s where my men go for one year, at least.” “Easy enough,” Dalinar said. “You want time to train them before throwing them into battle, I assume.” “That, and I killed a lot of Parshendi today. I found myself regretting their deaths. They showed me more honor than most members of my own army have. I didn’t like the feeling, and I want some time to think about it. The bodyguards I train for you, we’ll go out onto the field, but our primary purpose will be protecting you, not killing Parshendi.” Dalinar looked bemused. “All right. Though you shouldn’t have to worry. I don’t plan to be on the front lines much in the future. My role is changing. Regardless, we have a deal.” Kaladin held out a hand. “This is contingent on my men agreeing.” “I thought you said that they’d do what you did.” “Probably,” Kaladin said. “I command them, but I don’t own them.” Dalinar reached out, taking his hand, shaking it by the light of the rising sapphire moon. Then he took the bundle out from underneath his arm. “Here.” “What is this?” Kaladin said, taking the bundle. “My cloak. The one I wore to battle today, washed and patched.” Kaladin unfurled it. It was of a deep blue, with the glyphpair of khokh and linil sewn into the back in white embroidery. “Each man who wears my colors,” Dalinar said, “is of my family, in a way. The cloak is a simple gift, but it is one of the few things I can offer that has any meaning. Accept it with my gratitude, Kaladin Stormblessed.” Kaladin slowly refolded the cloak. “Where did you hear that name?” “Your men,” Dalinar said. “They think very highly of you. And that makes me think very highly of you. I need men like you, like all of you.” He narrowed his eyes, looking thoughtful. “The whole kingdom needs you. Perhaps all of Roshar. The True Desolation comes….” “What was that last part?” “Nothing,” Dalinar said. “Please, go get some rest, Captain. I hope to hear good news from you soon.” Kaladin nodded and withdrew, passing the two men who acted as Dalinar’s guard for the night. The hike back to his new barracks was a short one. Dalinar had given him one building for each of the bridge crews. Over a thousand men. What was he going to do with so many? He’d never commanded a group larger than twenty-five before. Bridge Four’s barrack was empty. Kaladin hesitated outside the doorway, looking in. The barrack was furnished with a bunk and locking chest for each man. It seemed a palace. He smelled smoke. Frowning, he rounded the barrack to find the men sitting around a firepit in the back, relaxing on stumps or stones, waiting
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as Rock cooked them a pot of stew. They were listening to Teft, who sat with his arm bandaged, speaking quietly. Shen was there; the quiet parshman sat at the very edge of the group. They’d recovered him, along with their wounded, from Sadeas’s camp. Teft cut off as soon as he saw Kaladin, and the men turned, most of them bearing bandages of some sort. Dalinar wants these for his bodyguards? Kaladin thought. They were a ragged bunch indeed. As it happened, however, he seconded Dalinar’s choice. If he were going to put his life in someone’s hands, he’d choose this group. “What are you doing?” Kaladin asked sternly. “You should all be resting.” The bridgemen glanced at each other. “It just…” Moash said. “It didn’t feel right to go to sleep until we’d had a chance to… well, do this.” “Hard to sleep on a day like this, gancho,” Lopen added. “Speak for yourself,” Skar said, yawning, wounded leg resting up on a stump. “But the stew is worth staying up for. Even if he does put rocks in it.” “I do not!” Rock snapped. “Airsick lowlanders.” They’d left a place for Kaladin. He sat down, using Dalinar’s cloak as a cushion for his back and head. He gratefully took a bowl of stew that Drehy handed him. “We’ve been talking about what the men saw today,” Teft said. “The things you did.” Kaladin hesitated, spoon to his mouth. He’d nearly forgotten—or maybe he’d intentionally forgotten—that he’d shown his men what he could do with Stormlight. Hopefully Dalinar’s soldiers hadn’t seen. His Stormlight had been faint by then, the day bright. “I see,” Kaladin said, his appetite fleeing. Did they see him as different? Frightening? Something to be ostracized, as his father had been back in Hearthstone? Worse yet, something to be worshipped? He looked into their wide eyes and braced himself. “It was amazing!” Drehy said, leaning forward. “You’re one of the Radiants,” Skar said, pointing. “I believe it, even if Teft says you aren’t.” “He isn’t yet,” Teft snapped. “Don’t you listen?” “Can you teach me to do what you did?” Moash cut in. “I’ll learn too, gancho,” Lopen said. “You know, if you’re teaching and all.” Kaladin blinked, overwhelmed, as the others chimed in. “What can you do?” “How does it feel?” “Can you fly?’ He held up a hand, stanching the questions. “Aren’t you alarmed by what you saw?” Several of the men shrugged. “It kept you alive, gancho,” Lopen said. “The only thing I’d be alarmed about is how irresistible the women would find it. ‘Lopen,’ they’d say, ‘you only have one arm, but I see that you can glow. I think that you should kiss me now.’” “But it’s strange and frightening,” Kaladin protested. “This is what the Radiants did! Everyone knows they were traitors.” “Yeah,” Moash said, snorting. “Just like everyone knows that the light-eyes are chosen by the Almighty to rule, and how they’re always noble and just.” “We’re Bridge Four,” Skar added. “We’ve been around. We’ve lived in the crem and
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been used as bait. If it helps you survive, it’s good. That’s all that needs to be said about it.” “So can you teach it?” Moash asked. “Can you show us how to do what you do?” “I… I don’t know if it can be taught,” Kaladin said, glancing at Syl, who bore a curious expression as she sat on a nearby rock. “I’m not certain what it is.” They looked crestfallen. “But,” Kaladin added, “that doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t try.” Moash smiled. “Can you do it?” Drehy asked, fishing out a sphere, a small glowing diamond chip. “Right now? I want to see it when I’m expecting it.” “It’s not a feastday sport, Drehy,” Kaladin said. “Don’t you think we deserve it?” Sigzil leaned forward on his stone. Kaladin paused. Then, hesitantly, he reached out a finger and touched the sphere. He inhaled sharply; drawing in the Light was becoming more and more natural. The sphere faded. Stormlight began to trickle from Kaladin’s skin, and he breathed normally to make it leak faster, making it more visible. Rock pulled out a ragged old blanket—used for kindling— and tossed it over the fire, disturbing the flamespren and making a few moments of darkness before the flames chewed through. In that darkness, Kaladin glowed, pure white Light rising from his skin. “Storms…” Drehy breathed. “So, what can you do with it?” Skar asked, eager. “You didn’t answer.” “I’m not entirely certain what I can do,” Kaladin said, holding his hand up in front of him. It faded in a moment, and the fire burned through the blanket, lighting them all again. “I’ve only known about it for sure for a few weeks. I can draw arrows toward me and can make rocks stick together. The Light makes me stronger and faster, and it heals my wounds.” “How much stronger does it make you?” Sigzil said. “How much weight can the rocks bear after you stick them together, and how long do they remain bonded? How much faster do you get? Twice as fast? A quarter again as fast? How far away can an arrow be when you draw it toward you, and can you draw other things as well?” Kaladin blinked. “I… I don’t know.” “Well, it seems pretty important to know that kind of stuff,” Skar said, rubbing his chin. “We can do tests,” Rock folded his arms, smiling. “Is good idea.” “Maybe it will help us figure out how we can do it too,” Moash noted. “Is not thing to learn.” Rock shook his head. “Is of the holetental. For him only.” “You don’t know that for certain,” Teft said. “You don’t know for certain I don’t know for certain.” Rock wagged a spoon at him. “Eat your stew.” Kaladin held up his hands. “You can’t tell anyone about this, men. They’ll be frightened of me, maybe think I’m related to the Voidbringers or the Radiants. I need your oaths on this.” He looked at them, and they nodded, one by one. “But we want to help,” Skar said. “Even
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if we can’t learn it. This thing is part of you, and you’re one of us. Bridge Four. Right?” Kaladin looked at their eager faces and couldn’t stop himself from nodding. “Yes. Yes, you can help.” “Excellent,” Sigzil said. “I’ll prepare a list of tests to gauge speed, accuracy, and the strength of these bonds you can create. We’ll have to find a way to determine if there’s anything else you can do.” “Throw him off cliff,” Rock said. “What good will that do?” Peet asked. Rock shrugged. “If he has other abilities, this thing will make them come out, eh? Nothing like falling from cliff to make a man out of a boy!” Kaladin regarded him with a sour expression, and Rock laughed. “It will be small cliff.” He held up his thumb and forefinger to indicate a tiny amount. “I like you too much for large one.” “I think you’re joking,” Kaladin said, taking a bite of his stew. “But just to be safe, I’m sticking you to the ceiling tonight to keep you from trying any experiments while I’m asleep.” The bridgemen chuckled. “Just don’t glow too brightly while we’re trying to sleep, eh, gancho?” Lopen said. “I’ll do my best.” He took another spoonful of stew. It tasted better than usual. Had Rock changed the recipe? Or was it something else? As he settled back to eat, the other bridgemen began chatting, speaking of home and their pasts, things that had once been taboo. Several of the men from other crews—wounded whom Kaladin had helped, even just a few lonely souls who were still awake— wandered over. The men of Bridge Four welcomed them, handing over stew and making room. Everyone looked as exhausted as Kaladin felt, but nobody spoke of turning in. He could see why, now. Being together, eating Rock’s stew, listening to the quiet chatter while the fire crackled and popped, sending dancing flakes of yellow light into the air… This was more relaxing than sleep could be. Kaladin smiled, leaning back, looking upward toward the dark sky and the large sapphire moon. Then he closed his eyes, listening. Three more men were dead. Malop, Earless Jaks, and Narm. Kaladin had failed them. But he and Bridge Four had protected hundreds of others. Hundreds who would never have to run a bridge again, would never have to face Parshendi arrows, would never have to fight again if they didn’t want to. More personally, twenty-seven of his friends lived. Partially because of what he’d done, partially because of their own heroism. Twenty-seven men lived. He’d finally managed to save someone. For now, that was enough. Shallan rubbed her eyes. She’d read through Jasnah’s notes—at least the most important ones. Those alone had made a large stack. She still sat in the alcove, though they’d sent a parshman to get her a blanket to wrap around herself, covering up the hospital robe. Her eyes burned from the night spent crying, then reading. She was exhausted. And yet she also felt alive. “It’s true,” she said. “You’re right.
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The Voidbringers are the parshmen. I can see no other conclusion.” Jasnah smiled, looking oddly pleased with herself, considering that she’d only convinced one person. “So what next?” Shallan asked. “That has to do with your previous studies.” “My studies? You mean your father’s death?” “Indeed.” “The Parshendi attacked him,” Shallan said. “Killed him suddenly, without warning.” She focused on the other woman. “That’s what made you begin studying all of this, isn’t it?” Jasnah nodded. “Those wild parshmen—the Parshendi of the Shattered Plains—are the key.” She leaned forward. “Shallan. The disaster awaiting us is all too real, all too terrible. I don’t need mystical warnings or theological sermons to frighten me. I’m downright terrified in my own right.” “But we have the parshmen tamed.” “Do we? Shallan, think of what they do, how they’re regarded, how often they’re used.” Shallan hesitated. The parshmen were pervasive. “They serve our food,” Jasnah continued. “They work our storehouses. They tend our children. There isn’t a village in Roshar that doesn’t have some parshmen. We ignore them; we just expect them to be there, doing as they do. Working without complaint. “Yet one group turned suddenly from peaceful friends to slaughtering warriors. Something set them off. Just as it did hundreds of years ago, during the days known as the Heraldic Epochs. There would be a period of peace, followed by an invasion of parshmen who—for reasons nobody understood—had suddenly gone mad with anger and rage. This was what was behind mankind’s fight to keep from being ‘banished to Damnation.’ This was what nearly ended our civilization. This was the terrible, repeated cataclysm that was so frightening men began to speak of them as Desolations. “We’ve nurtured the parshmen. We’ve integrated them into every part of our society. We depend on them, never realizing that we’ve harnessed a highstorm waiting to explode. The accounts from the Shattered Plains speak of these Parshendi’s ability to communicate among themselves, allowing them to sing their songs in unison when far apart. Their minds are connected, like spanreeds. Do you realize what that means?” Shallan nodded. What would happen if every parshman on Roshar suddenly turned against his masters? Seeking freedom, or worse—vengeance? “We’d be devastated. Civilization as we know it could collapse. We have to do something!” “We are,” Jasnah said. “We’re gathering facts, making certain we know what we think we know.” “And how many facts do we need?” “More. Many more.” Jasnah glanced at the books. “There are some things about the histories I don’t yet understand. Tales of creatures fighting alongside the parshmen, beasts of stone that might be some kind of greatshell, and other oddities that I think may have truth to them. But we’ve exhausted what Kharbranth can offer. Are you still certain you want to delve into this? It is a heavy burden we will bear. You won’t be returning to your estates for some time.” Shallan bit her lip, thinking of her brothers. “You’d let me go now, after what I know?” “I won’t have you serving me while thinking of
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ways to escape.” Jasnah sounded exhausted. “I can’t just abandon my brothers.” Shallan’s insides twisted again. “But this is bigger than them. Damnation—it’s bigger than me or you or any of us. I have to help, Jasnah. I can’t walk out on this. I’ll find some other way to help my family.” “Good. Then go pack our things. We’re leaving tomorrow on that ship I chartered for you.” “We’re going to Jah Keved?” “No. We need to get to the center of it all.” She looked at Shallan. “We’re going to the Shattered Plains. We need to find out if the Parshendi were ever ordinary parshmen, and if so, what set them off. Perhaps I am wrong about this, but if I am right, then the Parshendi could hold the key to turning ordinary parshmen into soldiers.” Then, grimly, she continued. “And we need to do it before someone else does, then uses it against us.” “Someone else?” Shallan asked, feeling a sharp stab of panic. “There are others looking for this?” “Of course there are. Who do you think went to so much trouble trying to have me assassinated?” She reached into a stack of papers on her desk. “I don’t know much about them. For all I know, there are many groups searching for these secrets. I know of one for certain, however. They call themselves the Ghostbloods.” She pulled out a sheet. “Your friend Kabsal was one. We found their symbol tattooed on the inside of his arm.” She set the sheet down. On it was a symbol of three diamonds in a pattern, overlapping one another. It was the same symbol that Nan Balat had shown her weeks ago. The symbol worn by Luesh, her father’s steward, the man who had known how to use the Soulcaster. The symbol worn by the men who had come, pressuring her family to return it. The men who had been financing Shallan’s father in his bid to become highprince. “Almighty above,” Shallan whispered. She looked up. “Jasnah, I think… I think my father might have been a member of this group.” The highstorm winds began to blow against Dalinar’s complex, powerful enough to make rocks groan. Navani huddled close to Dalinar, holding to him. She smelled wonderful. It felt… humbling to know how terrified she’d been for him. Her joy at having him back was enough to dampen, for now, her fury at him for how he’d treated Elhokar. She would come around. It had needed to be done. As the highstorm hit in force, Dalinar felt the vision coming on. He closed his eyes, letting it take him. He had a decision to make, a responsibility. What to do? These visions had lied to him, or had at least misled him. It seemed that he couldn’t trust them, at least not as explicitly as he once had. He took a deep breath, opened his eyes, and found himself in a place of smoke. He turned about, wary. The sky was dark and he stood on a field of dull, bone-white
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rock, jagged and rough, extending in all directions. Off into eternity. Amorphous shapes made of curling grey smoke rose from the ground. Like smoke rings, only in other shapes. Here a chair. There a rockbud, with vines extended, curling to the sides and vanishing. Beside him appeared the figure of a man in uniform, silent and vaporous, rising lethargically toward the sky, mouth open. The shapes melted and distorted as they climbed higher, though they seemed to hold their forms longer than they should. It was unnerving, standing on the eternal plain, pure darkness above, smoke figures rising all around. It wasn’t like any vision he’d seen before. It was… No, wait. He frowned, stepping back as the figure of a tree burst from the ground close to him. I have seen this place before. In the first of my visions, so many months ago. It was fuzzy in his mind. He’d been disoriented, the vision vague, as if his mind hadn’t learned to accept what it was seeing. In fact, the only thing he remembered distinctly was— “You must unite them,” a strong voice boomed. —was the voice. Speaking to him from all around, causing the smoke figures to fuzz and distort. “Why did you lie to me?” Dalinar demanded of the open darkness. “I did what you said, and I was betrayed!” “Unite them. The sun approaches the horizon. The Everstorm comes. The True Desolation. The Night of Sorrows.” “I need answers!” Dalinar said. “I don’t trust you any longer. If you want me to listen to you, you’ll need to—” The vision changed. He spun about, finding that he was still on an open plain of rock, but the normal sun was in the sky. The stone field looked like an ordinary one on Roshar. It was very odd for one of the visions to set him in a place without others to talk to and interact with. Though, for once, he wore his own clothing. The sharp blue Kholin uniform. Had this happened before, the other time he’d been in that place of smoke? Yes… it had. This was the first time he’d been taken to a place where he’d been before. Why? He carefully scanned the scenery. Since the voice didn’t speak to him again, he began to walk, passing cracked boulders and broken bits of shale, pebbles and rocks. There were no plants, not even rockbuds. Just an empty landscape filled with broken stones. Eventually, he spotted a ridge. Getting to high ground felt like a good idea, though the hike seemed to take hours. The vision did not end. Time was often odd in these visions. He continued to hike up the side of the rock formation, wishing he had his Shardplate to strengthen him. Finally at the top, he walked over to the edge to look down below. And there he saw Kholinar, his home, the capital city of Alethkar. It had been destroyed. The beautiful buildings had been shattered. The windblades were cast down. There were no bodies, just broken stone. This wasn’t
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like the vision he had seen before, with Nohadon. That wasn’t the Kholinar of the distant past; he could see the rubble of his own palace. But there was no rock formation like the one he stood on near Kholinar in the real world. Always before, these visions had shown him the past. Was this now a vision of the future? “I cannot fight him any longer,” the voice said. Dalinar jumped, glancing to the side. A man stood there. He had dark skin and pure white hair. Tall, thick of chest but not massive, he wore exotic clothing of a strange cut: loose, billowing trousers and a coat that came down only to his waist. Both seemed made of gold. Yes… this very thing had happened before, in his very first vision. Dalinar could remember it now. “Who are you?” Dalinar demanded. “Why are you showing me these visions?” “You can see it there,” the figure said, pointing. “If you look closely. It begins in the distance.” Dalinar glanced in that direction, annoyed. He couldn’t make out anything specific. “Storm it,” Dalinar said. “Won’t you answer my questions for once? What is the good of all of this if you just speak in riddles?” The man didn’t answer. He just kept pointing. And… yes, something was happening. There was a shadow in the air, approaching. A wall of darkness. Like a highstorm, only wrong. “At least tell me this,” Dalinar said. “What time are we seeing? Is this the past, the future, or something else entirely?” The figure didn’t answer immediately. Then he said, “You’re probably wondering if this is a vision of the future.” Dalinar started. “I just… I just asked…” This was familiar. Too familiar. He said that exact thing last time, Dalinar realized, feeling a chill. This all happened. I’m seeing the same vision again. The figure squinted at the horizon. “I cannot see the future completely. Cultivation, she is better at it than I. It’s as if the future is a shattering window. The further you look, the more pieces that window breaks into. The near future can be anticipated, but the distant future… I can only guess.” “You can’t hear me, can you?” Dalinar asked, feeling a horror as he finally began to understand. “You never could.” Blood of my fathers… he’s not ignoring me. He can’t see me! He doesn’t speak in riddles. It just seems that way because I took his responses as cryptic answers to my questions. He didn’t tell me to trust Sadeas. I… I just assumed… Everything seemed to shake around Dalinar. His preconceptions, what he’d thought he’d known. The ground itself. “That is what could happen,” the figure said, nodding into the distance. “It’s what I fear will happen. It’s what he wants. The True Desolation.” No, that wall in the air wasn’t a highstorm. It wasn’t rain making that enormous shadow, but blowing dust. He remembered this vision in full, now. It had ended here, with him confused, staring out at that oncoming wall of dust. This time, however,
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the vision continued. The figure turned to him. “I am sorry to do this to you. By now I hope that what you’ve seen has given you a foundation to understand. But I can’t know for certain. I don’t know who you are, or how you have found your way here.” “I…” What to say? Did it matter? “Most of what I show you are scenes I have seen directly,” the figure said. “But some, such as this one, are born out of my fears. If I fear it, then you should too.” The land was trembling. The wall of dust was being caused by something. Something approaching. The ground was falling away. Dalinar gasped. The very rocks ahead were shattering, breaking apart, becoming dust. He backed away as everything began to shake, a massive earthquake accompanied by a terrible roar of dying rocks. He fell to the ground. There was an awful, grinding, terrifying moment of nightmare. The shaking, the destruction, the sounds of the land itself seeming to die. Then it was past. Dalinar breathed in and out before rising on unsteady legs. He and the figure stood on a solitary pinnacle of rock. A little section that—for some reason—had been protected. It was like a stone pillar a few paces wide, rising high into the air. Around it, the land was gone. Kholinar was gone. It had all fallen away into unplumbed darkness below. He felt vertigo, standing on the tiny bit of rock that—impossibly—remained. “What is this?” Dalinar demanded, though he knew that the being couldn’t hear him. The figure looked about, sorrowful. “I can’t leave much. Just these few images, given to you. Whoever you are.” “These visions… they’re like a journal, aren’t they? A history you wrote, a book you left behind, except I don’t read it, I see it.” The figure looked into the sky. “I don’t even know if anyone will ever see this. I am gone, you see.” Dalinar didn’t respond. He looked over the sheer pinnacle, down at a void, horrified. “This isn’t just about you either,” the figure said, raising his hand into the air. A light winked out in the sky, one that Dalinar hadn’t realized was there. Then another winked out as well. The sun seemed to be growing dimmer. “It’s about all of them,” the figure said. “I should have realized he’d come for me.” “Who are you?” Dalinar asked, voicing the words to himself. The figure still stared into the sky. “I leave this, because there must be something. A hope to discover. A chance that someone will find what to do. Do you wish to fight him?” “Yes,” Dalinar found himself saying, despite knowing that it didn’t matter. “I don’t know who he is, but if he wants to do this, then I will fight him.” “Someone must lead them.” “I will do it,” Dalinar said. The words just came out. “Someone must unite them.” “I will do it.” “Someone must protect them.” “I will do it!” The figure was silent for a moment. Then he
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spoke in a clear, crisp voice. “Life before death. Strength before weakness. Journey before destination. Speak again the ancient oaths and return to men the Shards they once bore.” He turned to Dalinar, meeting his eyes. “The Knights Radiant must stand again.” “I cannot comprehend how that can be done,” Dalinar said softly. “But I will try.” “Men must face them together,” the figure said, stepping up to Dalinar, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You cannot squabble as in times past. He’s realized that you, given time, will become your own enemies. That he doesn’t need to fight you. Not if he can make you forget, make you turn against one another. Your legends say that you won. But the truth is that we lost. And we are losing.” “Who are you?” Dalinar asked again, voice softer. “I wish I could do more,” repeated the figure in gold. “You might be able to get him to choose a champion. He is bound by some rules. All of us are. A champion could work well for you, but it is not certain. And… without the Dawnshards… Well, I have done what I can. It is a terrible, terrible thing to leave you alone.” “Who are you?” Dalinar asked again. And yet, he thought he knew. “I am… I was… God. The one you call the Almighty, the creator of mankind.” The figure closed his eyes. “And now I am dead. Odium has killed me. I am sorry.” “Can you feel it?” Wit asked of the open night. “Something just changed. I believe that’s the sound the world makes when it pisses itself.” Three guards stood just inside the thick wooden city gates of Kholinar. The men regarded Wit with worry. The gates were closed, and these men were of the night watch, a somewhat inappropriate title. They didn’t spend time “watching” so much as chatting, yawning, gambling, or—in tonight’s case—standing uncomfortably and listening to a crazy man. That crazy man happened to have blue eyes, which let him get away with all kinds of trouble. Perhaps Wit should have been bemused by the stock these people put in something as simple as eye color, but he had been many places and seen many methods of rule. This didn’t seem any more ridiculous than most others. And, of course, there was a reason the people did what they did. Well, there was usually a reason. In this case, it just happened to be a good one. “Brightlord?” one of the guards asked, looking at where Wit sat on his boxes. They’d been piled there and left by a merchant who had tipped the night watchmen to make certain nothing was stolen. To Wit, they simply made a convenient perch. His pack sat beside him, and on his knees he was tuning his enthir, a square, stringed instrument. You played it from above, plucking at strings with it sitting on your lap. “Brightlord?” the guard repeated. “What are you doing up there?” “Waiting,” Wit said. He looked up, glancing eastward. “Waiting for the storm
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to arrive.” That made the guards more uncomfortable. A highstorm was not predicted this night. Wit began playing the enthir. “Let us have a conversation to pass the time. Tell me. What is it that men value in others?” The music played toward an audience of silent buildings, alleys, and worn cobblestones. The guards didn’t respond to him. They didn’t seem to know what to make of a black-clad, lighteyed man who entered the city just before evening fell, then sat on boxes beside the gates playing music. “Well?” Wit asked, pausing the music. “What do you think? If a man or woman were to have a talent, which would be the most revered, best regarded, considered of the most worth?” “Er… music?” one of the men finally said. “Yes, a common answer,” Wit said, plucking at a few low notes. “I once asked this question of some very wise scholars. What do men consider the most valuable of talents? One mentioned artistic ability, as you so keenly guessed. Another chose great intellect. The final chose the talent to invent, the ability to design and create great devices.” He didn’t play a specific tune on the enthir, just plucks here and there, an occasional scale or fifth. Like chitchat in string form. “Aesthetic genius,” Wit said, “invention, acumen, creativity. Noble ideals indeed. Most men would pick one of those, if given the choice, and name them the greatest of talents.” He plucked a string. “What beautiful liars we are.” The guards glanced at each other; the torches burning in brackets on the wall painted them with orange light. “You think I’m a cynic,” Wit said. “You think I’m going to tell you that men claim to value these ideals, but secretly prefer base talents. The ability to gather coin or to charm women. Well, I am a cynic, but in this case, I actually think those scholars were honest. Their answers speak for the souls of men. In our hearts, we want to believe in—and would choose— great accomplishment and virtue. That’s why our lies, particularly to ourselves, are so beautiful.” He began to play a real song. A simple melody at first, soft, subdued. A song for a silent night when the entire world changed. One of the soldiers cleared his throat. “So what is the most valuable talent a man can have?” He sounded genuinely curious. “I haven’t the faintest idea,” Wit said. “Fortunately, that wasn’t the question. I didn’t ask what was most valuable, I asked what men value most. The difference between those questions is both tiny and as vast as the world itself all at once.” He kept plucking his song. One did not strum an enthir. It just wasn’t done, at least not by people with any sense of propriety. “In this,” Wit said, “as in all things, our actions give us away. If an artist creates a work of powerful beauty—using new and innovative techniques—she will be lauded as a master, and will launch a new movement in aesthetics. Yet what if another, working independently
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with that exact level of skill, were to make the same accomplishments the very next month? Would she find similar acclaim? No. She’d be called derivative. “Intellect. If a great thinker develops a new theory of mathematics, science, or philosophy, we will name him wise. We will sit at his feet and learn, and will record his name in history for thousands upon thousands to revere. But what if another man determines the same theory on his own, then delays in publishing his results by a mere week? Will he be remembered for his greatness? No. He will be forgotten. “Invention. A woman builds a new design of great worth—some fabrial or feat of engineering. She will be known as an innovator. But if someone with the same talent creates the same design a year later—not realizing it has already been crafted—will she be rewarded for her creativity? No. She’ll be called a copier and a forger.” He plucked at his strings, letting the melody continue, twisting, haunting, yet with a faint edge of mockery. “And so,” he said, “in the end, what must we determine? Is it the intellect of a genius that we revere? If it were their artistry, the beauty of their mind, would we not laud it regardless of whether we’d seen their product before? “But we don’t. Given two works of artistic majesty, otherwise weighted equally, we will give greater acclaim to the one who did it first. It doesn’t matter what you create. It matters what you create before anyone else. “So it’s not the beauty itself we admire. It’s not the force of intellect. It’s not invention, aesthetics, or capacity itself. The greatest talent that we think a man can have?” He plucked one final string. “Seems to me that it must be nothing more than novelty.” The guards looked confused. The gates shook. Something pounded on them from outside. “The storm has come,” Wit said, standing up. The guards scrambled for spears left leaning beside the wall. They had a guard house, but it was empty; they preferred the night air. The gate shook again, as if something enormous were outside. The guards yelled, calling to the men atop the wall. All was chaos and confusion as the gate thumped yet a third time, powerful, shaking, vibrating as if hit with a boulder. And then a bright, silvery blade rammed between the massive doors, slicing upward, cutting the bar that held them closed. A Shardblade. The gates swung open. The guards scrambled back. Wit waited on his boxes, enthir held in one hand, pack over his shoulder. Outside the gates, standing on the dark stone roadway, was a solitary man with dark skin. His hair was long and matted, his clothing nothing more than a ragged, sacklike length of cloth wrapping his waist. He stood with head bowed, wet, ratty hair hanging down over his face and mixing with a beard that had bits of wood and leaves stuck in it. His muscles glistened, wet as if he’d just swum a great distance. To
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his side, he carried a massive Shardblade, point down, sticking about a finger’s width into the stone, his hand on the hilt. The Blade reflected torchlight; it was long, narrow, and straight, shaped like an enormous spike. “Welcome, lost one,” Wit whispered. “Who are you!” one of the guards called, nervous, as one of the other two ran to give the alert. A Shardbearer had come to Kholinar. The figure ignored the question. He stepped forward, dragging his Shardblade, as if it weighed a great deal. It cut the rock behind him, leaving a tiny groove in the stone. The figure walked unsteadily, and nearly tripped. He steadied himself against the gate door, and a lock of hair moved from the side of his face, exposing his eyes. Dark brown eyes, like a man of the lower class. Those eyes were wild, dazed. The man finally noticed the two guards, who stood, terrified, with spears leveled at him. He raised his empty hand toward them. “Go,” he said raggedly, speaking perfect Alethi, no hint of an accent. “Run! Raise the call! Give the warning!” “Who are you?” one of the guards forced out. “What warning? Who attacks?” The man paused. He raised a hand to his head, wavering. “Who am I? I… I am Talenel’Elin, Stonesinew, Herald of the Almighty. The Desolation has come. Oh, God… it has come. And I have failed.” He slumped forward, hitting the rocky ground, Shardblade clattering down behind him. It did not vanish. The guards inched forward. One prodded the man with the butt of his spear. The man who had named himself a Herald did not move. “What is it we value?” Wit whispered. “Innovation. Originality. Novelty. But most importantly… timeliness. I fear you may be too late, my confused, unfortunate friend.” THE END OF Book One of THE STORMLIGHT ARCHIVE ENDNOTE The above sample is noteworthy as it is a ketek, a complex form of holy Vorin poem. The ketek not only reads the same forward and backward (al lowing for alteration of verb forms) but is also divisible into five distinct smaller sections, each of which makes a complete thought. The complete poem must form a sentence that is grammatically correct and (theoretically) poignant in meaning. Because of the difficulty in constructing a ketek, the structure was once considered the highest and most impressive form of all Vorin poetry. The fact that this one was uttered by an illiterate, dying Herdazian in a language he barely spoke should be of particular note. There is no record of this particular ketek in any repository of Vorin poetry, so it is very unlikely that the subject was merely repeating something he once heard. None of the ardents we showed it to had any knowledge of it, though three did praise its structure and ask to meet the poet. We leave it to His Majesty’s mind, on a strong day, to puzzle out the meaning of why the storms might be important, and what the poem may mean by indicating that there is silence both above
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and below said storms. ARS ARCANUM THE TEN ESSENCES AND THEIR HISTORICAL ASSOCIATIONS The preceding list is an imperfect gathering of traditional Vorin symbolism associated with the Ten Essences. Bound together, these form the Double Eye of the Almighty, an eye with two pupils representing the creation of plants and creatures. This is also the basis for the hourglass shape that was often associated with the Knights Radiant. Ancient scholars also placed the ten orders of Knights Radiant on this list, alongside the Heralds themselves, who each had a classical association with one of the numbers and Essences. I’m not certain yet how the ten levels of Voidbinding or its cousin the Old Magic fit into this paradigm, if indeed they can. My research suggests that, indeed, there should be another series of abilities that is even more esoteric than the Voidbindings. Perhaps the Old Magic fits into those, though I am beginning to suspect that it is something entirely different. ON THE CREATION OF FABRIALS Five groupings of fabrial have been discovered so far. The methods of their creation are carefully guarded by the artifabrian community, but they appear to be the work of dedicated scientists, as opposed to the more mystical Surgebindings once performed by the Knights Radiant. ALTERING FABRIALS Augmenters: These fabrials are crafted to enhance something. They can create heat, pain, or even a calm wind, for instance. They are powered—like all fabrials—by Stormlight. They seem to work best with forces, emotions, or sensations. The so-called half-shards of Jah Keved are created with this type of fabrial attached to a sheet of metal, enhancing its durability. I have seen fabrials of this type crafted using many different kinds of gemstone; I am guessing that any one of the ten Polestones will work. Diminishers: These fabrials do the opposite of what augmenters do, and generally seem to fall under the same restrictions as their cousins. Those artifabrians who have taken me into confidence seem to believe that even greater fabrials are possible than what have been created so far, particularly in regard to augmenters and diminishers. PAIRING FABRIALS Conjoiners: By infusing a ruby and using methodology that has not been revealed to me (though I have my suspicions), you can create a conjoined pair of gemstones. The process requires splitting the original ruby. The two halves will then create parallel reactions across a distance. Spanreeds are one of the most common forms of this type of fabrial. Conservation of force is maintained; for instance, if one is attached to a heavy stone, you will need the same strength to lift the conjoined fabrial that you would need to lift the stone itself. There appears to be some sort of process used during the creation of the fabrial that influences how far apart the two halves can go and still produce an effect. Reversers: Using an amethyst instead of a ruby also creates conjoined halves of a gemstone, but these two work in creating opposite reactions. Raise one, and the other will be pressed downward, for instance. These fabrials have
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only just been discovered, and already the possibilities for exploitation are being conjectured. There appear to be some unexpected limitations to this form of fabrial, though I have not been able to discover what they are. WARNING FABRIALS There is only one type of fabrial in this set, informally known as the Alerter. An Alerter can warn one of a nearby object, feeling, sensation, or phenomenon. These fabrials use a heliodor stone as their focus. I do not know whether this is the only type of gemstone that will work, or if there is another reason heliodor is used. In the case of this kind of fabrial, the amount of Stormlight you can infuse into it affects its range. Hence the size of gemstone used is very important. WINDRUNNING AND LASHINGS Reports of the Assassin in White’s odd abilities have led me to some sources of information that, I believe, are generally unknown. The Windrunners were an order of the Knights Radiant, and they made use of two primary types of Surgebinding. The effects of these Surgebindings were known—colloquially among the members of the order—as the Three Lashings. BASIC LASHING: GRAVITATIONAL CHANGE This type of Lashing was one of the most commonly used Lashings among the order, though it was not the easiest to use. (That distinction belongs to the Full Lashing below.) A Basic Lashing involved revoking a being’s or object’s spiritual gravitational bond to the planet below, instead temporarily linking that being or object to a different object or direction. Effectively, this creates a change in gravitational pull, twisting the energies of the planet itself. A Basic Lashing allowed a Windrunner to run up walls, to send objects or people flying off into the air, or to create similar effects. Advanced uses of this type of Lashing would allow a Windrunner to make himself or herself lighter by binding part of his or her mass upward. (Mathematically, binding a quarter of one’s mass upward would halve a person’s effective weight. Binding half of one’s mass upward would create weightlessness.) Multiple Basic Lashings could also pull an object or a person’s body downward at double, triple, or other multiples of its weight. FULL LASHING: BINDING OBJECTS TOGETHER A Full Lashing might seem very similar to a Basic Lashing, but they worked on very different principles. While one had to do with gravitation, the other had to do with the force (or Surge, as the Radiants called them) of adhesion—binding objects together as if they were one. I believe this Surge may have had something to do with atmospheric pressure. To create a Full Lashing, a Windrunner would infuse an object with Stormlight, then press another object to it. The two objects would become bound together with an extremely powerful bond, nearly impossible to break. In fact, most materials would themselves break before the bond holding them together would. REVERSE LASHING: GIVING AN OBJECT A GRAVITATIONAL PULL I believe this may actually be a specialized version of the Basic Lashing. This type of Lashing required the least amount of Stormlight of any
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of the three Lashings. The Windrunner would infuse something, give a mental command, and create a pull to the object that yanked other objects toward it. At its heart, this Lashing created a bubble around the object that imitated its spiritual link to the ground beneath it. As such, it was much harder for the Lashing to affect objects touching the ground, where their link to the planet was strongest. Objects falling or in flight were the easiest to influence. Other objects could be affected, but the Stormlight and skill required were much more substantial. This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. THE WAY OF KINGS Copyright © 2010 by Dragonsteel Entertainment, LLC All rights reserved. Interior illustrations by Isaac Stewart, Ben McSweeney, and Greg Call Edited by Moshe Feder A Tor BookPublished by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC175 Fifth AvenueNew York, NY 10010 www.tor-forge.com Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC. ISBN: 978-0-7653-2635-5 Acknowledgements Annotations Working on Warbreaker was an unusual process in some ways; you can read more about it on my website. Suffice it to say that I had a more varied pool of alpha readers than normally, many of whom I know primarily through their handles on my forums. I’ve tried to get everyone’s names in here, but I’m sure I’m going to miss some. If you are one of those individuals, feel free to email me, and we’ll try to get you in future printings. The first acknowledgment goes to my lovely wife, Emily Sanderson, whom I married while writing this book. This is the first novel of mine that she had a large hand in by giving me feedback and suggestions, and her help is greatly appreciated. Also, as always, my agent, Joshua Bilmes, and my editor, Moshe Feder, did an extremely large amount of work on this manuscript, taking it from the Second or Third Heightening to at least the Eighth. At Tor, several people have gone well beyond their call of duty. The first is Dot Lin, my publicist, who has been particularly awesome to work with. Thanks, Dot! And, as always, the tireless efforts of Larry Yoder deserve a note, as well as the excellent work of Tor’s art director genius, Irene Gallo. Dan Dos Santos did the cover art of this book, and I strongly suggest you check out his website and his other work, because I think he’s one of the best in the business right now. Also, Paul Stevens deserves a word of thanks for being the in-house liaison for my books. In the special thanks department, we have Joevans3, and Dreamking47, Louise Simard, Jeff Creer, Megan Kauffman, thelsdj, Megan Hutchins, Izzy Whiting, Janci Olds, Drew Olds, Karla Bennion, Eric James Stone, Dan Wells, Isaac Stewart, Ben Olsen, Greyhound, Demented Yam, D.Demille, Loryn, Kuntry Bumpken, Vadia, U-boat, Tjaeden, Dragon Fly, pterath, BarbaraJ, Shir Hasirim, Digitalbias, Spink Longfellow, amyface, Richard “Captain Goradel” Gordon, Swiggly, Dawn Cawley, Drerio, David
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B, Mi’chelle Trammel, Matthew R Carlin, Ollie Tabooger, John Palmer, Henrik Nyh, and the insoluble Peter Ahlstrom. Ars Arcanum TABLE OF THE HEIGHTENINGS Heightening Number Approximate Breaths Needed to Reach This Heightening Effectsof theHeightening First 50 Aura Recognition Second 200 Perfect Pitch Third 600 Perfect Color Recognition Fourth 1,000 Perfect Life Recognition Fifth 2,000 Agelessness Sixth 3,500 Instinctive Awakening Seventh 5,000 Invested Breath Recognition Eighth 10,000 Command Breaking Ninth 20,000 Greater Awakening, Audible Command Tenth 50,000 Color Distortion, Perfect Invocation, ???? Note One: Reaching above the Sixth Heightening is incredibly rare, and so few people understand the powers of the Seventh Heightening and above. Very little research has been done. The only known people ever to reach the Eighth Heightening and above are the Hallandren God Kings. Note Two: Returned appear to achieve the fifth Heightening by virtue of their Breath. It is theorized that they do not actually receive two thousand Breaths when they Return, but instead receive a single, powerful Breath, which brings with it the powers of the first five Heightenings. Note Three: The numbers given in the table above are only estimates, as very little is known about the upper Heightenings. Indeed, even for the lower levels, fewer or more Breaths may be required to achieve a given Heightening, depending on circumstances and the strength of the Breath. Note Four: Each additional Breath grants some things, no matter which Heightening an Awakener has achieved. The more breath one has, the more resistant to disease and aging a person is, the easier it is for them to distinguish colors, the more naturally they can learn to Awaken, and the stronger their life sense. HEIGHTENING POWERS Aura Recognition: The first Heightening grants a person the ability to see the Breath auras of others instinctively. This allows them to judge roughly how many Breaths the person contains and the general health of that Breath. Persons without this Heightening have a much more difficult time judging auras directly, and must rely instead on how deeply the colors around a person change when they enter the aura. Without at least the first Heightening, it is impossible for the naked eye to notice an Awakener who has fewer than about thirty Breaths. Perfect Pitch: The Second Heightening grants perfect pitch to those who achieve it. Perfect Color Recognition: While each gained Breath leads a person to greater appreciation of colors, it isn’t until one reaches the Third Heightening that one can instantly and instinctively determine exact shades of colors and their hue harmonics. Perfect Life Sense: At the Fourth Heightening, an Awakener’s life sense achieves its maximum strength. Agelessness: At the fifth Heightening, an Awakener’s resistance to aging and disease reaches its maximum strength. These persons are immune to most toxins, including the effects of alcohol, and most physical ailments. (Such as headaches, diseases, and organ failure.) The person no longer ages, and becomes functionally immortal. Instinctive Awakening: All persons of the Sixth Heightening and above immediately understand and can use basic Awakening Commands without training or practice. More difficult Commands are easier for
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them to master and to discover. Breath Recognition: Those few persons who have reached the Seventh Heightening gain the ability to recognize the auras of objects, and can tell when something has been Invested with Breath via Awakening. Command Breaking: Any persons of the Eighth Heightening or more gain the ability to override Commands in other Invested objects, including Lifeless. This requires concentration and leaves the Awakener exhausted. Greater Awakening: Persons of the Ninth Heightening are reportedly able to Awaken stone and steel, though doing so requires large Investitures of Breath and specialized Commands. This ability has not been studied or confirmed. Audible Command: Persons of the Ninth Heightening also gain the ability to Awaken objects that they are not physically touching, but that are within the sound of their voice. Color Distortion: At the Tenth Heightening, an Awakener gains the natural and intrinsic ability to bend light around white objects, creating colors from them as if from a prism. Perfect Invocation: Awakeners of the Tenth Heightening can draw more color from the objects they use to fuel their art. This leaves objects drained to white, rather than grey. Other: There are rumors of other powers granted by the Tenth Heightening which are not understood or have not been made known by those who have achieved it. BOOKS BY BRANDON SANDERSON Warbreaker The Mistborn TrilogyMistbornThe Well of AscensionThe Hero of Ages Elantris Alcatraz Versus the Evil LibrariansAlcatraz Versus the Scrivener’s Bones One Annotations to Chapter One There were great advantages to being unimportant. True, by many people’s standards, Siri wasn’t “unimportant.” She was, after all, the daughter of a king. Fortunately, her father had four living children, and Siri—at seventeen years of age—was the youngest. Fafen, the daughter just older than Siri, had done the family duty and become a monk. Above Fafen was Ridger, the eldest son. He would inherit the throne. And then there was Vivenna. Siri sighed as she walked down the path back to the city. Vivenna, the firstborn, was...well...Vivenna. Beautiful, poised, perfect in most every way. It was a good thing, too, considering the fact that she was betrothed to a god. Either way, Siri—as fourth child—was redundant. Vivenna and Ridger had to focus on their studies; Fafen had to do her work in the pastures and homes. Siri, however, could get away with being unimportant. That meant she could disappear into the wilderness for hours at a time. People would notice, of course, and she would get into trouble. Yet even her father would have to admit that her disappearance hadn’t caused much inconvenience. The city got along just fine without Siri—in fact, it tended to do a little better when she wasn’t around. Unimportance. To another, it might have been offensive. To Siri it was a blessing. She smiled, walking into the city proper. She drew the inevitable stares. While Bevalis was technically the capital of Idris, it wasn’t that big, and everyone knew her by sight. Judging by the stories Siri had heard from passing ramblemen, her home was hardly even a village compared
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with the massive metropolises in other nations. She liked it the way it was, even with the muddy streets, the thatched cottages, and the boring—yet sturdy—stone walls. Women chasing runaway geese, men pulling donkeys laden with spring seed, and children leading sheep on their way to pasture. A grand city in Xaka, Hudres, or even terrible Hallandren might have exotic sights, but it would be crowded with faceless, shouting, jostling crowds, and haughty noblemen. Not Siri’s preference; she generally found even Bevalis to be a bit busy for her. Still, she thought, looking down at her utilitarian grey dress, I’ll bet those cities have more colors. That’s something I might like to see. Her hair wouldn’t stand out so much there. As usual, the long locks had gone blond with joy while she’d been out in the fields. She concentrated, trying to rein them in, but she was only able to bring the color to a dull brown. As soon as she stopped focusing, her hair just went back to the way it had been. She’d never been very good at controlling it. Not like Vivenna. As she continued through the town, a group of small figures began trailing her. She smiled, pretending to ignore the children until one of them was brave enough to run forward and tug on her dress. Then she turned, smiling. They regarded her with solemn faces. Idris children were trained even at this age to avoid shameful outbursts of emotion. Austrin teachings said there was nothing wrong with feelings, but drawing attention to yourself with them was wrong. Siri had never been very devout. It wasn’t her fault, she reasoned, if Austre had made her with a distinct inability to obey. The children waited patiently until Siri reached into her apron and pulled out a couple of brightly colored flowers. The children’s eyes opened wide, gazing at the vibrant colors. Three of the flowers were blue, one yellow. The flowers stood out starkly against the town’s determined drabness. Other than what one could find in the skin and eyes of the people, there wasn’t a drop of color in sight. Stones had been whitewashed, clothing bleached grey or tan. All to keep the color away. For without color, there could be no Awakeners. The girl who had tugged Siri’s skirt finally took the flowers in one hand and dashed away with them, the other children following behind. Siri caught a look of disproval in the eyes of several passing villagers. None of them confronted her, though. Being a princess—even an unimportant one—did have its perks. She continued on toward the palace. It was a low, single-story building with a large, packed-earth courtyard. Siri avoided the crowds of haggling people at the front, rounding to the back and going in the kitchen entrance. Mab, the kitchen mistress, stopped singing as the door opened, then eyed Siri. “Your father’s been looking for you, child,” Mab said, turning away and humming as she attacked a pile of onions. “I suspect that he has.” Siri walked over and sniffed at
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a pot, which bore the calm scent of boiling potatoes. “Went to the hills again, didn’t you? Skipped your tutorial sessions, I’ll bet.” Siri smiled, then pulled out another of the bright yellow flowers, spinning it between two fingers. Mab rolled her eyes. “And been corrupting the city youth again, I suspect. Honestly, girl, you should be beyond these things at your age. Your father will have words with you about shirking your responsibilities.” “I like words,” Siri said. “And I always learn a few new ones when Father gets angry. I shouldn’t neglect my education, now should I?” Mab snorted, dicing some pickled cucumbers into the onions. “Honestly, Mab,” Siri said, twirling the flower, feeling her hair shade a little bit red. “I don’t see what the problem is. Austre made the flowers, right? He put the colors on them, so they can’t be evil. I mean, we call him God of Colors, for heaven’s sake.” “Flowers ain’t evil,” Mab said, adding something that looked like grass to her concoction, “assuming they’re left where Austre put them. We shouldn’t use Austre’s beauty to make ourselves more important.” “A flower doesn’t make me look more important.” “Oh?” Mab asked, adding the grass, cucumber, and onions to one of her boiling pots. She banged the side of the pot with the flat of her knife, listening, then nodded to herself and began fishing under the counter for more vegetables. “You tell me,” she continued, voice muffled. “You really think walking through the city with a flower like that didn’t draw attention to yourself?” “That’s only because the city is so drab. If there were a bit of color around, nobody would notice a flower.” Mab reappeared, hefting a box filled with various tubers. “You’d have us decorate the place like Hallandren? Maybe we should start inviting Awakeners into the city? How’d you like that? Some devil sucking the souls out of children, strangling people with their own clothing? Bringing men back from the grave, then using their dead bodies for cheap labor? Sacrificing women on their unholy altars?” Siri felt her hair whiten slightly with anxiety. Stop that! she thought. The hair seemed to have a mind of its own, responding to gut feelings. “That sacrificing-maidens part is only a story,” Siri said. “They don’t really do that.” “Stories come from somewhere.” “Yes, they come from old women sitting by the hearth in the winter. I don’t think we need to be so frightened. The Hallandren will do what they want, which is fine by me, as long as they leave us alone.” Mab chopped tubers, not looking up. “We’ve got the treaty, Mab,” Siri said. “Father and Vivenna will make sure we’re safe, and that will make the Hallandren leave us alone.” “And if they don’t?” “They will. You don’t need to worry.” “They have better armies,” Mab said, chopping, not looking up, “better steel, more food, and those...those things. It makes people worry. Maybe not you, but sensible folk.” The cook’s words were hard to dismiss out of hand. Mab had
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a sense, a wisdom beyond her instinct for spices and broths. However, she also tended to fret. “You’re worrying about nothing, Mab. You’ll see.” “I’m just saying that this is a bad time for a royal princess to be running around with flowers, standin’ out and inviting Austre’s dislike.” Siri sighed. “fine, then,” she said, tossing her last flower into the stew-pot. “Now we can all stand out together.” Mab froze, then rolled her eyes, chopping a root. “I assume that was a vanavel flower?” “Of course,” Siri said, sniffing at the steaming pot. “I know better than to ruin a good stew. And I still say you’re overreacting.” Mab sniffed. “Here,” she said, pulling out another knife. “Make yourself useful. There’s roots that need choppin’.” “Shouldn’t I report to my father?” Siri said, grabbing a gnarled vanavel root and beginning to chop. “He’ll just send you back here and make you work in the kitchens as a punishment,” Mab said, banging the pot with her knife again. She firmly believed that she could judge when a dish was done by the way the pot rang. “Austre help me if Father ever discovers I like it down here.” “You just like being close to the food,” Mab said, fishing Siri’s flower out of the stew then tossing it aside. “Either way, you can’t report to him. He’s in conference with Yarda.” Siri gave no reaction—she simply continued to chop. Her hair, however, grew blond with excitement. Father’s conferences with Yarda usually last hours, she thought. Not much point in simply sitting around, waiting for him to get done... Mab turned to get something off the table, and by the time she looked back, Siri had bolted out the door and was on her way toward the royal stables. Bare minutes later, she galloped away from the palace, wearing her favorite brown cloak, feeling an exhilarated thrill that sent her hair into a deep blond. A nice quick ride would be a good way to round out the day. After all, her punishment was likely to be the same either way. ~ Dedelin, king of Idris, set the letter down on his desk. He had stared at it long enough. It was time to decide whether or not to send his eldest daughter to her death. Despite the advent of spring, his chamber was cold. Warmth was a rare thing in the Idris highlands; it was coveted and enjoyed, for it lingered only briefly each summer. The chambers were also stark. There was a beauty in simplicity. Even a king had no right to display arrogance by ostentation. Dedelin stood up, looking out his window and into the courtyard. The palace was small by the world’s standards—only a single story high, with a peaked wooden roof and squat stone walls. But it was large by Idris standards, and it bordered on flamboyant. This could be forgiven, for the palace was also a meeting hall and center of operations for his entire kingdom. The king could see General Yarda out of the corner of
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his eye. The burly man stood waiting, his hands clasped behind his back, his thick beard tied in three places. He was the only other person in the room. Dedelin glanced back at the letter. The paper was a bright pink, and the garish color stood out on his desk like a drop of blood in the snow. Pink was a color one would never see in Idris. In Hallandren, however—center of the world’s dye industry—such tasteless hues were commonplace. “Well, old friend?” Dedelin asked. “Do you have any advice for me?” General Yarda shook his head. “War is coming, Your Majesty. I feel it in the winds and read it in the reports of our spies. Hallandren still considers us rebels, and our passes to the north are too tempting. They will attack.” “Then I shouldn’t send her,” Dedelin said, looking back out his window. The courtyard bustled with people in furs and cloaks coming to market. “We can’t stop the war, Your Majesty,” Yarda said. “But...we can slow it.” Dedelin turned back. Yarda stepped forward, speaking softly. “This is not a good time. Our troops still haven’t recovered from those Vendis raids last fall, and with the fires in the granary this winter...” Yarda shook his head. “We cannot afford to get into a defensive war in the summer. Our best ally against the Hallandren are the snows. We can’t let this conflict occur on their terms. If we do, we are dead.” The words all made sense. “Your Majesty,” Yarda said, “they are waiting for us to break the treaty as an excuse to attack. If we move first, they will strike.” “If we keep the treaty, they will still strike,” Dedelin said. “But later. Perhaps months later. You know how slow Hallandren politics are. If we keep the treaty, there will be debates and arguments. If those last until the snows, then we will have gained the time we need so badly.” It all made sense. Brutal, honest sense. All these years, Dedelin had stalled and watched as the Hallandren court grew more and more aggressive, more and more agitated. Every year, voices called for an assault on the “rebel Idrians” living up in the highlands. Every year, those voices grew louder and more plentiful. Every year, Dedelin’s placating and politics kept the armies away. He had hoped, perhaps, that the rebel leader Vahr and his Pahn Kahl dissidents would draw attention away from Idris, but Vahr had been captured, his so-called army dispersed. His actions had only served to make Hallandren more focused on its enemies. The peace would not last. Not with Idris ripe, not with the trade routes worth so much. Not with the current crop of Hallandren gods, who seemed so much more erratic than their predecessors. He knew all of that. But he also knew that breaking the treaty would be foolish. When you were cast into the den of a beast, you did not provoke it to anger. Yarda joined him beside the window, looking out, leaning one elbow against the side
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of the frame. He was a harsh man born of harsh winters. But he was also as good a man as Dedelin had ever known—a part of the king longed to marry Vivenna to the general’s own son. That was foolishness. Dedelin had always known this day would come. He’d crafted the treaty himself, and it demanded he send his daughter to marry the God King. The Hallandren needed a daughter of the royal blood to reintroduce the traditional bloodline into their monarchy. It was something the depraved and vainglorious people of the lowlands had long coveted, and only that specific clause in the treaty had saved Idris these twenty years. That treaty had been the first official act of Dedelin’s reign, negotiated furiously following his father’s assassination. Dedelin gritted his teeth. How quickly he’d bowed before the whims of his enemies. Yet he would do it again; an Idris monarch would do anything for his people. That was one big difference between Idris and Hallandren. “If we send her, Yarda,” Dedelin said, “we send her to her death.” “Maybe they won’t harm her,” Yarda finally said. “You know better than that. The first thing they’ll do when war comes is use her against me. This is Hallandren. They invite Awakeners into their palaces, for Austre’s sake!” Yarda fell silent. finally, he shook his head. “Latest reports say their army has grown to include some forty thousand Lifeless.” Lord God of Colors, Dedelin thought, glancing at the letter again. Its language was simple. Vivenna’s twenty-second birthday had come, and the terms of the treaty stipulated that Dedelin could wait no longer. “Sending Vivenna is a poor plan, but it’s our only plan,” Yarda said. “With more time, I know I can bring the Tedradel to our cause—they’ve hated Hallandren since the Manywar. And perhaps I can find a way to rile Vahr’s broken rebel faction in Hallandren itself. At the very least, we can build, gather supplies, live another year.” Yarda turned to him. “If we don’t send the Hallandren their princess, the war will be seen as our fault. Who will support us? They will demand to know why we refused to follow the treaty our own king wrote!” “And if we do send them Vivenna, it will introduce the royal blood into their monarchy, and that will have an even more legitimate claim on the highlands!” “Perhaps,” Yarda said. “But if we both know they’re going to attack anyway, then what do we care about their claim? At least this way, perhaps they will wait until an heir is born before the assault comes.” More time. The general always asked for more time. But what about when that time came at the cost of Dedelin’s own child? Yarda wouldn’t hesitate to send one soldier to die if it would mean time enough to get the rest of his troops into better position to attack, Dedelin thought. We are Idris. How can I ask anything less of my daughter than I’d demand of one of my troops? It was just that
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thinking of Vivenna in the God King’s arms, being forced to bear that creature’s child...it nearly made his hair bleach with concern. That child would become a stillborn monster who would become the next Returned god of the Hallandren. There is another way, a part of his mind whispered. You don’t have to send Vivenna... A knock came at his door. Both he and Yarda turned, and Dedelin called for the visitor to enter. He should have been able to guess whom it would be. Vivenna stood in a quiet grey dress, looking so young to him still. Yet she was the perfect image of an Idris woman—hair kept in a modest knot, no makeup to draw attention to the face. She was not timid or soft, like some noblewomen from the northern kingdoms. She was just composed. Composed, simple, hard, and capable. Idrian. “You have been in here for several hours, Father,” Vivenna said, bowing her head respectfully to Yarda. “The servants speak of a colorful envelope carried by the general when he entered. I believe I know what it contained.” Dedelin met her eyes, then waved for her to seat herself. She softly closed the door, then took one of the wooden chairs from the side of the room. Yarda remained standing, after the masculine fashion. Vivenna eyed the letter sitting on the desk. She was calm, her hair controlled and kept a respectful black. She was twice as devout as Dedelin, and—unlike her youngest sister—she never drew attention to herself with fits of emotion. “I assume that I should prepare myself for departure, then,” Vivenna said, hands in her lap. Dedelin opened his mouth, but could find no objection. He glanced at Yarda, who just shook his head, resigned. “I have prepared my entire life for this, Father,” Vivenna said. “I am ready. Siri, however, will not take this well. She left on a ride an hour ago. I should depart the city before she gets back. That will avoid any potential scene she might make.” “Too late,” Yarda said, grimacing and nodding toward the window. Just outside, people scattered in the courtyard as a figure galloped through the gates. She wore a deep brown cloak that bordered on being too colorful, and—of course—she had her hair down. The hair was yellow. Dedelin felt his rage and frustration growing. Only Siri could make him lose control, and—as if in ironic counterpoint to the source of his anger—he felt his hair change. To those watching, a few locks of hair on his head would have bled from black to red. It was the identifying mark of the royal family, who had fled to the Idris highlands at the climax of the Manywar. Others could hide their emotions. The royals, however, manifested what they felt in the very hair on their heads. Vivenna watched him, pristine as always, and her poise gave him strength as he forced his hair to turn black again. It took more willpower than any common man could understand to control the treasonous Royal Locks. Dedelin wasn’t
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sure how Vivenna managed it so well. Poor girl never even had a childhood, he thought. From birth, Vivenna’s life had been pointed toward this single event. His firstborn child, the girl who had always seemed like a part of himself. The girl who had always made him proud; the woman who had already earned the love and respect of her people. In his mind’s eye he saw the queen she could become, stronger even than he. Someone who could guide them through the dark days ahead. But only if she survived that long. “I will prepare myself for the trip,” Vivenna said, rising. “No,” Dedelin said. Yarda and Vivenna both turned. “Father,” Vivenna said. “If we break this treaty, it will mean war. I am prepared to sacrifice for our people. You taught me that.” “You will not go,” Dedelin said firmly, turning back toward the window. Outside, Siri was laughing with one of the stablemen. Dedelin could hear her outburst even from a distance; her hair had turned a flame-colored red. Lord God of Colors, forgive me, he thought. What a terrible choice for a father to make. The treaty is specific: I must send the Hallandren my daughter when Vivenna reaches her twenty-second birthday. But it doesn’t actually say which daughter I am required to send. If he didn’t send Hallandren one of his daughters, they would attack immediately. If he sent the wrong one, they might be angered, but he knew they wouldn’t attack. They would wait until they had an heir. That would gain Idris at least nine months. And...he thought, if they were to try to use Vivenna against me, I know that I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from giving in. It was shameful to admit that fact, but in the end, it was what made the decision for him. Dedelin turned back toward the room. “Vivenna, you will not go to wed the tyrant god of our enemies. I’m sending Siri in your place.” Annotations to Chapter One Two Annotations for Chapter 2 Siri sat, stunned, in a rattling carriage, her homeland growing more and more distant with each bump and shake. Two days had passed, and she still didn’t understand. This was supposed to be Vivenna’s task. Everybody understood that. Idris had thrown a celebration on the day of Vivenna’s birth. The king had started her classes from the day she could walk, training her in the ways of court life and politics. Fafen, the second daughter, had also taken the lessons in case Vivenna died before the day of the wedding. But not Siri. She’d been redundant. Unimportant. No more. She glanced out the window. Her father had sent the kingdom’s nicest carriage—along with an honor guard of twenty soldiers—to bear her southward. That, combined with a steward and several serving boys, made for a procession as grand as Siri had ever seen. It bordered on ostentation, which might have thrilled her, had it not been bearing her away from Idris. This isn’t the way it’s supposed to be, she thought.
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This isn’t the way any of it is supposed to happen! And yet it had. Nothing made sense. The carriage bumped, but she just sat, numb. At the very least, she thought, they could have let me ride horseback, rather than forcing me to sit in this carriage. But that, unfortunately, wouldn’t have been an appropriate way to enter Hallandren. Hallandren. She felt her hair bleach white with fear. She was being sent to Hallandren, a kingdom her people cursed with every second breath. She wouldn’t see her father again for a long while, if ever. She wouldn’t speak with Vivenna, or listen to the tutors, or be chided by Mab, or ride the royal horses, or go looking for flowers in the wilderness, or work in the kitchens. She’d... Marry the God King. The terror of Hallandren, the monster that had never drawn a living breath. In Hallandren, his power was absolute. He could order an execution on a whim. I’ll be safe, though, won’t I? she thought. I’ll be his wife. Wife. I’m getting married. Oh Austre, God of Colors...she thought, feeling sick. She curled up with her legs against her chest—her hair growing so white that it seemed to shine—and lay down on the seat of the carriage, not sure if the shaking she felt was her own trembling or the carriage continuing its inexorable path southward. ~ “I think that you should reconsider your decision, Father,” Vivenna said calmly, sitting decorously—as she’d been trained—with hands in her lap. “I’ve considered and reconsidered, Vivenna,” King Dedelin said, waving his hand. “My mind is made up.” “Siri is not suited to this task.” “She’ll do fine,” her father said, looking through some papers on his desk. “All she really needs to do is have a baby. I’m certain she’s ‘suited’ to that task.” What then of my training? Vivenna thought. Twenty-two years of preparation? What was that, if the only point in being sent was to provide a convenient womb? She kept her hair black, her voice solemn, her face calm. “Siri must be distraught,” she said. “I don’t think she’s emotionally capable of dealing with this.” Her father looked up, his hair fading a bit red—the black bleeding away like paint running off a canvas. It showed his annoyance. He’s more upset by her departure than he’s willing to admit. “This is for the best for our people, Vivenna,” he said, working—with obvious effort—to turn his hair black again. “If war comes, Idris will need you here.” “If war comes, what of Siri?” Her father fell silent. “Perhaps it won’t come,” he finally said. Austre...Vivenna thought with shock. He doesn’t believe that. He thinks he’s sent her to her death. “I know what you are thinking,” her father said, drawing her attention back to his eyes. So solemn. “How could I choose one over the other? How could I send Siri to die and leave you here to live? I didn’t do it based on personal preference, no matter what people may think. I did what will be best
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for Idris when this war comes.” When this war comes. Vivenna looked up, meeting his eyes. “I was going to stop the war, Father. I was to be the God King’s bride! I was going to speak with him, persuade him. I’ve been trained with the political knowledge, the understanding of customs, the—” “Stop the war?” her father asked, cutting in. Only then did Vivenna realize how brash she must have sounded. She looked away. “Vivenna, child,” her father said. “There is no stopping this war. Only the promise of a daughter of the royal line kept them away this long, and sending Siri may buy us time. And...perhaps I’ve sent her to safety, even when war flares. Perhaps they will value her bloodline to the point that they leave her alive—a backup should the heir she bears pass away.” He grew distant. “Yes,” he continued, “perhaps it is not Siri we should be fearing for, but...” But ourselves, Vivenna finished in her mind. She was not privy to all of her father’s war planning, but she knew enough. War would not favor Idris. In a conflict with Hallandren, there was little chance they would win. It would be devastating for their people and their way of life. “Father, I—” “Please, Vivenna,” he said quietly. “I cannot speak of this further. Go now. We will converse later.” Later. After Siri had traveled even farther away, after it would be much more difficult to bring her back. Yet Vivenna rose. She was obedient; it was the way she had been trained. That was one of the things that had always separated her from her sister. She left her father’s study, closing the door behind her, then walked through the wooden palace hallways, pretending that she didn’t see the stares or hear the whispers. She made her way to her room—which was small and unadorned—and sat down on her bed, hands in her lap. She didn’t agree at all with her father’s assessment. She could have done something. She was to have been the God King’s bride. That would have given her influence in the court. Everyone knew that the God King himself was distant when it came to the politics of his nation, but surely his wife could have played a role in defending the interests of her people. And her father had thrown that away? He really must believe that there is nothing that can be done to stop the invasion. That turned sending Siri into simply another political maneuver to buy time. Just as Idris had been doing for decades. Either way, if the sacrifice of a royal daughter to the Hallandren was that important, then it still should have been Vivenna’s place to go. It had always been her duty to prepare for marriage to the God King. Not Siri’s, not Fafen’s. Vivenna’s. In being saved, she didn’t feel grateful. Nor did she feel that she would better serve Idris by staying in Bevalis. If her father died, Yarda would be far better suited to rule during war time than
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Vivenna. Besides, Ridger— Vivenna’s younger brother—had been groomed as heir for years. She had been preserved for no reason. It seemed a punishment, in some ways. She’d listened, prepared, learned, and practiced. Everyone said that she was perfect. Why, then, wasn’t she good enough to serve as intended? She had no good answer for herself. She could only sit and fret, hands in her lap, and face the awful truth. Her purpose in life had been stolen and given to another. She was redundant now. Useless. Unimportant. ~ “What was he thinking!” Siri snapped, hanging half out the window of her carriage as it bounced along the earthen road. A young soldier marched beside the vehicle, looking uncomfortable in the afternoon light. “I mean really,” Siri said. “Sending me to marry the Hallandren king. That’s silly, isn’t it? Surely you’ve heard about the kinds of things I do. Wandering off when nobody’s looking. Ignoring my lessons. I throw angry fits, for Color’s sake!” The guard glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, but otherwise gave no reaction. Siri didn’t really care. She wasn’t yelling at him so much as just yelling. She hung precariously from the window, feeling the wind play with her hair—long, red, straight—and stoking her anger. Fury kept her from weeping. The green spring hills of the Idris Highlands had slowly faded away as the days had passed. In fact, they were probably in Hallandren already—the border between the two kingdoms was vague, which wasn’t surprising, considering that they’d been one nation up until the Manywar. She eyed the poor guard—whose only way of dealing with a raving princess was ignoring her. Then she finally slumped back into the carriage. She shouldn’t have treated him so, but, well, she’d just been sold off like some hunk of mutton—doomed by a document that had been written years before she’d even been born. If anyone had a right to a tantrum, it was Siri. Maybe that’s the reason for all of this, she thought, crossing her arms on the windowsill. Maybe Father was tired of my tantrums, and just wanted to get rid of me. That seemed a little far-fetched. There were easier ways to deal with Siri—ways that didn’t include sending her to represent Idris in a foreign court. Why, then? Did he really think she’d do a good job? That gave her pause. Then she considered how ridiculous it was. Her father wouldn’t have assumed that she’d do a better job than Vivenna. Nobody did anything better than Vivenna. Siri sighed, feeling her hair turn a pensive brown. At least the landscape was interesting, and in order to keep herself from feeling any more frustrated, she let it distract her for the moment. Hallandren was in the lowlands, a place of tropical forests and strange, colorful animals. Siri had heard the descriptions from ramblemen, and even confirmed their accounts in the occasional book she’d been forced to read. She’d thought she knew what to expect. Yet as the hills gave way to deep grasslands and then
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the trees finally began to crowd the road, Siri began to realize that there was something no tome or tale could adequately describe. Colors. In the highlands, flower patches were rare and unconnected, as if they understood how poorly they fit with Idris philosophy. Here, they appeared to be everywhere. Tiny flowers grew in great blanketing swaths on the ground. Large, drooping pink blossoms hung from trees, like bundles of grapes, flowers growing practically on top of one another in a large cluster. Even the weeds had flowers. Siri would have picked some of them, if not for the way that the soldiers regarded them with hostility. If I feel this anxious, she realized, those guards must feel more so. She wasn’t the only one who had been sent away from family and friends. When would these men be allowed to return? Suddenly, she felt even more guilty for subjecting the young soldier to her outburst. I’ll send them back when I arrive, she thought. Then she immediately felt her hair grow white. Sending the men back would leave her alone in a city filled with Lifeless, Awakeners, and pagans. Yet what good would twenty soldiers do her? Better that someone, at least, be allowed to return home. ~ “One would think that you would be happy,” Fafen said. “After all, you no longer have to marry a tyrant.” Vivenna plopped a bruise-colored berry into her basket, then moved on to a different bush. Fafen worked on one nearby. She wore the white robes of a monk, her hair completely shorn. Fafen was the middle sister in almost every way—midway between Siri and Vivenna in height, less proper than Vivenna, yet hardly as careless as Siri. Fafen was a bit curvier than either of them, which had caught the eyes of several young men in the village. However, the fact that they would have to become monks themselves if they wanted to marry her kept them in check. If Fafen noticed how popular she was, she’d never shown it. She’d made the decision to become a monk before her tenth birthday, and her father had wholeheartedly approved. Every noble or rich family was traditionally obligated to provide one person to the monasteries. It was against the five Visions to be selfish, even with one’s own blood. The two sisters gathered berries that Fafen would later distribute to those in need. The monk’s fingers were dyed slightly purple by the work. Vivenna wore gloves. That much color on her hands would be unseemly. “Yes,” Fafen said, “I do think you’re taking this all wrong. Why, you act as if you want to go down and be married to that Lifeless monster.” “He’s not Lifeless,” Vivenna said. “Susebron is Returned, and there is a large difference.” “Yes, but he’s a false god. Besides, everyone knows what a terrible creature he is.” “But it was my place to go and marry him. That is who I am, Fafen. Without it, I am nothing.” “Nonsense,” Fafen said. “You’ll inherit now, instead of Ridger.” Thereby unsettling the
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order of things even further, Vivenna thought. What right do I have to take his place from him? She allowed this aspect of the conversation to lapse, however. She’d been arguing the point for several minutes now, and it wouldn’t be proper to continue. Proper. Rarely before had Vivenna felt so frustrated at having to be proper. Her emotions were growing rather...inconvenient. “What of Siri?” she found herself saying. “You’re happy that this happened to her?” Fafen looked up, then frowned a little to herself. She had a tendency to avoid thinking things through unless she was confronted with them directly. Vivenna felt a little ashamed for making such a blunt comment, but with Fafen, there often wasn’t any other way. “You do have a point,” Fafen said. “I don’t see why anyone had to be sent.” “The treaty,” Vivenna said. “It protects our people.” “Austre protects our people,” Fafen said, moving on to another bush. Will he protect Siri? Vivenna thought. Poor, innocent, capricious Siri. She’d never learned to control herself; she’d be eaten alive in the Hallandren Court of Gods. Siri wouldn’t understand the politics, the backstabbing, the false faces and lies. She would also be forced to bear the next God King of Hallandren. Performing that duty was not something Vivenna had looked forward to. It would have been a sacrifice, yet it would have been her sacrifice, given willingly for the safety of her people. Such thoughts continued to pester Vivenna as she and Fafen finished with the berry picking, then moved down the hillside back toward the village. Fafen, like all monks, dedicated all of her work to the good of the people. She watched flocks, harvested food, and cleaned houses for those who could not do it themselves. Without a duty of her own, Vivenna had little purpose. And yet, as she considered it, there was someone who still needed her. Someone who had left a week before, teary-eyed and frightened, looking to her big sister with desperation. Vivenna wasn’t needed in Idris, whatever her father said. She was useless here. But she did know the people, cultures, and society of Hallandren. And—as she followed Fafen onto the village road—an idea began to form in Vivenna’s head. One that was not, by any stretch of the imagination, proper. Annotations for Chapter 2 Three Annotations for Chapter 3 Lightsong didn’t remember dying. His priests, however, assured him that his death had been extremely inspiring. Noble. Grand. Heroic. One did not Return unless one died in a way that exemplified the great virtues of human existence. That was why the Iridescent Tones sent the Returned back; they acted as examples, and gods, to the people who still lived. Each god represented something. An ideal related to the heroic way in which they had died. Lightsong himself had died displaying extreme bravery. Or, at least, that was what his priests told him. Lightsong couldn’t remember the event, just as he couldn’t remember anything of his life before he became a god. He groaned softly, unable to sleep any longer.
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He rolled over, feeling weak as he sat up in his majestic bed. Visions and memories pestered his mind, and he shook his head, trying to clear away the fog of sleep. Servants entered, responding wordlessly to their god’s needs. He was one of the younger divinities, for he’d Returned only five years before. There were some two dozen deities in the Court of Gods, and many were far more important—and far more politically savvy—than Lightsong. And above them all reigned Susebron, the God King of Hallandren. Young though he was, he merited an enormous palace. He slept in a room draped with silks, dyed with bright reds and yellows. His palace held dozens of different chambers, all decorated and furnished according to his whims. Hundreds of servants and priests saw to his needs—whether he wanted them seen to or not. All of this, he thought as he stood, because I couldn’t figure out how to die. Standing made him just a bit dizzy. It was his feast day. He would lack strength until he ate. Servants approached carrying brilliant red and gold robes. As they entered his aura, each servant—skin, hair, clothing, and garments—burst with exaggerated color. The saturated hues were far more resplendent than any dye or paint could produce. That was an effect of Lightsong’s innate BioChroma: he had enough Breath to fill thousands of people. He saw little value in it. He couldn’t use it to animate objects or corpses; he was a god, not an Awakener. He couldn’t give—or even loan—his deific Breath away. Well, except once. That would, however, kill him. The servants continued their ministrations, draping him with gorgeous cloth. Lightsong was a good head and a half taller than anyone else in the room. He was also broad of shoulders, with a muscular physique that he didn’t deserve, considering the amount of time he spent idle. “Did you sleep well, Your Grace?” a voice asked. Lightsong turned. Llarimar, his high priest, was a tall, portly man with spectacles and a calm demeanor. His hands were nearly hidden by the deep sleeves of his gold and red robe, and he carried a thick tome. Both robes and tome burst with color as they entered Lightsong’s aura. “I slept fantastically, Scoot,” Lightsong said, yawning. “A night full of nightmares and obscure dreams, as always. Terribly restful.” The priest raised an eyebrow. “Scoot?” “Yes,” Lightsong said. “I’ve decided to give you a new nickname. Scoot. Seems to fit you, the way you’re always scooting around, poking into things.” “I am honored, Your Grace,” Llarimar said, seating himself on a chair. Colors, Lightsong thought. Doesn’t he ever get annoyed? Llarimar opened his tome. “Shall we begin?” “If we must,” Lightsong said. The servants finished tying ribbons, doing up clasps, and draping silks. Each bowed and retreated to a side of the room. Llarimar picked up his quill. “What, then, do you remember of your dreams?” “Oh, you know.” Lightsong flopped back onto one of his couches, lounging. “Nothing really important.” Llarimar pursed his lips in displeasure. Other servants
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began to file in, bearing various dishes of food. Mundane, human food. As a Returned, Lightsong didn’t really need to eat such things—they would not give him strength or banish his fatigue. They were just an indulgence. In a short time, he would dine on something far more...divine. It would give him strength enough to live for another week. “Please try to remember the dreams, Your Grace,” Llarimar said in his polite, yet firm, way. “No matter how unremarkable they may seem.” Lightsong sighed, looking up at the ceiling. It was painted with a mural, of course. This one depicted three fields enclosed by stone walls. It was a vision one of his predecessors had seen. Lightsong closed his eyes, trying to focus. “I...was walking along a beach,” he said. “And a ship was leaving without me. I don’t know where it was going.” Llarimar’s pen began to scratch quickly. He was probably finding all kinds of symbolism in the memory. “Were there any colors?” the priest asked. “The ship had a red sail,” Lightsong said. “The sand was brown, of course, and the trees green. For some reason, I think the ocean water was red, like the ship.” Llarimar scribbled furiously—he always got excited when Lightsong remembered colors. Lightsong opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling and its brightly colored fields. He reached over idly, plucking some cherries off a servant’s plate. Why should he begrudge the people his dreams? Even if he found divination foolish, he had no right to complain. He was remarkably fortunate. He had a deific BioChromatic aura, a physique that any man would envy, and enough luxury for ten kings. Of all the people in the world, he had the least right to be difficult. It was just that...well, he was probably the world’s only god who didn’t believe in his own religion. “Was there anything else to the dream, Your Grace?” Llarimar asked, looking up from his book. “You were there, Scoot.” Llarimar paused, paling just slightly. “I...was?” Lightsong nodded. “You apologized for bothering me all the time and keeping me from my debauchery. Then you brought me a big bottle of wine and did a dance. It was really quite remarkable.” Llarimar regarded him with a flat stare. Lightsong sighed. “No, there was nothing else. Just the boat. Even that is fading.” Llarimar nodded, rising and shooing back the servants—though, of course, they remained in the room, hovering with their plates of nuts, wine, and fruit, should any of it be wanted. “Shall we get on with it then, Your Grace?” Llarimar asked. Lightsong sighed, then rose, exhausted. A servant scuttled forward to redo one of the clasps on his robe, which had come undone as he sat. Lightsong fell into step beside Llarimar, towering at least a foot over the priest. The furniture and doorways, however, were built to fit Lightsong’s increased size, so it was the servants and priests who seemed out of place. They passed from room to room, using no hallways. Hallways were for servants, and they ran
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in a square around the outside of the building. Lightsong walked on plush rugs from the northern nations, passing the finest pottery from across the Inner Sea. Each room was hung with paintings and gracefully calligraphed poems, created by Hallandren’s finest artists. At the center of the palace was a small, square room that deviated from the standard reds and golds of Lightsong’s motif. This one was bright with ribbons of darker colors—deep blues, greens, and blood reds. Each was a true color, directly on hue, as only a person who had attained the Third Heightening could distinguish. As Lightsong stepped into the room, the colors blazed to life. They became brighter, more intense, yet somehow remained dark. The maroon became a more true maroon, the navy a more powerful navy. Dark yet bright, a contrast only Breath could inspire. In the center of the room was a child. Why does it always have to be a child? Lightsong thought. Llarimar and the servants waited. Lightsong stepped forward, and the little girl glanced to the side, where a couple of priests stood in red and gold robes. They nodded encouragingly. The girl looked back toward Lightsong, obviously nervous. “Here now,” Lightsong said, trying to sound encouraging. “There’s nothing to fear.” And yet, the girl trembled. Lecture after lecture—delivered by Llarimar, who had claimed that they were not lectures, for one did not lecture gods—drifted through Lightsong’s head. There was nothing to fear from the Returned gods of the Hallandren. The gods were a blessing. They provided visions of the future, as well as leadership and wisdom. All they needed to subsist was one thing. Breath. Lightsong hesitated, but his weakness was coming to a head. He felt dizzy. Cursing himself quietly, he knelt down on one knee, taking the girl’s face in his oversized hands. She began to cry, but she said the words, clear and distinct as she had been taught. “My life to yours. My Breath become yours.” Her Breath flowed out, puffing in the air. It traveled along Lightsong’s arm—the touch was necessary—and he drew it in. His weakness vanished, the dizziness evaporated. Both were replaced with crisp clarity. He felt invigorated, revitalized, alive. The girl grew dull. The color of her lips and eyes faded slightly. Her brown hair lost some of its luster; her cheeks became more bland. It’s nothing, he thought. Most people say they can’t even tell that their Breath is gone. She’ll live a full life. Happy. Her family will be well paid for her sacrifice. And Lightsong would live for another week. His aura didn’t grow stronger from Breath upon which he fed; that was another difference between a Returned and an Awakener. The latter were sometimes regarded as inferior, man–made approximations of the Returned. Without a new Breath each week, Lightsong would die. Many Returned outside of Hallandren lived only eight days. Yet with a donated Breath a week, a Returned could continue to live, never aging, seeing visions at night which would supposedly provide divinations of the future. Hence the Court
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of the Gods, filled with its palaces, where gods could be nurtured, protected, and— most importantly—fed. Priests hustled forward to lead the girl out of the room. It is nothing to her, Lightsong told himself again. Nothing at all... Her eyes met his as she left, and he could see that the twinkle was gone from them. She had become a Drab. A Dull, or a Faded One. A person without Breath. It would never grow back. The priests took her away. Lightsong turned to Llarimar, feeling guilty at his sudden energy. “All right,” he said. “Let’s see the Offerings.” Llarimar raised an eyebrow over his bespectacled eyes. “You’re accommodating all of a sudden.” I need to give something back, Lightsong thought. Even if it’s something useless. They passed through several more rooms of red and gold, most of which were perfectly square with doors on all four sides. Near the eastern side of the palace, they entered a long, thin room. It was completely white, something very unusual in Hallandren. The walls were lined with paintings and poems. The servants stayed outside; only Llarimar joined Lightsong as he stepped up to the first painting. “Well?” Llarimar asked. It was a pastoral painting of the jungle, with drooping palms and colorful flowers. There were some of these plants in the gardens around the Court of Gods, which was why Lightsong recognized them. He’d never actually been to the jungle—at least, not during this incarnation of his life. “The painting is all right,” Lightsong said. “Not my favorite. Makes me think of the outside. I wish I could visit.” Llarimar looked at him quizzically. “What?” Lightsong said. “The court gets old sometimes.” “There isn’t much wine in the forest, Your Grace.” “I could make some. Ferment...something.” “I’m sure,” Llarimar said, nodding to one of his aides outside the room. The lesser priest scribbled down what Lightsong had said about the painting. Somewhere, there was a city patron who sought a blessing from Lightsong. It probably had to do with bravery—perhaps the patron was planning to propose marriage, or maybe he was a merchant about to sign a risky business deal. The priests would interpret Lightsong’s opinion of the painting, then give the person an augury—either for good or for ill—along with the exact words Lightsong had said. Either way, the act of sending a painting to the god would gain the patron some measure of good fortune. Supposedly. Lightsong moved away from the painting. A lesser priest rushed forward, removing it. Most likely, the patron hadn’t painted it himself, but had instead commissioned it. The better a painting was, the better a reaction it tended to get from the gods. One’s future, it seemed, could be influenced by how much one could pay one’s artist. I shouldn’t be so cynical, Lightsong thought. Without this system, I’d have died five years ago. Five years ago he had died, even if he still didn’t know what had killed him. Had it really been a heroic death? Perhaps nobody was allowed to talk about his former
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life because they didn’t want anyone to know that Lightsong the Bold had actually died from a stomach cramp. To the side, the lesser priest disappeared with the jungle painting. It would be burned. Such offerings were made specifically for the intended god, and only he—besides a few of his priests—was allowed to see them. Lightsong moved along to the next work of art on the wall. It was actually a poem, written in the artisan’s script. The dots of color brightened as Lightsong approached. The Hallandren artisan’s script was a specialized system of writing that wasn’t based on form, but on color. Each colored dot represented a different sound in Hallandren’s language. Combined with some double dots—one of each color—it created an alphabet that was a nightmare for the colorblind. Few people in Hallandren would admit to having that particular ailment. At least, that was what Lightsong had heard. He wondered if the priests knew just how much their gods gossiped about the outside world. The poem wasn’t a very good one, obviously composed by a peasant who had then paid someone else to translate it to the artisan’s script. The simple dots were a sign of this. True poets used more elaborate symbols, continuous lines that changed color or colorful glyphs that formed pictures. A lot could be done with symbols that could change shape without losing their meaning. Getting the colors right was a delicate art, one that required the Third Heightening or better to perfect. That was the level of Breath at which a person gained the ability to sense perfect hues of color, just as the Second Heightening gave someone perfect pitch. Returned were of the fifth Heightening. Lightsong didn’t know what it was like to live without the ability to instantly recognize exact shades of color and sound. He could tell an ideal red from one that had been mixed with even one drop of white paint. He gave the peasant’s poem as good a review as he could, though he generally felt an impulse to be honest when he looked at Offerings. It seemed his duty, and for some reason it was one of the few things he took seriously. They continued down the line, Lightsong giving reviews of the various paintings and poems. The wall was remarkably full this day. Was there a feast or celebration he hadn’t heard about? By the time they neared the end of the line, Lightsong was tired of looking at art, though his body—fueled by the child’s Breath—continued to feel strong and exhilarated. He stopped before the final painting. It was an abstract work, a style that was growing more and more popular lately—particularly in paintings sent to him, since he’d given favorable reviews to others in the past. He almost gave this one a poor grade simply because of that. It was good to keep the priests guessing at what would please him, or so some of the gods said. Lightsong sensed that many of them were far more calculating in the way that they gave their
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reviews, intentionally adding cryptic meanings. Lightsong didn’t have the patience for such tricks, especially since all anyone ever really seemed to want from him was honesty. He gave this last painting the time it deserved. The canvas was thick with paint, every inch colored with large, fat strokes of the brush. The predominant hue was a deep red, almost a crimson, that Lightsong immediately knew was a red–blue mixture with a hint of black in it. The lines of color overlapped, one atop another, almost in a progression. Kind of like...waves. Lightsong frowned. If he looked at it right, it looked like a sea. And could that be a ship in the center? Vague impressions from his dream returned to him. A red sea. The ship, leaving. I’m imagining things, he told himself. “Good color,” he said. “Nice patterns. It puts me at peace, yet has a tension to it as well. I approve.” Llarimar seemed to like this response. He nodded as the lesser priest—who stood a distance away—recorded Lightsong’s words. “So,” Lightsong said. “That’s it, I assume?” “Yes, Your Grace.” One duty left, he thought. Now that Offerings were done, it would be time to move on to the final—and least appealing—of his daily tasks. Petitions. He had to get through them before he could get to more important activities, like taking a nap. Llarimar didn’t lead the way toward the petition hall, however. He simply waved a lesser priest over, then began to flip through some pages on a clipboard. “Well?” Lightsong asked. “Well what, Your Grace?” “Petitions.” Llarimar shook his head. “You aren’t hearing petitions today, Your Grace. Remember?” “No. I have you to remember things like that for me.” “Well, then,” Llarimar said, flipping a page over, “consider it officially remembered that you have no petitions today. Your priests will be otherwise employed.” “They will?” Lightsong demanded. “Doing what?” “Kneeling reverently in the courtyard, Your Grace. Our new queen arrives today.” Lightsong froze. I really need to pay more attention to politics. “Today?” “Indeed, Your Grace. Our lord the God King will be married.” “So soon?” “As soon as she arrives, Your Grace.” Interesting, Lightsong thought. Susebron getting a wife. The God King was the only one of the Returned who could marry. Returned couldn’t produce children—save, of course, for the king, who had never drawn a breath as a living man. Lightsong had always found the distinction odd. “Your Grace,” Llarimar said. “We will need a Lifeless Command in order to arrange our troops on the field outside the city to welcome the queen.” Lightsong raised an eyebrow. “We plan to attack her?” Llarimar gave him a stern look. Lightsong chuckled. “Fledgling fruit,” he said, giving up one of the Command phrases that would let others control the city’s Lifeless. It wasn’t the core Command, of course. The phrase he’d given to Llarimar would allow a person to control the Lifeless only in noncombat situations, and it would expire one day after its first use. Lightsong often thought that the convoluted system of Commands used to
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control the Lifeless was needlessly complex. However, being one of the four gods to hold Lifeless Commands did make him rather important at times. The priests began to chat quietly about preparations. Lightsong waited, still thinking about Susebron and the impending wedding. He folded his arms and rested against the side of the doorway. “Scoot?” he asked. “Yes, Your Grace?” “Did I have a wife? Before I died, I mean.” Llarimar hesitated. “You know I cannot speak of your life before your Return, Lightsong. Knowledge of your past won’t do anyone any good.” Lightsong leaned his head back, resting it against the wall, looking up at the white ceiling. “I...remember a face, sometimes,” he said softly. “A beautiful, youthful face. I think it might have been her.” The priests hushed. “Inviting brown hair,” Lightsong said. “Red lips, three shades shy of the seventh harmonic, with a deep beauty. Dark tan skin.” A priest scuttled forward with the red tome, and Llarimar started writing furiously. He didn’t prompt Lightsong for more information, but simply took down the god’s words as they came. Lightsong fell silent, turning away from the men and their scribbling pens. What does it matter? he thought. That life is gone. Instead, I get to be a god. Regardless of my belief in the religion itself, the perks are nice. He walked away, trailed by a retinue of servants and lesser priests who would see to his needs. Offerings done, dreams recorded, and petitions canceled, Lightsong was free to pursue his own activities. He didn’t return to his main chambers. Instead, he made his way out onto his patio deck and waved for a pavilion to be set up for him. If a new queen was going to arrive today, he wanted to get a good look at her. Annotations for Chapter 3 Four Annotations for Chapter 4 Siri’s carriage rolled to a stop outside of T’Telir, capital of Hallandren. She stared out the window and realized something very, very intimidating: Her people had no idea what it meant to be ostentatious. Flowers weren’t ostentatious. Ten soldiers protecting a carriage was not ostentatious. Throwing a tantrum in public wasn’t ostentatious. The field of forty thousand soldiers, dressed in brilliant blue and gold, standing in perfect rows, spears raised high with blue tassels flapping in the wind...that was ostentatious. The twin line of cavalrymen atop enormous, thick-hoofed horses, both men and beasts draped with golden cloth that shimmered in the sun. That was ostentatious. The massive city, so large it made her mind numb to consider it, domes and spires and painted walls all competing to draw her attention. That was ostentatious. She’d thought that she was prepared. The carriage had passed through cities as they’d made their way to T’Telir. She’d seen the painted houses, the bright colors and patterns. She’d stayed at inns with plush beds. She’d eaten foods mixed with spices that made her sneeze. She hadn’t been prepared for her reception at T’Telir. Not at all. Blessed Lord of Colors...she thought. Her soldiers pulled in tight around
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the carriage, as if wishing they could climb inside and hide from the overwhelming sight. T’Telir was built up against the shore of the Bright Sea, a large but landlocked body of water. She could see it in the distance, reflecting the sunlight, strikingly true to its name. A figure in blue and silver rode up to her carriage. His deep robes weren’t simple, like the monks wore back in Idris. These had massive, peaked shoulders that almost made the costume look like armor. He wore a matching headdress. That, combined with the brilliant colors and complex layers of the robes, made Siri’s hair pale to an intimidated white. The figure bowed. “Lady Sisirinah Royal,” the man said in a deep voice, “I am Treledees, high priest of His Immortal Majesty, Susebron the Grand, Returned God and King of Hallandren. You will accept this token honor guard to guide you to the Court of Gods.” Token? Siri thought. The priest didn’t wait for a response; he just turned his horse and started back down the highway toward the city. Her carriage rolled after him, her soldiers marching uncomfortably around the vehicle. The jungle gave way to sporadic bunches of palm trees, and Siri was surprised to see how much sand was mixed with the soil. Her view of the landscape soon grew obstructed by the vast field of soldiers who stood at attention on either side of the road. “Austre, God of Colors!” one of Siri’s guards whispered. “They’re Lifeless!” Siri’s hair—which had begun to drift to auburn—snapped back to fearful white. He was right. Under their colorful uniforms, the Hallandren troops were a dull grey. Their eyes, their skin, even their hair: all had been drained completely of color, leaving behind a monochrome. Those can’t be Lifeless! she thought. They look like men! She’d imagined Lifeless as skeletal creatures, the flesh rotting and falling from the bones. They were, after all, men who had died, then been brought back to life as mindless soldiers. But these that she passed looked so human. There was nothing to distinguish them save for their lack of color and the stiff expressions on their faces. That, and the fact that they stood unnaturally motionless. No shuffling, no breathing, no quivers of muscle or limb. Even their eyes were still. They seemed like statues, particularly considering their grey skin. And...I’m going to marry one of these things? Siri thought. But no, Returned were different from Lifeless, and both were different from Drabs, which were people who had lost their Breath. She could vaguely remember a time when someone back in her village had Returned. It had been nearly ten years back, and her father hadn’t let her visit the man. She did recall that he’d been able to speak and interact with his family, even if he hadn’t been able to remember them. He’d died again a week later. Eventually, her carriage passed through the ranks of Lifeless. The city walls were next; they were immense and daunting, yet they almost looked more artistic than functional.
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The wall’s top was curved in massive half-circles, like rolling hills, and the rim was plated with a golden metal. The gates themselves were in the form of two twisting, lithe sea creatures who curved up in a massive archway. Siri passed through them, and the guard of Hallandren cavalrymen—who appeared to be living men—accompanied her. She had always thought of Hallandren as a place of death. Her impressions were based on stories told by passing ramblemen or by old women at the winter hearth. They spoke of city walls built from skulls, then painted with sloppy, ugly streaks of color. She’d imagined the buildings inside splattered with different clashing hues. Obscene. She’d been wrong. True, there was an arrogance to T’Telir. Each new wonder seemed as if it wanted to grab her attention and shake her about by her eyes. People lined the street—more people than Siri had seen in her entire life—crowding together to watch her carriage. If there were poor among them, Siri couldn’t tell, for they all wore brightly colored clothing. Some did have more exaggerated outfits—probably merchants, since Hallandren was said to have no nobility beyond its gods—but even the simplest of clothing had a cheerful brightness to it. Many of the painted buildings did clash, but none of it was sloppy. There was a sense of craftsmanship and art to everything from the storefronts, to the people, to the statues of mighty soldiers that frequently stood on corners. It was terribly overwhelming. Garish. A vibrant, enthusiastic garishness. Siri found herself smiling—her hair turning a tentative blond—though she felt a headache coming on. Maybe...maybe this is why Father sent me, Siri thought. Training or no training, Vivenna would never have fit in here. But I’ve always been far too interested in color. Her father was a good king with good instincts. What if—after twenty years of raising and training Vivenna—he had come to the conclusion that she wasn’t the right one to help Idris? Was that why, for the first time in their lives, Father had chosen Siri over Vivenna? But, if that’s true, what am I supposed to do? She knew that her people feared Hallandren would invade Idris, but she couldn’t see her father sending one of his daughters if he believed war was close. Perhaps he hoped that she’d be able to help ease the tensions between the kingdoms? That possibility only added to her anxiety. Duty was something unfamiliar to her, and not a little unsettling. Her father trusted her with the very fate and lives of their people. She couldn’t run, escape, or hide. Particularly from her own wedding. As her hair twinged white with fear at what was coming, she diverted her attention to the city again. It wasn’t hard to let it take her attention. It was enormous, sprawling like a tired beast curled around and over hills. As the carriage climbed the southern section of town, she could see—through gaps in the buildings—that the Bright Sea broke into a bay before the city. T’Telir curved around the bay, running
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right up to the water, forming a crescent shape. The city wall, then, only had to run in a half-circle, abutting the sea, keeping the city boxed in. It didn’t seem cramped. There was a lot of open space in the city—malls and gardens, large swaths of unused land. Palms lined many of the streets and other foliage was common. Plus, with the cool breeze coming over the sea, the air was a lot more temperate than she had expected. The road led up to a seaside overlook within the city, a small plateau that had an excellent view. Except the entire plateau was surrounded by a large, obstructive wall. Siri watched with growing apprehension as the gates to this smaller city-within-a-city opened up to let the carriage, soldiers, and priests enter. The common people stayed outside. There was another wall inside, a barrier to keep anyone from seeing in through the gate. The procession turned left and rounded the blinding wall, entering the Hallandren Court of Gods: an enclosed, lawn-covered courtyard. Several dozen enormous mansions dominated the enclosure, each one painted a distinct color. At the far end of the court was a massive black structure, much taller than the other buildings. The walled courtyard was quiet and still. Siri could see figures sitting on balconies, watching her carriage roll across the grass. In front of each of the palaces, a crew of men and women knelt prostrate on the grass. The color of their clothing matched that of their building, but Siri spared little time to study them. Instead, she nervously peered at the large, black structure. It was pyramidal, formed of giant steplike blocks. Black, she thought. In a city of color. Her hair paled even further. She suddenly wished she were more devout. She doubted Austre was all that pleased with her outbursts, and most days she even had trouble naming the five Visions. But he’d watch over her for the sake of her people, wouldn’t he? The procession pulled to a stop at the base of the enormous triangular building. Siri looked up through the carriage window at the shelves and knobs at the summit, which made the architecture seem top-heavy. She felt as if the dark blocks would come tumbling down in an avalanche to bury her. The priest rode his horseback up to Siri’s window. The cavalrymen waited quietly, the shuffling of their beasts the only sound in the massive, open courtyard. “We have arrived, Vessel,” the man said. “As soon as we enter the building, you will be prepared and taken to your husband.” “Husband?” Siri asked uncomfortably. “Won’t there be a wedding ceremony?” The priest smirked. “The God King does not need ceremonial justification. You became his wife the moment he desired it.” Siri shivered. “I was just hoping that maybe I could see him, before, you know...” The priest shot her a harsh look. “The God King does not perform for your whims, woman. You are blessed above all others, for you will be allowed to touch him—if only at his discretion.
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Do not pretend that you are anything other than you are. You have come because he desires it, and you will obey. Otherwise, you will be put aside and another will be chosen in your place—which, I think, might bode unfavorably for your rebel friends in the highlands.” The priest turned his horse, then clopped his way toward a large stone ramp, leading up to the building. The carriage lurched into motion, and Siri was drawn toward her fate. Annotations for Chapter 4 Five Annotations for Chapter 5 This will complicate things, Vasher thought, standing in the shadows atop the wall that enclosed the Court of Gods. What’s wrong? Nightblood asked. So the rebels actually sent a princess. Doesn’t change your plans. Vasher waited, watching, as the new queen’s carriage crept up the incline and disappeared into the palace’s maw. What? Nightblood demanded. Even after all of these years, the sword reacted like a child in many ways. She’ll be used, Vasher thought. I doubt we’ll be able to get through this without dealing with her. He hadn’t believed that the Idrians would actually send royal blood back to T’Telir. They’d given up a pawn of terrible value. Vasher turned away from the court, wrapping his sandaled foot around one of the banners that ran down the outside of the wall. Then he released his Breath. “Lower me,” he Commanded. The large tapestry—woven from wool threads—sucked hundreds of Breaths from him. It hadn’t the form of a man, and it was massive in size, but Vasher now had enough Breath to spend in such extravagant Awakenings. The tapestry twisted, a thing alive, and formed a hand, which picked Vasher up. As always, the Awakening tried to imitate the form of a human—looking closely at the twistings and undulations of the fabric, Vasher could see outlines of muscles and even veins. There was no need for them; the Breath animated the fabric, and no muscles were necessary for it to move. The tapestry carefully carried Vasher down, pinching him by one shoulder, placing his feet on the street. “Your Breath to mine,” Vasher Commanded. The large banner-tapestry lost its animate form immediately, life vanishing, and it fluttered back against the wall. Some few people paused in the street, yet they were interested, not awed. This was T’Telir, home of the gods themselves. Men with upward of a thousand Breaths were uncommon, but not unheard of. The people gawked—as peasants in other kingdoms might pause to watch the carriage of a passing lord—but then they moved on with their daily activities. The attention was unavoidable. Though Vasher still dressed in his usual outfit—ragged trousers, well-worn cloak despite the heat, a rope wrapped several times around his waist for a belt—he now caused colors to brighten dramatically when he was near. The change would be noticeable to normal people and blatantly obvious to those of the first Heightening. His days of being able to hide and skulk were gone. He’d have to grow accustomed to being noticed again. That was one of the reasons he
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was glad to be in T’Telir. The city was large enough and filled with enough oddities— from Lifeless soldiers to Awakened objects serving everyday functions—that he probably wouldn’t stand out too much. Of course, that didn’t take Nightblood into account. Vasher moved through the crowds, carrying the overly heavy sword in one hand, sheathed point nearly dragging on the ground behind him. Some people shied away from the sword immediately. Others watched it, eyes lingering far too long. Perhaps it was time to stuff Nightblood back in the pack. Oh, no you don’t, Nightblood said. Don’t even start thinking about that. I’ve been locked away for too long. What does it matter to you? Vasher thought. I need fresh air, Nightblood said. And sunlight. You’re a sword, Vasher thought, not a palm tree. Nightblood fell silent. He was smart enough to realize that he was not a person, but he didn’t like being confronted with that fact. It tended to put him in a sullen mood. That suited Vasher just fine. He made his way to a restaurant a few streets down from the Court of Gods. This was one thing he had missed about T’Telir: restaurants. In most cities, there were few dining options. If you intended to stay for a while, you hired a local woman to give you meals at her table. If you stayed a short time, you ate what your innkeeper gave you. In T’Telir, however, the population was large enough—and rich enough—to support dedicated food providers. Restaurants still hadn’t caught on in the rest of the world, but in T’Telir, they were commonplace. Vasher already had a booth reserved, and the waiter nodded him to the spot. Vasher settled himself, leaving Nightblood up against the wall. The sword was stolen within a minute of his letting go of it. Vasher ignored the thievery, thoughtful as the waiter brought him a warm cup of citrus tea. Vasher sipped at the sweetened liquid, sucking on the bit of rind, wondering why in the world a people who lived in a tropical lowland preferred heated teas. After a few minutes, his life sense warned him that he was being watched. Eventually, that same sense alerted him that someone was approaching. Vasher slipped his dagger from his belt with his free hand as he sipped. The priest sat down opposite Vasher in the booth. He wore street clothing, rather than religious robes. However—perhaps unconsciously—he had still chosen to wear the white and green of his deity. Vasher slipped his dagger back into its sheath, masking the sound by taking a loud sip. The priest, Bebid, looked about nervously. He had enough of a Breath aura to indicate that he’d reached the first Heightening. It was where most people—those who could afford to buy Breath—stopped. That much Breath would extend their lifespan by a good decade or so and give them an increased life sense. It would also let them see Breath auras and distinguish other Awakeners, and—in a pinch—let them do a little Awakening themselves. A decent trade for spending
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enough money to feed a peasant family for fifty years. “Well?” Vasher asked. Bebid actually jumped at the sound. Vasher sighed, closing his eyes. The priest was not accustomed to these kinds of clandestine meetings. He wouldn’t have come at all, had Vasher not exerted certain...pressures on him. Vasher opened his eyes, staring at the priest as the waiter arrived with two plates of spiced rice. Tektees food was the restaurant’s specialty—the Hallandren liked foreign spices as much as they liked odd colors. Vasher had placed the order earlier, along with a payment that would keep the surrounding booths empty. “Well?” Vasher repeated. “I...” Bebid said. “I don’t know. I haven’t been able to find out much.” Vasher regarded the man with a stern stare. “You have to give me more time.” “Remember your indiscretions, friend,” Vasher said, drinking the last of his tea, feeling a twinge of annoyance. “Wouldn’t want news of those getting out, would we?” Do we have to go through this again? Bebid was quiet for a time. “You don’t know what you’re asking, Vasher,” he said, leaning in. “I’m a priest of Brightvison the True. I can’t betray my oaths!” “Good thing I’m not asking you to.” “We’re not supposed to release information about court politics.” “Bah,” Vasher snapped. “Those Returned can’t so much as look at one another without half of the city learning about it within the hour.” “Surely you’re not implying—” Bebid said. Vasher gritted his teeth, bending his spoon with his finger in annoyance. “Enough, Bebid! We both know that your oaths are all just part of the game.” He leaned in. “And I really hate games.” Bebid paled and didn’t touch his meal. Vasher eyed his spoon with annoyance, then bent it back, calming himself. He shoveled in a spoonful of rice, mouth burning from the spices. He’d didn’t believe in letting food sit around uneaten—you never knew when you’d have to leave in a hurry. “There have been...rumors,” Bebid finally said. “This goes beyond simple court politics, Vasher—beyond games played between gods. This is something very real, and very quiet. Quiet enough that even observant priests only hear hints of it.” Vasher continued to eat. “There is a faction of the court pushing to attack Idris,” Bebid said. “Though I can’t fathom why.” “Don’t be an idiot,” Vasher said, wishing he had more tea to wash down the rice. “We both know Hallandren has sound reasons to slaughter every person up in those highlands.” “Royals,” Bebid said. Vasher nodded. They were called rebels, but those “rebels” were the true Hallandren royal family. Mortal men though they might be, their bloodline was a challenge to the Court of Gods. Any good monarch knew that the first thing you did to stabilize your throne was execute anyone who had a better claim to it than you did. After that, it was usually a good idea to execute everyone who thought they might have claim. “So,” Vasher said. “You fight, Hallandren wins. What’s the problem?” “It’s a bad idea, that’s the problem,” Bebid said.
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“A terrible idea. Kalad’s Phantoms, man! Idris won’t go easily, no matter what people in the court say. This won’t be like squashing that fool Vahr. The Idrians have allies from across the mountains and the sympathies of dozens of kingdoms. What some are calling a ‘simple quelling of rebel factions’ could easily spin into another Manywar. Do you want that? Thousands upon thousands dead? Kingdoms falling to never rise again? All so we can grab a little bit of frozen land nobody really wants.” “The trade passes are valuable,” Vasher noted. Bebid snorted. “The Idrians aren’t foolish enough to raise their tariffs too high. This isn’t about money. It’s about fear. People in the court talk about what might happen if the Idrians cut off the passes or what may happen if the Idrians let enemies slip through and besiege T’Telir. If this were about money, we’d never go to war. Hallandren thrives on its dye and textiles trade. You think that business would boom in war? We’d be lucky not to suffer a full economic collapse.” “And you assume that I care about Hallandren’s economic well-being?” Vasher asked. “Ah, yes,” Bebid said dryly. “I forgot who I was talking to. What do you want, then? Tell me so we can get this over with.” “Tell me about the rebels,” Vasher said, chewing on rice. “The Idrians? We just talked—” “Not them,” Vasher said. “The ones in the city.” “They’re unimportant now that Vahr is dead,” the priest said with a wave of his hand. “Nobody knows who killed him, by the way. Probably the rebels themselves. Guess they didn’t appreciate his getting himself captured, eh?” Vasher said nothing. “Is that all you want?” Bebid said impatiently. “I need to contact the factions you mentioned,” Vasher said. “The ones who are pushing for war against Idris.” “I won’t help you enrage the—” “Do not presume to tell me what to do, Bebid. Just give me the information you promised, and you can be free of all this.” “Vasher,” Bebid said, leaning in even further. “I can’t help. My lady isn’t interested in these kinds of politics, and I move in the wrong circles.” Vasher ate some more, judging the man’s sincerity. “All right. Who, then?” Bebid relaxed, using his napkin to wipe his brow. “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe one of Mercystar’s priests? You could also try Bluefingers, I suppose.” “Bluefingers? That’s an odd name for a god.” “Bluefingers isn’t a god,” Bebid said, chuckling. “That’s just a nickname. He’s the High Place steward, head of the scribes. He pretty much keeps the court running; if anyone knows anything about this faction, it will be him. Of course, he’s so stiff and straight, you’ll have a hard time breaking him.” “You’d be surprised,” Vasher said, shoveling the last bit of rice into his mouth. “I got you, didn’t I?” “I suppose.” Vasher stood. “Pay the waiter when you leave,” he said, grabbing his cloak off its peg and wandering out. He could feel a...darkness to his right. He walked down
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the street, then turned down an alley, where he found Nightblood—still sheathed—sticking from the chest of the thief who had stolen him. Another cutpurse lay dead on the alley floor. Vasher pulled the sword free, then snapped the sheath closed—it had only been opened a fraction of an inch—and did up the clasp. You lost your temper in there for a bit, Nightblood said with a chastising tone. I thought you were going to work on that. Guess I’m relapsing, Vasher thought. Nightblood paused. I don’t think you ever really unlapsed in the first place. That’s not a word, Vasher said, leaving the alley. So? Nightblood said. You’re too worried about words. That priest—you spent all those words on him, then you just let him go. It’s not really how I would have handled the situation. Yes, I know, Vasher said. Your way would have involved making several more corpses. Well, I am a sword, Nightblood said with a mental huff. Might as well stick to what you’re good at... ~ Lightsong sat on his patio, watching his new queen’s carriage pull up to the palace. “Well, this has been a pleasant day,” he remarked to his high priest. A few cups of wine—along with some time to get past thinking about children deprived of their Breath—and he was beginning to feel more like his usual self. “You’re that happy to have a queen?” Llarimar asked. “I’m that happy to have avoided petitions for the day thanks to her arrival. What do we know about her?” “Not much, Your Grace,” Llarimar said, standing beside Lightsong’s chair and looking toward the God King’s palace. “The Idrians surprised us by not sending the eldest daughter as planned. They sent the youngest in her stead.” “Interesting,” Lightsong said, accepting another cup of wine from one of his servants. “She’s only seventeen years old,” Llarimar said. “I can’t imagine being married to the God King at her age.” “I can’t imagine you being married to the God King at any age, Scoot,” Lightsong said. Then he pointedly cringed. “Actually, yes I can imagine it, and the dress looks painfully inelegant on you. Make a note to have my imagination flogged for its insolence in showing me that particular sight.” “I’ll put it in line right behind your sense of decorum, Your Grace,” Llarimar said dryly. “Don’t be silly,” Lightsong said, taking a sip of wine. “I haven’t had one of those in years.” He leaned back, trying to decide what the Idrians were signaling by sending the wrong princess. Two potted palms waved in the wind, and Lightsong was distracted by the scent of salt on the incoming sea breeze. I wonder if I sailed that sea once, he thought. A man of the ocean? Is that how I died? Is that why I dreamed of a ship? He could only vaguely remember that dream now. A red sea... Fire. Death, killing, and battle. He was shocked as he suddenly remembered his dream in starker, more vivid detail. The sea had been red as it reflected
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the magnificent city of T’Telir, engulfed in flames. He could almost hear people crying out in pain, he could nearly hear...what? Soldiers marching and fighting in the streets? Lightsong shook his head, trying to dispel the phantom memories. The ship he’d seen in his dream had been burning too, he now remembered. It didn’t have to mean anything; everyone had nightmares. But it made him uncomfortable to know that his nightmares were seen as prophetic omens. Llarimar was still standing beside Lightsong’s chair, watching the God King’s palace. “Oh, sit down and stop looming over me,” Lightsong said. “You’re making the buzzards jealous.” Llarimar raised an eyebrow. “And which buzzards would that be, Your Grace?” “The ones who keep pushing for us to go to war,” Lightsong said waving a hand. The priest sat down on one of the patio’s wooden recliners and relaxed as he sat, removing the bulky miter from his head. Underneath, Llarimar’s dark hair was plastered to his head with sweat. He ran his hand through it. During the first few years, Llarimar had remained stiff and formal at all times. Eventually, however, Lightsong had worn him down. After all, Lightsong was the god. In his opinion, if he could lounge on the job, then so could his priests. “I don’t know, Your Grace,” Llarimar said slowly, rubbing his chin. “I don’t like this.” “The queen’s arrival?” Lightsong asked. Llarimar nodded. “We haven’t had a queen in the court for some thirty years. I don’t know how the factions will deal with her.” Lightsong rubbed his forehead. “Politics, Llarimar? You know I frown on such things.” Llarimar eyed him. “Your Grace, you are—by default—a politician.” “Don’t remind me, please. I should very well like to extract myself from the situation. Do you think, perhaps, I could bribe one of the other gods to take control of my Lifeless Commands?” “I doubt that would be wise,” Llarimar said. “It’s all part of my master plan to ensure that I become totally and redundantly useless to this city by the time I die. Again.” Llarimar cocked his head. “Redundantly useless?” “Of course. Regular uselessness wouldn’t be enough—I am, after all, a god.” He took a handful of grapes from a servant’s tray, still trying to dismiss his dream’s disturbing images. They didn’t mean anything. Just dreams. Even so, he decided he would tell Llarimar about them the next morning. Perhaps Llarimar could use the dreams to help push for peace with Idris. Since old Dedelin hadn’t sent his firstborn daughter, it would mean more debates in the court. More talk of war. This princess’s arrival should have settled it, but he knew that the war hawks among the gods would not let the issue die. “Still,” Llarimar said, as if talking to himself. “They did send someone. That is a good sign, surely. An outright refusal would have meant war for certain.” “And whoever Certain is, I doubt we should have a war for him,” Lightsong said idly, inspecting a grape. “War is, in my divine opinion, even worse than
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politics.” “Some say the two are the same, Your Grace.” “Nonsense. War is far worse. At least where politics is going on, there are usually nice hors d’oeuvres.” As usual, Llarimar ignored Lightsong’s witty remarks. Lightsong would have been offended if he hadn’t known there were three separate lesser priests standing at the back of the patio, recording his words, searching for wisdom and meaning within them. “What will the Idrian rebels do now, do you think?” Llarimar asked. “Here’s the thing, Scoot,” Lightsong said, leaning back, closing his eyes and feeling the sun on his face. “The Idrians don’t consider themselves to be rebels. They’re not sitting up in their hills, waiting for the day when they can return in triumph to Hallandren. This isn’t their home anymore.” “Those peaks are hardly a kingdom.” “They’re enough of a kingdom to control the area’s best mineral deposits, four vital passes to the north, and the original royal line of the original Hallandren dynasty. They don’t need us, my friend.” “And the talk of Idrian dissidents in the city, ones rousing the people against the Court of Gods?” “Rumors only,” Lightsong said. “Though, when I’m proven wrong and the underprivileged masses storm my palace and burn me at the stake, I’ll be sure to inform them that you were right all along. You’ll get the last laugh. Or...well, the last scream, since you’ll probably be tied up beside me.” Llarimar sighed, and Lightsong opened his eyes to find the priest regarding him with a contemplative expression. The priest didn’t chastise Lightsong for his levity. Llarimar just reached down, putting his headdress back on. He was the priest; Lightsong was the god. There would be no questioning of motives, no rebukes. If Lightsong gave an order, they would all do exactly as he said. Sometimes, that terrified him. But not this day. He was, instead, annoyed. The queen’s arrival had somehow gotten him talking about politics—and the day had been going so well until then. “More wine,” Lightsong said, raising his cup. “You can’t get drunk, Your Grace,” Llarimar noted. “Your body is immune to all toxins.” “I know,” Lightsong said as a lesser servant filled his cup. “But trust me—I’m quite good at pretending.” Annotations for Chapter 5 Six Annotations for Chapter 6 Siri stepped from the carriage. Immediately, dozens of servants in blue and silver swarmed around her, pulling her away. Siri turned, alarmed, looking back toward her soldiers. The men stepped forward, but Treledees held up his hand. “The Vessel will go alone,” the priest declared. Siri felt a stab of fear. This was the time. “Return to Idris,” she said to the men. “But, my lady—” the lead soldier said. “No,” Siri said. “You can do nothing more for me here. Please, return and tell my father that I arrived safely.” The lead soldier glanced back at his men, uncertain. Siri didn’t get to see if they obeyed or not, for the servants shuffled her around a corner into a long, black hallway. Siri tried not to show her fear.
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She’d come to the palace to be wed, and was determined to make a favorable impression on the God King. But she really was just terrified. Why hadn’t she run? Why hadn’t she wiggled out of this somehow? Why couldn’t they have all just let her be? There was no escape now. As the serving women led her down a corridor into the deep black palace, the last remnants of her former life disappeared behind her. She was now alone. Lamps with colored glass lined the walls. Siri was led through several twists and turns in the dark passages. She tried to remember her way back, but was soon hopelessly lost. The servants surrounded her like an honor guard; though all were female, they were of different ages. Each wore a blue cap, hair loose out the back, and they kept their eyes downcast. Their shimmering blue clothing was loose-fitting, even through the bust. Siri blushed at the low-cut fronts. In Idris, women kept even their necks covered. The black corridor eventually opened into a much larger room. Siri hesitated in the doorway. While the stone walls of this room were black, they had been draped in silks of a deep maroon. In fact, everything in the room was maroon, from the carpeting, to the furniture, to the tubs—surrounded by tile—in the center of the room. The servants began to pick at her clothing, undressing her. Siri jumped, swatting at a few hands, causing them to pause in surprise. Then they attacked with renewed vigor, and Siri realized that she didn’t have a choice except to grit her teeth and bear the treatment. She raised her arms, letting the servants pull off her dress and underclothing, and felt her hair grow red as she blushed. At least the room was warm. She shivered anyway. She was forced to stand, naked, as other servants approached, bearing measuring tapes. They poked and prodded, getting various measurements, including ones around Siri’s waist, bust, shoulders, and hips. When that was finished, the women backed away, and the room fell still. The bath continued to steam in the center of the chamber. Several of the serving women gestured toward it. Guess I’m allowed to wash myself, Siri thought with relief, walking up the tile steps. She stepped carefully into the massive tub, and was pleased at how warm the water was. She lowered herself into the water, letting herself relax just a fraction. Soft splashes sounded behind her, and she spun. Several other serving women—these wearing brown—were climbing into the tub, fully clothed, holding washcloths and soap. Siri sighed, yielding herself to their care as they began to scrub vigorously at her body and hair. She closed her eyes, enduring the treatment with as much dignity as she could manage. That left her time to think, which was not good. It only allowed her to consider just what was happening to her. Her anxiety immediately returned. The Lifeless weren’t as bad as the stories, she thought, trying to reassure herself. And the city colors are far more
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pleasant than I expected. Maybe...maybe the God King isn’t as terrible as everyone says. “Ah, good,” a voice said. “We’re right on schedule. Perfect.” Siri froze. That was a man’s voice. She snapped her eyes open to find an older man in brown robes standing beside the tub, writing something on a ledger. He was balding and had a round, pleasant face. A young boy stood next to him, bearing extra sheets of paper and a small jar of ink for the man to use in dipping his quill. Siri screamed, startling several of her servants as she moved with a sudden splashing motion, covering herself with her arms. The man with the ledger hesitated, looking down. “Is something wrong, Vessel?” “I’m bathing,” she snapped. “Yes,” the man said. “I believe I can tell that.” “Well, why are you watching?” The man cocked his head. “But I’m a royal servant, far beneath your station...” he said, then trailed off. “Ah, yes. Idris sensibilities. I had forgotten. Ladies, please splash around, make some more bubbles in the bath.” The serving women did as asked, churning up an abundance of foam in the soapy water. “There,” the man said, turning back to his ledger. “I can’t see a thing. Now, let us get on with this. It would not do to keep the God King waiting on his wedding day!” Siri reluctantly allowed the bathing to continue, though she was careful to keep certain bits of anatomy well beneath the water. The women worked furiously, scrubbing so hard that Siri was half-afraid they’d rub her skin right off. “As you might guess,” the man said, “we’re on a very tight schedule. There’s much to do, and I would like this all to go as smoothly as possible.” Siri frowned. “And...who exactly are you?” The man glanced at her, causing her to duck down beneath the suds a little more. Her hair was as bright a red as it had ever been. “My name is Havarseth, but everyone just calls me Bluefingers.” He held up a hand and wiggled the fingers, which were all stained dark with blue ink from writing. “I am head scribe and steward to His Excellent Grace Susebron, God King of Hallandren. In simpler terms, I manage the palace attendants and oversee all servants in the Court of Gods.” He paused, eyeing her. “I also make certain that everyone stays on schedule and does what they are supposed to.” Some of the younger girls—wearing brown, like the ones bathing Siri— began bringing pitchers of water to the side of the tub, and the women used these to rinse Siri’s hair. She turned about to let them, though she tried to keep a waterlogged eye on Bluefingers and his serving boy. “Now,” Bluefingers said. “The palace tailors are working very quickly on your gown. We had a good estimate of your size, but final measurements were necessary to complete the process. We should have the garment ready for you in a short time.” The serving women dowsed Siri’s head again. “There are
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some things we need to discuss,” Bluefingers continued, voice distorted by the water in Siri’s ears. “I presume you have been taught the proper method of treating His Immortal Majesty?” Siri glanced at him, then looked away. She probably had been taught, but she didn’t remember—and either way, she wasn’t in a frame of mind to concentrate. “Ah,” Bluefingers said, apparently reading her expression. “Well then, this could be...interesting. Allow me to give you some suggestions.” Siri nodded. “First, please understand that the God King’s will is law. He needs no reason or justification for what he does. Your life, like all of our lives, is in his hands. Second, please understand that the God King does not speak with people such as you or me. You will not talk to him when you go to him. Do you understand?” Siri spit out a bit of soapy water. “You mean I’m not even to be able to speak to my husband?” “I’m afraid not,” Bluefingers said. “None of us can.” “Then how does he make judgments and rulings?” she asked, wiping her eyes. “The Council of Gods handles the kingdom’s more mundane needs,” Bluefingers explained. “The God King is above the day-to-day governance. When it is necessary for him to communicate, he gives his judgments to his priests, who then reveal them to the world.” Great, Siri thought. “It is unconventional that you are allowed to touch him,” Bluefingers continued. “Fathering a child is a necessary encumbrance for him. It is our job to present you in as pleasing a way as possible, and to avoid—at all costs—irritating him.” Austre, God of Colors, she thought. What kind of creature is this? Bluefingers eyed her. “I know something of your temperament, Vessel,” he said. “We have, of course, researched the children of the Idrian monarchy. Allow me to be a little more personal, and perhaps a little more direct, than I would prefer. If you speak directly to the God King, he will order you executed. Unlike your father, he is not a man of patience. “I cannot stress this point enough. I realize that you are accustomed to being a very important person. Indeed, you still are that important—if not more so. You are far above myself and these others. However, as far as you are above us, the God King is even farther above you. “His Immortal Majesty is...special. The doctrines teach that the earth itself is too base for him. He is one who achieved transcendence before he was even born, but then Returned to bring his people blessings and visions. You are being given a special trust. Please, do not betray it—and please, please do not provoke his anger. Do you understand?” Siri nodded slowly, feeling her hair bleach back to white. She tried to steel herself, but what courage she could gather felt like a sham. No, she wasn’t going to be able to stomach this creature as easily as the Lifeless or the city colors. His reputation in Idris wasn’t exaggerated. In a short time, he was
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going to take her body and do with it as he wished. Part of her felt a rage at that—but it was the rage of frustration. The rage that came from knowing that something horrible was coming, and from being unable to do anything at all about it. The serving women backed away from her, leaving her half-floating in the soapy water. One of the servants looked to Bluefingers and nodded her head in respect. “Ah, finished are we?” he asked. “Excellent. You and your ladies are efficient, as always, Jlan. Let us proceed, then.” “Can’t they speak?” Siri asked quietly. “Of course they can,” Bluefingers said. “But they are dedicated servants of His Immortal Majesty. During their hours of Service, their duty is to be as useful as possible without being distracting. Now, if you’ll continue...” Siri stayed in the water, even when the silent women tried to pull her out. Bluefingers turned around with a sigh, putting his back to her. He reached over and turned the serving boy around as well. Siri finally allowed herself to be led out of the bath. The wet women left her, walking into a side room—probably to change—and several others led Siri toward a smaller tub for rinsing. She stepped down into the water, which was much colder than the other bath, and gasped. The women motioned for her to dunk, and she cringed, but did so, cleaning off most of the soap. After that, there was a final, third tub. As Siri approached, shivering, she could smell strong floral scents coming from it. “What’s this?” Siri asked. “Perfumed bath,” Bluefingers said, still turned away. “If you prefer, you may have one of the palace masseuses rub perfume onto your body instead. I advise against that, however, considering time restraints...” Siri blushed, imagining anyone—male or female—rubbing her body with perfume. “This will be fine,” she said, climbing down into the water. It was lukewarm, and the floral scents were so strong that she had to breathe through her mouth. The women motioned downward, and—sighing—Siri dunked beneath the scented water. After that, she climbed out, and several women finally approached with fluffy towels. They began to pat Siri down, their touch as delicate and soft as the previous scrubbing had been hard. This took away some of the strong scent, for which Siri was glad. Other women approached with a deep blue robe, and she extended her arms, allowing them to put it on her, then tie it shut. “You may turn around,” she told the steward. “Excellent,” Bluefingers said, doing so. He strode toward a door at the side of the room, waving for her. “Quickly, now. We still have much to do.” Siri and the serving women followed, leaving the maroon room for one that was decorated in bright yellows. It held a lot more furniture, no bath, and a large plush chair in the center of the room. “His Majesty is associated with no single hue,” Bluefingers said, waving to the bright colors of the room as the women led Siri
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to the plush chair. “He represents all colors and each of the Iridescent Tones. Therefore, each room is decorated with a different shade.” Siri sat, and the women began to work on her nails. Another tried to brush out the snarls that had come from the hearty washing. Siri frowned. “Just cut it off,” she said. They hesitated. “Vessel?” one asked. “Cut off the hair,” she said. Bluefingers gave them permission, and a few snips later, her hair was in a bunch on the floor. Then Siri closed her eyes and focused. She wasn’t certain how she did it. The Royal Locks had always been part of her life; altering them was like moving any other muscle to her, if more difficult. In a few moments, she was able to get the hair to grow. Several women gasped softly as the hair sprouted from Siri’s head and moved down to her shoulders. Growing it made her feel hungry and tired, but it was better than letting the women fight snarls. finished, she opened her eyes. Bluefingers was watching her with an inquisitive expression, his ledger held loosely in his fingers. “That is...fascinating,” he said. “The Royal Locks. We have waited quite some time for them to grace the palace again, Vessel. You can change the color at will?” “Yes,” Siri said. Some of the time, at least. “Is it too long?” “Long hair is seen as a sign of beauty in Hallandren, my lady,” Bluefingers said. “I know you keep it bound up in Idris, but here, flowing hair is favored by many of the women—particularly the goddesses.” Part of her wanted to keep the hair short just out of spite, but she was beginning to realize that such an attitude could get her killed in Hallandren. Instead, she closed her eyes and focused again. The hair had been shoulder length, but she extended it for several minutes, making it grow until it would reach all the way down her back once she stood. Siri opened her eyes. “Beautiful,” one of the younger serving women whispered, then flushed, immediately returning to her work on Siri’s toenails. “Very nice,” Bluefingers agreed. “I will leave you here—I have a few things to deal with—but will return shortly.” Siri nodded as he left, and several women moved in and began to apply makeup. Siri suffered it pensively, others still working on her nails and hair. This wasn’t how she had imagined her wedding day. Marriage had always seemed distant to her, something that would only happen after spouses had been chosen for her siblings. When she’d been very young, in fact, she’d always said that she intended to raise horses instead of getting married. She’d grown out of that, but a part of her felt a longing for such simple times. She didn’t want to be married. Not yet. She still felt like a child, even if her body had become that of a woman. She wanted to play in the hills and pick flowers and tease her father. She wanted time to experience more
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of life before she was forced into the responsibilities of childbearing. Fate had taken that opportunity away from her. Now she was faced by the imminent prospect of going to a man’s bed. A man who wouldn’t speak to her, and who wouldn’t care who she was or what she wanted. She knew the physical requirements of what would be involved—she could thank Mab the cook for some candid discussions on that point—but emotionally, she just felt petrified. She wanted to run, hide, flee as far as she could. Did all women feel this way, or was it only those who were being washed, primped, and sent to please a deity with the power to destroy nations? Bluefingers eventually returned. Another person entered behind him, an elderly man in the blue and silver clothing Siri was beginning to associate with those who served the God King. But...Bluefingers wears brown, Siri thought, frowning. Why is that? “Ah, I see that my timing is perfect,” Bluefingers said as the women finished. They retreated to the sides of the room, heads bowed. Bluefingers nodded to the elderly man. “Vessel, this is one of the palace healers. Before you are taken to the God King, you will need to be inspected to determine if you are a maiden and to ensure that you don’t have certain diseases. It’s really just a formality, but one that I’m afraid I must insist upon. In consideration of your bashfulness, I did not bring the young healer I had originally assigned to the job. I assume an older healer will make you more comfortable?” Siri sighed, but nodded. Bluefingers gestured toward a padded table on the side of the room; then he and his serving boy turned around. Siri undid her robe and went to the table, lying down to continue what was proving to be the most embarrassing day of her life. It will only get worse, she thought as the doctor did his examination. Susebron, the God King. Awesome, terrible, holy, majestic. He had been stillborn, but had Returned. What did that do to a man? Would he even be human, or would he be some monster, terrible to behold? He was said to be eternal, but obviously his reign would end eventually, otherwise he wouldn’t need an heir. She shivered, wishing it could just be over with, but also grateful for anything that delayed matters for just a little longer, even something as humiliating as the doctor’s prodding. That was soon done, however, and Siri quickly did up her robe again, standing. “She is quite healthy,” the healer said to Bluefingers. “And most likely still a maiden. She also has a very strong Breath.” Siri froze. How could he tell... And then she saw it. She had to look very closely, but the yellow floor around the surgeon looked a tad too bright. She felt herself pale, though the nervousness had already made her hair as white as it went. The doctor is an Awakener, she thought. There is an Awakener here, in this room. And he
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touched me. She cringed, skin writhing. It was wrong to take the Breath from another person. It was the ultimate in arrogance, the complete opposite of Idris philosophy. Others in Hallandren simply wore bright colors to draw attention to themselves, but Awakeners...they stole the life from human beings, and used that to make themselves stand out. The perverted use of Breath was one of the main reasons that the Royal line had moved to the highlands in the first place. Modern-day Hallandren existed on the basis of extorting the Breath of its people. Siri felt more naked now than she had when actually unclothed. What could this Awakener tell about her, because of his unnatural life force? Was he tempted to steal Siri’s BioChroma? She tried to breathe as shallowly as possible, just in case. Eventually, Bluefingers and the terrible doctor left the room. The women approached to undo her robe once again, some bearing undergarments. He will be worse, she realized. The king. He’s not just an Awakener, he’s Returned. He needs to suck the Breath from people in order to survive. Would he take away her Breath? No, that won’t happen, she told herself firmly. He needs me to provide him with an heir of the royal line. He won’t risk the child’s safety. He’ll leave me my Breath, if only until then. But...what would happen to her when she was no longer needed? Her attention was drawn away from such thoughts as several serving women approached with a large bundle of cloth. A dress. No, a gown—a gorgeous gown of blue and silver. Focusing on it seemed better than thinking about what the God King would do with her once she bore him a son. Siri waited quietly as the women put it on her. The fabric was amazingly soft on her skin, the velvet smooth as petals from a highland flower. As the women adjusted it on her, she noticed that—oddly—it laced up the side instead of the back. It had an extremely long train and sleeves that were so long that if she put her arms down at the sides, the cuffs hung a good foot below her hands. It took several minutes for the women to get the ties done up right, the folds situated correctly, and the train even behind her. All this so that it can be taken off again in a few minutes, Siri thought with a detached sense of cold irony as a woman approached with a mirror. Siri froze. Where had all that color come from? The delicately red cheeks, the mysteriously dark eyes, the blue on the top of her eyelids? The deep red lips, the almost glowing skin? The gown shone silver upon blue, bulky yet beautiful, with ripples of deep, velvet cloth. It was like nothing she’d seen in Idris. It was more amazing, even, than the colors she’d seen on the people in the city. Staring at herself in the mirror, Siri was almost able to forget her worries. “Thank you,” she whispered. That must have been
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